Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

  The cottage was exposed to fire from both sides, Griggs’ band in the east, and Khan’s force in the west. Nadiri and Noyan were firing magazine after magazine. The women were also blasting away, although much of the gunfire went skyward, to little effect. He was working out how to get out of the trap he’d led them into when he saw a pudgy figure in a dark blue turban at the rear of the yard. Colonel Rahman and another man, his Sergeant, were attempting to get behind them and blast them while Griggs and Khan drove them from the cottage. He looked at Blum.

  "Stay here and keep shooting. We can’t let them get any nearer. Rahman is out the back, and I’m gonna make this his last mission. I think he's setting up an ambush. Griggs and Khan will try to force us out, and they'll shoot the moment we show our faces out the back door."

  He nodded. "Keep your head down, Stoner. If anyone kills you, make sure it's not that bastard Rahman. Bad for your reputation.”

  "It’ll snow in hell before that happens."

  He burst out the back door and almost died. Rahman had pulled the trigger to splatter the rear door. Perhaps he’d been hoping to punch bullets through the woodwork and ricochet them around the inside. Stoner walked straight into part of the burst. He was more than lucky. Two bullets smacked into his chest, and it felt like a mule had kicked him. By an incredible chance, both had hit the heavy steelwork of his Desert Eagles, and the lead had flattened and dropped away harmlessly to the ground. He went over backward with the kinetic force of the blast, but he was uninjured. Although he’d little doubt he'd suffered a few cracked ribs and would be in agony during the days to come.

  I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m breathing, and I have bullets in the gun.

  He rolled over and sneaked out into the yard. He was looking for someone. A man who’d almost killed him. And he was about to return the favor.

  Rahman, I’m on the way.

  He caught a glimpse of the ornate blue turban as Rahman ducked away. He snapped off a single shot chipping stone from the wall where he’d disappeared. A moment later, a head appeared. It wasn’t Rahman, but one of his men. The Colonel was shouting at him, ordering him to go forward and kill Stoner before he got near. Hesitantly, the man came nearer, hunched over, as if it would be enough to keep below incoming fire. It wasn't.

  He'd no idea if the Desert Eagles would fire after the damage they'd taken, but now was the time to find out. He took one pistol in his left hand while he held the rifle in his right, ready to fire if the automatic failed. He aimed at the Afghan and pulled the trigger. The target went backward, fell, and slammed to the ground. He could have been dead, or just knocked senseless by the powerful bullet. Either way he needed a reason to check out the other gun. He pulled out the second automatic, took a moment to aim, and pulled the trigger. The pistol fired, and the bullet slammed into the target. He knew what he needed to know. Both guns were working, so the damage they'd taken was merely cosmetic. He slung the rifle over his shoulder on the sling and held a Desert Eagle in each hand. It was time to go after Rahman.

  In several strides he reached the wall and peered over the top, but there was no sign of him. He was about to climb over, but decided he’d be a sitting duck if the bastard were waiting for him. He backed off four paces and ran at it, clearing the meter-high wall with a flying leap, and throwing himself flat.

  Three shots spat overhead. Rahman had retreated to a nearby cottage and was firing from the window. Stoner put a couple of bullets through the window to force him to duck. Then he ran, sprinting towards the cottage, and he didn’t pause when he reached the door. He smashed into the woodwork with his shoulder and crashed through, searching for a target. Nothing.

  The Colonel wasn't there. The dwelling was so small; he must be in the next room. The door was closed. He kicked it open and fired two more shots that ricocheted around the stone walls. He heard a whimper, and he stepped inside.

  Colonel Rahman of the Afghan National Army, and relative of the President, was crouched in the far corner. Knees pulled up against his chest, and his arms wrapped around his knees, pulling them toward him. As if making himself as small a target as possible to avoid what he knew was about to come.

  Stoner fired a single shot into the wall inches above his head, and the man screamed in terror.

  "Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"

  "Why did you do it, Rahman? Why did you sell us out?"

  "It was my wife!” he gasped, sucking in deep, panicked breaths, “She wanted us to buy a ranch out in the country, away from the constant attacks by the Taliban, ISIS, and al Qaeda. We couldn't afford it because we were already in debt, and so I offered to help General Khan."

  "What about the President? Is he involved?"

  He looked up, astonished. "The President? No, he knew nothing."

  "Who did know?"

  There was something in his eyes, something shifty, and he was determined to find out the truth. He fired another shot, and once again, Rahman screamed.

  "Who else knew, you bastard? What about the Embassy, did they know what was going on?"

  Another pause, and the man was sobbing, his face wet with tears of guilt, terror, and shame. Finally, he started speaking, and Stoner heard truth in the trembling voice. "Yes, yes. Inside the Embassy."

  "Was it the Ambassador?"

  "The Ambassador? No, it wasn’t him. There was another."

  "Who was it? I want a name.”

  He was shaking his head. "If I knew, I would tell you. But I swear on the Prophet, I never found out the name. Before I made the arrangement with Khan, I called the Embassy and asked to speak to Seth Adams. I said it was to do with his wife, and I spoke to someone in his office. Whoever it was said as far as the Ambassador was concerned, he didn’t much care whether the operation to free his wife succeeded. He’d come up with a lesser ransom, pay up, and if his wife died in the operation to free her that was too bad. I just took it as an okay to do the deal." He half-smiled, "If the man wasn't interested in getting his wife back, why should I worry? I might as well make some money out of the deal.”

  He held back his fury on a tight rein. If the national game of America was football, in Afghanistan it was murder.

  "What about the women, the prisoners, in danger of rape and murder from Khan and his men? Didn't that make you stop and think?"

  He murmured something, and it sounded like, 'they were just women.'

  His anger boiled over. He was sick of it all, sick of Afghanistan, sick of the backstabbing, corruption, the violence, the deaths, and the miserable poverty of its population. It was men like this, paid generous salaries, as well as the brides they took, and money they stole for phantom soldiers. Men who appeared on the rosters but never existed. A corruption that diluted the security forces and perpetuated the misery of armed insurgency for the average Joe, and the average Joanna, or whatever was the Afghan equivalent. He thought about his business.

  Me and Ma Kelly do everything we can to make certain the girls have as good a life as possible, considering the nature of their work. Sure, it would be easy to dismiss them as cheap whores. Treat them badly and screw every penny out of their earnings so they make almost nothing for their efforts. Instead, we treat them well and care for them. As a result, the girls prosper. It’s pieces of shit like this quivering coward in front of me who are responsible for keeping the country in the Dark Ages.

  He was tempted, but he couldn't shoot an unarmed man. Neither could he leave him unpunished.

  "Pick up your gun."

  The rifle was lying on the floor where he’d put it down when he knew Stoner was coming for him. He shook his head, and his fleshy jowls quivered.

  "I will not. If I pick up the rifle, you'll kill me."

  "If you don't pick it up, I'll kill you. Take it. At least try to fight like a man."

  He shook his head again, his eyes wide with fear and desperation. Stoner sighed. He’d have to do it another way. He turned his back in a gesture of dismissal and started walking out of the room. Rahm
an was true to his lily-livered character all the way to the end. As he'd expected, Stoner heard him snatch up the rifle to shoot him in the back. He dodged to the side and rolled on the ground, as a burst of gunfire tore past the spot where he'd been standing a second before. He turned, aimed, and fired. One bullet each from the big automatics, and two .50 slugs buried themselves into Colonel.

  The damage was awesome. Two gaping, bloody holes in his chest as the force of the bullets slammed him back against the wall. Then he pitched forward and fell on his front, exposing his back. Both slugs had exited his back, and Colonel Rahman’s career of corruption and bribery had ended. All that remained was a bloody mess, and a soul consigned to hell.

  He left the cottage to return to where they were waiting for him. On the way back, he surprised two of Khan's men. They’d crept in unseen and made it close to the house where his friends were sheltering. They didn’t hear him coming, and he didn’t pause. He walked past the two men and put a bullet in each before they even knew he was there. Seconds later, he was back inside the house.

  Javed was waiting for him, and he announced his arrival in an excited voice.

  "He’s back. He’s back. I just saw him kill two men.”

  Stoner stepped inside the cottage, just in time. A blast of rifle fire smacked into the door as he closed it, and several slugs punched through the woodwork to flatten into the opposite wall. Greg stared at him, and his face was grim.

  "What happened out there?"

  "Colonel Raman’s moneymaking schemes are over. He won't be double-crossing us again."

  Blum didn't look cheered. "You'd better look out front. It’s not good."

  Stoner ran across the room and nodded to the two Afghans, Noyan and Nadiri. They were watching through the narrow window. Greg was right. It wasn’t good. The convoy of vehicles was moving into the town, and each truck and the SUV was crowded with fighting men. Khan had lost patience and decided to finish them off. They were blasting sheets of bullets through every window, doorway, and gap between the houses. They were still one hundred meters away, a slow-moving avalanche of lead, but they'd be on them in minutes. Griggs had moved in from the opposite end of the town, and his men had occupied some of the surrounding cottages.

  There was no way out. They’d done everything they could, taken out at least twenty of the enemy, smashed an attack by a Technical loaded with a heavy machine gun. Yet for all the difference it had made, it was a waste of time. The oncoming convoy put out a hurricane of fire impossible to fight. No matter where they went, at least forty assault rifles would follow them. Firing on full automatic, expending bullets like they'd gone out of fashion. Clearly waiting for them to run out of ammunition was a non-starter. The Haqqanis had enough ammunition to supply a company of troops, probably a battalion. And Khan was using it to lay down a curtain of fire that trapped them as much as the walls of a prison.

  "Any suggestions?" Greg murmured. Muzzle flashes winked out from inside the houses around them. There wasn't one single place that wasn't under attack.

  Stoner shook his head.

  "I’m still thinking.”

  “Think faster.”

  He grinned. “I am, but I don't see a way out. They’re behind, in front, and either side of us. They outnumber us by a factor of almost four to one, and we don't have much to fight with. Four men, a boy, and a bunch of women who’ve never fired a shot in anger."

  Sara glared at him. "You sonofabitch! You know damn well I was infantry. I've killed my share of men, and I’ll take down a few more."

  He winced. "I'm sorry. You’re right. I know Barbara Adams is handy with a gun, too, but most of the women aren't. There’re too many of the Haqqanis, and not enough of us."

  “Why don’t they come?”

  “They don’t want to lose more men, not yet. And they’ll be wary of sniper fire. They know all about Greg’s rifle. They’re worried about him picking them off one by one.”

  “So they’re scared.”

  He grinned. “I wish. They’re cautious, is all.”

  He stopped as Blum held up a hand. He’d seen a target in the distance, and he had the barrel of his Dragunov aimed out the window.

  "What do you see?"

  "Khan. You know that crazy tunic he wears with all the medals. He’s out there. Stupid bastard is walking up the middle of the street. He was behind the lead truck just before it swerved over to the right, and now I can see him."

  "Take him. Kill him, and it could take the edge off their enthusiasm."

  "I'm on it. One second."

  He watched Greg prepare to take the shot, and he was worried.

  Why is Khan taking such a risk?

  He’d adopted the absolute concentration that is the hallmark of the professional sniper. They waited, holding their breath. Hanging on a single shot that could turn the tide. One single bullet, and it could make all the difference. They watched his finger move a fraction as he started to take up the pressure on the trigger. Then he released it.

  "Shit, it’s not him."

  At the same moment, a storm of rifle fire erupted and smacked through the window. Greg shouted as a bullet hit him in the head and spun him backward. Stoner and Sara ran to him, and his stomach lurched. His head was bleeding badly, and Stoner found it hard to breathe.

  My friend, no not just my friend, my best friend is dead or dying. The bastards suckered him into showing himself, and they were waiting. They dressed a ringer in the garish tunic, and the plan worked perfectly.

  He leaned down and shouted in desperation. "Greg, talk to me."

  One side of his face was red with blood, and more blood was welling out of the wound. His eyes were closed, his body still, and Sara was wiping away the blood with strips of fabric she’d torn from her clothes.

  She looked up at Stoner. “It's not bad. It looks like a flesh wound."

  He didn’t believe her. “It looks terrible. Is he going to die?”

  "He should be okay. The bullet tore off a slice of flesh, and it may have grazed his skull, but I can’t see any damage that won't repair."

  “You’re sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I just think so. I’m not a doctor.”

  "I hear you. Anything you need; spit it out. If Greg dies...."

  She didn't reply. Barbara was cleaning more blood from the wound, while Sara tore more strips of material from her blouse. She’d taken so much material for dressings a large area of skin was visible below her breasts. She was grimy, exhausted, and her clothing little more than rags. But she’d never looked more beautiful while she concentrated on saving Greg.

  Abruptly, she looked up. “I need more dressings. This won’t be enough to staunch the bleeding.”

  Barbara reached under her dress to tear off material to press against the wound. Sara fastened the improvised bandage around his head, and already it was soaked through with blood. But the flow was starting to dry up, and then he opened his eyes.

  "What happened? Did I get him?” His voice was shaky, his words slurred.

  Stoner explained what had happened. "It's not your fault. We underestimated them, is all.”

  Greg squinted his eyes in pain and frustration. "What about that convoy, did they get any nearer?"

  He peered around the corner of the window. "No, they stopped. I expect they’re waiting to see if the sniper fire starts again. They won’t know if they hit you, and Khan doesn't want to waste men when he knows he's got us beat."

  His voice dropped to a low murmur. As if he didn’t have the strength left to get the words out. “There's nothing we can do?"

  They were all watching him, waiting for his answer, Sara, Barbara, Noyan, Nadiri, the rest of the women, too. Javed was smoothing Archer’s fur. Yet he was listening intently.

  "It's not good," he admitted. There was no point in telling them anything less than the truth, "I'm not saying we’re finished. They suckered Greg into a trap, and maybe we can do the same to them. We have to keep them as far away as possible. Don't l
et them get near. I’ll work something out."

  He could almost feel their sigh of relief. His words had given them hope when they’d had none. Maybe too much hope.

  Sure, I’ll try and work something out, but the chances of getting out of this place alive are, in my opinion, close to zero.

  Sara was looking at him with an expression he’d seen before. If she'd put it into words, it wasn’t difficult to work out what she would have said.

  You lying bastard, Stoner!

  He looked at his friend with concern after he’d lapsed into unconsciousness. He looked at Sara, but she avoided his gaze. She was worried about Greg, that he could worsen, and worried they’d never get back to civilization.

  He'd already decided on a solution. More of a last gasp attempt to beat them. There were too many Haqqanis to kill them all, but he was thinking about Greg’s abortive attempt to take down Khan. The only solution, kill General Ishaq Khan. Kill the Hammer of God. Once their leader had gone down, there was a chance the rest would give up. A small chance, that was true. There was little to gain by carrying on the fight, and slowly they’d trickle away to find easier targets. Targets to rob, rape, and murder.

  Griggs was another matter. As long as he scented blood, and there were people to kill, he'd stick around. But Griggs they could deal with. If the rest of them left, he was just one man, or maybe he’d have two or three of his sidekicks. Nadiri and Noyan could handle them, backed up by the women. They’d learned fast how to use a rifle, and some were modest shots. Then there was Javed. The juvenile killer, and the kid was damn good at killing. Of course, Archer was still there, keeping the boy company, and the big German Shepherd was always a force to be reckoned with, perhaps an ace in the hole, if things went badly. More than once in the past, the big Marine-trained dog had pulled the fat out of the fire.