by Eric Meyer
Stoner lurched out of bed and started looking for his pants. He was only vaguely aware he was as naked as a newborn babe. Still, he had other things on his mind.
Another massacre, another corpse-strewn wasteland, and a long, long legacy of bitterness and vendettas, longer than the half-life of a discarded uranium isotope.
"We'll need ammo for the guns, or we'll be defenseless."
Blum nodded grimly. "All sorted while you were asleep. I retrieved the Barratt, and Crawford handed over your M4 A1. We have enough ammo to deal with anyone who tries to stop us."
"I need .50 caliber slugs for the Desert Eagles."
"Got that. You recall Hamed? Provided you don't mind paying three times the going rate, he'll sell anything. It’s all stashed in the Wrangler. I picked that up, too, and filled the tank with gas. As soon as you're ready, we'll load up and get out of Dodge."
Stoner stopped. "You mean pull out of Panjab? Leave them to it?"
"What else would we do? There's no way we can save Lena’s business. They'll send a raging mob out there. It's lost, Stoner, don't you get? This town is about to die, and there's nothing we can do, except get out of here and go home. We have guns, and we have ammo. If anyone tries to stop us leaving, we can take care of it."
"Sorry, Greg, I'm staying."
"You’re crazy!” he gasped, “An infidel? They'll tear you to shreds."
"They can try, but I'm not leaving."
"Nor me," Lena said. Her voice was crisp with authority. Gone was the sexy, smoldering young woman who'd shared his bed a few minutes before. She was all business, tough and not prepared to back down. She stared at Greg, "I need a weapon. A big pistol, they seem to be very effective."
Blum stared back at her, shaking his head. "I don't believe this. I assumed we were leaving. I even pumped the tires on the Wrangler.”
"I can't," she whispered, "I've stopped running, Greg. This is my town, and they're my people. I have to try to stop them, no matter what happens. I just need a gun.”
He hurried from the room, muttering, "Yeah, sure. Then we can all go out there and ask them to take potshots at us. You're crazy, both of you."
Stoner raced to the door, stepped out into the hallway, and called after the Russian, "I guess you'll be leaving town."
Blum shouted back, "No way. You'll need someone reliable to keep you alive."
"So leave me the dog."
"Yob tvoyu mat."
As he walked back to the room, an Afghan dressed like a businessman appeared from around the corner with his wife. She wore a black burqa, complete with letterbox slot for her eyes. They stopped, and the guy stared at him, frozen in disbelief. Stoner nodded. "Just getting some fresh air. No problem."
He walked into the room, and she had his clothes on the bed ready for him to dress.
"What do we do now?"
"I get dressed."
She sighed. "And the rest of it?"
"It's this thing I do. I fight."
"I heard you shouting while you were asleep. It's because of the nightmares, isn't it?"
"I want to stop them."
"Stop the nightmares with a gun?"
"That's the way they started. That's the way I'll finish them."
* * *
Haji Kamran stepped out from the smoking, ruined masonry of the half-destroyed building. He walked up the track, and after a few hundred meters came upon the body of a man he recognized, the man who was about to take a new wife. The man he’d vowed to protect with his life. His eyes flooded with tears, and he made another vow. To hunt down the men who'd done this, to kill them, shred them into little pieces and throw them to the pigs. He'd revered Imam Ali Mazari almost as a god. Now they would pay for the vile murder of a great man. The currency he'd demand would be their blood. The American infidels, as well as Mullah Khan with his Sunni vermin, they were dead men. It was time to go to war.
Chapter Ten
They finished dressing and walked down to the lobby. Blum was back with the pistol for Lena. Black Bob was there, too, with his surviving two men. Malik, as calm and expressionless as ever, and Seb Koch, busy loading clips for his M-16. They nodded a greeting, and Blum handed the girl a gun, a Colt 1911 automatic. She held it in her hand and felt the weight.
"It's not as big and heavy as the one I used..." She didn't say the rest of it.
Greg nodded, "That's true, but this one you can shoot without breaking your wrist. It fires a big, heavy slug, and it'll knock down a man, no problem."
She took the gun and stashed it in her purse. Stoner looked at Crawford.
"This is something different, Bob. They're brewing up a massacre, and I intend to stop it. When they've finished, they'll have destroyed the rest of Lena’s place and turned the town into a corpse-strewn wasteland. There's no money in it, but I'm real glad you've come.”
The mercenary gave him a frozen glance. “We're not here to get involved, Stoner. We're here for something else."
"What's up?"
"It's about Mullah Khan. The guy you came here to kill."
"Sure. Your job was to watch my back, and you've done your part."
Crawford didn't relax. "Khan is no longer a viable target."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he's off limits. We had a chat with Ivan. You know he wants to protect Khan.”
"So you're working for him."
"Yep." He shot Stoner a glance that was laden with meaning, "You get it, buddy? We'll be watching out for him, what with all this trouble stirring in the town."
"I won't go near Khan," Stoner said, his voice firm, "That's a promise, Bob. You can call off your dogs."
"You sure? I don't want to kill you, buddy."
He gave the mercenary a bitter smile. "It's mutual, but I'm serious about Khan. I won't touch him."
Crawford nodded. "That's good enough for me. But if it's all the same to you, Ivan asked us to keep an eye on him, so I wouldn't like to see your face anywhere near the guy."
"You won't."
He nodded, and the three mercenaries walked out. Stoner was silent for a few moments, and then he nodded and smiled to himself. As if he’d just found out the winning numbers for the lottery.
She stared at him. “What is it?”
"I've worked it all out."
"You have?" She looked dubious, “What?”
"How to stop them destroying the rest of your business, and kill Khan."
"But you said..."
"I made a promise, and I'll keep it. We have an old saying back in the States. There's more than one way to skin a cat. Oh, yeah, I think we may get your gold back as well. I suggest we get started."
Her mouth opened in astonishment, but he didn't elaborate further. Greg led the way out to the Black Jeep Wrangler and climbed into the back seat, where he had the Barratt stashed. Archer leapt up beside him, and Lena took the passenger seat. Stoner drove in the direction of the transport yard. They were only halfway there when they came up behind the mob. Men waving guns, clubs, and antique swords, anything that could do damage. There were old men, a few women, and some mothers leading their children. Heading for the festivities, for the July 4 picnic, for the orgy of burning, looting, and destruction. For some of the youngsters, it would be a baptism into a lifetime of religious hate and violence.
He leaned on the horn, and they started to scatter as he forced the Jeep through the angry crowd. Fists waved, and a few made meaningful gestures with their rifles, but no one fired. Not yet. Stoner kept the vehicle moving, careful not to run any of the marchers down. He wanted to douse the flames of hate, not pour gasoline on them. They reached the leading edge of the mass of people a hundred meters further along the road. He drove past them and swerved the Wrangler across the road, then jumped to the ground. Lena stepped out to stand beside him, clutching her purse with the Colt weighing it down. Greg stayed inside the vehicle with Archer, cradling the Barratt. If they wanted to fight, the massive slugs would punch through a column of men like a harpoon through
a heap of cardboard. Enough to give the worst fanatic pause for thought.
Stoner threw up his hand, palm forward, for them to stop. They obeyed, although there were plenty of muttered curses and threats. There was no need to translate; they sounded the same in any language. He kept the barrel of his M4 held low. He wanted them to see he posed no threat. Yet he could if he so chose. He glanced aside at Lena. "You recognize any of 'em?"
She looked uncertain. "I think so, yes. They're all Sunnis.”
He nodded. "Khan's people. Good."
Lena looked surprised, but she walked forward slowly and stopped five meters short of the leading men to address them. "Please, I ask you not to do this."
An angry rumble came back at her, and one of the ringleaders took a step forward. Stoner tensed, ready to start shooting.
"We know you, Lena Stori,” the man spat in a voice filled with hate, “You should know we're on a mission from God. We must take revenge on the Shias, who even now are attacking and killing our people."
"You're not taking revenge on them. You're taking revenge on yourselves, and me."
He looked confused. "What do you mean, taking revenge on ourselves?"
She took another step forward. "You know me, and you know I employ many of the people here. I try to be fair to all, even though I’m only a woman, and sometimes I fail."
He nodded. "That is true, you are only a woman."
"Yet I do my best to run an honest business and keep the town prosperous. Where will you work if you destroy what is left of my business?"
"Allah will provide."
"There are many towns and villages across the country where the people live in poverty and their children die of disease. Why does Allah not provide for them?"
He shuffled his feet and was silent. She pressed on, "After you've destroyed my property, where will you go next? To destroy the Shia homes and businesses in the town?" He stared back at her, and it was obvious that was exactly what they planned to do, "You think they will let you, and do nothing in return? Of course not, they'll want revenge, and it will only end when the entire town is a smoking ruin. Where will you live then, when your houses are destroyed? How will you provide food and shelter for your families? You want them to starve, and die of cold and disease?"
He was shaking his head, but another man stepped out of the crowd and pushed forward. His face bore a long scar, and he limped on one leg, which was shorter than the other, an ugly, crippled figure of a man except for his eyes. Fanatic eyes, filled with pure hate for a world that had abandoned him. Except for Islam. A man was behind him, pushing him forward, another rabid fanatic. The one behind had spittle drooling out of his mouth, and Stoner had little doubt he carried a weapon out of sight.
The front man screamed, "You are a Shaitan, Lena Stori! Mullah Khan warned us you would try to talk us out of taking justice. He said there is only one punishment for the spawn of the Devil. Death!"
With that, he brought up the rifle he carried. Not an AK-47, but an ancient, WWII era Moisin Nagant carbine. To Stoner's knowledge, they hadn't manufactured the rifle since 1945. Then again, there was no reason to suppose it would be any less effective than it was all those years ago. His hands flew to the holsters, and he started to pull out the Desert Eagles. Blum beat him to it, and a single shot boomed out from the Barratt. The massive chunk of lead punched into the man and threw him back against his pal, who'd been standing right behind him, a bad place to stand when a round from a Barratt hits the guy in front of you.
The bullet penetrated the front man and clanged against something metal carried by the guy at his back, probably the breech of a weapon. The bullet continued through to his guts and buried itself in the stock of an old shotgun carried by a third man a couple of meters back. The murmur of the crowd stopped. It was like someone had hit a switch. They were unsure whether to kill the infidels or run from the terrible gun that had killed the two men. The bodies lay on the ground, torn and bloody. People looked away, to avoid gazing at their terrible wounds.
She tried again. "I'm here to help you all." Her voice rang out, loud and confident.
"By killing us?" It was the man she'd spoken to first, "Will you have your people shoot us down like dogs?"
She gestured to the body on the ground. "This man was about shoot me. My friends defended me, no more."
He shrugged. "Perhaps. But you are a Shia. What could you offer us?"
"Other than food, housing, employment, education for your children? Have I not always done my best to provide those things?"
He didn't reply, didn't want to. Couldn’t.
"I offer you life," she spoke again, "Life for you and your families. What does Mullah Khan, or Imam Mazari, or any of the clerics offer? Death! Death to Shias, death to Sunnis, and death to infidels! My friends, it's time for you to choose. You can choose death, or life for you and your families. I can do no more."
She stepped back, folded her arms, and waited. It was a masterful performance, and the crowd was impressed. They talked between themselves, and there were more than a few shouts of protest, quickly stilled by the majority. After a few minutes, the spokesman looked at her.
"And in return?"
"Leave my property alone, the trucks, the warehouses and the aircraft, and you may come back to your jobs when I have a chance to repair the damage. We can carry on as if nothing had happened." She looked back at Stoner and murmured quietly, "Unless you're wrong about the gold."
The Afghan nodded. "Agreed. But what can we tell Mullah Khan?"
She looked at Stoner. "What can I say?"
"Tell them the truth about Mullah Khan."
"What is the truth?"
"That he works for CIA."
Her jaw dropped open. "That's ridiculous, and besides, they'll never believe it. Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
The crowd of men were still close, and the nearest began to look suspicious, as if she was about to double-cross them.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because Ivan Vasilyevich recruited men to guard him. Ivan is CIA. Why else would he worry about Khan's safety, if he hadn’t made a deal with him?"
"Ivan is CIA?"
"No question. He's running a covert intelligence gathering operation up there in Band-e Amir, under cover of pretending to be a big time gangster and drug trafficker. He’s recruited Khan to pass information to him.”
She looked confused. "But he is a big time gangster and drug trafficker. A murderer."
"Is that right? Everyone knows his reputation, but exactly how many people has he killed? Whom does he work with, whose drugs does he traffic?"
"I don’t know."
Stoner smiled. "Ivan the Terrible, it's a good cover, but it's all bullshit. He's about as Russian as me. I doubt Ivan is his real name, and I'll bet every last cent he's an American through and through. Now he has Mullah Mahmoud Khan on his payroll, he’ll give information to Ivan, who’ll pass it on to his CIA contact in Kabul. That's the way it works. Then they send over a drone or maybe a unit of the Afghan Army to take out the bad guys, drug traffickers, Taliban, whatever, before they have a chance to kill anyone."
She shook her head. "It's hard to believe."
“It is, but it happens to be the truth.”
She came to a decision and turned back to the crowd. This time she raised her voice and shouted so they could hear her at the back. She spoke for a long time. At first their looks of incredulity made it clear they didn't believe her. But she went on, and eventually overcame their doubts. Stoner knew he'd won when the murmurs and arguments started to turn into shouts of anger, as people turned to look back at Panjab. At a certain Sunni Mullah they'd trusted, until now, a man that betrayed them to the American infidels.
The anger grew and grew, and then like a dam it burst and spilled over into a raging torrent. The crowd turned and began to run, back to Panjab. Back to pay a visit to Mullah Khan. Greg climbed out of the Wrangler, still clutching his heavy sniper rifle. They watched the
crowd disappear into the distance. He hadn't understood all of it, but when she explained, he smiled.
"You never intended to let him off the hook, did you?"
Stoner shrugged. "Who said anything about letting him off the hook? I said I'd stay away from him, and I’ll keep my word."
"Yeah. You know they'll tear him apart. They'll be on him like jackals, and when they've finished, I doubt there'll be more than a few scraps of raw meat."
He shrugged. "Like the victims of his IEDs, Greg. Does he deserve anything less?"
"I guess not."
Lena put her hand on his arm. "So we're finished in Panjab?"
"No, I have to go back into town. There're a couple of matters I need to attend to."
"Like what?"
"The massacre about to happen in the city."
Blum gazed at him. "It’s your nightmare, right?"
"That same one. I'm sorry, Greg, but I can't do nothing while they hack innocents into little pieces."
"Me neither, I'm coming along. I told you, I’d never hear the last of it from Faria if I left you on your own."
He nodded his thanks.
"Me, too." Lena wore the determined expression that meant arguing was pointless.
He didn’t argue. "In that case, let's go."
"One thing before we go," she said, "What about the gold? Were you serious?"
"Yep. Let's try to keep these people apart, and when it’s all over, I'll explain."
"How do we keep them apart?" Greg asked.
His smile was cold. "That's the easy bit." He held up the Desert Eagles, "We talk their language."
The drove back to the city in the Wrangler, and on the way passed the crowd heading for Khan's mosque to settle accounts. The numbers had grown, and now almost five hundred men were marching in deadly earnest. The town was quiet. Everyone knew trouble was coming, and no doubt some were preparing to do battle. The others were staying put, keeping their heads down. Trying to survive.
