Page 3 of Delta Mission
I’d been investigating the flow of narcotics from the region for twelve months and I’d received a tipoff about a major opium lab in this region that was tied to the Taliban network. I’d convinced my boss that the tipoff was legitimate and that I knew where to look . . . here.
Channing turned to Moose. “Anything?”
“Only women and kids in there.” Moose spat on the dirt and nodded at the only small hut to have a window. Smoke wafted from a pipe atop the roof.
“If there are women here, then there’s men too.” Clamping my jaw, I met Channing’s gaze.
“Maybe it’s a fucking brothel.” Burke grinned like a lunatic and thrust his hips a few times.
“It’s not a brothel.” I glared at the immature idiot. “I’m telling you, there’s something—”
“Looks like you fucked up, Goodspeed.” Channing glared at me, just like he had all those years ago . . . with hatred in his eyes.
No!I refused to believe I was wrong. “I need to talk to the women.”
I pointed at the building I’d been monitoring via satellite for months.
Channing removed his helmet and drove his fingers through his thick hair. “You have ten minutes, then we get the fuck out of here.”
Shit!My neck was on the chopping block if I didn’t get the results I’d been dreaming of since I got that tipoff.
I pulled my Glock from my hip holster and strode away.
Boots stomped behind me, and I spun around with my hand raised. “No men allowed.”
Murphy rolled his eyes. “Knock yourself out.”
“Thank you.”Asshole.
Huffing out a breath, I strode to the hut.
Moment of truth.
Holding my Glock at my thigh, I stepped through the open doorway.
Five women and two small children huddled in one corner of the mud-walled shelter. It was impossible to tell the ages of the women because their eyes were the only part of their faces that weren’t covered by a patterned veil. They bunched together on tattered cushions scattered onto dirt that had probably been compacted by a century of bare feet.
A fire crackled in the opposite corner, spewing smoke into a blackened chamber behind it. Over the fire was a large cast-iron pot with something that looked like goat stew. The smell was somehow both delicious and repugnant.
I holstered my Glock, forced a smile, and speaking in Dari Persian, I introduced myself, explained that we weren’t there to hurt them, and asked where everyone else was.
One woman gripped a large metal spoon in her knobby fingers and didn’t seem to notice the drips falling onto her burqa. Maybe she planned to use the utensil as a weapon. That wouldn’t surprise me. Since I’d become a DEA agent, not much surprised me, especially as my work had taken me to some of the poorest and deadliest countries in the world.
I asked if they lived in this village, but the women and children all stared at me with wide eyes as if they were absolutely terrified, except one woman in a pale green scarf. Her deepwrinkles convinced me she was older than the rest of the women. Her deadly glare had my nerves on edge, telling me to watch her.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to kill me.
In my line of business, it wouldn’t be the last.
Being hated by drug offenders came with the territory of being a DEA agent. I’d had two substantial busts on my resume. One was sheer luck. The other was after months of hard work. If this one came through, it could make the record books and better still, it would make a significant dent in the illicit drug trade.
But that was all conjecture.
I needed this bust to happen first.
Outside the only window of the hut, Channing watched me. If his eyes were daggers, he would have cut my head clean off.
Resisting the urge to flash him the bird, I turned my attention to the women, and in a calm voice, asked where the men were. I spoke the question in three languages. The women and children in this village likely didn’t have any education . . . other than how to follow orders, how to breed, and how to survive off land that was some of the most desolate in the world.
