Page 71 of The Only Reason (The Trident Trilogy 2)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Millie

Kalasha Valley, Pakistan

2020

“What do you mean she jumped off the wall?” I ask, laughing.

“I mean she said she was a princess warrior, spread her arms like wings, and jumped.” Aza glances at me, her face glowing. “Three meters later, she is lying at the bottom of the wall—wailing—holding her broken leg.”

“Ow. Poor thing. I’m sure it hurt.” I’m trying to imagine what my mom looked like at the bottom of that wall.

“Her father tried to scold her as he was picking her up to take her to the hospital. He was smiling, though. He secretly loved her independence. She was one of his only weaknesses.”

I take a deep breath as my heart drops. It seems like I have something else in common with my mom. Aza reaches over to hold my hand for at least the tenth time. In the past three hours on our drive, I’ve heard story after story about my mom. It’s been lovely and painful. After every story, Aza asks me if she should go on. I want her to go on forever.

She squeezes my hand and lets go. “We are getting close to the valley. There will likely be guards at some point along the road. The Kalasha do not much like outsiders. Climb into the back seat and wrap your scarf around your head until only your eyes are showing. I will tell them you are my guest to visit my family. Try not to say anything to them. Don’t speak in Pashto. We don’t want to let them know you understand it. Only speak English or Urdu.”

“I only know a little bit of Urdu,” I say, climbing into the back seat.

“English is fine. Your accent would give you away anyway.”

When we turn off the main road in Gabhirat toward the Birir Valley, the roads—if that’s what you can call them—get steeper and much skinnier. Aza is driving them like a pro, but I’m still half convinced we’re going to go off the side of the mountain. As much as I want to hear more stories about Mom, I decide to keep quiet and let Aza concentrate on driving. My mind just has a second to think about what I might find at the end of this road when I see a guard station ahead of us.

Aza pulls up next to the guard and speaks to him in a language I don’t understand. I’m assuming it’s Kalasha. He points back to me a few times. I look down at the floorboard to make sure Alex’s Glock hasn’t slipped out of its hiding place under the passenger’s seat. It hasn’t. My .38 is still strapped to my leg. I’ve already checked the mag on the Glock—15 rounds, two spent. With both guns, I have sixteen rounds. I’ve never shot a Glock, but I’m guessing I can still get a shot in this guy’s head from two feet away.

Aza reaches into her dress and pulls out a roll of cash. She gives the guard the entire roll and we’re on our way. I don’t even ask who the guard was. I’m guessing he’s friendly to the Kalasha people with the respect he showed Aza. He’s not a threat. I’m guessing our threats lie ahead as we wind our way closer to the Afghanistan border.

When we finally start descending into the Kalasha Valley, the site takes my breath away. The emerald green valley with snow-capped mountains behind it reminds me of a Swiss village. There’s a beautiful crystal-blue river running through the town. As we get closer, I see tiny wooden houses built into the foothills. We stop at one of them.

“My grandparents’ house,” Aza says as she turns and smiles at me. “My son lives here now. Let’s go in. Remember only English. We don’t want anyone to know you understand Pashto.”

I take a deep breath. I’m hoping she has a secret son no one knows about, but I’m guessing we’re talking about Fareed—the man who kidnapped me with Yusef Hadzic. This would be the perfect location for him. It’s just east of the Hindu Kush. He could have gone easily between wherever Sayid’s network was hiding in the mountains to this house. I decide quickly not to bring the Glock. I don’t have a good place to hide it. My .38 has three rounds. I hope it’s enough.

The door to the house is so short that I have to duck to get in. When I straighten up, I see Fareed sitting at a rickety kitchen table. There’s a teapot hanging over the small fire in the fireplace to his left. A mattress takes up what’s left of the room. He’s alone, and he’s staring right at me.

“Hi, Fareed,” I say as calmly as possible. “I haven’t seen you since you kidnapped me a few months back. I hope you’ve been well.”

He doesn’t smile. Apparently, my sarcasm is lost on him. He turns to Aza and says in Pashto, “Why is she here?”

“She is my niece and your cousin. She’s here to visit,” Aza says, not looking at him. She gets two small cups off the counter and motions for me to sit on the other chair at the table as she pours me a cup of tea.

“Was I right about her trying to trap you for the CIA?” Fareed says in Pashto.

“You were right that it was the plan, but she helped me escape. She’s working both sides of the equation. You know something about that.” Aza goes to the fire to warm her hands. Fareed doesn’t reply to her last statement.

“So it looks like neither one of us died in Sarajevo. Are you looking to finish the job this time?” I say to Fareed, still speaking in English, as instructed by Aza.

His eyes narrow as his stare becomes more aggressive. “I saved your life that day,” he says.

“Really? That’s not how I remember it. I remember you putting a hood over my head and shoving me into a car.”

“Yusef wanted to kill you right there on the road. I stopped him from doing that and got you to your uncle Sayid. I knew he wouldn’t kill you.”

My mind goes back to that day as I suddenly remember Fareed yelling at Yusef to not touch me. I also remember him handling me as gently as he could under the circumstances.

“Why didn’t you let him kill me?”

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