The Warlord of Tora Bora

by Eric Meyer

  “What does that mean?”

  He didn’t reply and strolled out with his two men. They were all grinning. They left the front door wide open. Stoner got to his feet to close it and turned off the light. The time was 05.30, and he’d get in a few more hours before he faced the coming day. Then he’d give some thought to dealing with the threat Ivan had warned him about, whatever it was. He climbed back into bed. Had he waited another twenty-five minutes, he may have peeked out the window and seen four men slipping through the shadows, their angry eyes fixed on Ma Kelly’s. They weren’t customers. Why would customers routinely carry backpacks laden with explosive to a brothel?

  Chapter Two

  The four men watched the lights on the third floor of Ma Kelly’s go out. The leader touched the shoulder of the man next to him.

  “Look, they'll sleep soon. Can you see movement inside?”

  “Nothing. I doubt they had many customers, not since the Boss set up his establishments. They’ll have gone by now.”

  He nodded. “Yes, that was a wonderful idea. Two brothels, and each held by different nominees. When this place is destroyed, they’ll look for the culprits and get nowhere.” He grinned, “They could try complaining to the police, and they’ll be wasting their time. Not when the other two brothels are owned by…”

  “Don’t even say those names!”

  “No, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. My family is relying on the money.”

  “They’ll get it. We’ll wait another fifteen minutes and place the explosives just before dawn.

  They settled down to wait, keeping the building in sight. Soon they would set the charges, and they could go home. Their wives grateful they’d returned with a bundle of money to buy food. There was something else, their boss had promised them a bonus if they did well. One hour each with the whore of their choice. Life could be good in Afghanistan.

  * * *

  Greg kissed his wife goodbye and climbed into the GAZ. He’d prepared the defenses as best he could for while he was away, and both Faria and Ahmed were instructed to keep weapons within reach. The boy selected the ancient AK-47, once owned by his father, before an Islamist murdered him. She readied a Makarov 9mm, and in addition, the Dragunov sniper rifle, propped just inside the front door, ready to use if needed. They also had Archer. It should be enough. Faria and Ahmed had each killed a man when the occasion demanded. Greg had no doubt they’d do it again if necessary to keep them safe. Besides, if they let Archer loose on an enemy, he was a mean sonofabitch when he felt his ‘family’ was threatened.

  On the drive into the city, he thought about his friend, Stoner. The man he’d known for so long, and once regarded with something approaching awe; a legend in Afghanistan, his military skills used to be unbeatable. The man he’d become was different. Many would say he was washed up, finished, a lush and a drunk, about as tough as the average desk clerk. Greg thought differently. He’d been in action with him just a few months ago, and his speed and power were still awesome. At least, it had been then. What he needed now was a reason to pick himself up off the floor and start fighting again. He’d done it before when they went to that accursed place, Tora Bora.

  It made him think of Wayne Evers; the marine left behind fifteen years ago after the Battle of Tora Bora, who’d helped them out of a jam. A man who’d lived alone for many years, in the most inhospitable place in the world. Living almost the life of a caveman on the slopes of Tora Bora, in the foothills of the Hindu Kush. Another man like Stoner, a born fighter, a warrior, yet he’d gone away, vanished without a word to anyone. Greg smiled to himself.

  He was one peculiar guy.

  He was anxious he’d find Stoner at home, and that he hadn’t gone off somewhere. He’d tried using the phone, but he wasn’t answering. This meant nothing. He hadn’t answered for weeks. He also had to hope his friend wasn’t drunk, like he was the day before. If they were to handle that cop back in Mehtar Lam, he’d need him sober. Assuming he came at all, after all, he’d agreed three days. If he were drunk, his alcohol-befuddled mind may not choose to alter the arrangement.

  His headlights picked up the first of the big warehouses that marked the perimeter of Jbad. Minutes later, he was driving along a city street less rutted than most, heading toward Stoner’s building. He made a sudden decision to park two streets away from Ma Kelly’s. Sound traveled in the deserted streets during the early hours. If the man he was about to ask for help heard the engine noise of the GAZ, and it was hard to miss, he’d have warning of his visit. And maybe he wouldn’t answer the door.

  He slid out and started walking. He carried his Makarov concealed beneath the long, brown leather coat he wore against the night chill. In fact, the same coat we wore winter and summer. He happened to like it. Besides, his Spetsnaz father had once worn an identical garment, driven an identical GAZ jeep, and made his living with a gun, an identical gun. He almost reached the building, but stopped when he saw movement as the moon emerged from the cloud, bathing the street with light, four men slinking in the direction of Ma Kelly’s. Locals, dark turbans, scruffy tribal robes, and sandals. Each carried an assault rifle in their right hand, and had backpacks strapped to their backs.

  That they were up to no good was beyond dispute. The sole question was if they were about to attack Stoner’s brothel, or move on past it and go for another target. He watched and waited. Without thinking, he’d drawn the Makarov and slid back the barrel to load the first round into the breech. The men stopped, looked around, and then darted across the street to hide in the shadows of Ma Kelly’s. Unstrapped the backpacks and began delving inside. He had no further doubts. He’d seen enough bombers in his time. They were about to plant an IED to blast Ma Kelly’s into rubble.

  He had to act, and act now. Four assault rifles against a 9mm automatic was terrible odds. He was sure to lose, and he needed help. He knew of a single place to find it, and he circled the block to come out next to the street door for Stoner’s apartment. Opened it with a key Stoner had given him long ago, raced up the stairs, and banged on the door.

  “Stoner, open up.”

  Nothing. He tried again, knocking louder. The bombers were on the other side of the building and unlikely to hear anything, so he hammered it hard. “Stoner, wake up!”

  A faint voice replied from inside. “Go away.”

  “It’s me, Greg. Get out here.”

  “Beat it, I’m in bed. Come back in three days.”

  “Stoner, there are men outside. They’re planning to bomb your place.”

  A pause. “I’m not falling for that bullshit. I told you, if you want to talk to me, come back in three days. Go away.”

  He tried the door handle and found it locked, leaving one way to get inside. He retreated to the far side of the landing and launched himself at the door, shoulder first. The woodwork gave way, and he tumbled into the apartment, sprawled on the floor, picked himself up, and raced into the bedroom. His friend was just starting to climb out of bed, groping for the light switch with one hand and his gun held in the other.

  He shouted a warning. “Don’t turn on the light. They’ll see it.”

  “You’re really serious, you crazy Russian bastard?”

  “Half Afghan, I keep telling you. Yes, I’m serious.”

  He explained about the four men, the AKs and the backpacks, and through bleary eyes Stoner indicated his understanding. “Ivan was here earlier, and he said someone was going to try a stunt like this.”

  “Is it someone you’ve upset in the past?”

  “Business rivals. Give me a few seconds. I’ll be right out.”

  Thirty seconds later, he emerged from the bedroom, his two .50 caliber Desert Eagles holstered in the harness fastened around his body. He pulled on his boots, donned his black leather coat, and strolled toward the door. Grimaced at the splintered woodwork, and then raced down the stairs. Greg was right behind him, seeing something of the old Stoner. Fast, decisive, and quick to recover when faced with an ambush s
ituation. Although he still harbored doubts about how he’d be able to operate, still suffering the effects of too much booze.

  He stopped him at the street door. “Stoner, you want me to take point? You’ve just woken up. It’ll take you a while to…”

  “I’ll lead,” was the short reply, “These fuckers are trying to blow up my place. This is my business.”

  “They have AKs. We could grab a couple of rifles from the basement. It might…”

  “We have enough firepower. Button it, Greg, I’m thinking.”

  He followed the former SEAL out into the street. Worked their way around the side of the building and found the hostiles huddled in a group. Crouched low, busy assembling their bombs from components in the backpacks. In the moonlight, they identified the iconic shape of the C4 explosive blocks.

  Stoner muttered, “The bastards.”

  If they destroyed the brothel, they’d take out many of the surrounding buildings. The loss of life would be horrific, a true Twilight of the God’s orgy of destruction, the Islamic dream of mass slaughter.

  He drew both Desert Eagle pistols. His hands shook, more than Greg had seen before, but he took a firmer grip, and the shaking went away. Almost.

  He eyed Greg’s Makarov. “It’s time to take these bastards down. Are you ready with that Russian popgun?”

  “Ready.”

  “Okay, here’s how we do it. We hold the guns at our sides and stroll along the street. Sway a bit, laugh like we’re a pair of drunks coming home from a hard night’s drinking.”

  “Stoner, you are a drunk after a hard night’s drinking.”

  “Whatever. Soon as we reach them, we start blasting. Nothing fancy. Sound okay?”

  “Provided they don’t blast us first. Remember, I’ve got a wife and kids.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten. They’re my godchildren.”

  “A pity you don’t visit them sometimes.”

  Stoner sighed. “Let’s do it.”

  “What about taking one of them prisoner, and find out who sent them.”

  “I know who sent them.”

  “So no prisoners?”

  “No. The local cops are involved, and they may have a financial interest in my rivals. They’ll spend a day in jail, and then they’ll release them to come back and try again. You ready to go? We’re drunks, remember, so make it look good.”

  They put their arms over each other’s shoulders, as if for mutual support, and walked toward their prey. Stoner started to sing, and Greg winced at the strident, discordant notes, then he joined in. They staggered toward the four Afghans. All that marked them out from the average drunks was the pistols each man held low, invisible in the dark. The men preparing the IEDs looked up, their faces filled with alarm. Then they relaxed when they perceived they weren’t under threat. The four men stopped their work and sat back on their haunches, waiting for the inebriated Westerners to pass by.

  As they drew level, Stoner acted first. Swung up the Desert Eagle he held in his right hand and pumped a bullet into the nearest man, aiming his second gun at the next man with his left hand. He pulled the trigger a fraction of a second before Greg fired the first shot from the Makarov. Three bullets, and three men were down, never to get up again. But the fourth darted away, and they fired after him. A single 9mm Makarov bullet found its mark, and he flinched, but kept on running, so they went after him. Chasing through the shadows and alleyways of Jalalabad, following his footsteps, and then there was silence.

  “Where is he?” Greg breathed, “Where did he go?”

  “Listen.”

  They waited, but nothing disturbed the still of the night. “He’s around here somewhere,” Stoner murmured, “Look for blood. I could swear you winged him.”

  “It wasn’t one of your bullets?”

  “Nope, he wouldn’t have run.” He was scouring the ground, looking for spots of blood, and he found them. A few small drops, but enough to follow. Stoner edged forward, his keen eyes surveying the ground, searching for more blood spots. Then he stopped, put his head close to Greg’s, and whispered, “He’s close. My guess is he’s hiding around the next corner. Here’s what we’ll do.”

  He broke into a run, raced past the entrance to the alley, and rounded the next corner. Waited a few seconds, and a head poked out, looking up and down the street to see if he’d gone past. A second later, he emerged. Smiling to himself, he’d beaten the stupid Westerners at their own game. He started to walk away, back toward Greg, who stepped out into the open. He pointed his Makarov at the guy’s chest.

  “Hold it. Drop the rifle.”

  He stopped and dropped the gun, his face registering his shock.

  “Put your hands up.” He didn’t move, “I said put ‘em up. Now!”

  Instead, he walked toward Blum, and then his right hand edged inside his robe. Greg knew what was coming, a knife or a handgun, and he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He had a jam. He stood frozen, not sure whether to run or fight, and the hand emerged clutching a long dagger. His face split into a beaming smile, knowing his opponent’s gun was useless. Said a few words in Pashto and raised the knife. He almost reached Greg when Stoner stepped out; both Desert Eagles leveled, and fired a shot from each barrel.

  The booming noise of the .50 caliber rounds echoed through the night and swept the Afghan off his feet. He lay on his front, bleeding out from two big holes in his back. The American walked to the body and turned it over with the toe of his boot, nodding in satisfaction.

  “Like I said, no prisoners.” He started walking back to Ma’s and stopped, “Say, what brought you here at this time of night? Tell me you weren’t looking for a girl.”

  He scowled. “No way would I do that to Faria, I’ve told you before. But I need you. We need you.”

  “We?”

  “Me and Faria.” He explained about how they’d sent the cops packing, and both men chuckled at the thought of them walking away without their pants.

  Greg sobered. “Thing is, he said he’ll be back tomorrow. I guess that’s today now. Sometime in the afternoon, it could even be sooner. If they turn up with a bunch of Mehtar Lam cops, we won’t be able to fight them off, and they could take Kaawa.”

  Stoner’s expression became a grim mask. “They’ll take my goddaughter over my dead body. I’m coming back with you. We’ll stash those backpacks of C4 in my basement and pick up supplies before we go. You still have the Dragunov?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. The one good thing to ever come out of Russia.”

  “My father came from Russia.”

  “And he had you, big mistake. See what I mean?”

  Greg didn’t bother to reply. His friend was a convinced Russophobe, and nothing he said would change anything. Stoner led the way to the steel reinforced door that accessed his basement below Ma Kelly’s. The room functioned as an armory; with walls displaying racks of weapons and explosives he’d collected over the years. He took down his rifle of choice, and M4A1, and stuffed a bunch of spare magazines into a canvas pack. Considered for a few moments and smiled.

  “The C4 they planned to blow up my place with, I don’t see why we shouldn’t let them have it back. The cops are helping to ruin me, so I’ll show them the error of their ways.”

  “You know who they are?”

  “Nope, I don’t. But whoever it is opened those two brothels in Jbad; the cops are trying everything to close us down. At the least they have a stake in the businesses, no question, but how much I’ve no idea. I’d like to stick this C4 up their asses, and sooner or later I will.” He told him about Ivan trying to recruit him for a contract, “The bastard knows who they are, but this information would cost me more than I’m prepared to pay.”

  “The contract?”

  “Right, and I’ll take that when hell freezes over. You got what you need?”

  Greg had borrowed a replacement Makarov. He stuffed spare magazines into his pockets, sized up the assault rifles, and came to a decision.


  “You mind if I borrow this baby?”

  Stoner nodded. ‘This baby’ was an Israeli built Mini Uzi. With the stock folded, the lightweight submachine gun was a fraction larger than a regular automatic, but easy to conceal. Able to fire in in full auto mode, it could pump out twenty rounds in scant seconds. A lethal surprise produced and fired at an unsuspecting enemy.

  They picked up the backpacks and left. Stoner had worked out the trigger mechanism worked with a cellphone receiver, and he’d taken a phone with the programmed number from the body of a man they’d killed. The other phone was in the backpack, wired to the detonator. He locked the door to the basement and started walking toward the garage where he kept his Wrangler, the gleaming, jet black and chrome SUV that was one of his few indulgences. Greg stopped him.

  “We’ll take my GAZ. You take that piece of Toledo tin, and you may as well call the Mehtar Lam cops and tell them you’ve arrived.”

  The reference to Toledo was where the Wranglers and other Jeeps were built. That is apart from those manufactured in Beijing, and known as Beijing Jeeps. Which no red-blooded American would give the time of day to. Stoner’s lips set in a hard grimace.

  “You know I hate that motorized garbage can.”

  “It’s never let us down,” he objected.

  “Give it time.”

  “What about the door to your apartment, I broke the lock?”

  “It can wait. Let’s go.”

  Greg started the engine, marveling at the speed his friend had recovered from the sea of alcohol he’d almost drowned in. Maybe there was hope yet. He steered toward Mehtar Lam, thinking hard. What healed his friend was action. Faced with a situation of imminent violence, it brought him back to life. The old Stoner had returned, even if his latest drinking bout had taken years off his life. He craved the danger, the thrill of the sudden burst of action, the crackle of gunfire and the whining of bullets.

  It wasn’t the complete answer, for what he needed was a decent woman. But until he met the right girl, action would keep him off the sauce.