Probably the result of an American bomb, but that was by no means a certainty. It could have been shattered in the 1980s by a Russian rocket, or even decades before that in one of the tribal conflicts that predated either of Afghanistan’s most recent invaders. Fahran Hotaki stood with his back pressed against the wall, looking down on the unpaved street below. The sunbaked car on the other side was well known to him—it hadn’t run in years. The pedestrians were equally familiar, moving back and forth at the strangely unhurried pace of people aware that their lives offered few options. In the facing building, families he knew well were taking advantage of the quiet afternoon to go about the business of survival. The outward peacefulness of the scene was an illusion that would be short-lived. Joe Rickman had seen to that. It had been five years since Hotaki’s family was murdered but his hatred for the men responsible wasn’t diminished. None of the killers were Afghan—they were mostly Saudi, with a few Egyptians and Lebanese.
