Still, the faceless men had lived up to every agreement they had made. Zahid was holding a new AK-47 they had provided as well as a silenced American hunting rifle that he had used to take down the sentry now lying next to him.

He looked down at the dead man and then propped him against a shattered section of wall. His head easily cleared the top and would offer a reassuring silhouette, keeping the unsuspecting men in the village complacent.

The digital watch on his wrist—also newly provided—didn’t read out the time, but a countdown. It would be less than two minutes before it reached zero. Before what could be their final victory began.

Again, Zahid closed his eyes. He had spoken against this. He didn’t trust faceless men or their weapons or their money. It smelled like a trap—a CIA trick. But the elders didn’t fully understand the new world they lived in. And their hated for the people of Sarabat burned much hotter than their hatred for an invader that would soon leave in defeat and be forgotten. Like all the others.

He wrapped his hand around his new assault rifle and prayed to Allah for success until he heard the quiet click of his countdown timer reaching zero. His men would be moving now, the younger ones too quickly—driven by adrenaline and the stories of glory they had heard from the day they were born. He was slower to rise, staying low as he approached the village, watching the ridgeline for American soldiers and the sky for attack helicopters. But there was nothing.

The silence was finally broken by the high-pitched scream of a child followed by the familiar roar of automatic rifle fire. A woman was hit from behind as she tried to escape, thrown forward with her arms spread wide, landing in the dirt with the unmistakable stillness of death. One of his own men appeared from behind a building, attempting to sight in on a running villager before a boy of eight on nine knocked his barrel aside. Zahid accelerated to a full run, putting himself on a path to intercept the fleeing man as the boy’s skull was crushed by a rifle butt.

His quarry was probably in his mid-twenties, straight and strong, but also seemingly confused as to what to do. He sprinted and then slowed. He looked forward toward his escape route and then back at the massacre taking place in his village. He reached behind him for the ancient rifle on his back but then seemed unable to close his fingers around it.

Zahid stopped and knelt, bringing his AK-47 to his shoulder and squeezing off a careful volley. The disoriented man wavered and then dropped to his knees, staring blankly at the sky. But still he didn’t reach for his weapon.

Fearing a trick, Zahid approached cautiously, scanning the empty landscape that stretched out in every direction. Was he being drawn into an ambush? Why would they wait? Why would they let themselves be slaughtered like animals?