Gravedigger by Mark Terry Read Free Book Online Page A

bullet had torn out his throat.
    Setting back on his haunches, Derek stared around him. He picked up the flashlight and clicked it off, pocketing it. His own words to General Johnston reverberated in his head: thought it might be nice to stop killing people for a while.
    Two men unaccounted for.
    A quick search turned up a spare magazine for the AK47. He took it. Cautiously he crept toward the other corpse and shut off the flashlight. Two full magazines.
    Good. He reversed his steps, staying low. After a good half an hour he was back in the corn, looking at the encampment.
    It was empty. Even Johnston and Noa were gone.
    He scuttled toward the camp, stopping regularly to scan around him, listening. It was hard to hear anything with the wind and rain mixed with snow. All he heard was the wind and the nicker of a horse.
    Finally he made it to the camp. The fire was still lit. The heat coming off it felt like heaven. Still no signs of life.
    He stepped further into the cave.
    The bodies of the two men who had been guarding Johnston and Noa lay on the ground. They were both dead. Studying the corpses, Derek realized one apparently had a slashed throat. The other looked like he had been stabbed in the chest.
    Pieces of rope lay on the ground.
    A sound behind him made him spin, rifle up. Johnston and Noa stood at the mouth of the cave. Johnston’s nose looked broken, blood was embedded in his beard, and his eyes looked blackened. Noa’s mouth was set in a grimace. One whole side of her head was bruised, her left eye almost swollen shut. Both carried AK47s.
    Johnston said, “Everyone accounted for?”
    Derek nodded. “There’s a story here. I wouldn’t mind some dry clothes, even though I’m going back out in this mess.”
    One eyebrow raised, Noa said, “What do you have to do?”
    “I think there actually is a mass grave down there. So I need to do some gravedigging to see if I can figure out what killed the people. Proof of biological or chemical warfare, if that’s what caused it.” That’s my mission, he thought. I don’t know what the fuck yours is.
    He felt testy as the adrenaline wore off.
    Walking over to a backpack that had probably belonged to one of the muj , Johnston crouched down and rummaged through it. He tossed it at Derek. “There are clothes in here. A little smelly, but dry. But we can’t stay around here long in case Khan decides to come back.”
    Stripping out of his wet clothing, Derek crouched naked in front of the fire. Noa said, “You’re not shy.”
    “If you see something you haven’t seen before, shoot it. Meanwhile, I’m freezing my ass off. So tell me. What happened?”
    “You’ve been shot,” she said, pointing to his shoulder.
    “Yeah. It hurts. I’ve got a first aid kit in the ruck. You mind taking care of it? Now what happened?”

    Both Johnston and Noa had been picked up by muj down in the village. Four of them, apparently, hearing the truck, had followed them into the village. They took Johnston first, threatening to kill him if he made a sound. Then they bound his hands and went and found Noa. She tried to talk to them, but they weren’t in a chatting mood.
    Once up at the encampment, the leader of the group had asked them what they were doing there. He was a burly bearded man, probably in his fifties. His name was Nadir Khan.
    Noa had spoken up, saying, “He is an American aid worker. I am—”
    He had struck her. “Do not speak unless spoken to.”
    Johnston, not understanding, had said, “I don’t speak Pashto. No Pashto. No Farsi. No Arabic. She is my translator.”
    Squirming awkwardly to a sitting position, Noa said, “I am his translator.”
    Nadir Khan glared at her. “Why are you here?” He turned to look at Johnston.
    Noa turned and said, “He wants to know why we’re here.”
    Not sure if the man actually spoke any English, Johnston said, “Tell him I am Jim Johnston, from the United States. America.” He briefly unreeled their cover story.
    Noa