The Shadow Patrol by Alex Berenson Read Free Book Online Page A

close, Fowler saw he had a nasty scar down the right side of his neck, like somebody had just missed getting his head on a platter. Fowler was sure he’d seen that scar before. Weird.
    “You are looking for Taliban?” Scar said.
    “Always, myman.”
    “No Taliban here.”
    “Who was shooting atus?”
    The guy shook his head. Rodriguez adjusted the plug of dip in his mouth with his tongue and spit a stream of brown saliva at the canal. His dipping and his temper had earned him the nickname Volcano.
    “We heard shots.”
    “No shooting.”
    “Liar. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Roman, come with me. I want to talk with this dude in private. In his compound. Fowler, Young, you stay here, keep an eye on the huts. B Team, you flare left, case we spook somebody out the side.”
    “What about the right side?”
    “Right side’s going to have to look after itself. Can’t do more with just seven guys.”
    Fowler didn’t like the plan. They were looking at only a few huts, but even so, they could be walking into an ambush. The Taliban didn’t usually set up attacks inside villages, but there was a first time for everything.
    “You steady, Private?” Rodriguez said.
    Have to rub my face in it, don’t you, Sergeant?
Every time. Can’t help yourself.
An ugly thought flitted across Fowler’s mind, an idea he couldn’t have imagined having when this tour began.
I hope somebody lights you up. Mine, ambush, whatever. I hope you
die
,
Rodriguez.
    “Like a rock.”
    “Good.” Rodriguez walked toward the Afghan man in quick, confident steps. “Quicker you show us around, quicker we’re done.”
    The other two Afghans tried to follow, but Young lifted his rifle fractionally and they stepped back. When Rodriguez and Roman were out of earshot, Fowler stepped toward Young.
    “Coleman, I’m sure I’ve seen that guy before. At a checkpoint.”
    “Like Rodriguez said, they all look alike.”
    “They don’t all have a scar like that.”
    “More than you think.”
    “I can’t believe we’ve still got three months left. I can’t doit.”
    “You can. You will. And come home a hero.”
    “Hero.”
    “That’s what they call us, isn’tit?”
    A hundred yards ahead, the scarred man pulled open a gate. Rodriguez and Roman followed him inside. The way they were moving bothered Fowler. Rodriguez might be a dickwad, but he was a good soldier, always vigilant. Now he seemed relaxed. As if he were certain that nothing inside the gate would threaten. Fowler had the strange feeling that this patrol had been a sham, its only purpose to get Rodriguez to that compound. He watched the gate close and wonderedwhy.

2
    MISSOULA, MONTANA
    T he house at the end of the flagstone driveway was wide and brick and faced west toward the Bitterroot Mountains. It had two chimneys and a three-car garage. It looked . . . in truth, it looked like a nice place to live. Like it had a den filled with books that had actually been read and a refrigerator stuffed with leafy green vegetables. John Wells hadn’t gotten inside and he was already feeling defensive.
    Though the flagstone was a bit much.
    Wells rolled up the driveway, which turned to asphalt beside the house. A thickly padded pillar supported a regulation-size basketball backboard. A teenage boy faced the hoop. He dribbled the ball between his hands like a three-card-monte dealer hiding an ace. He was maybe six-foot-two and, despite the cool fall air, wore only knee-length white shorts and a blue Boise State T-shirt. As Wells drove up the flagstone, the kid stepped back and launched a fadeaway jumper. It traced an easy arc and dropped through thenet.
    Wells parked his rental Kia a few feet from the boy and grabbed the bouquet of orchids and lilies he’d bought in downtown Missoula. He didn’t want to open the door, but after a couple seconds he forced himselfout.
    The boy kept dribbling, skittering the ball between his legs. He was still growing into his body. His chest was flat, but