The Strangers

[Clarenthia]

Great Gate Bridge
48 km from Cewher City
North Jurzan

The roar of the engine and the oppressive Jurzani sun could hardly damper the ecstasy of Zakir Mojaddidy. He and his men had just secured one of the largest deliveries that has ever crossed the Jurzani-Kadikistani border and he was soon to be an even richer man. Nothing, not even the threat of a large scale war, could prevent the free trade of the drugs.

“It’s a magical thing you know,” Mojaddidy exclaimed, placing his hand on Zalmay Pazhwak’s shoulder “Two people bred to hate another can be so close when it comes to cocaine.”

“The glory of the revolution!” Pazhwak joked.

Zakir Mojaddidy is a well-known, powerful man. He had not always been that way though. Born in Sharjah, Mojaddidy arrived in Cewher when he was only twelve years old. Now, thirty-two, he had gained the reputation of the undisputed drug lord of the Herat – the northern mountains along the Kadiki-Jurzani border. Often times, he would be called “His Royal Excellency, Zakir Mojaddidy, the King in the Herat.”

His dedication and loyalty to his allies is matched only by his brutality to those who fight him. Zakir himself never talks about his exploits mostly because those around him are more than happy to hype his name. If you ever met the man, you’d never know what he is capable of or the kind of atrocities he’s ordered. Some new people would try and impress him by threatening his empire or – hilariously – acting as though they were equals. Zakir would laugh and embrace the individual. “You’re a funny man!” Zakir would exclaim, pledging a long friendship. Then, as the man went home, he’d find his wife’s throat slit and his child hung to the wall by a machete through the heart.

“Sir!” the driver called out “There’s a checkpoint up ahead!”

Zakir maneuvered through the van to get a better look through the windshield. Sure enough, three men were standing at the edge of the bridge. This would be a usual checkpoint, especially due to the heightened tensions lately, however the men were not police officers – they wore the uniforms of the Green Army. Zakir smiled, grabbed the driver’s shoulder and said:

“Pull over my friend, let us see what they have to say.”

The van pulled to the side and turned off. The three soldiers stood, holding their rifles at ease. Their faces did not move, did not react when the young, suave, and criminal Zakir Mojaddidy emerged from the van and approached them without hesitation.

“Gentlemen!” he exclaimed “Allow me to be the first to say thank you for your service to the Republic. Your sacrifice is what guarantees our freedom.”

“My name is Sergeant Jalaluddin Jadoon of the Green Army of the Islamic Republic of the Jurzan,” the sergeant stated, walking forward “And you are Zakir Mojaddidy.”

“My reputation precedes me, Sergeant,” Zakir stated “How may I help you today?”

“You’re coming with us,” the Sergeant stated.

Almost immediately, the other two soldiers approached the van, which prompted Zakir’s men to draw their weapons. Zakir immediately rose his hand to cease any hostilities.

“I am not confident that you want to do this, Sergeant,” Zakir stated “Let us pass and we can reconnect when my work here is done.”

“I do apologize if at any time I lead you to believe this was a negotiation,” Jadoon answered.

“I see, I see,” Zakir through his hands in the air and laughed at the Sergeant “You want a cut, I get that. You know, I am surprised that members of the Armed Forces would actively get involved in this sort of thing, but I welcome the decision. Tell me, what percentage do you want?”

Jadoon remained stone cold, unmoved.

“Maybe you don’t,” Zakir’s tone slightly darkened “but I’m sure your children do. You wouldn’t want to upset them, because that is surely what would happen.”

“A tantalizing offer, Mr. Mojaddidy,” the Sergeant stated “I’ve grown tired of this.”

The soldiers opened fire on Zakir’s men, killing them with incredible ease. Zakir wasn’t unarmed, but he wasn’t stupid either. He stared at the Sergeant who had just killed his men with a look of disgust.

“You’re a criminal, Mr. Mojaddidy,” the Sergeant stated “I would put a bullet in your head right now, but unfortunately we need you alive. So, you’re coming with me.”

The soldiers threw a black hood over Mojaddidy’s head and knocked him unconscious.

 

[Clarenthia]

Unknown Location

“You’re all fucking dead!” Mojaddidy screamed.

The black bag tied over his head was tight, not enough to choke him, but enough to be uncomfortable. The ride was long, hot, and unpleasant. Naturally, he had been screaming and cursing his kidnappers the entire way.

“You have some lungs on you, Mr. Mojaddidy,” Sergeant Jadoon taunted.

“You fuck! You fucking fuck!” Mojaddidy ranted “I’m going to fucking rape your wife, slit your children’s throat and make you beg me to fucking kill you. You don’t know who you fucked with!”

Mojaddidy heard a heavy steel door open, and he found himself being thrown into a chair and restrained. The bag was ripped off his head and he got a look at the room. With no windows or lights – sans the lamp sitting on the table in front of him – he couldn’t make out virtually any details of the room. On the other side of the table, there was a chair. Mojaddidy then noticed that Sergeant Jadoon and another soldier he had not seen before flanked the door he had just entered.

“I never forget a fucking face,” Mojaddidy barked at Jadoon.

“I’m counting on it!” a jubilant voice called out from behind Mojaddidy – prompting the man to immediately turn as far as he could to his rear.

There, stood a very tall, slender man with grey hair, a wrinkled face, and a receding hairline. He was wearing a long, dark blue Kaftan that was right on the arms, shoulders, chest, and abdomen before loosening and draping over the legs. It had a high color, laced with white, and a white line going down the chest to the waist. The man stood with his hands clasped and his yellow teeth beamed from his uncomfortable smile.

“I have wanted to meet you for a long time!” the man called, moving toward the chair across from Mojaddidy “Do you mind if I take a seat?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Mojaddidy demanded.

“Of course,” the man said, taking a seat. He sat very proper, and puffed his chest out in the chair.

“My name is Mohammed Mestarihi,” he began “I am an agent of the Jurzani Bureau of National Security, Internal Affairs division. And you are Zakir Mojaddidy, the King in the Herat.”

“Internal Affairs?” Mojaddidy repeated “What the fuck do you want?”

“Help,” Mestarihi answered, with a smile.

Mojaddidy had calmed just enough to feel the injuries he had gotten from the transportation to the facility. His knees, in particular, were very bloody. Mestarihi noticed his wounds.

“For what it’s worth,” Mestarihi said “I am sorry for the injuries you’ve received. What these men have in loyalty, they lack in gentleness. I promise you that we will ensure your wounds are attended to.”

“Your pig fuckers killed my men,” Mojaddidy barked, remembering the bullets that had killed his friends.

“A pain that is very insignificant to the amount of pain you’ve caused the good people of North Keshinwar. Tell me, how many tears, funerals, and fatherless children are you responsible for? Truly, Mr. Mojaddidy, you have no right nor standing to chastise these men. However, I am not here to debate morality. I am here to ask for your help.”

“Why the fuck would I help you?” Mojaddidy yelled.

“Fair enough,” Mestarihi laughed “I have to admit I have very little to barter with you. Let me tell you what I want and then we can talk about how to arrive there. You are a man that had built an empire on making deals. I do wish that the circumstances of our meeting were more pleasant, but this is where we are.”

Mojaddidy was silent.

“There comes a time in every Republic where forces that seek to undermine the strength and integrity of the government hatch a plan. I fear that such a plan has been hatched and is currently in motion. I need your help to end it, to save our Republic. I am asking you because I am desperate and I know the type of men in your employ. The type of men that we need to maintain peace in our time. Please, help me to save the Republic,” Mestarihi asked.

“You want people dead?” Mojaddidy asked.

“High profile people,” Mestarihi confirmed “It would, more likely than not, be a suicide mission.”

“Why would I get rid of one of my best men to solve your crisis?” Mojaddidy asked.

“You’ll be compensated quite handsomely. I guarantee you’ll never find a richer client than I am,” Mestarihi leaned back in his chair “The Herat Mountains are a dangerous terrain, remote and untamed. Tense relations with the Kurmanji in Cewher make things difficult. It would do the Green Army a great service to simply…neglect patrol of the area.”

“I’ve been operating for years without your help,” Mojaddidy boasted.

“And yet,” Mestarihi stated “the moment I had use for you, I killed your men and drag you to my feet in chains. You have so many enemies, I do not believe you need more.”

“Are you threatening me with war” Mojaddidy taunted.

“No,” Mestarihi responded “You leaving here is dependent on your willingness to help. You have quite the reputation for torture in the Herat. Wait till you see what my men can do.”

“You think I can’t handle pain?” Mojaddidy asked.

“Quite the contrary,” Mestarihi interrupted “I’m hoping you have quite the endurance.”

Mojaddidy laughed.

“I like you, Mr. Mestarihi. Khushal Arsala, he’s your man. Expert assassin, promise you he’ll even get away.”

“Thank you,” Mestarihi said “Now how may I contact him?”