by Eric Meyer
She ended the call, just in time for the speaker system to call her flight. Nonstop, direct to Kabul, and when she arrived, she’d be entering both the familiar and the unknown. One thing was for sure; it wasn’t going to be a conventional assignment. She may even see some action. In fact, if everything went to plan, she would, at least from a distance, and that suited her just fine. Last time she was in Afghanistan, the experience was painful, to say the least. She’d also learned a lot. About herself, her allies, her enemies, and about the direction she wanted her future career to take. Hence this journey, making a start with her first assignment. She smiled, thinking of the last time she traveled to Afghanistan, as an officer in the U.S. Army, and thinking of one particular man.
I’ll see him again soon, and how will he react? He could be married, or have a regular girlfriend, someone he’s having a passionate love affair with. He could be anything. He could even be dead. One thing was certain. Life with him was never boring.
She boarded the flight, and before she dozed off to sleep, thought again about the man she’d met last time. By now he could be a successful businessman, maybe the owner of a chain of hotels. Perhaps director of a transport company, a car dealership, several coffee shops, even an import export operation. Bringing in luxury goods from Europe to a population starved of life’s luxuries. It would be just like him. He was the kind of guy who always had an eye for the main chance. She pictured him in her mind’s eye.
What are you doing at this moment? Who are you with?
Chapter One
Rafe Stoner was going through the darkest period of his life. The former U.S. Navy SEAL had made his life in Afghanistan, eking out a living from his precarious business enterprises. Lately, he’d turned his back on all of them. If he’d had the foresight to become a purveyor of hard liquor, perhaps he would have made some small profit from the squalid debauchery he’d descended into. The surplus machinery business he owned was at a standstill, losing even more money than usual. And the brothel in Jalalabad, below the apartment where he lived was struggling to survive.
Like vultures sensing a wounded prey, the local undesirables were already beginning to circle. Amongst them, rivals for the lucrative sex trade who sensed their main obstacle to higher profits was on the ropes, as well as a senior Mullah, who unusually was not a customer of the establishment. Unlike many of his fellow clerics who sought to sate their lust in the austere but private rooms on the second floor.
His third stream of income was also at a standstill. Stoner was a gun for hire, in a land where it was considered an honorable profession. He was no ordinary gunman. His cast iron mantra was to restrict his contracts to those whose cause he considered to be just and fair. The phone rang constantly, for he was skilled at what he did, but he refused to answer it. People came and banged on the door trying to reach him, and he ignored them. When they were persistent, he told them to fuck off.
His life had become one of solitude. Not that he was without friends. His partner in the brothel, Ma Kelly, tried without success to make contact. He gave her the cold shoulder, and would answer the door for a single person. Whichever whore he’d summoned to sleep with him when he felt the need. His favorite girl, Anahita, was no longer an option since he sent her away. Not that he’d had much choice, after her father came gunning for him, and it almost cost him his life. Life went on, and he slid further and further into the netherworld of lost souls.
His best friend, Greg Blum, descended from Afghan and Russian parentage, decided enough was enough. He arrived and banged on the door with such fury Stoner had no choice but to answer it, before the woodwork splintered into fragments.
Blum regarded the man standing before him in the doorway. He was shocked. The Stoner he knew was a former U.S. Navy SEAL. A fit, tough man, able to take on any challenge with his fists, boots, and the two big Desert Eagle pistols he normally carried on a canvas harness under his coat. When he’d first met him, like most people, he didn’t seem to be anything special. Not at first glance. He was a whisker over five feet nine inches tall, and people would describe him as scrawny, although the way he carried himself hinted at a powerful inner reservoir of hidden strength. He always dressed the same, all in black. Black pants, black sweatshirt, black jump boots, long, black leather coat, and even an old black fatigue cap; courtesy of a German NATO company that came through the city one day and left it behind in a bar. People who were there said he won it in a drunken bar fight.
Something about him spoke of an inner refusal to conform to the norms of regular society. Men avoided picking a fight with him; it was not always easy to pin down the exact reason. Most women knew the reason instinctively. He was a dangerous man, wound up tight, like a coiled spring. Those who underestimated him could wind up regretting it, and often did. For a woman, his appeal was something different entirely. He was an exciting man, bringing a hint of the unknown and the unpredictable to any relationship.
This was not the man Greg Blum confronted. He'd changed; the face was unshaven, and pasty after so much time spent indoors. The life had fled from his face, and his skin was gray with physical and mental exhaustion, together with the ill effects of boozing from morning to night. He almost looked as if he’d shrunk from the man he’d been just a few weeks before. When he spoke, the odor of sour booze wafted from his mouth.
“What you want?”
Greg didn’t bother to answer. He just pushed inside, and Stoner growled an objection.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? I don’t recall inviting you in.”
Blum surveyed the wreckage of the living room. Stoner had never been too fussy about keeping things tidy, but this was something else. Not so much the wreckage of his living space, but a testament to the wreckage of a life.
Empty booze bottles lay everywhere. They littered the floor, the couch, chairs, tables, and even the shelves, like he'd established a glass-recycling center.
Greg stared at his friend. “Stoner, I couldn’t give a damn whether you asked me in or not. The question isn’t what I’m doing, but what you’re doing.”
Before he could answer, the door to the bedroom opened, and a girl stepped out. She was beautiful, young, maybe late teens, and completely naked. She was also unashamed and tossed him a salacious smile.
“Are you men queuing up for me?” She gave a slight giggle. “Not that I’m objecting, you understand. It’s just that,” she regarded Stoner, “I’m still busy. How much longer before I can go, Boss?”
He sighed. “You can go now.” He pointed at the door, “Get dressed and go downstairs. Ma will be waiting for you.”
“And him?” she pointed at Greg, “Is he waiting for me?”
“He’s married.”
Her eyebrows went up a fraction. “When has that made a difference?”
“When he’s married to a girl who is my good friend, so get out!”
She flounced back into the bedroom. They waited in silence until she came out again and sashayed through the front door. They listened to her footsteps descending the stairs, and when they’d disappeared, Blum spoke again.
“What’s eating you, Stoner? You’ve gone off the rails, worse than I’ve ever seen. Is something wrong? Are you ill?”
He darted a mean look at Blum. “Nothing’s wrong. I just love living in the shit hole they call Afghanistan, who wouldn’t?”
“Why don’t you leave?”
He mumbled something about it being his home, and his business. He couldn’t leave because he made his living in this place. Greg ignored him.
“Is it that Tora Bora business? You haven’t been the same since.”
Stoner shot him a look that was even more venomous. “Of course not. That was just business.”
But Greg hadn’t missed the shadow that darkened his eyes. “It’s the girl, isn’t it, that infantry lieutenant, Sara Carver? As I recall you were sweet on her. What happened?”
“She went home.”
“You didn’t see any future with her?
”
“No.”
Blum paused, knowing he was getting nowhere. Then he had a thought. “What about Wayne Evers? I thought he was staying here with you.”
“He went walkabout. Don’t ask me where. He never told me.”
Greg’s mind flashed back to the epic fight at the caves known as Tora Bora. It was there they’d met Wayne Evers. He'd lived the life of a hermit in and around the caves since his unit left him behind during the Battle of Tora Bora, fifteen years before. He’d come to their rescue when Stoner and Blum became embroiled in a savage battle. A fight between local Taliban holed up in the caves, and a unit of American infantry attempting to free an important prisoner. The prisoner was the daughter of the Chief of Staff in the White House.
What followed was a sprawling battle that took them across the mountain peaks and into Pakistan. They fought against overwhelming odds to bring her back to Afghanistan, leaving behind a bloody trail of bodies. Along the way, Ivan the Terrible, a drug and weapons trafficker from Afghanistan, became involved. Not always to their advantage. Despite a name that alluded to the bloody Russian Tsar, he was an American. He was also an employee of Central Intelligence, on behalf of whom he collected data on the insurgency for his bosses at Langley.
Ivan was the kind of man who made sure to collect on a favor, and his price was always high. During that fight, Ivan had both helped them and double-crossed them. By a miracle, they managed to free Lieutenant Sara Carver, and for a short period, Stoner toyed with the idea of cementing their relationship on a more permanent basis. She was keen, but he stopped short. The dark memories that haunted his nightmares were of the girls he’d loved and lost to Taliban bombs, bullets, and IEDs. He couldn’t lose any more.
“I’ve got a problem. I need your help.”
Stoner groaned in despair and slumped on the couch. He felt like crap, and his hands groped for a bottle. All he came up with was an empty one. He hurled it at the wall, where it bounced and fell to the floor, still intact. He shook his head in despair. “For Christ’s sake, look at that. I can’t even break a bottle on solid stone. If you want help, find someone else.”
“I want you, pal. I need the best.”
He laughed, and it became a choking cough. “Jesus Christ, Greg, can’t you see? I’m washed-up, finished. You’ve come to the wrong person.”
It was then he dropped the bombshell. The clincher he knew Stoner couldn’t ignore. “Faria needs you. It concerns one of your godchildren.”
He looked up sharply, trying to focus his bleary eyes. “Ahmed?”
Stoner enjoyed close links to the Blum family, or he had before his current crisis. Greg’s wife Faria was a beautiful Afghan he’d once dated. One of the few girls he’d ever fallen for in a big way, but Greg beat him to the punch, and married her. Without any children on the horizon, they’d adopted three orphans of a local family, after fanatic Islamists butchered the parents.
The Blums also harbored a secret, one that would ensure a barbaric execution should the local clerics ever uncover it. They’d converted to Christianity, a terrible crime in the medieval mentalities that held sway in Afghanistan. Subsequently, they’d prevailed upon Stoner to stand as Godfather to their three children, the oldest boy Ahmed, and two girls, Kaawa and Rahima.
“No, this time it’s Kaawa.”
He thought of the pretty teenager Kaawa, who was always playing in the front yard of the Blum farm when he visited. “What’s the problem?”
He grimaced. “The problem is some big shot from the local town, Mehtar Lam, who decided he wants to marry her. He’s giving us a hard time trying to force us to agree.”
“I take it you’re not keen on having this guy as a son-in-law?”
Greg met his eyes. “No. He’s too old, much too old. He’s also a nasty, conniving little shit.”
Stoner nodded. “Just say no. Sooner or later he’ll give up.”
“He won’t give up. That’s why I need your help. If I can’t persuade him to back off, he could ruin our lives. I’ve already lost a few cattle, and one of my barns was set on fire. A few more weeks of this, and I’ll be out of business.”
“You’re good with a gun, Greg. Anyone comes on your property you’re entitled to put a bullet in them.”
Blum stared at him for almost a minute. “You’re saying you won’t help.”
“I’m saying you don’t need my help. Anyone comes a-calling; you know what to do. Once they see a couple of bodies, they’ll give up. Shoot the bastard next time he calls around. That’s the kind of language they understand. Otherwise, call the cops if you think you need help.”
He shook his head. “This guy who wants to marry my daughter, he’s a cop. A sergeant in the Mehtar Lam police, by the name of Hosseini.”
Stoner returned a mirthless smile. “In that case, he's the man you want to shoot. Problem solved.”
“If I put a bullet in him, they’ll torch my farm and wipe out my family. You know how they work.” His voice was bitter, and Stoner winced, “Thanks for nothing, pal.”
He turned on his heel and stalked from the apartment. Behind him, Stoner set about searching for a new bottle. He didn’t feel good about saying no to Greg, but what the hell? Sometimes, a man had to stand up for himself, for his family, make his own destiny. He found an opened bottle, raising it to his lips to take the first drink, and stopped. Guilt stabbed through his guts. He’d behaved like a shit, and he knew he had to put it right. The Blums were his best friends, his only friends. He resealed the bottle and ran down the stairs.
Greg was just climbing into his GAZ 69, the iconic and ugly as sin Soviet-built jeep. It wasn’t a pretty sight. A relic of the Cold War, for some reason Blum preferred driving the mud brown heap of tin instead of something more modern. True, it was rugged and tough, a go-anywhere military vehicle. It also looked hideous, burned gas at an incredible rate, and rattled like a steel drum filled with bolts. Blum saw him emerge and waited.
“What’s the timescale on this?”
“Three days. He said he’d give me until then to make a final decision. After that, I’d regret it for the rest of my short life. Faria and the kids would suffer, too, and it’s no idle threat. He’s a poisonous bastard, no mistake. Connected to all the right people, and like I said, he’s a local cop and has a cousin in the cops here in Jbad, a captain.”
He sighed. “Okay, I’ll visit the farm in two days. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do my best to help out.”
Greg grinned with relief. “It’s appreciated. What are you doing in the meantime? Why not come with me now, and spend some time with the family? You know they all want to see you.”
“I’ll be busy for the next two days.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing what I’ve been doing for the past two days, and the two months before that.”
Greg stared back at him. “Why, Stoner? You’re better than this. Clean yourself up, and come with me.”
“Two days, Greg. I’ll see you then. That’s a promise.”
The Russian Afghan watched Stoner shamble back inside the brothel and shook his head in dismay, before he started the engine and drove off. He was seeing a once fine and brave man slowly digging himself a deep pit, a dark pit that led to a single and final destination, to hell.
* * *
Blum drove along the rutted and narrow track that connected Mehtar Lam to his farm, two kilometers outside the town. He couldn’t shake the image of the man he’d shared so much with. A man who’d saved his life on more than one occasion, and whose life he’d saved in return, falling apart front of his eyes. He knew of the demons that haunted him, and knew the reasons why. Understood the past that consumed him, yet he had no idea of how he could go about helping him get over it.
He was still thinking through the problem when he turned into the drive leading up to his farmhouse, and saw trouble waiting for him. A police cruiser parked outside his home. He had to assume as many as four cops had arrived in the vehicle. More than he cou
ld handle. He stopped just inside the gate, and drew the Makarov he carried inside his battered brown leather coat. Then he walked toward the house. With his lean physique, dark skin, dark hair, and even darker brown eyes, he could almost have passed from Afghan. Except for his high cheekbones, courtesy of his father, the unmistakable stamp of the Russian steppes.
He reached the window and peered inside. Three cops were in view. One sprawled on his couch, and one holding a pistol pointed at his three children, sitting on the floor in a group. The third cop, who wore the stripes of a sergeant, had his arm around Faria’s waist. The other arm held a pistol screwed into her neck. His wife had gone pale, although he was proud to see she was controlling her fear. Her expression was unafraid. Determined not to allow the brutal thugs who’d invaded her home to think they’d won.
He ducked out of sight and raced around the house to the rear. Slowly, he pushed open the rear door; grateful Faria had nagged him to oil the squeaky hinges just eight days ago. The door opened without a sound, and he slipped inside. Crept across the kitchen, and came to the door to the main room that was slightly ajar. A voice was speaking, and when he peeked inside, it was the sergeant holding the gun to Faria’s head. Hosseini.
It was an impossible situation. No matter how he played it, someone was likely to start shooting. Either his wife or one of his children could die. His family was in dire peril, and for the life of him he couldn’t think what to do, when he heard a faint scratching at the door to the underground storeroom. He tiptoed across and eased it open. A huge black furry head looked out, and he hissed a single command.
“Still.”
Archer, the huge German Shepherd trained by the U.S. Marine Corps, and part of Greg’s family for many years, froze, as they'd trained him to do. But they’d heard him, and one of the cops called out in alarm, so he had seconds to act. Right then, an idea came to mind. How he could save his wife and children. He murmured the names of his three children to Archer and pointed, followed up with another word of command.
