Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

  He’d spent some good times with Archer. A pity those times were about to end. He had to face facts. He wouldn't be back. They’d have to hold out until dark, and there was no reason why they shouldn't. So far the enemy had shown no sign of trying to get closer. Maybe they were waiting for darkness to fall, like him. He’d have to move fast, find him, and kill him. The mission would be a one-way ticket, but that was too bad. He couldn't enter an armed camp and kill the enemy commander without them falling on him like a pack of rabid dogs. All he had in his favor was his SEAL training and his two Desert Eagles. Once he'd located the bastard, he’d move fast. Rush in and start blasting. Two shots from the .50 calibers, and that would be enough to finish the bastard. The rest of them would start shooting and fill him full of lead. At least it would be mercifully quick, and he’d die knowing he'd given them a chance.

  He extracted the magazines from the big handguns and topped up the bullets. He didn't bother with the rifle. When he went in, it would be a close-range kill. The last thing he wanted was to burden himself with a cumbersome assault rifle. He sat back to think it over some more, just as Sara finished tending to Greg.

  She gave him a curious glance. "What are you up to?"

  A shrug. "Just getting ready for when they come."

  She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. The strength in her arm was surprisingly strong. "You’re lying again, and I know you’re up to something. Whatever it is, it's something you know I wouldn't like. Otherwise you'd have talked to me and given me a clue what it was about."

  "Maybe it's best I keep it quiet." He tried a grin, but she didn't respond, "It’ll be a surprise when it happens."

  "No it won’t. It's nothing good, so tell me."

  "Khan."

  Her brow furrowed. "Khan? You mean kill him?”

  "Kill Khan, and there’s a chance the rest of them will run. If the Hammer of God goes down, it’s possible they’ll leave," he ended lamely.

  "And how do you plan to kill him?" She folded her arms and locked her eyes with his, waiting for the explanation that didn’t come.

  He hadn't realized the Congresswoman was listening. "You’d better tell us about this plan of yours, buster. If you’re about to do something stupid, we may as well know what it is."

  "Like I said, killing Khan's the solution."

  She looked scornful. “I assume you haven’t forgotten the men surrounding him. Twenty, thirty, maybe even forty, as I recall. You’re going to kill them all with two pistols?"

  He didn’t get a chance to reply. Sara's expression changed from puzzlement to horror as she worked it out. "You’re not coming back."

  He couldn’t meet her gaze. "Everything has a risk, so I can’t guarantee to make it back." He tried to laugh it off, but all came out of his throat was a hoarse rattle, "Like I said, it's a chance. Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won't."

  She shook her head. “It's a one-way mission, and you know it. You’re planning to get in amongst them and kill the bastard. You know they’ll shoot you dead."

  Her eyes were moist as she stalked away from him, as if he carried some virulent disease. He heard her talking with Barbara, and more women moved closer. Then Noyan and Nadiri joined them, both Afghans impassive. They'd been weaned on the value of suicide missions. Neither man could see any issues with what he was planning. They probably thought it was a good idea, the death of one man to save so many. What was the problem? The women’s voices rose until they were shouting. The conversation descended into chaos until he bellowed, "Stop! Shut up!”

  They stopped.

  "I'm going out there to kill the bastard, and that's the end of it. Don't even think about trying to stop me. I’ve made up my mind. Now leave me alone."

  He walked to the other side of the room and stared through the window. Absently, he stripped each pistol and reassembled the weapons, just to kill time. He understood why they were trying to stop him, and he'd expected it.

  They have to realize there’s no other way. One man will die, or they’ll all die. A straightforward and simple equation, do the math. There’s nothing to consider.

  He could feel the stares. Sara and Barbara were talking quietly to each other, and he assumed they were trying to cook up some scheme to stop him going ahead.

  They’re wasting their time. No matter what happens I’m going out there, and I’m going to kill Khan; a death for a death, in exchange for the lives of all of them.

  He was watching the sky, and the light began to dim. He estimated another half hour and it would be almost dark. Twilight, the part-darkness not quite full night. When visibility was at its most difficult, and a lone gunman stood a chance of getting through. He was still on his own when Archer came to him and began licking his hand. He smoothed his coat, and the dog gave him several licks on the face for good measure. He looked down at him.

  "You understand, don't you, pal? I don't have a choice, but no matter what happens, you look after them. You’re the backstop, the one they can rely on. Get them home, Archer. Get them all home."

  The dog gave a low whine, as if understanding every word. Stoner often wondered if he understood everything.

  His mind wandered, thinking about the life he'd had. The brothel, his ailing machinery business, the number of times he used his gun for hire. And each time he’d come back alive. This was just one time too many, sure to happen sooner or later. He'd learned his trade in the U.S. Navy SEALs and fought more than a few hard battles in Afghanistan.

  I enjoyed every moment. Well, almost. Not the deaths of those women close to me. I'd have died a thousand times over if I could’ve prevented it, but that’s all in the past. Now, it’s just Khan and me. I have no fear, quite the opposite. If there’s an afterlife, as everyone secretly hopes, maybe I’ll meet those girls again, and give them my apologies. Perhaps make up for some of the wrongs I did to them.

  He heard footsteps and glanced around. Sara was walking toward him, and he got to his feet.

  “How’s Greg?”

  “He’s…sleeping. I don’t know. He may be all right.”

  Which means he may not.

  "Whatever you’ve come to say, forget it. I'm leaving.”

  He leaned over and kissed her, a quick peck on the lips. Stoner turned on his heel and strode out the back door.

  Chapter Nine

  They left the wreckage of the helicopter and hiked south, with no idea what they’d find when they reached Chilas. Ivan used the GPS on his satphone to check the right direction, although getting there was the easy bit. The sixty-four-dollar question was whether Stoner had managed to hold out. They’d know when they got there. Either they’d find him alive, or just a ground littered with corpses. He thought about the gunship. He’d paid the crew a huge bribe in the best Afghan tradition, their brief, to cross into Pakistani territory. Getting shot down wasn’t part of the plan. Now they were short on time, and time was running out.

  He had few illusions about the brutal General Ishaq Khan, the man who called himself the Hammer of God. He and his tame thugs were out for blood and loot, and they'd happily kill not just Stoner and Blum, but the women as well for attempting to escape. Once they’d murdered them all, it would be a simple matter to pretend they were still alive and take delivery of the ransom.

  He wasn't sure how far Ambassador Adams would go to find the funds to make an adequate counter offer. One hundred million dollars was absurd, but if he lobbied every contact he had inside Washington and the Pentagon, he may be able to come up with a chunk of dough, enough to satisfy Khan. Assuming he had sufficient motivation. There was that delicious secretary of his keeping him warm at night. Ivan grinned as he thought of the times he’d enjoyed her luscious body while the Ambassador was elsewhere.

  Will he throw his wife to the wolves, so he can develop his relationship with the young and nubile June Reeder? I’ve no idea, although it’s possible. That’s for the future, if we get the women out alive. Right now, all we can do is keep moving, and pray we aren’t too late
.

  In the dark they continually stumbled on obstacles. Small chunks of stone, and once, Akram tripped over the decaying skeleton of a donkey, a beast that hadn't made it all the way. The local wildlife had stripped the bones of every scrap of flesh. A reminder they were in a country populated by wild, ravening beasts. And men who were even wilder.

  They'd been walking for an hour when Akram murmured a warning, and they crouched down. In the distance was a small village huddled in a narrow valley between two low hills. Why they’d built anything in this place he couldn't work out. Four small, stone cottages, and a long, low building he assumed was a barn. It had to be a staging post on a smuggler route, used by insurgents and traffickers. When they got nearer, they found the long, low building wasn't a barn, but a guesthouse.

  Not a guesthouse any civilized person would consider entering. Although civilized people in this region were rare. Of more interest were the two men obviously guarding the door of a nearby small dwelling. Whatever they were guarding, it would be something they shouldn't have. Acquiring anything honestly wasn’t in these people’s makeup. It was even possible they’d sequestered Congresswoman Adams in this place. It would make sense, for the chances of locating her in such a remote spot would be all but impossible. He signaled to the two Afghan aircrew to wait and crawled forward with Akram and Gorgy. The two guards were uninterested in anything other than smoking. Long before he reached them, the sweet odor of opium was strong, carried on the gentle breeze.

  He smiled. If their heads were befuddled with dope, it would make everything so much easier. He gave hand signals to his men, and in a move they’d practiced often, Gorgy went left, and Akram right. After they'd crawled away into the darkness, he climbed to his feet and walked toward the sentries. They heard him coming still twenty paces away, and he put his hands into his pockets and started whistling an old pop song from the eighties. A poor attempt at music, discordant and out of tune. Then again, maybe they’d like it. After all, the local music always sounded discordant and out of tune. Like someone strangling a cat. One man shouted an order. He’d be telling him to halt, and Ivan halted.

  Slowly, very slowly, he pulled his hands out of his pockets, palms upward, and placed them on his head. They came toward him, their eyes narrowed in deep suspicion, fingers on triggers. For one moment he thought he’d made a mistake, and they were about to shoot him. But they paused, seemed to relax, and the fingers uncurled from the triggers. They’d want to know more. Who was he, and where he'd come from? More important, was he alone, or were there others with him? Was he carrying anything valuable, anything they could loot? They’d ask the questions first. And then shoot him.

  They didn't see the two dark shadows approach from behind. Ivan winced as the solid wooden butt of Gorgy's assault rifle smashed down on the head of an unsuspecting victim. He heard the distinctive crack as the skull split open. Akram carried a garrote, a piece of thin bailing wire with a wooden handle attached to each end. He slipped the noose around the neck of his chosen victim, and the thin wire sliced through flesh like it was cutting cheese. He crumpled to the ground, and Ivan gave his men an appreciative nod.

  "We need to see what or who they were guarding. Akram, stay outside and watch for trouble. Gorgy, we’ll take a look. Keep that rifle cocked."

  The door was fastened shut with two big, rusty iron bolts. He slid them aside and opened it. Moonlight flooded inside the single room, and he heard a rustling noise from the far corner.

  "Who is it?"

  Movement in the corner, and he brought out his pistol fast. Gorgy aimed his rifle into the gloom as two small figures walked toward them. They were kids. Around five or six-years-old, he guessed, being no good at estimating age. They babbled in what sounded like Afghan. He went back outside and called Akram in to translate. He listened for a few minutes and turned to Ivan.

  "These children are the son and daughter of Abbas Noyan. He’s a Taliban commander from the north of Afghanistan."

  "I know who he is," Ivan said, "As I recollect, Stoner and Bloom met up with him Torkham, and they mentioned something about him looking for his kids. The Haqqanis kidnapped them, and I guess he decided not to pay a ransom. Or maybe he just wanted to kill the men who took his children. Can't blame him, but anyway, this could be useful. The way I figure it, Noyan will be more than happy to spill info about other Taliban units inside Afghanistan, and my bosses in Langley will lap it up."

  Latif was chatting to the two kids, and they kept the voices low. Gorgy’s voice was even lower.

  "Don't even think about it, Ivan. One thing we don't do is swap kidnapped children for ransom, whether it's for money or information. They belong with their father, not exchanged as part of some squalid deal."

  "I never saw you as a bleeding heart."

  The Russian shrugged. "I'm not a bleeding heart. I just know when to do the right thing. Trading them for information is the wrong thing."

  He nodded. "Yeah, I was just joking. We could…"

  He stopped at Akram’s signal. "I hear movement inside that guesthouse. There must be more of them."

  "Look after the kids. We’ll handle this."

  He and Gorgy approached the long, low building and peered through the window. There were two more men inside, without doubt Haqqanis. Like the two sentries, they were also smoking, and while they watched, a young girl brought a tray with a jug of coffee and two small cups, Afghan style. She set the tray on the table, and while the two men passed idly at their pipes, she poured the coffee.

  She turned to leave, but one man grabbed her, twisting her toward him. He forced her to sit on his knee and ripped away her blouse. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her small breasts were bared for all to see. She didn't try to get away, but in the dim light of the oil lamps he saw the tears running down her face. He looked at Gorgy.

  "We’ll do this the same as before. I go in the front way, you go in the back, and you know what to do."

  Bukharin’s expression was grim. "I know what to do."

  Ivan waited for him to slip away and gave him time to make his approach. Then he turned the handle on the door. It was unlocked, and he stepped into the room. The men stared at him, astonished. For several vital seconds, they did nothing, their minds befogged by the opium.

  This time, it wasn't so easy. His man had slipped in behind them, but the girl held in the grip of the hostile saw him emerge from the kitchen. She uttered a faint cry of alarm, but it was enough. The two men spun around, and the confrontation became a mad race for who could fire first. Ivan grabbed for his pistol, and Gorgy attempted to line up a shot with his rifle, but finding a target was difficult. The girl was sitting on the man’s lap, and Ivan was too close to the other to take a shot. The two hostiles were reaching for their guns, and they were fast.

  There was no way he was going to beat them to the draw, and he leapt forward, wrapping his arms around one man to stop him using his rifle. He was a crafty fighter, and the fight descended into a barroom brawl, swapping repeated hard punches. The other Haqqani was trying to disentangle himself from the girl on his lap so he could use the rifle. But the girl recovered her wits and realized the newcomers were on her side. She sunk her teeth into the arm that was trying to push her away. The man screamed and slapped her hard on the face. She fell to the floor, giving Gorgy a clear shot. He drilled him with two bullets, and even before he hit the floor, he was racing to help Ivan. It was unnecessary. Ivan the Terrible was living up to his nickname. The other man was already half conscious, and his attempts to fight back were growing weaker. Ivan slammed the barrel of his gun against the man's neck. He was spluttering and choking, making feeble movements with his arms, knowing his life was likely measured in seconds. His hand fell on the floor and touched the butt of his rifle. He slipped a finger through the trigger guard and attempted to pull away from Ivan enough to line up a shot, but he was too late. The blows he’d taken to his head had slowed down him down, and Ivan was strong.

  He opened his mouth to suc
k in a breath, but Ivan seized the opportunity, pushed the muzzle of his pistol into the gaping, grimacing maw of black teeth and bad breath, and pulled the trigger. The bullet went upward, through the roof of the mouth and into the brain. He jerked once and was still.

  He got to his feet, breathing heavily.

  "You okay, Boss?" Gorgy asked him, "I tried to get a shot in, but I couldn't be sure I wasn't going to hit you or the girl."

  Ivan grimaced. “I'm surprised you didn't take the shot anyway. Kill me, Gorgy, and you could take over my organization."

  "Boss, I wouldn't dream of it.”

  "Yeah, right."

  He looked at the girl. "You want to come with us?"

  Her face was still red from where the man had slapped her, and her body was trembling. But there was something in her eyes. Determination.

  She’s one feisty kid. Give her a chance in life, and she'll make something of herself. Maybe get out of this shithole of Pakistan and move somewhere where she'll be free to pursue her dreams. Anywhere except Afghanistan.

  "Yes, I would like to come with you."

  He stared at her in surprise, not expecting her to understand English.

  "Where did you learn English?"

  She was about fifteen, and he decided if she cleaned herself up, she'd be quite pretty. Probably, she'd make a good wife for someone and a good mother, but not here, not in this wilderness of violence and brutality, especially towards women.

  "I have been teaching myself."

  The accent was terrible, and her English mispronounced, but you could understand her. And for a girl in this rural society to learn English on her own marked her as someone special.

  He nodded. "Okay, you can come with us. What about your parents?"

  Her face fell. "They built this place, guesthouse for travelers passing through. When these men came," she looked down at the dead bodies, "They killed them. They left me alive to cook and clean, and they…”

  She paused, and a tear rolled down her face. “They used me. The men made joke of it, said they would be here for a few weeks. When the business was concluded, I would be owner of this place."