Apostle by Brad Thor

detonate prematurely and take one of her eyes. The doctors had matched it perfectly and you had to look very closely to notice any of the scarring her face had suffered. Lesser people would have given up, but not Tracy, and Scot admired the hell out of her for that.
    Where she refused to move forward was in their relationship. Harvath wanted to get married and Tracy didn’t. She knew how badly Scot wanted children and she just didn’t think she could handle the headaches and kids. They were engaged in a quiet stalemate and had been most of the winter.
    On the job front, Harvath couldn’t have hoped for a person more understanding or supportive of his career. Tracy was content keeping the home fires burning for as long as his assignments took him wherever they took him. She appreciated both the danger and the fact that this work was what he was born to do. She would never make him decide between being with her or pursuing his career. Tracy allowed him both. What she asked in return was to accept their relationship as it was and to not ask her to make any changes.
    It sounded reasonable, but the longer he and Tracy were together, the more he realized what a great mother she would be—even with the headaches. Harvath wanted kids and he wanted to have them with her. He still held out hope, as dim as he knew it was, that Tracy might change her mind and come around.
    “The headaches are still the same,” said Harvath. “Regularly irregular and when they come they’re pretty tough.”
    “Have you guys seen any specialists?”
    “Tons,” replied Harvath as he took another sip of Red Bull.
    “That sucks,” said Gallagher.
    Harvath attempted to change the subject. “How long have you known this police inspector we’re going to see?”
    “Ahmad?” asked Gallagher as he did the math in his head. “About three years now.”
    “And you trust him?”
    Baba G laughed. “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be going to Kabul’s version of South Central LA for this meeting. Don’t worry. He’s good people.”
    Don’t worry. It was a funny piece of advice coming from the man who had insisted upon seeing Harvath’s “Afghan walk.”
    “Normally, we just meet to gossip. Sometimes, we trade pieces of intelligence. This is the first time I’m going to offer him money for something.”
    Harvath looked at him. “Any reason to believe that might change things between you?”
    “If anything, it’ll probably make me more valuable to him and technically, I’m not giving him any money, you are. Ahmad and I are just facilitators, or fixers , as they say. I’m hooking you up with him and then hopefully he’ll hook you up with some information.”
    “Hopefully,” repeated Harvath.
    “Don’t worry,” Gallagher said yet again.
    As they drove toward their rendezvous, the streets were as crowded as they had been before. Men rode three and sometimes even four to a motorbike. Yellow and white taxis were everywhere, as were donkey carts and bicycles. Cars were parked halfway on sidewalks and men stood in the road every fifteen feet selling prepaid phone cards. Baba G had the Land Cruiser’s radio tuned to an Afghan station with music that sounded like a Bollywood sound track.
    They passed the normally anemic Kabul River, which was swollen with spring runoff, and had to stop for two men who were driving a flock of dirty sheep out of a muddy alley and across the road. All the while, Harvath kept his eyes alert for trouble. His local garb might help in not drawing attention to himself, but he had no doubt that he still looked every bit the American and that he was one big target.
    He pressed the Glock hidden beneath his tunic for reassurance, and when he looked over at Baba G, he saw that he was not only watching the traffic, but scanning the sidewalks and parked cars for danger as well. Kabul was like a Wild West town surrounded by Indian country. There wasn’t one single place where you could let your guard down.
    When they reached