Open Season by Cameron Curtis (early reader books TXT) 📗

First light, Robyn moved faster. The Mujahedeen were born to track in these mountains. She looked over her shoulder, moved so as not to disturb the foliage.

She pressed on, trying to cover as much ground as possible before sundown. Her legs burned and grew heavy from the difficulty of balancing on the undulating forest floor.

Robyn decided to do the unexpected. She turned west, deeper into the forest. Harder going, uphill. She was careful not to break any branches. After half an hour, she stopped and laid herself on the ground next to a fallen log. The sun was setting, and the forest was cloaked in shadow.

She sensed a disturbance in the forest. The soft brush of sleeves against bushes, the click of a sling’s swivel against metal. The sounds of a small group of men pacing themselves.

The men passed her. Now she had a problem. They were not going to return to the village that night. They would camp out for another day at least. Until they decided they had lost her, or until she blundered into them.

Blundering into them was a real possibility. They would surmise she would stay close to the river, and now they were between her and freedom. If she kept going south, they would cut her off. If she headed further west, she would get lost.

Robyn went to ground.

It was close to dawn when Robyn woke, shivering with cold. Though she had food in her cargo pockets, she could not satisfy her gnawing hunger. She was thirsty. Her mouth and throat were dry, and she could only swallow her saliva with difficulty.

Robyn struggled to her feet and made her way to the river. Fifty feet below, black waters coursed over rocks in the riverbed.

The mountainside was an obstacle course of boulders. Huge rocks with grotesque shapes jutted in all directions. Some were half-buried in the mountainside. Others were piled together like mounds of rubble, ready to slide into the river with the removal of a single stone from their base.

Descending in the dark was suicidal. Desperate from thirst, Robyn groped her way around the largest boulders. Extended her legs and tested each foothold.

Halfway down, she slipped and skidded fifteen feet on her ass. Slammed into a boulder, lost her balance, pitched sideways. Hit a pile of loose shale and rolled. The roll saved her. Had she fallen down a vertical face studded with rocky outcrops, she would not have escaped injury.

She stared at the stars. Strained her ears to detect any sign of pursuit.

Silence.

Robyn stood and tested her arms and legs. She was scraped and bruised, but otherwise unharmed. She staggered across the escarpment to the riverbank, threw her legs over the edge, and lowered herself till her boots found purchase. The waters were high enough to fill three-quarters of the riverbed. The water’s edge was ten feet from the bank. The rocks were slippery, but she knelt on all fours, and ventured out. Took off her chador and plunged her face into the rushing water.

Ice cold, like a hose directed at the side of her head.

She threw her head back and shook water from her hair. Then she cupped her hands and drank. She found a large rock, worn smooth by the waters. Sat and closed her eyes.

The sky over the western mountains was the color of salmon. Fog flowed over the waters and filled the riverbed. Robyn got to her feet. Her hair and the fabric of her uniform crackled with frost. Like a kerchief, she bound the chador loosely about her neck.

She took chicken and rice from her cargo pockets and ate. Crawled into the fog bank, found the running water, and drank some more.

The sun cast its golden rays over the mountainside she had descended. She had been so preoccupied with her hunger and thirst she forgot she would have to climb back. She would be exposed on that slope. Safety lay in the forest, beyond the tree line.

Robyn climbed out of the riverbed, slipping on wet stone. Once on the bank, she stood and brushed herself off.

She sucked breath, froze. Four Afghans with horses stood on the escarpment, staring at her. How could she have missed them? The fog, and early morning frost. The sound of rushing water must have muffled their approach.

How could one tell a Mujahedeen from a Taliban? Were they Najibullah’s men, sent to find her, or Abdul-Ali Shahzad’s? Perhaps they were bandits. Perhaps they were villagers. There was no way to tell. They were dressed alike, with white turbans, waistcoats, and chest rigs. Dismounted, they carried AK47s.

Two of the men strode toward her.

Robyn ran. It was useless to run on the riverbank. They would catch her with the horses. She sprinted for the mountainside, twenty yards away. Reached it before they did, started to climb.

They caught her before she got ten feet up the slope. She felt a hand grab the back of her belt and yank her off-balance. Cried out and fell backwards against a man who turned, deflected her weight, and left her to crash on her side. Another man kicked her in the belly and she doubled over into a fetal position. In seconds, one man had pinned her arms from behind. The other was tearing at her belt.

Robyn kicked at the man. He threw his weight on her, balled his fist, and struck her face. Robyn spat blood.

Overcome with panic, she screamed in Pashto. “No! No! Stop!”

The belt came undone and the man struggled to jerk off her pants. Robyn thrashed, but he pinned her down and continued to struggle with her clothing. “Stop it,” she shrieked. “Help me!”

Thwack.

The man holding her arms let go. Something wet and fleshy spattered her face. She heard the bullwhip crack of a high-powered rifle echo from the mountain walls.

Robyn realized the man holding her arms had been shot. She had heard the sound of the impact before the sonic boom of the bullet.

The man struggling with her pants straightened. Robyn