by John Ringo
Asfaw held the AK by his hip, as Nadhim himself had taught him, pointing it at the table the cowardly infidel had ducked behind and blasting the top as the weapon bucked in his hands. The weapon, stupidly, ran out of rounds and he reached under the table again for his spare magazine. He had his head down and never saw the American peek around the table . . .
* * *
Mike heard the rounds hit the top of the heavy working table and one punch through as he rolled to the left side of the table and peeked out. One of the terrorists was standing in the middle of the room, reloading after a "spray and pray" so Mike targeted two rounds right through his breast bone, spaced no more than a quarter's width apart.
* * *
Asfaw felt the rounds in his chest like two punches and a sharp pain in his back. His legs gave out from under him as the spinal cord was severed, and he dropped the AK and the spare magazine as he fell, his face striking the ground, hard. His nose was broken, he was sure, and, as his vision faded, he thought that his mother would be very angry at him for breaking his nose . . .
* * *
One of the terrorists was running to the right, heading for the crane for a better vantage point. Mike shot at him but missed as the target dove behind the crane. He reloaded, considering the situation, then popped straight up.
This received fire from behind one of the tables, also turned over, from the forge and then from the crane. He burst out of cover to the left, rounds cracking around him as the terrorists fired off most of their clips, and slid to a stop on his stomach behind the last table in the room. As he did the Geiger counter started screaming: the metal shavings on the floor were hot as blazes. At that realization, he popped up to his feet, quick. He duck-walked forward, trying to keep his balls away from the shavings. The Geiger was still screaming from the dust and shit on his clothes, so he yanked the earbud out and ignored it, then leaned out, looking for targets.
* * *
Zuhair Adil put his last magazine in the weapon and considered what to do. Nadhim and Asfaw were probably dead. He had seen Nadhim shot and had heard the chuffs from the American's silenced weapon and the sound of Asfaw's weapon clattering to the ground. It was a great thing to die in the Service of Allah, but it was a greater thing to kill the infidel at the same time. Killing, in this case, meant staying alive long enough to do so.
Zuhair was seventeen, a Bosnian Muslim who had been too young to join the jihad against the Serbs. But after the war was over the Wahabbists had come in to rebuild the mosques of Bosnia that the Serbs had defiled, bringing with them their extremist brand of Islam. Zuhair was an orphan of the war; his father had been a shopkeeper killed by the Serbs and his mother had disappeared when they were refugees. He had been taken into a madrassa funded by the International Council for Muslim Charities, a Wahabbist charity funded primarily by Saudi oil money, and it was there that he had been taught the truth of Islam, that Mohammed had declared that the whole world must be in submission to the will of Allah and that the way of jihad against the Dar Al Harb was the highest calling of the Muslim.
He had been recruited by one of the mullahs of the madrassa to assist in this mission, which was simple enough: clean up the warehouse and make sure no one got into it until the clean-up was complete. He was told that there might be trouble, but he had thought they would have some warning. And he very much would prefer not to die. He realized that as he considered what to do. Dying for Allah was all well and good to shout at the madrassa. But facing it, in real life, was a different thing. He would gladly kill a Serb if he had a chance. They had killed his mother and father, after all. But this was no place to die and no way to do it. All he wanted was out. But to do that meant either surrendering, which would look very bad, or making it to the door. To do that, he had to know where the American was. So he leaned around the forge, searching for him. As he did, he saw the American, around the side of a table, doing the same thing, and he lifted his rifle in terror, pointing it at him and yanking the trigger . . .
* * *
The tango by the forge was leaning out, also, and fired at him as he came around the side. But all the rounds went high, so Mike put a round through his exposed forehead, spreading the terrorist's limited brains all over the back wall. He slid back, then lifted himself straight up over the barrier. None of the terrorists were in sight, so he reloaded, thinking . . .
* * *
Imad Al-Kurbi was annoyed. He had fired off two full magazines at the American, carefully holding the weapon with one hand on the pistol grip and the other on top of the barrel to keep it on target as he had been taught. But he still could not hit the slippery infidel.
Imad was from the Tribal Territories of Pakistan, one of seven children, three sons, of a small mountain farm. He had been raised with an AK in his hand and considered himself a good shot, so it was doubly annoying that he had been unable to hit the American. He had left the farm when he was fifteen, entering a Wahabbist madrassa in Islamabad. There was no work in Pakistan and the madrassa fed him both food and the Word of Allah. He had left the madrassa at seventeen and, paid by the jihad, had traveled first to Afghanistan to fight the Crusader invaders, then to Iraq where he had met Nadhim who was another veteran of Afghanistan. They had planted bombs to fight the Crusaders for a year before the Crusaders flooded the country with heavy forces and began destroying the jihad in that country. When it was clear they were going to be caught soon, Nadhim suggested that they travel to Syria where jihadis were being recruited for international missions.
This mission was supposed to be simple. But it was clear that the Americans had discovered them and he had to kill this one before the word got out. However, he was out of rounds. Nadhim, though, had never gotten off a shot, so he should have a full weapon.
With that thought, Imad quietly set his empty weapon on the ground and lifted himself on fingers and toes and leopard-crawled around the table he had been using for cover. He could hear faint sounds from the American, a magazine being slid out and then another into the weapon, and he thought about sight angles. If he crossed the open area and around to the far side of the table Nadhim had been using for cover, he would stay out of sight. He got to his feet and, crouching over, darted across the gap, ducking behind the far side of the table.
* * *
Mike duck-walked sideways, keeping the room covered as he sidled over to the forge. He bent down and picked up the terrorist's AK and switched it for his pistol. There were ten rounds left in the magazine and no more mags. That meant the other terrs might be out of rounds.
* * *
Imad listened to the faint sound of the AK magazine being removed and then either it or another being reinserted and considered what to do. Nadhim's weapon was on the far side of the table, maybe in reach. He lay on his stomach and stretched his arm out, hooking at the trigger guard of the weapon . . .
* * *
There had been one of the terrorists behind the overturned table, but he was gone. His weapon was on the ground but he wasn't there. Mike had moved left, so the terr had probably moved right. That meant he was behind the drill press, one of the overturned tables or in the office. It was unlikely he had made it to the crane. And there was the one left behind the crane, of course.
The back side of the drill press was just out of sight, so Mike sidled that way, AK at tactical present, and peeked around the corner. No "Middle Eastern Male" there. He quietly peeked over the table to see if the terrorist was on the far side, keeping half an eye on the crane. He should have taken fire from there by now, but he hadn't so the terr was probably out of rounds.
There were two more sides to the drill press and Mike checked those, wondering where the target had hidden himself.
"Olly olly oxenfree!" Mike called tauntingly. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"
* * *
Imad didn't speak English very well, but he recognized the taunting tone. Let the American taunt; by sliding his body almost fully under the table, he had managed to get one finger
on Nadhim's rifle and he could see the American's legs from his current position. He began to slide the AK slowly to him and winced at the metallic scraping sound . . .
* * *
Mike heard a magazine being surreptitiously removed then reinserted by the crane; he ducked down behind the table, waiting. As he did that he heard a metallic sound where the first terrorist had been standing: the tango he lost track of had been out of rounds and had snuck over to the leader type to get his full weapon. Most of the head terrorist's body was in sight, so the target must be on the far side of the table on his stomach, reaching under it for the weapon.
Mike dropped to his own stomach, looking under the table and, sure enough, there was the tango. He was half covered by the body of the leader and snatched the weapon to him when he saw Mike's sudden movement. They locked eyes for a moment, the terrorist raising the AK to fire under the table and then Mike shot him between the eyes.
* * *
All Majali Fu'ad wanted was out. Majali was from Egypt and had been a student in Germany until the money for college ran out. He hated Cairo, where there was no decent work for a college-trained young man and very few distractions unless you were married. So he stayed in Europe, doing odd jobs, until he ended up in a madrassa in Bosnia of all places. The madrassa fed him, and if the food came with a healthy dosing of the Word of Allah he was willing to accept that as long as his bowl was filled. He'd taken this "mission" because it was just another odd job, like dozens of others he'd done over the years since college. He'd only fired at the American because everyone else did so, and it gave him a sense of security to shoot the weapon. But now he was out of bullets and a long way from Cairo. If he managed to get to the door he was going back to Cairo, finding a job, any job, and never, ever leaving again. And if anyone said the word "jihad" in his presence, he was going to punch them out. He crouched down, his eyes fixed on the door, and as more firing broke out, he sprinted for the door . . .
* * *
Mike lifted up to the top of the table as he heard pounding feet, putting the last three rounds from the AK into the running terrorist who slid to a halt, leaving a trail of blood behind him. His arm twitched a bit and then he was still.
* * *
Majali lay on his face, feeling the blood flowing out of his chest, and tried to crawl to the door. It was a long way to Cairo, but he would crawl if he had to. He was cold and it would be warm in Cairo . . .
* * *
Mike lifted up and looked around, then switched the AK for the one the leader had had, checking the leader. The leader had probably lived for a few seconds based on the blood trail, but he was dead.
Mike checked the office, cautiously, then moved from one body to the next until he was sure they were all Dead Right There. And they were.
"I really could have used a prisoner, you know," Mike said, shaking his head in frustration. "One of you could have bothered to survive!"
* * *
Chapter Four
"Well, I threw sevens," Mike said, sitting down and pulling out his phone. "Where are we?"
"Corner of Levakonic and Miskina," Dukhovic replied. "I heard shooting. Automatic rifles?"
"Northcote?" Mike said, ignoring him. "Corner of Levakonic and Miskina. Up Miskina street. Warehouse with a white van outside. Van's hot, so's the warehouse and I took fire when I entered. I think we have the site; site is secure. Yeah, full response and get the Nuclear Emergency Search Team moving." NEST was the premier group in the world at detecting, analyzing and, if necessary, taking apart, nuclear wepaons. "No prisoners, unfortunately, they all croaked on me. Make contact with Dukhovic; he's going to be at the corner. I'm going to go get some sleep."
"There was shooting," Dukhovic repeated nervously.
"Yeah," Mike said. "There won't be any more. That brothel. Think they're open this time of day?"
* * *
"Yes?" the pajama-wearing man at the door said in an irritated tone. It had taken Mike three minutes of hammering with his pistol grip to get the door open at all.
"I'm looking for a girl," Mike replied. He'd gone back to the pensione, changed out of his mildly radioactive clothes and taken a shower first. Then had Dukhovic drive him back to the warehouse and kicked him loose.
"It is too early," the pimp said, starting to close the door. He was about fifty, even heavier than Dukhovic, with a receding hairline and heavy jowls that were tracked with sleep lines. "Come back this evening."
Mike jammed his foot in the closing door and pulled out a wad of hundred-euro notes, waving them in front of the man's nose.
"Money talks, bullshit walks, as we say in America," Mike replied.
"The girls are all asleep," the man said, watching the money wave back and forth. "It will take some time to wake them up."
"Fine, you can serve me breakfast," Mike said, pushing the door open. "What I'm looking for is a young blonde, nice breasts. I'm going to treat her extremely roughly, but not leave too many marks. Then I'm going to sleep with her most of the day. Three hundred euros to you. You throw in breakfast."
"Deal," the man said, following Mike into the room. "I am Ivo Kovacic."
"And I'm nobody you want to remember," Mike replied.
* * *
Mike was dipping bread in rather decent coffee when Kovacic came into the kitchen leading a very pretty young blonde. She was wearing panties and a camisole that revealed a tight stomach, long legs for her height—she was quite short—and very large breasts that were still high and full. She had a gorgeous face, long, curly hair and beautiful Tartar eyes. He couldn't quite get a look at the color since she had her head down in a very submissive posture that he found immediately alluring. Of all the whores Mike had seen in all the countries he had visited, she was close to the best looking, if not the top. If she wasn't so short, no more than five four, she could be a supermodel.
"This is Magdelena," Kovacic said. "She is a new girl here, but I think you will find her to your tastes. Do not strike her in the face hard, if you will. Other customers will get the idea that she can be used as a punching bag."
"I won't," Mike said. "As long as she does what I tell her to do. Come here, girl," he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her onto his lap. "Let me see your eyes, look at me." He grabbed her chin and lifted her face so he could look her in the eye. When she looked at him he could see that her eyes were wide and frightened, and she kept trying to drop her head, her chin pulling against his fingers like a trapped bird.
Mike was, briefly, troubled, his conscience nagging at him. But the whole stinking mission had raised his frustration level to a fever pitch and his demons had hold of him firmly. He slid his hand up under the camisole and felt her breasts, roughly. They were tight as if she had just finished growing them and he reevaluated her age; she couldn't be more than seventeen and fifteen was probably closer. Again, his conscience twinged, but he ignored it. Her youth and relative inexperience was too exciting.
"I'll take this one," Mike said, standing up and taking the girl by the hand. She tried to pull away and he shifted his grip to her wrist. "Where's her room?"
"Upstairs," Kovacic said. "I think that payment up front would be good, however."
Mike pulled out the wad of notes and peeled off three, handing them to Kovacic.
"Show me your room," Mike said to the girl, pulling her forward and slapping her on the ass, hard. "Now."
The girl walked into the main living room of the house, then up the stairs. Her room was down the hall on the left. It had a double bed, pushed up against one wall, a small wardrobe, a nightstand and a chest of drawers. When she entered the small bedroom, Mike closed the door, then grabbed her by the hair, pulling on it brutally.
"You speak English?" he snapped, pulling her around to look her in her frightened eyes.
"A little," the girl whimpered. "Please, no hurt."
"I like hurt," Mike said, twisting her hair and watching as tears formed in her beautiful eyes. "You do what I say, I won't hurt as much.
Understand?"
"Yes," the girl said in a terrified tone. "Please . . ."
"Down on your knees, bitch," was his reply, pushing her down. "Pull out my dick and suck it. Suck it good, or I'll hurt you."
The girl quickly unzipped him and pulled out his cock, sticking it in her mouth and fellating him. She sucked hard and used her hands, expertly beating at him at the same time until he came. She started to pull back, but Mike held her in place by her hair, coming into her mouth.
"Don't even think about letting my cum spill," Mike said, hitting her on the head as he came into her mouth. "I'm going to put my cum in you and if you spill one drop, I'll beat you senseless." He grabbed her by the hair again and shoved her onto the bed, ripping at the camisole as the girl cried out in fear. He slapped her on the face to get her to lie still as he ripped her clothes off. Even after coming in her mouth, he was so enraged that he was still as hard as a rock. He pulled the pillowcase off of her pillow and jammed it in her mouth, then pinned her hands over her head and took her, dry and hard, as she whimpered at the pain. He kneaded her breasts as he fucked her, twisting at the nipples and biting her in a frenzy of brutal rape. He knew he was over the edge and didn't care. All he wanted to do was rape this bitch, hard, to use her and abuse her.
He could feel his cum rising again, but he wasn't about to simply put it in her pussy. He pulled out, brutally, to a gasp of pain from the girl and turned her over on her stomach, reaching in his jump bag with one hand to pull out an unlubricated condom. The girl struggled as she realized what was about to happen, but he pinned her down, slid on the condom and found her lovely asshole with the tip of his dick, forcing it in with his hand. She tensed up against him and he punched her, hard, in the kidneys. The pain must have been overwhelming because she loosened up immediately with a moan of pain and despair. She was still incredibly tight, probably an ass virgin, and her moan turned to a shriek of pain and humiliation when he entered her. He pumped her, hard, for what seemed an eternity, enjoying every one of her whimpers, reaching around to grab each breast and pulling at the nipples so hard she screamed. As she screamed in pain and fear he finally came again.
