Four Summoners Tales Part 83

"d.a.m.n," breathed Jazzman.

"Okay, they're bad guys and it sucks to be them," said Finn. He studied the path the caravan was taking.The trail wound through patches of intense shadows, gray wash, and bright sunlight. The longest sunlit path was forty yards from where they were. It meant that his team would have better angles for a three-point shooting box, but it would put the caravan partly behind an upright stone, effectively hiding half of the targets from Finn's rifle.

He surveyed the terrain.There was a much better shooting position sixty yards around the rim of the same mountain on which he lay. But it would mean breaking cover, and the only two paths to get to that spot either made him a bug on the sandy wall of the mountain or required that he go through a short tunnel. The second choice of the tunnel was smarter, but it meant losing sight of the caravan for a few seconds.

"I've got no shot." Finn told his team the situation and explained what he was about to do."Hold your fire until I'm in position."

They acknowledged and he wormed his way backward off the ledge, mindful of every sound, every ripple of the sandy-colored camouflage tarp that covered him. He knew the others would keep their eyes on the caravan, watching to see if they reacted to anything.

To Finn, it seemed like it took forever to get to the edge of the shelf. He let gravity pull him over and he dropped down to the path behind the ledge, bending his knees to take the shock, exhaling, hands mindful of his gear.

He froze and listened for the telltale sounds of reaction and response.

Nothing.

He dropped the tarp, turned, and threaded his way quickly through the cracked stone spikes and wormhole tunnels that honeycombed this side of the mountain. Mountains were like echo chambers-every noise seemed amplified, and moving in total silence was maybe possible for ninjas and mimes, but carrying forty pounds of gear made it impossible. They didn't call it battle rattle for nothing.

The mouth of the curving tunnel was dead ahead and Finn moved toward it with lots of small, even steps-a pace designed to cover ground while preventing the hard jolt of regular footfalls.

The tunnel was only sixty-five feet long and curved.There was one brief section in the middle of the curve where it was pitch-black, but the rest was lit well enough by reflected sunlight. Finn had walked it several times. If he kept to the center of the path, the flat sand would see him through.The obstructions were all near the walls.

He moved into the cave and the shadows closed around him.

Within ten paces, the light faded from a dusty tan to purple-gray, and as he rounded the bend the tunnel plunged into total darkness. It was so much darker than he thought it would be, darker than it should have been, but that didn't matter. He stuck to the path and ran.

And slammed into something-a corner of rock, a stalagmite, something-and rebounded hard. A yell of pain and surprise escaped his throat before he could stop it, and the finger of his right hand, with all the efficacy of a deliberate Judas, slipped inside the trigger guard and jerked. The single gunshot sounded louder than all the bombs in the world. Magnified by the cave's acoustics, bounced and banged around, it sounded like a barrage. Finn dropped to his knees, both dazed by the impact and aghast at what he'd done.

After the last echo faded, there was one second of absolute silence, and Finn prayed with all of his might that the Taliban hadn't heard the yell or the shot. It was a stupid prayer, without any possibility of being answered.There were no G.o.ds that tolerant or forgiving.

Outside there was a chorus of yells in Pashto, and the world was shattered by the sound of AK-47s opening up.

And then the screaming began.

14.

echo teAm He told us the rest, too.

About crawling through the darkness. About the pain of

wounds he was positive had torn him nearly to pieces. About things that crouched around him in the shadows. Things that laughed at him.

And he told us about the woman dressed like a village boy,

but who revealed a hideous and monstrous face when she pulled

away her scarf. Flesh that was livid red and a nose that seemed

composed of clay.

At this, Bunny glanced at me over Finn's head. The boy we

had encountered had been flash-burned and his nose was covered with mud. Bunny's raised eyebrow questioned this. Had

Finn, dazed as he was, also come across this boy and misunderstood what he was seeing?

I gave Bunny a small nod. Had to be a mistake.

What else made sense?

"How's that explain the sh.e.l.l casings?" I asked.

Finn looked perplexed. "I . . . don't know. I didn't see any of

the fight. But they had to have fought back. The fight went on

and on. Fifteen minutes at least. Maybe twenty. Christ, Joe, the