Hotak shoved past the men on the stairs, pushing them to the side. Most milled about, aimless, fear spread across their faces. Hotak paused, slowing at one man who appeared to have been crying. He searched for the cause. Whatever the problem was, lives would be lost if a good reason didn’t exist.

He pushed through the last of the guards as he reached the eighth-floor hallway. None of the men would look at him. These cretins. How did he ever think he could realistically use them anywhere outside the country?

One foot on the first step, he turned to look upstairs.

“Badi!” He went weak.

Badi’s legs were on the landing, his back and head resting on the wall.

Hotak’s mouth opened and closed on its own. He wanted to shout, scream, and curse, but he could only stand there and stare. Badi was his indestructible man, his greatest friend, and the only person he truly trusted, even above his own family.

Badi lifted a hand off his chest, then let it drop.

Hotak’s heart felt as if it had started again. He grabbed men and shoved them up the stairs.

“You men.” He pushed six of them up the stairs. “Pick him up. Quickly!”

The men race to obey. Three men to each side took hold of loose clothing, picked him up, and brought him to the eight-floor hall.

Hotak sent another man after Badi’s machine gun.

“You, you, you, you, and you. He pushed five other men up the stairs. “ Stand guard up there.” He pointed to the landing.

A tear formed in his eye and slid down into his beard. On his knees next to the man he’d known since childhood, he bent over and prayed for the first time in his life. He wasn't much of a believer. In the affairs of men, Hotak had far more power over those he dealt with than any mythical deity. This barren and hostile country suggested there couldn't be a god above. At this moment, though, he prayed, hoping something was out there, and it would save his friend. Blood seeped from around the spike in Badi’s eye. He thought there should have been more but was glad there wasn’t. He reached down and yanked the curved-bladed Persian dagger from his belt and cut off the sleeve of his expensive shirt, and with loving care, he wrapped it around the wound. The other sleeve, he wrapped it around the tomahawk and tied it off. The blindfold would help keep the weapon secure until Badi was hospitalized. Only Badi’s beard and mouth were uncovered.

Badi mouthed, “Thank you.”

More tears ran down Hotak’s face. “Badi, it’s the best I can do for now. I’ll get you to a hospital. You’ll survive this, I promise it.”

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A large hand squeezed his arm.

“Badi? My oldest and best friend. Listen to me. You will survive this.”

The hand squeezed his arm again.

Hotak smiled back.

He stood, the powerful man his men expected and dreaded faced them.

“You six will carry Badi downstairs, out the tunnel, and into the valley. You will put him in the helicopter and help the steward and copilot secure him for the flight.

The men strained to lift Badi. The wounded man’s head hung down, Hotak put another man in front to secure it. Hotak took one last heartbreaking look at the man who had saved his life those many years ago. The men waited until he nodded, and they began their mission of mercy.

The faces around him ran the emotional gambit. Some wanted revenge, some radiated fear, and others, like most Afghanis, accepted and waited for whatever was to come. He spotted the man he promoted to be the leader of this rabble.

“Go with them. Tell them to take the elevator.” Hotak put his lips on the man’s ear.

“Yes, Baabaa Hotak.” The man followed. “Careful, you fools.”

Lifting the radio to his mouth, he called the pilot and gave him specific instructions. The man was a Westerner who loved money. Hotak knew he could count on the man to deliver Badi to the hospital the ultra-rich cartel bosses and Pakistani politicians used in Islamabad. Next, he instructed the pilot to inform his other aircrew to get his cargo helicopter flying to the valley to pick him up as soon as possible. Next, he contacted his contacts on his phone to be ready for Badi’s arrival.

Finally, he reached for the satphone that he didn’t have. His fist raised over his head and cursed. He bent over, hitting the air with his bunched-up hands, and screamed.

They had his satphone. They had his children. He looked at the men around him. There were nearly twenty-five of them. More than enough if he was to assault and kill the Americans. He wanted his children back. He needed that satphone.

He took a grenade from one of his men and walked to the bottom of the stairs.

“Americans.” He waited. No reply. He shouted again. “Americans.”

“What do you want?”

“I want my children and the items you stole from my office.”

“You’re Hotak?”

“That’s right.”

The Crack of a rifle firing deafened him. The rifle switched to automatic fire, the bullets hitting the back wall of the landing. Three of his men on the landing went down screaming. The others dragged the wounded down the stairs. Hotak casually walked around the corner and waited.

He knew it would have to end this way. He didn't want to sacrifice his children, he lost too much already. He needed that satphone, and nothing would prevent that.

The firing stopped. The ting, ting, ting of expended brass bouncing down the stairs and rolling around on the landing seemed almost as impactful as the rifle fire. Narrow geometric lines in the blood now painted the landing.

“Attend to these men. Get them in the elevator and take them to the tunnel.”

“Yes, Baabaa Hotak,” one of the men said.

Hotak ignored him.

“Are you done up there? Can we talk?”

“Yeah, let’s talk.”

The sarcasm was thick and unmistakable. Teeth clenched, he rolled the grenade around in his hands. It was more a squat cylinder than a ball. It was Russian. It looked like the old American pineapple grenade.

“You want the kids and your stuff, come on up, and we’ll talk.”

“I’ll come, but only if you guarantee I won’t be shot.”

The man was quiet. Hotak heard him and maybe others moving around. “Okay, to talk. You have my word you’ll be safe.”

“Excellent.” The men behind him didn’t understand any of it. Nor was it necessary they understood. They only needed to know what he told them. With some easy sign language, he got them in position.

He rose to his full height and quietly walked up to the landing. The men were watching him, ready to do his bidding.

With a finger from his left hand, he pulled the pin, let the spoon fly, reared back, and threw the grenade.