by Eric Meyer
"Blum?” He shrugged, “Sure thing, Boss."
They drove the short distance to the farm. Ivan knocked and went inside with Adams. Blum invited them to sit and waited with his wife for them to explain what they wanted.
Ambassador Adams spoke at length, while Ivan watched. Faria Blum was worth watching. Dark hair, eyes dark gray, deep and unfathomable. Flawless skin, unusual for an Afghan, and she was as slim and lithe as he remembered her. She’d once been Rafe Stoner’s squeeze, but she dumped him for Grigory Blum.
Smart girl.
Blum looked tired, and Ivan recalled the life of a farmer wasn’t an easy one. His hair was also dark, his skin sunburned, and yet he had an unusual feature. Piercing blue eyes, a legacy of his father, a Russian, who’d come to Afghanistan as part of the Soviet occupation. He was a handsome man, not much like a farmer, and Ivan recalled he also had a sideline as a gunman. Not in the same league as Stoner, but he was pretty handy with a firearm, especially the Dragunov sniper rifle with which he’d trained himself to become expert.
They talked at length, and the Blums listened in silence. When Adams had said his piece, he gave Greg searching glance. "Can you think of any way you can persuade this man to take it on?"
Blum exchanged glances with his wife, and she gave him a slight nod of agreement. Women were in trouble in the badlands of Pakistan. If they needed Stoner’s help to get them out, the least they could do was persuade him to take it on.
"I'll go talk to him," Greg said.
"I'll come with you," his beautiful Afghan wife added, "The girls are away at boarding school right now, so it's just us and Archer."
Adams looked puzzled. “Archer?”
“Our dog. You can come, too," she said, glancing at the huge German Shepherd lying quietly on the rug in front of the wood fire.
Up ‘til then he'd almost ignored the visitors, but suddenly he leapt up and headed toward the door.
"We'll take the jeep," Greg said to his wife, "Faria, you'd better put on something warm."
The jeep in question was a vintage Russian ex-military GAZ 69. Painted in olive drab, the vehicle was a throwback to the Soviet occupation. Slow, uncomfortable, and not always reliable, but Greg refused to change it. He maintained it had brought him luck. He followed Ivan’s Land Cruiser into the city, and they parked at the rear of Ma Kelly's. Ivan told them to go ahead, and he'd follow them up to Stoner's place after he'd made some calls to the office. He meant CIA, Langley.
They walked up the staircase to the third floor, and Blum hammered on the woodwork. A voice from inside shouted, "Fuck off."
"It's me, Greg Blum, and Faria’s with me. Open this door."
There was a delay of a few minutes, and then the sound of feet shuffling toward them. When it opened, Stoner stood there, his eyes red and bloodshot. He was badly in need of a shave, although at some stage he'd clearly tried to attack it with a razor and failed. The cuts on his face bore witness to his drunken attempts. He opened his mouth to shout another insult, stopping when he saw the beautiful Afghan woman he’d once dated. "Faria, it's good to see you."
"You, too, Stoner. Are you going to invite us in?"
He pursed his lips. "Well, sure, but the place could do some tidying."
She frowned, brushed him aside, and walked into the living room, pretending not to notice the empty bottles lying everywhere. She was starting to bundle them up and throw them in the bin when the girl appeared from the bedroom. She was tiny, pretty, and completely naked.
Faria gave her a quick glance and grinned at Stoner. “Sorry, I don't think we've been introduced."
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "This is a friend of mine, Afifa. Afifa, this is Faria Blum and her husband Greg. They’re my friends. I don’t think they’ll be staying long.”
Faria shot him an angry look. “A woman has been kidnapped. She needs your help. Her husband needs you to find her and bring her back. As well as the other women who were with her."
"I already told him, I'm busy."
She coughed to hide her snort of disbelief. "This isn’t like you, Stoner. Someone’s in trouble and needs your help. You've always been there in the past."
He raised his eye to the ceiling. “Where did it ever get me?" She recoiled from the stink of stale alcohol, “I’m happy here, running my business.”
"I want you to think about it some more. Surely you can find it in your heart to help."
"I told him I'd pay," Adams blurted, "I can offer him one million dollars if he'll take this on and bring my wife home. Bring them all home."
He stared at Adams. "How many women are we talking?"
"At least a dozen, maybe sixteen. Barbara, that’s my wife, her congressional aides, and a bunch of journalists."
"That’s a lot of hostages. I told you, you need Special Forces. Besides, I’ve already explained, I've got too much on at the moment."
"No, you haven't," Faria snapped, "You're being a total ass. Their lives are in danger, and they need your help. I know you can’t do it alone, but Greg will go with you."
He looked at Blum. "Why would you do that, buddy? Every time we take on one of these jobs, you spend half your time ducking the bullets. Sometimes, you don't even duck them, and you need Faria to patch you up when you get home."
"A part share of a million dollars is a powerful incentive. The boarding school fees for the girls are crazy. They've almost bankrupted us."
"What's wrong with the local school?"
"What's wrong is the Taliban keep threatening to turn up and hose it down with machine gun fire. You know what they’re like. Women shouldn't have an education, stuff like that. They've made a lot of threats, and one day they’ll make good on them.”
At that moment, Ivan came through the door with Archer trotting at his heels. The dog crossed the room in a single bound and leapt at Stoner, licking his face in a gesture of affection that went back a long time. If he noticed the stale alcohol fumes on his breath, he ignored them.
“We can take the dog as well," Greg said, as if that would clinch the deal.
"I don't think so. I don't need you, and I don't need Archer. There’s one simple reason. I'm not going. Nothing in the world would persuade me to take this job on."
Ivan had that sneaky grin, like he knew something they didn’t. "I've contacted some of my people for the names of the other people who were kidnapped. One of them may be familiar to you."
"I doubt it."
“Her name is Sara Carver. As I recall, you and she had quite a thing going, is that right?"
He didn't say anything for almost a minute. He just stood there, swaying as he tried to come to terms with the name. "Sara? What the hell was she doing there?"
"She became a freelance journalist after she resigned her commission in the Infantry. She's done well, and people like the stuff she writes. She was with Congresswoman Adams, gathering information to file a major report on the way Pakistani men give their women such a tough time."
“Sara."
Ivan nodded. "Sara, that's correct. Stoner, it’s a chance to get her and the other women back, and take down this bastard Khan. It’s a righteous strike.”
“A righteous strike?”
“That’s what I said.”
He glanced at Afifa. "Make some coffee. I need something strong to sober me up fast."
Still naked, she walked through into the kitchen, ignoring their astonished glances. She was back a couple of minutes later with a mug of what looked like black tar. He drank it down in silence. She took the mug without a word and refilled it. He swallowed the second cup, and she refilled it for a third time. After he’d drunk it, a glimmer of sobriety appeared in his eyes. For the third time, he said, "Sara."
He looked at Ivan. "You're not shitting me? She really is a captive?"
"As I live and breathe, Sara Carver is with Congresswoman Adams, and she’s also a captive of the Haqqanis."
He looked at Greg. “What about you?"
"I'll come. And I’ll bring Archer."
Stoner nodded. “We leave in the morning." He was about to continue when he snatched out his smartphone and looked at the reminder list, "Shit, I almost forgot. What day is it?"
"Friday."
"Yeah, I have a job to finish. It’s local, here in Jalalabad. It won't take me long. Relax and make yourselves comfortable. Afifa, make some fresh coffee. Guys, give me about an hour.”
He was about to stroll out through the door when he suddenly realized he was still wearing just shorts and a T-shirt. The same ones he'd worn the day before. With an embarrassed grin, he sprinted into the bedroom and emerged a minute later wearing crumpled pants and boots. He was pulling on a military style shirt, with plenty of pockets and epaulettes. He dragged on his shoulder harness, with the two heavy Desert Eagles, donned his long, black leather coat. The coat was loose and bulky enough to conceal the weapons, and they were out of sight. With a nod of farewell, he left them in the apartment and took the stairs two at a time. Greg followed a few paces back.
* * *
He knew where to go, and when he reached the local restaurant he pushed open the door. The target was a wealthy Afghan, a man who'd brought more than his share of misery to the local population by recruiting young women to work for him in what were supposedly decent jobs, like teachers and secretaries.
As soon as he had them in his power, he'd feed heroin into their veins. When they were hooked, he'd subcontract them as whores to the seedier, grimier bordellos of the city. None of which was Stoner's business, after all, he was in a similar line of work. But the guy went too far. When one particular girl died as a result of a drug overdose, he went to the family home and seized a second, younger daughter to replace her. She was already an addict, hooked on drugs and prostitution. The parents sought justice, and Stoner agreed to the contract. The parents had chosen this day for him to carry out the sentence. The anniversary of the day their first daughter was seized.
When he stormed into the room, the target looked up with a relaxed expression. They were acquainted, being loosely in the same line of business. Although at opposite ends. The man’s name was Mohammed Afghani.
"Stoner, what can I do for you?"
"You can die. That girl you filled with heroin, her family wants justice."
He gave a careless shrug. "Too bad.”
Afghani nodded to his four companions. All employed by him as enforcers. "I want you to see this man to the door. If he doesn’t leave, kill him."
They were smiling when they picked up their AKs, which had been leaning against the table. Smiling, and in a manner that was relaxed and almost lazy, they cocked the levers to bring the first round into the breech.
Each rifle was aimed at the center of his body. No doubt their boss, still seated with a cocksure expression on his smug face, was reaching for his gun. Yet like always, when he faced life or death situations, he didn't care. He'd been waiting for death for a long time, and in his darkest moods, he often welcomed it. If the Grim Reaper had held up his hand, Stoner would have reached out and taken it; would have gladly gone into the permanent darkness of the beyond.
Stoner snatched out the Desert Eagles and started blasting. He fired a total of eight shots, four from each pistol, two bullets into each man. The .50 caliber slugs did what they’d been designed to do. Four bodies crashed to the floor, but Mohammed Afghani was almost as quick. A body crashed into him, and he held his dead shooter in his lap, using him as a shield, and raised his weapon. A shiny Smith & Wesson Model 29, the .44 Magnum model. Famed as the weapon that took the starring role in the Dirty Harry movies, this model was glistening chrome. A flashy gun, and the hand holding it showed no sign of anything other than rock steady nerves.
He drew a bead on the center of Stoner’s chest. "Now it’s your turn, Mr. Stoner. These men will be difficult to replace, and you’ve caused me a great deal of trouble, as well as interrupting my dinner. This will be the last time. He started to squeeze the trigger, and a volley of shots rang out, but the .44 Magnum hadn't fired a single shot. The bullets came from behind Stoner, 9mm slugs that ripped into the body Afghani was using as a shield. Except for the two bullets that tore into his left shoulder.
Stoner didn't need to turn. He recognized the slow rate of fire and smaller slugs, the characteristic sounds of a Stechkin. The Russian 9mm automatic designed to function as a small machine pistol when required. He knew of one man who carried such a weapon. The shock of the burst took Afghani by surprise. He dropped his weapon and stared at the new arrival, his face contorted in agony. He looked back at Stoner.
"You bastard. I assume your next move is to kill me."
"I don't kill unarmed men, Afghani. Pick up the gun."
He looked astonished. “What is this, some kind of Wild West show? You want a shootout?”
"Pick up the gun."
He shook his head. “I’m wounded. You must help me."
He groaned in agony and pushed away the body of his henchman. Slowly, very slowly, Afghani slid off the chair and slumped to the floor. A split second later he moved, a movement that scooped up the dropped Smith & Wesson. His uninjured right arm grabbed the outsize handgun and managed to get off a shot. In his wounded state, his aim was off, and the bullet tore into the ceiling. He didn’t fire again. Stoner squeezed the triggers of the Desert Eagles and emptied the magazines into Afghani's body.
Eight heavy bullets smashed into his chest and literally tore him apart. His heart had stopped before he keeled over on the floor, a congealing mess of blood and ruined tissue. The restaurant had gone silent. Diners frozen in mid-forkful, watching carefully to see if the fight spilled over to them. After a few seconds silence, some invisible signal communicated passed between them, and they continued eating. The hum of conversation resumed, the bodies ignored. Life was back to normal. Greg came forward to Stoner.
"Sneaky bastard. He nearly had you."
“Maybe. Thanks for the assist."
"Anytime. I don't want you dead before we even start.”
"I didn't know you cared."
He grinned. "I don't, but Faria told me to keep an eye on you. Then there’s the reward money. Enough to keep the girls in school fees and support them all the way through college, and beyond.”
"That's good to know."
They turned to leave, but the owner of the restaurant, a short, balding man raced out from the back and planted himself in front of the door to block it. "Who will pay for this damage?"
“What damage?"
The man waved his hands around. “Look! I have a bullet hole in the ceiling, two of my mirrors behind the bar smashed, and I’ll need a cleaning crew to clear up the mess. I'm ruined, ruined."
He took out his wallet and tossed him a fifty-dollar note. "That should cover the worst of it."
"Fifty dollars! It will cost ten times that much."
Stoner pointed to Afghani’s body. “Make a claim on his estate. That fancy gun of his should sell for a few dollars."
"I can have the gun?"
"And the assault rifles. There's just one condition. Don't go pointing them at me or any of my friends."
"No, no, I would never do anything like that."
“That’s very wise.”
They walked outside and headed back to the brothel.
"I could have handled it," Stoner said abruptly, "You shouldn't have come.”
"I don't agree. The way you’ve been hitting the sauce, you weren’t in any fit state to take them on alone. You were lucky to hit those first four guys.”
"What’s the worst that could happen, I take a bullet and die? Who’d give a shit? Not me, that’s for sure.”
Blum hid his shock at the absence of any emotion. "Don't you care about anything? Walking into that place was stupid. There must be something in your life worth living for."
"Only thing worth living for is death."
"What about Sara?"
He stopped and stared at Blum. "Yeah, Sara, she’s special. The question is, where is she?”
/> Chapter Two
They met in the bar of Ma Kelly’s. Ambassador Adams and Ivan sat opposite. Stoner had turned up late, having spent almost an hour trying to tidy himself up after weeks of neglect. The beard had gone, and he looked more like the man he used to be. Boots, clean pants and shirt, and someone had even wiped the mud from his long leather coat. Faria suspected Afifa had helped. A pretty girl, and another of Stoner's relationships headed for the rocks. She’d find someone to take care of her, someone to take her away from the brothel, and she’d be gone.
Adams was in a better mood. "I’ve had some good news, a message from the Afghan President. He’s arranged for us to have some help."
“Help?" Stoner stared at him, "You said any official involvement was out of the question."
He nodded. "That's true, but this is something different, a unit of Afghan Special Forces, all new guys. So far, they haven't appeared on official military rosters. The President said they were good, reliable men. They’ll give you an edge when you meet up with the Haqqanis. Their leader, Colonel Rahman, is a relative of the President, and he’s told him to cooperate with anything you ask for. Anything at all."
"Why is he making such a generous offer?"
If anyone noticed the sarcasm in Stoner's voice, they ignored it.
"Like I said, they’re new recruits. Most have experience of fighting, but not in any official capacity."
Now he understood. He’d met the breed on more than one occasion. "You mean they’re former hitmen, drug traffickers, and Taliban gunmen."
"I can’t comment on that. All I can give you is the President’s assurance that Colonel Rahman will do everything possible to make your mission a success.”
"It’s crazy, sending a bunch of rookies and thugs into Pakistan."
Ivan adopted a friendly smile. "Look, even if they’re not one hundred percent, anyone that can pull the trigger will be useful. These men could make a difference when it comes to a fight. By the way, I have some intel that you'll find useful. The town of Chitral came up, on the other side of the border. There's been fighting there, and it appears the Haqqani are behind it. We don't know if they're holding the women in the town, but it’s a possibility.”
