Overwatch Page #3

A Tier One short story

• Fiction
• Short story
• Action and Adventure

								

Rayan had a different story.
He did not take the academic route. Despite the arduous work his brother and parents had done, they were still poor. They needed money, and they needed it now.
Rayan became a drug mule, and at first it was simple jobs, running around Lahore with a small baggie of opium. He excelled, his slim build allowing him to slink through the bustling crowds of the city whilst avoiding the ever-watchful eyes of the local police. Eventually, the volume of drugs he ran increased, and so did the pay. He payed the months rent for the flat all by himself, as well as buying a pair of genuine Nike trainers. His parents asked where the money came from, and he never said. They would be inconsolable.
He kept the money flowing in, so as far as he was concerned there was no right to complain.
The jobs started increasing in complexity, and in danger. He’d had scrapes with a few dangerous gangs, even been threatened once. He’d stood his ground, and he’d got his money. His employee liked his guts, so his next run was one kilogram of opium to way outside the city. He’d followed the coordinates on his new GPS, and waited on the dark hillside for an hour, shivering in the cold. 
He’d soon broke out in a sweat when he saw the buyers. They were bearded, turban wearing men. AK rifles hung from their chests. 
That was when Rayan realised he was in Afghanistan, and that he’d just sold opium to the Taliban. This opium would be fed to suicide bombers, sometimes as young as teenagers, before sprinting towards a checkpoint and blowing themselves to Allah
As much as it unsettled him, the feeling of cash in his hand was overpowering. He started making trips to Afghanistan regularly, hopping the border and dropping off drugs. The money was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, and soon his parents had no need to worry about rent, Rayan had all the trainers and watches he wanted, and Hamza was working at the university after he got his degree.
Yet he wanted more.
On one of his visits, he got to talking with an elder about what else they needed. The demand for opium would always be there, but Rayan wanted to have his eggs in multiple baskets. They got to talking about weapons and munitions, something Rayan had nothing to do with; he’d never held a gun in his life. 
Then they got to talking about explosives, IED’s and chemicals.
Chemicals.
Hamza had been reluctant at first, he didn’t want to be responsible for the deaths of young men. Neither him nor Rayan were particularly religious, they didn’t want to do it to expel the infidels or for their God.
For them it was just about the money.
They’d done this for nearly twenty years, living in Afghanistan and selling IED’s to the Taliban, making enormous amounts of money in the process. The pair became renowned for making quality products and delivering on time, allowing them to charge a premium. However, when the Americans withdrew from Afghanistan in August 2021, so did the demand for IED’s and Hamza and Rayan’s usefulness evaporated alongside it. 
They ran across the border with all their possessions on their back, chased in the dead of night by Taliban who were hellbent on cutting off loose ends. They had climbed into a taxi and drove and drove until they reached a city. They’d flailed for customers online, desperate for income.
Aamadu Mensah bit, and now here they were, being watched by a British paramilitary task force who would shoot on sight.
Hamza Shahid put his head in his hands and sighed. 
Chapter Four
Mason clambered out of bed to the tune of the city raging outside, the hustle and bustle of Peshawar penetrating the thin drywall of the flat. His handgun was tucked into his appendix holster, and he felt the pressure on his skin as he walked to the table where his SR-25 laid. The bipod was deployed, and the barrel was pointed towards the flat where Hamza and Rayan lived. 
He checked his Garmin watch, and saw he was up thirty minutes early. Deciding he had nothing better to do, he went back to his room and grabbed a blanket and some pillows, which he took back to the living room and placed on the table. After testing gingerly to see if the coffee table would support his weight, he laid down flat behind the rifle. 
Mason pulled back the charging handle, loading a round into the chamber. He grabbed the pistol grip, pulling the stock into his shoulder. He placed his cheek on the stock and closed one eye.
The scope pulled him right into the apartment, where he could see an array of equipment that he couldn’t identify. Chemistry equipment perhaps? Mason didn’t know all 
the science behind explosives, but he had a basic grasp, and he knew that Hamza and Rayan could do serious harm with several unusual and usually harmless items. Fertiliser and My-First-Chemistry sets could all kill and maim with the right knowledge. 
And then, through the crystal-clear glass of the Schmidt and Bender scope, and through the grimy apartment windows, Mason saw a man come into view after leaving a room. From the picture burned into his mind from the briefing back in the UK, Mason knew he was looking at Hamza Shahid.
He followed him through the scope as he went by his morning routine, making breakfast and coffee, watching him disappear into what he assumed to be a bathroom where he showered and washed.
The first morning prayer calls started blasting over the city, and Mason could see hordes of people flocking through the street to their place of worship. 
Apart from the the Shahid brothers.
Weird.
“Morning Mason,” Leopard said, yawning and making his way to the small kitchenette.
“I better not see your finger on that trigger,” Leopard said.
“Not a chance,” Mason said, keeping his eye on the glass and slowly sliding his finger upwards, off the trigger that he’d been subconsciously applying pressure to.
“Good. You’re the first man on watch. The assault team have had issues getting their weps in theatre; the truck’s currently being fixed in the desert. Until they get their long guns, we’re the only team with any real capability.”
Leopard set two cups of tea down next to Mason, before sitting down on the sofa and producing a notebook, pen, and spotting scope from a black rucksack. 
“I’ll keep eyes on with you, and I’ll note stuff down. If you need to take a shot, I’ll do the wind and air density calculations before you fire.”
“Okay,” Mason said, relaxing his muscles and preparing himself for a long day behind the gun.
The minutes turned to hours as the sun soared high, the heat beating on him through the window. 
“The air’s dry as f*ck,” Mason said, wiping at his brow.
“Cry me a fucking river,” Scott said, pulling bottled water out of the small fridge.

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes