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

“Hiking and hunting?”

“Yes. Zarek and his people are more progressive than the Taliban. So long as I kept myself covered and demonstrated submissive behavior, no one objected. Zarek took me on long walks and rides in the mountains. Wajia didn’t want to go. Well… the imam objected, but not too loud.”

I can’t believe my ears. “Zarek Najibullah took you hunting.”

Robyn smiles. “Have you ever hunted Himalayan ibex, Breed?”

The April after she was taken, Baryal came to Zarek’s house. The two men spoke for a while, then Baryal left.

Zarek came inside, rubbing his hands together. “My scouts have spotted ibex on the high slopes. I am going to bring one back.”

Wajia and Robyn stared at him. The warlord’s eyes twinkled. “Do you want to come, Sergeant Trainor?”

Robyn had hunted with her brothers. Harvested deer with a Winchester ’94. She wanted to go with him.

They left early the next morning. Zarek took his favorite mount, and Ghazan loaned Robyn a mare. A sturdy pack mule carried their water and camping gear. They dressed for cold weather, for winter had not yet released the high slopes from its grip.

“We shall find them well above eight thousand feet,” Zarek told her. “Possibly as high as ten. There will be snow on the ground.”

“I have never seen an ibex,” Robyn said.

“It is the Himalayan ibex,” Zarek told her. “They are found where the Himalayas meet the Karakoram and the Hindu Kush. The juncture of three countries. Here, we find our share.”

For most of the journey, they stuck to the river valley. After a day’s ride, Zarek found a campsite. They built a fire, ate their rations, and drank tea. They went to bed, and rose early the next morning.

It was time to go to work. They fed and watered their mounts, then tethered them out of sight, in a copse of trees. Zarek slung his Dragunov and led her up the mountain.

They hiked at a steady, ground-eating pace. Zarek did not consult a map. The area was well known to his scouts, and Baryal must have given him a good description of where to find their quarry. It did not take them long to climb above the tree line. They found themselves on a rocky slope, barren but for clumps of dry brush. They pressed on, often knee-deep in snow.

“The ibex’s ears are sensitive,” Zarek warned her. “From now on, we must not speak. They will be around the curve of this slope.”

Zarek and Robyn crept around the mountain. There wasn’t a tree in sight. Zarek put his hand on her shoulder and pointed.

There, separated from them by a shallow draw, were a dozen Himalayan ibex. Barely visible against the dark brown moonscape of the mountainside. They were heavy animals, with thick slabs of muscle. Their coats were dark, their horns light brown. Scimitar-shaped, with lateral ridges that marked their age. The males had great, long horns. The females had smaller, thinner horns.

Beautiful animals. Powerful and graceful. They climbed effortlessly, sprang from rock to rock. Stopped to forage.

Two hundred and fifty yards separated Zarek and Robyn from their prey. Zarek lay prone, rested the barrel of his Dragunov on his pack for support. Robyn lay next to him. He handed her a pair of old Soviet binoculars.

Robyn had done enough hunting to know the range was not a problem. At two hundred and fifty yards, the ibex were well within the Dragunov’s performance envelope. No, the problem was the wind. It whaled off the Hindu Kush, blowing snow into a fine mist. It gusted left-to-right, then reversed, in a devilish game of cat and mouse.

Zarek took his time, judging the shot. He could estimate, from the blowing snow, the wind’s speed and direction. He waited patiently and assessed its reversals.

Crack.

The crash of the gunshot echoed across the mountains. One of the animals, a large billy, jerked and slid back on its hind legs. The other animals bolted, ran in all directions. Some disappeared over the crest. Others stopped, searching for the source of the disturbance.

Zarek kept the animal he had shot in his sights, ready to deliver another blow. The animal flopped onto its side and lay still.

“You got it,” Robyn breathed.

Zarek turned his face to her and grinned.

“Come, Sergeant Trainor.” Zarek got to his feet without touching her. His voice was warm. “Let us look at the animal we climbed all this way to kill.”

It took them hours to butcher the billy. Hard, sweaty work. They gutted and skinned the animal. Zarek was pleased with Robyn’s facility with a blade. The skill with which she kept the animal’s fur from tainting the meat. They sliced the choicest cuts from the animal and packed them carefully. Stained with blood, covered with the animal’s stink, they carried the prize on their backs.

Three thousand feet lower on the mountain, the air grew warmer. Drenched in blood and sweat, they came to a waterfall. Blue-and-white water poured from the peaks. Snow melt cascaded into a pool carved into the rock by centuries of erosion.

Zarek leaned his rifle against a boulder and undressed in front of her. Mouth dry, legs trembling, she watched. Naked, he stood before her and laughed. His body was a scar-scape of wounds. It looked like it had been blasted and torn, bare-handed, from the stone that surrounded them. He straightened and dove into the pool.

When Zarek surfaced for air, he shook out his long hair like a wet dog. Treaded water and stared at her. Said nothing.

The Dragunov was within Robyn's reach.

Zarek dared her with his eyes.

Robyn struggled. Came to a decision. She was fascinated by Zarek’s body. Wanted to run her hands over the scars. Told herself she should know better. But—she took off her headscarf, then her boots. When she was naked, she stood on a smooth stone at the edge of the pool. Her body was white against the rock. She raised her arms over her head and dove in.

The shock of the ice water was like a thousand