The Killing Game by Toni Anderson Read Free Book Online

surprisingly peaceful considering it was surrounded by unfriendly borders: Tajikistan, China and Pakistan. The bulk of the Northern Province of Badakhshan lay west, home of the mujahedeen’s Northern Alliance, which had battled the Soviets and Taliban for decades. Westerners were rare in this part of the world but not unknown: NGOs and charities carried out work here. In summer they even got tourists. But the valley was also used by gunrunners and drug smugglers.
    So who the feck are you? Friend or foe?
    The stone of the mountain was unrelenting beneath his body. His legs ached, he felt like he had Sumo wrestlers pounding the muscles in his back. Those who joined Special Forces for the adrenaline rush should try holding this sort of position long-term. It was boring as hell and tested his endurance more than any ice climb. Maybe he was getting too old for this kind of shit. At thirty-nine he was among the older soldiers in the Regiment and, with twenty-two years’ service, one of the longest serving. But he’d never struggled physically. He had no clue what he going to do when he quit the SAS and didn’t want to think about it.
    Getting old was brutal but then so was growing up in Ulster during the Troubles.
    The Troubles .
    Ha . As if the conflict had been a few boys throwing stones at one another. It had been war. A bloody, vicious battle, fought by ruthless killers brimming with nationalistic zeal and a total lack of human empathy, played out on streets full of innocent civilians. The terrorists hadn’t cared who died in the crossfire any more than the British government. He wasn’t blind to the hypocrisy. He’d joined up to hurt his family. To destroy them if he could. He’d joined the most hated regiment in the British Army—the paras—then set his sights on becoming one of the most feared soldiers in the world, certainly in Northern Ireland. There could be no doubt of the total rejection of his family’s values when he’d passed the grueling selection process and been allowed into the ranks of the SAS.
    He’d made his choice. He’d built a life of integrity and honor, and that was more than he could have hoped for as the youngest son of the most notorious bomb maker in Northern Ireland.
    He blanked the memories from his mind. Too many years. Too much ancient grief. What was done was done. The Regiment was his family now and protecting innocents by eliminating the bad guys was what he did.
    He glanced at Baxter who was out cold after taking the earlier stag duty. He turned back to the camp using his high-powered day/night scope, looking for clues about these people. He saw no weapons except the basic rifle they’d taken off with yesterday and the old AK-47 which was as ubiquitous as a dick in this part of the world. There was a solar panel mounted beside the biggest yurt, and he suspected they had a satellite phone—stupid not to. He’d seen walkie-talkies and some sort of handheld receiver he couldn’t identify.
    A tent flap was flung back and the tall skinny guy who’d ridden off yesterday morning emerged, carrying two buckets of steaming hot water. He strode over to a curtained-off area that must be a jerry-rigged washing area. Dempsey felt a moment of extreme envy because he itched with grime from scalp to toes. It would be cold but it would be worth it to feel clean even for a short time.
    From this elevation he had a clear view of the cubicle. He looked back at the yurts but out of the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of the guy pulling off his hat and shirt. Dempsey’s gaze swung back. Suddenly his skin felt too tight, and heat rapid-fired through his veins.
    There was enough skin on display to convince him that was no man. Long brown hair, the color of rich mahogany, tumbled in a straight line down her back. She grabbed the soap and turned to face him, small breasts with high pink nipples, pebbled from cold, waving hello.
    It was a hell of a scope.
    And he shouldn’t be looking.
    She dipped