Page 73 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
It was trashed.
Military surplus cooking utensils—a pot, some plates, and silverware—were thrown around. A smoldering firepit was filled with ashy remnants of clothing and what appeared to be a tent. A small cave entrance was blackened by a grenade blast.
“Looks like the bad guys found him first,” Raven said. “I wonder what happened to him.”
“We should check that cave,” MacD said. “If he was lucky, he got killed in the blast. If not? Well, I don’t want to think about it.”
An AK-47 racked behind them.
MacD and Raven froze.
Maybe their luck just ran out, too.
?
A rasping voice barked in Albanian behind them.
MacD didn’t speak the language. Neither did Raven. But they were both smart enough to figure out to raise their hands slowly.
Another command spun them around.
“Mais la,” MacD whispered.
“You can say that again,” Raven said.
The angry apparition standing in front of them was half mountain man, half jihadi with matted, shoulder-length hair, a long bushy beard that reached to his chest, and mismatched military surplus camouflaged pants and jacket. A wicked combat blade holstered to his belt, a ragged rucksack, a filthy Kosovo soccer shirt, and muddy Adidas athletic shoes rounded out the crazed ensemble.
He barked again, his AK pointing directly at them.
“I don’t speak the lingo, but I get the idea he’s not happy we’re here.”
“If that’s who I think it is…”
Raven switched to Arabic. “Colonel Piccinini sent us.”
The mountain man replied in broken Arabic. “I don’t believe you.”
“You are Nedim Ramadani. You work for him.”
“I don’t work for nobody.” Ramadani lowered his weapon. “What do you want?”
“Can I open my backpack?” Raven asked, pointing at it with her thumb.
Ramadani raised his weapon back up. “You, not him.”
Raven turned to MacD. “I’m grabbing something out of my pack. But don’t you move.”
“Not until you tell me to, sister.”
Raven slowly unshouldered her pack and set it down in the dirt. It wanted to tip over because of its weight and the slope of the hill. Sheopened it up and pulled out a red and white carton of Marlboro cigarettes.
Ramadani’s semi-toothless smile parted his shaggy beard.
Raven tossed the carton to him. He caught it with one filthy hand and stuffed it into a big jacket pocket.
“Colonel Piccinini also sent some dried rations, and even a few salamis for you—and a new phone. He said he’s tried to contact you, but you didn’t respond.”
“My phone got smashed. Give me that one.”
