The old man saw it coming, but the years and alcohol had made him slow. The cane cracked across his cheek, causing him to spin and collapse against the grimy arm of the sofa. When it came down again, this time across his back, a low groan escaped him.

Dresner’s mind lost its ability to track what his body was doing and he struck again and again. The man slipped to the floor and tried to raise an arm in defense, but the brittle bones in it snapped with the next blow. He soon went motionless, but it didn’t matter. Dresner continued to beat him.

Only when his shoulder became too exhausted to rise and fall did he stop, staring blankly down at the body and trying to will his strength to return.

But, in truth, there was nothing left to do. The blood was pooling around the soles of his boots and the man’s dead eyes were staring into him as though they could see the terrified child he’d once been.

Dresner dropped the cane and staggered down the stairs, stopping at the bottom where the children had dared to come out of hiding.

He blinked hard, bringing their faces into focus and trying to control his breathing, once again visible in the absence of the kerosene heater.

“I wish I could do more,” he said finally. “I will someday. I promise you that.”

1

Khost Province
Afghanistan

ADITYA ZAHID LAY FLAT on his stomach behind the long-abandoned stone building, easing past its crumbling edge to scan the village of Sarabat.

The collection of square, dust-colored dwellings was small, even by the standards of this part of rural Afghanistan, and he felt the same shame that his father and his father before him had felt for allowing it to exist. The feud between these people and his own had burned for longer than anyone could remember, though the reason for it had faded with the years. Some said it was over stolen livestock and others a broken promise of marriage. Now it just was.

In truth, it no longer mattered. What did matter, though, was that despite outnumbering these people almost two to one, the fighting always ended in a bloody stalemate that resolved nothing. It was an ongoing humiliation that the elders of his village believed was about to be resolved. Zahid was less certain.

He retreated under cover and closed his eyes, picturing what he’d seen. Seven people in total were visible: two women, a child, and four men watering their goats at a well built by their good friends the Americans.

The sun was directly overhead and he squinted against it as he searched the walls of the shallow canyon. By now his companions would have completely surrounded the village, but he could find no sign of them. They had become part of the desert.

The anonymous foreigners who had made this moment possible insisted that the raid come now—not under the cover of darkness or even in the shade the cliffs would provide in only a few hours. And it was for this reason that Zahid didn’t share the elation of his people at the prospect of wiping these dogs off the face of their land. All he felt was fear and suspicion.