The Warlord of Tora Bora

by Eric Meyer

  “She’ll appreciate that. How will you deal with Hosseini?”

  “Painfully.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Faria’s welcome was restrained when she opened the door and saw him there without Greg. Her eyebrows rose. “What happened to him? Is he dead?”

  “No, he’s pretty hurt bad, but he’s in the hospital, and they say he’ll recover.”

  He went on to explain what had happened, and how the trail to Mohammed Tarzi had led all the way back to Jalalabad. Her face fell even more.

  “The man who almost killed my husband is in Jalalabad?”

  “Not for much longer.”

  “And the cop trying to abduct my daughter is with him.” She shuddered, “When will it end?”

  “This is Afghanistan, Faria.”

  “Yes.”

  She invited them inside and chatted to Sara. Stoner greeted the kids and fought to keep Archer at bay. But the atmosphere was strained, and eventually, he disentangled himself and glanced at Faria.

  “It’s time for us to go. We need to finish this. For your sake, for Greg’s sake, for all our sakes.”

  “You can deal with them?”

  “Yes.”

  She gestured to the dog. “Take Archer. There are just two of you; you know he can make a difference. A Marine trained war dog will give you a substantial edge.”

  “Faria, I can’t. If there’s trouble, you’ll need him here.”

  “If you don’t deal with them, we’ll never be safe. Take him.”

  He nodded. “Okay, I will. Archer, you got yourself a job.”

  He barked twice. No one ever said a Marine trained German Shepherd wasn’t intelligent. He said his farewells, and they got back into the Wrangler. Archer leapt into the back, and he drove away from the farm, back to Jbad to locate Tarzi, Evers, and the Hosseinis. But first, he drove to the brothel and unlocked his basement armory. Reloaded his Desert Eagles, took two spare magazines for each, and equipped Sara and himself with the tools for the job, a Mini Uzi apiece and ammunition for her Colt.

  She reloaded and stared at the compact Israeli submachine gun. “You sure these will be enough?”

  “Where we’re going, we’ll need the element of surprise. If they don’t know we’re carrying these babies, they’ll be careless, and we could get the drop on them. There’s something else that may be useful.” He pulled a box off the shelf and opened it. Six hand grenades, old-fashioned Soviet designed F1s. Pineapple-shaped and aesthetically archaic, but they could kill just as effectively as the day the design first emerged from the Russian factory in 1941. He gave her two and took two for himself.

  “You know how to use them?”

  “I was a soldier, Stoner.”

  “Right. One more thing, I have to confirm where they are. Time to call in a debt.”

  Ivan took several minutes to answer his cellphone. He’d picked up the caller id. “What is it, Stoner?”

  “Where are they? You remember the deal.”

  A sigh. “Deal was you’d help kill him out at Tora Bora.”

  “Nothing’s changed. He’s still going down, but don’t screw me on this. I wouldn’t like us to wind up enemies.”

  He waited during the long silence. Eventually, he said, “Give me a half hour. I need to call in a couple of favors. You’d better make this good, Stoner.”

  “Just do it. Half an hour, Ivan, we’ll be waiting.”

  “We?”

  “Sara’s with me.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  They waited in the Wrangler, and Sara chatted about nothing special. Her memories of the White House after her father became Chief of Staff, and her stepbrother, the B-52 pilot. “I’m sure he had something to do with those bombs missing the target. Somehow he found out I was down there.”

  “If it’s true, he deserves a medal, but he’ll probably get a court martial instead.”

  She nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that. It could be serious, couldn't it?”

  “Yep.”

  She stopped speaking, lost in her thoughts. He knew she’d be thinking about contacting her father to intervene on her brother’s behalf, and tell him how the bombs falling in the wrong place had saved her life. In fact, saved all their lives. It was possible her father could swing it. The Pentagon had to consider political realities. Budgets, promotions they all depended on Presidential patronage. If he were lucky, maybe he would save Major Gibbons’ career. Unlucky, he’d be facing a long term of imprisonment. But at least they were alive.

  * * *

  “Stand at ease, Major.”

  “Sir.”

  General Gus Steiner didn’t look happy. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Sir, I don’t know what you mean. We flew to the target, unloaded our bombs, and flew home.”

  “Except the bombs didn’t fall on the target. They landed two kilometers from Tora Bora, and tore up a large piece of Afghan real estate.”

  “Yes, Sir.” He waited for the axe to fall.

  Steiner sighed. “Okay, tell me how you knew.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Sir.”

  “Listen, Major, you dropped your bombs on top of the enemy, after they’d quit the cave complex and moved to a new position. How did you know?”

  Gibbons was about to say he didn’t know they’d shifted their position when common sense stilled his tongue.

  Is Steiner saying I did the right thing, but how? Then again, who cares? If I did the right thing for the wrong reasons, the end result’s the same.

  “It was, er, guesswork,” he stammered.

  “Guesswork? What are you, psychic?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Hmm, I don’t think you’re telling me the whole story, but whatever the reason, you did a good job. Give your crews my congratulations.”

  “Yessir.”

  “That’s all. Dismissed.”

  He walked away and felt like he was floating on air. Now he needed to contact Sara, and make sure she was okay.

  Damn, but it sure feels good to be right, even when you’re wrong.

  * * *

  Ivan called back after twenty-three minutes. He’d counted every one. “They’re at the Crazy Horse.”

  It didn’t come as a surprise. “The brothel?”

  “I don’t mean the Crazy Horse Cabaret in Paris. One of my guys went into the bar a few minutes ago, and they’re sitting there drinking, and I’d guess plotting their next move. You know they’ll all want you dead.” He grinned, “Not that I blame ‘em. There’s been times I’ve wanted you dead.”

  He smiled. “You’re saying Mohammed Tarzi is in a brothel drinking alcohol!”

  “After what he’s been through, I guess he needed something stronger than goat’s milk. But listen, Stoner, you can’t do this on your own. There’s a connection between the Hosseinis and the brothel, probably they own a controlling interest. And Tarzi is in with them, they’re as thick as thieves.”

  “They are thieves.”

  He chuckled. “That’s true. Okay, you’re up against Tarzi, Evers, and a half dozen local Islamists who’re with them. Plus the Crazy Horse security guards, about four men, and then there’s the cops. The Hosseinis, and two others.”

  “Sixteen men.”

  “Correct. They’ll murder you if you go up against them. So I’ve decided to lend a hand.”

  He almost dropped the phone in surprise. “You what?”

  “I said lend a hand. What’s so strange about that?” He even sounded hurt, as if was normal for him to be so free with his offers of help, “I’ll bring along some of my men. Gorgy is up for it, and the five mercs I brought back from Tora Bora are looking for some payback. They lost a lot of their pals back there. I’ll make it worthwhile, naturally.”

  He was offering to help. Even to pay his men a bonus. For Ivan, it was unprecedented. The man had a digital calculator fitted inside his chest instead of a pacemaker.

  “Why?

  “Hey, it’s a favor
, between friends.”

  “Yeah, right. What’s the real reason?”

  A pause. “I called Carver to let him know his daughter was safe. He said to take care of her until she left Afghanistan. If anything happened to her, he’d hold me responsible. Stoner, he’s one mean, vindictive bastard.”

  “Ain’t life a bitch! We’ll meet you outside the Crazy Horse in thirty minutes. Say midday.”

  “High noon.”

  “High noon, yes, like the movie. Did the good guys win that time?”

  “They did, but we’re about to shoot the sequel. The ending could be different.”

  They sat in the Wrangler and chatted some more. She put her hand around his neck, pulled him toward her, and kissed him on the lips, long and slow. When she pulled back, he felt the warmth of his arousal, and he grinned at her.

  “What was that for?”

  “That was for now, just the first installment. Do this right, finish those bastards, and you’ll get the rest. But, Stoner, one thing…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t die on me.”

  “They’ve been trying to kill me for a long time, and so far they’ve had no luck. It won’t be any different this time.”

  “It better not be. Is it time?”

  “Almost noon. High noon.”

  Archer barked, and she smiled. “Do not forsake me oh, my darling.”

  “The song, from the movie. I recall that was the first line.”

  He started the engine and drove the short distance to the Crazy Horse. If it bore any resemblance to its famous namesake in Paris, it wasn’t in evidence. The French club, The Paris Crazy Horse, occupied former wine cellars in an elegant Baron Haussmann designed building at Number Twelve, Avenue George-V, named after the British King George V; an elegant, Parisian building on an elegant Parisian boulevard.

  The Jalalabad Crazy Horse occupied a wooden building, and at some stage the foundations had shifted, giving it a slight tilt. The paint was peeling from the shingle over the door, and the letter ‘R’ of the word horse had vanished, so it read the Crazy Hose. Ivan’s men hadn’t appeared, and they waited fifty meters away across the street, watching. A man stumbled out, staggering after too much drink. Or maybe he’d had a hectic night. Or both.

  Two Land Cruisers drove up the street, parked nearby, and Ivan stepped out at the head of his men. He smiled a greeting to Sara as they approached. He still carried the Thompson gun, and the rest of his men were armed with a variety of weapons. A burly mercenary carried an M-60, and the rest an assortment of American M4-A1s and M-16s. Two carried additional submachine guns on straps around their necks, and every man packed a large handgun at their belt. They looked mean and deadly, which was no surprise. They were mean and deadly. The survivors of the incredible fight at Tora Bora, they were the toughest and the best.

  Ivan looked across the street at the Crazy Horse and nodded to Stoner. “It’s up to you, buddy. We’ll play this any way you like.”

  “Kick in the front door and go in hard. See if they start shooting. If they do, we have the perfect excuse to kill them.”

  “Provided they don’t get us first.”

  “True. One more thing, there’ll be other people in the bar. The working girls, the johns, we have to give them a chance to get away.”

  “Sounds good. We’re ready when you are.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  He started walking, Sara on his right, and Archer on the left. Ivan and his men were spread in a wide line a meter behind them. He hit the door with his boot. It crashed open, and they marched into the bar. Inside, the stench was appalling, a rancid shithouse. Body odor overlaid by pungent, cheap perfume that could have doubled as cleaning fluid. Presumably to try to hide the stink of blocked toilets that wafted around the room. Half the tables were occupied by sullen customers, some with beards, pockmarked faces, and where their teeth showed, evidence of a lack of basic dental hygiene.

  Discordant Eastern music was playing on the sound system. It sounded like a cat with its tail caught in a door. The bar was also noisy, the jabber of male voices, and the higher pitched chatter of the girls. The noise stopped dead, and the place hushed. All eyes were on Stoner as he stepped inside the big room, and a few men laughed at the Westerner daring to enter this place, gun or no gun. He hadn't unholstered the Desert Eagles. He was saving them for a surprise.

  A few men smiled, and their grins widened when Sara came in behind him. They faded as the huge German Shepherd entered the room. Muslims weren’t great fans of dogs, especially big dogs like this one. Some saw them as the messengers of Satan, which suited him fine. A couple of men started to get up, presumably to intercept Sara, liking what they saw. They stopped dead at the loud, warning growl from Archer and edged away. From the back of the room, the Hosseinis watched carefully from their table. They were both in uniform, and two other uniformed cops stood to their side. Along with four Afghans, each carrying an AK held loosely in their hands. Mohammed Tarzi was seated at the table nursing a glass of beer, and sitting next to him, Evers. The former marine still looked dazed and confused, like he’d landed on another planet. On the other side of the room, six young Afghans, with half-grown beards, turbans, and AKs, Tarzi’s new recruits for the expressway to hell.

  The Hosseinis sneered. Wayne Evers’ expression was vacant. And then Ivan walked in, toting the Thompson, and behind him trooped his mercenaries. Anyone harboring any doubts about what was about to happen would have worked it out. This was no place for anyone who didn’t have business here. The room emptied in a rush. Everyone, the girls, the johns, the bar staff, and the waitresses all raced out the rear door. Mohammed Tarzi stayed with the others of his party.

  Stoner stared at the insurgent leader. “Tarzi, I’ll give you a choice. You want to die in this place, in a stinking brothel? Or we could end this outside. Your choice.”

  The Islamist shook his head. “You’re outnumbered, Mr. Stoner. You’ve avoided Islamic justice so far, but you won’t again. Today you die. Evers, kill him.”

  Wayne got to his feet, looked at Stoner, and then at his boss. His eyes were empty pools, and then he saw a spark of something there. Some remnant of what he’d once been. “You want him dead, Tarzi, you kill him. I’ve done enough killing, and I’m going home. Back to Tora Bora, where the air is clean, and I can lose myself in a cozy cave, away from this crazy world and all the killing.”

  He walked toward the door. Tarzi nodded to one of his men, who aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger. Three bullets spat out the muzzle, slammed into Wayne’s back, and he pitched to the floor. The silence was absolute for just two seconds, and then all hell broke loose. Ivan opened fire with the Thompson, three Islamists went down, and everyone jumped for cover. Stoner dragged out the Desert Eagles and walked toward them, firing alternative shots from each weapon, ignoring the bullets hissing around him and taking chunks from the furniture. One tore through the sleeve of his coat. He ignored it and kept firing. Expended seven rounds from each gun, ejected the empty clips, and reloaded. More assault rifles began to chatter, and he dove for the floor, pulling Sara with him. A hail of automatic fire parted the air above his head, and then Ivan’s merc with the M-60 returned fire.

  The room became a blazing battleground, and every man had a gun in his hand. Save one. Mohammed Tarzi, slithering along the floor like a snake, heading for the exit door at the rear. He raced after him and emerged in the fresh air with Archer and Sara right behind him. The Islamist leader was running, his robes billowing out. He aimed and fired his Mini Uzi, emptying the magazine, but the weapon was less than accurate at longer range. All he managed to do was send up clouds of dust and stone chips before he realized his quarry had disappeared.

  He reloaded and ran to the corner with Sara racing behind him. Turned into a dark passage, ran past a line of stinking garbage bins, and four bullets came out of nowhere. At the last moment, he saw the source of the muzzle flashes. A steel fire escape led up to the second floor, and he assumed h
e’d gone that way. He hadn’t. Instead the bastard had ducked through the first floor window of a house and was peering out to take the shots. He snapped off three rounds from the Uzi to force him back, watched him disappear inside, and went after him. Dove through the window and found himself inside an Afghan dwelling. Sara came in behind him. A woman looked up startled and pointed to the staircase at the far end of the room. He nodded his thanks and started up the stairs two at a time.

  Halfway up, a shot came from behind him, and he spun around. They’d spoofed him. The woman had disappeared through a doorway, and the curtain still swung from her passing. Tarzi was behind him, his arm wrapped around Sara’s neck, and the other with his pistol pressed into her head.

  Where the hell is Archer? Just when you need the dog, he disappears. Found a bitch in heat, maybe? No, not Archer, he’s too well trained, too loyal. Where did he go?

  “Put the guns down, Mr. Stoner, or she dies. Your little adventure has come to an end.”

  He put the Uzi on the floor, and a Desert Eagle. Tarzi wasn’t fooled. “And the other pistol.”

  He didn’t move. “Let the girl go first, and then I’ll put it down.”

  “No. The gun first.”

  “What do you plan to do with her?”

  A shrug. “She is just a woman, so I will let her go, after I have killed you, of course.”

  It wasn’t an option. It was a death sentence. The guy was like a psycho crazy on LSD. If he refused, he’d kill Sara, and the next bullet would be aimed at him. If he agreed, Tarzi would kill them both anyway.

  I don’t want Sara to die. I won’t let her die, but how do I stop it?

  He almost glanced up when he heard a noise in the room above.

  Did the woman go up there? No, the curtain swung after she passed through the doorway. Who’s up there, a friend or an enemy foe? I’ll assume it’s a friend and hope I’m right.

  He started walking toward the Islamic fruitcake.

  “Let her go, and you can have everything you want. Me, the gun, all of it.”