Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

  "Can I see him now?"

  "The nurses have wheeled the gurney into a single room, so yes, you can visit for a couple minutes, but no more."

  A nurse led them along the corridor and showed them into a dimly lit room. Greg lay on a bed in the center, surrounded by an array of monitors, wires, drips, and chromium stands. His head was bandaged like an Egyptian mummy. The ventilator alternatively sucked in and expelled air. It was impossible to know if he was conscious or unconscious. The doctor walked in behind them.

  "Don't be alarmed. What you can see is normal after the kind of surgery he underwent."

  Faria took Greg’s hand, and they looked on in appalled silence. The nurse finally lost patience and ushered them out into the waiting room, and he managed to produce paper cups of coffee from the machine. They sat around drinking the dubious Afghan excuse for coffee. Barbara Adams, the feisty Congresswoman, stared into space, for once lost for words. And Sara Carver, his one-time girlfriend, and maybe his future girlfriend, unless she decided he’d screwed up beyond help.

  Faria had insisted, and they allowed her back in to sit with her husband. Stoner walked quietly along the corridor to make sure she was okay. She was holding Greg’s hand, her head close to his, and murmuring softly to him. Probably a good thing, for in his subconscious, he'd recognize her voice and know she was close.

  They began what turned into a long vigil. For two days and two nights he and the two women stayed, refusing to leave, living on paper cups of coffee and energy bars from a vending machine. The staff tried to get them to leave, promising to let them know the moment there was any change, and they refused. Stoner still wore his two Desert Eagles, and probably they were enough to persuade the staff to leave them alone.

  In the middle of the following day, Ambassador Adams arrived. He bustled in with a staff member and introduced them to June Reeder. His wife gave her a cold stare and then ignored her. Adams was all gushing with sympathy, and he mounted a charm offensive on his wife.

  "Barbara, I've been so worried about you. Tell me you’re okay. Tell me they didn't hurt you.”

  The cold stare she'd given his secretary reappeared, this time for his benefit, and he visibly winced. "Seth, I'll tell you all about it later. Right now, there are just two words I have for you. Fuck off."

  He tried reasoning with her, and they all ignored him. Stoner was thoughtful, wondering why Adams hadn't been more helpful to recover his wife. He put up what seemed at the time like a pretense of caring, and his regret that they couldn't do more because of diplomatic reasons. Now Stoner had seen June Reeder, he was having second thoughts. There was something about her that troubled him. In his life, he’d met most kinds of women, and he'd picked her out as a type he'd come across in the past.

  He called them vultures.

  Could I have been wrong about Seth Adams? He’s conducting an affair with his secretary, no question, although I wonder if the guy could have been blind to the rest of it, to the requests for help. In which case, who screwed up? Who failed to pass on the messages that arrived at the office of the U.S. Ambassador to Kabul?

  He had a good idea. Adams was lingering by the doors, as if waiting for something, and Stoner went toward him.

  “Ambassador, I want a word.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Tell me why you failed to respond when we asked for help? We sent messages and never got a response. It was like you didn’t want us to free the women. What was it all about? No more of that diplomatic crap."

  He looked confused. “I don't understand. I never got any messages."

  If you didn’t get them, then who did?

  He looked at June Reeder who was nearby waiting for Adams, and his suspicions grew. Suspicions she'd deliberately left her rival Barbara Adams in the lurch, and it all slotted together. If she'd been a man, he'd have shot her dead on the spot. Adams shrugged and turned to leave, but Stoner stopped him.

  "Ambassador Adams, a word of advice."

  "What's that?"

  "I'd get yourself a new secretary if I were you. Next time, make sure it's someone you can trust, especially to pass on vital messages when the life of your wife is at stake. You can make your mind up about why she deliberately withheld them, but it’s not hard to work it out.”

  He stared at him for long moments, his eyes filled with puzzlement, and then the penny dropped. He looked at Reeder with a new understanding, and the tender expression he'd displayed a few minutes ago had fled.

  "June, when we get back, pack your things and get out. You’re fired."

  She gave him an angry glance and stalked out of the door. Adams was about to follow, but Stoner hadn't finished with him.

  “Adams, there’s something else I wanted to say. It’s about your wife. If I were you, I’d take a lot more care of her. She’s in a different league to that bimbo."

  Something of his old bluster made him open his mouth and say the first thing that came into his head. "Mr. Stoner, how dare you say that to me? You’re nothing but a cheap brothel owner, peddling whores to sex-starved Afghans. You know what you are?"

  "Why don't you tell me?"

  "You’re a cheap, third-rate pimp."

  He hit him then, just once. Adams didn't see it coming, and he went flying on his back. They were close to the door, and as he fell towards the automatic doors, they opened. He lay half in and half out, his head and shoulders in a muddy puddle just outside the ER room. Stoner stood over him.

  "Adams, you’re a first-class shit. A shit who’s where he belongs, in the gutter."

  He spun on his heel and went back inside for the long vigil. They dozed through the night, but none of them got any real sleep. Every time they heard footsteps, the ringing of a phone or a beeper, their eyes opened. Wondering if they would hear the words they were waiting for. Or the words they dreaded.

  By the following morning they were all in. Stoner decided if he saw another paper cup of bitter coffee or sickly-sweet energy bar, he’d put a gun to his head and blow his brains out. Minutes later, a doctor came in wearing bloody scrubs, the same surgeon who'd been working on Greg, the surgeon Barbara had insisted was incorruptible.

  "You're waiting for news of Greg Blum?"

  They stared at him through red, sleep-deprived eyes. "Tell us. Is it bad?”

  He shook his head. “The opposite. Your friend woke up, and he recognized his wife. They talked for several minutes, and he fell asleep. What’s important is that his brain function was normal, and Mrs. Blum confirmed he seemed normal."

  "So he's going to be okay? He’ll live?" Stoner asked.

  "He’ll live, and I’ve no doubt he’ll be fine. If you want to see him, you can go in now. Mrs. Blum is still with him."

  Greg appeared little different to when they’d seen him before. Still swathed in bandages, but in some strange way, the chill atmosphere of death had fled the room. As if the Dark Angel had given up on Greg as a bad job. Faria even managed a wan smile. Barbara and Sara fussed around the bed, making sure the coverings were neat and tucked in, and checking the readings on the monitors, as if they might know what any of them meant. Stoner wondered if Barbara planned to give him a massage, but decided it wasn't likely. He’d seen enough, and he stepped outside.

  He had yet another itch to scratch, a man named Ishaq Khan, self-proclaimed General of the Haqqani. A man who preyed on the innocent, an Islamic psycho, and there'd be no peace in Northeast Pakistan, or the regions of Afghanistan on the other side of the border, as long as he drew breath.

  Sara's voice called across the waiting room, "Stoner, what’re you doing?"

  "I'm leaving."

  She looked at Adams, trying to brush the mud off his expensive suit. She didn’t comment. She’d have worked it out.

  "What are you doing?"

  He was already pushing through the doors. "I'm going to work."

  Chapter Twelve

  He found them in the bar of Ma Kelly’s. The kind of place where men would drift off to at the end of a l
ong, hard day's work, or a long and dangerous mission; warm, sumptuous surroundings, booze that wasn’t watered down, enough girls to go around, and then some. Three men, Ivan, Gorgy, and Akram nodded a greeting. They asked about Greg and relaxed when he explained he was out of danger, as much out of danger as anyone in the lawless nation of Afghanistan.

  "I guess you came back to catch up on some sleep," Ivan said, "I think that whore is in tonight. You know, the one you've been with lately."

  "Afifa. She’ll have to take a rain check. That's not why I'm here. I’m leaving to take care of some business.” He didn't need to supply the name of the target, "I need your help, all of you. First off, I need to know the whereabouts of Ishaq Khan."

  He saw the flash in Ivan's eyes, and waited for the lies and evasions. Outwardly, the CIA man managed to portray honest sincerity. “You’re kidding me. How the hell would I know something like that?"

  "I know you can find his location. What I'm asking is for you to call in every favor you’re owed. Find out where he is, no matter what it takes. If he’s on the move, where’s he going? Someone has to know. It’s just a question of reaching the right person."

  Ivan considered for a few moments, and then shrugged. "No promises, but I guess I could try. What's in it for me?"

  His two men shot him disapproving looks, but with Ivan, it was like water off a duck's back. Stoner had little to offer him, except the one thing Ivan hoarded more than any other. Debts.

  "You help me with this, and I’ll owe you big time. No questions, if you need help, I'll be there for you. Twenty-four seven, Christmas Day if you need it."

  “It means that much to you?”

  “He almost killed Greg.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean.” He appeared to think about it, but he was already hooked. The lure of a skilled gunfighter on tap whenever he needed him was tempting bait, too much for him to resist. He inclined his head, "Okay, it's a deal. I'll see to it later. I was about to go upstairs. She’s waiting for me."

  He shook his head. “I need that info now, Ivan. Your dick will have to wait. You won't regret it. Call in any favor you want, anything, anytime."

  "You’re serious? Anything?"

  "Anything."

  His eyes looked upward, his expression filled with regret at what he'd miss, the girl waiting on the bed upstairs. "Okay, give me an hour."

  They waited almost two hours before he came through the front door. Stoner resisted the impulse to show too much enthusiasm. Ivan would seize on it as a further example of weakness and want a higher price. There was something else he'd resisted. The booze. He’d thought about the state he was in when they asked him to bring the women back, and the hard time he'd given Greg and Faria when they called for him. So far, all he’d imbibed was soda. Gorgy and Akram may have been surprised he was on the wagon, but they hid it well.

  Ivan threaded his way through the room and sat down at the table.

  "I found him. According to my contacts, he's already crossed into Afghanistan, and they say he's heading for Kandahar. You know what that means?"

  "ISIS, Afghan style."

  "ISIS, yeah, they’re building a new stronghold in the city. He’ll have a lot in common with those murderous thugs. He’s not there yet. He interrupted his journey to overnight in a small town called Spin Boldak. It's just north of the border, inside Afghanistan."

  "It's appreciated. How come you found him so fast?"

  He shuddered. "You wouldn't believe the debts I had to call in to get the information. I had some real gems out there, diamonds, people would have sold their mothers to pay off what they owed me, and all I got in return was the goods on Khan. Stoner, you'll spend the rest of your life paying it back."

  And regretting it. I don't care. I have a location, and I know where to find him. And kill him. He won’t be preying on innocent women again, not ever. For what he’s caused, the deaths, the sickness and the poverty, and for Greg, the bastard goes down.

  "It's appreciated. I’m leaving you now. I have things to do."

  They didn't ask. He was a man with a mission, a man alone. They could offer their help, and he’d refuse. He went out the through the rear door and descended to his basement armory. Arrays of weapons displayed on racks around the walls, he decided on an M-60, a reliable, light machine gun, able to be fired from the shoulder at a pinch. He took several belts of ammunition, and after a moment’s thought, replaced the Desert Eagles with identical guns. The ones he’d brought back still fired, but he couldn't rely on them. He’d take them to the shop for overhaul, but right now he needed reliable weapons. Going up against Khan, when he pulled the triggers, he had to know they'd fire, first time and every time. He stroked the smooth, hard, angular metal of the big guns. They wouldn’t let him down. With the new guns tucked into his shoulder rig, he felt fully dressed.

  He went outside and climbed into his gleaming, black Jeep Wrangler. It felt good to sit inside the familiar vehicle, which was leagues ahead of Greg's old GAZ. Although thinking about the GAZ made him feel bad. They’d had no choice but to abandon the Soviet relic back in the boonies of Pakistan. It’d be long gone. The locals would pounce on any kind of metal, either to sell for scrap, or to dismantle for spare parts. He couldn't do a thing about it, and he hated that feeling of powerlessness. When Greg recalled what had happened to his beloved GAZ, he'd be mortified.

  There was nothing he could do about it for now. He put it out of his mind and started the engine. Enjoying the familiar throb of the V8, engaged drive, and drove out of the town. The journey would be long. He'd have to drive through the night, and hope to catch Khan before he left his overnight refuge of Spin Boldak. The route took him via the main Jalalabad to Kabul highway, with a road surface less than smooth. Although unlike most roads in Afghanistan, at some time the government had at least applied a thin coating of tarmac to the surface.

  He'd almost reached Kabul when he heard the faint noise for the first time. He worried something mechanical was failing, but the noise didn't come again, and he put it out of his mind. He passed Kabul and swung onto the long road that led to Kandahar. He was bypassing the city when he heard it again. It could have been anything. Transmission failure was a possibility, and he had to stop and check it out.

  He was in the middle of nowhere, and he loosened the guns in the holsters, before stepping out of the vehicle and looking around for any sign of hostiles. There were none. The dark countryside was silent. He heard the whine again, and this time he was able to pinpoint the location. Not from the transmission, but from the back seat. He opened the door, and it hit him like a thunderbolt. A huge, black shape sprang at him. He went down, sprawled on his back, with Archer licking eagerly at his face. A tarpaulin lying next to the seat moved, and Javed climbed out. He was alternately grinning and trying to look sheepish. Knowing what he'd done was wrong, and yet happy they were reunited, Stoner, Archer, and Javed. Stoner wasn’t happy.

  He thinks we’re like the Three Musketeers. Except this isn’t a movie. We’re going to keep a date with Ishaq Khan, and people are gonna die.

  He made his voice stern. "Javed, you know you shouldn't be here." The boy’s face fell, and even Archer managed to look down and give a low whine. As if he understood he'd been bad, "You have to understand what’s happening here. This isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m going to kill Khan."

  "I know that, Mr. Stoner. We can help."

  "No, I'm sorry, kid, but it’s not going to happen. I may not come back. He could kill me before I get off a shot. I’m not happy, not happy at all. This is no place for you and Archer."

  They looked like naughty schoolchildren standing before the Principal. He sighed.

  There’s nothing I can do. If I take them back, I’ll miss Khan, no question. I can't abandon them here, not in the badlands around Kandahar.

  “Okay, you can stay with me, but on one condition."

  "Anything, anything."

  "When I get to this place, Spin Boldak, you stay in the vehicle. You a
nd the dog, no matter what happens, no matter what you see or hear."

  "Yes, we will do that, Mr. Stoner. But if you do need help, you must call on us, and we’ll be ready. I brought my pistol and the dagger."

  "I appreciate it, kid. I just don't want you to die. "

  "We won't die, Mr. Stoner. We can take care of ourselves."

  He has a point. I’ve seen Javed taking care of himself, and he’s damn good at it.

  "Does Abbas Noyan know you've come?"

  He pulled a face. "I did not tell him. He would not want me to come with you into what may be a serious firefight. He said he wanted me to take some time to get to know Archer better and learn to relax around dogs. After what he's seen in Pakistan, he believes the Mullahs are wrong. Dogs are not from Satan at all. They make good friends for any man prepared to give them a chance. In his opinion, they’re man's best friend."

  He hid his smile. "Yeah, back in America, we kind of worked that one out a few hundred years ago."

  "Perhaps we need time to learn about these things in Afghanistan."

  "Good idea, Javed. But it wouldn't hurt to hurry it up a bit."

  He told them to climb back into the Wrangler, but this time Javed sat in the shotgun seat, and Archer sprawled in the rear, enjoying the freedom from the cramped conditions where they'd hidden beneath the tarpaulin. He didn't mind too much having Javed along, or Archer. It reminded him of Ahmed, Greg's adopted son. The times he’d finagled his way onto the occasional mission when he was younger. Once, the kid even turned up on a slow-moving vintage tractor to save his and Greg's asses. As for Archer, he was like a hidden weapon you'd carry in your boot. Most times, people never noticed he was there, but when he appeared, bad guys, look out. For anyone attempting to harm Greg or Stoner, he was bad news, very bad news.

  Javed dozed, and it was obvious he'd been awake since they'd left Jalalabad. Stoner was left to dwell on what happened in Pakistan, his mind returning to the GAZ. Greg loved that crappy old vehicle, and he made a vow.

  When this is all over, I’ll replace it. Even if I have to travel the length of Russia to find a good one, Greg will have his GAZ when he comes out of the hospital. I'll get you a shiny new replacement GAZ 69, and everything will be okay again.