True American

Kabul, Afghanistan, 2001 A ghostly neon blue-green sign glowed and flickered in the wide glass window of a solitary café, nearly the only light source on the deserted and decaying street. Assad Mustafa exited the building and reached into his pockets with an air of relaxed confidence. His flawlessly shined shoes, tailored black suit, and perfectly trimmed beard matched the sleek Mercedes-Benz he approached. However, the unblemished composite seemed utterly out of place on the dusty street. It was a cool night, and a slight breeze sent a bit of newspaper tumbling down the center of the street, scraping the parched surface of the road each time it landed and bounced back up into the current. A rusty, unrecognizable shop sign, never repainted after years of war and nicked with bullet holes, creaked above a storefront as it swung on aging hinges. Assad slid into the smooth leather driver’s seat, and the door closed with a final thunk that could only come from a perfectly assembled machine. He smiled slightly to himself. He was not just a survivor; he was a success. Assad turned the key in the ignition and headlights flooded the street, illuminating a man standing directly in front of his car. The man was unrecognizable in a white desert wrap, and the glare of pure linen in headlights momentarily blinded Assad. He squinted through the windshield and finally focused on a gun that left no question to the man’s agenda. There was no moment to react, no time to reach for the weapon hidden under the driver’s seat, no chance to throw the expensive car into gear and mow down his opponent. Assad’s eyes narrowed and his jaw set in silent fury. Every instinct that had helped him cheat death over and over could not save him now. In a flash, the gun blast shattered the windshield. A steady drone of the horn cut through the arid night—the only clue of a life gone in an instant.