by Eric Meyer
* * *
Massoud was anxious. His lair in the Torgan Valley was perfect; it kept him away from the prying eyes of the authorities. On the other hand, the location of the roadside bar was important to give advance warning of any threat. Yet he'd called the bar, and there was no reply. There was only one conclusion to draw. They were on the way.
"Hassan! Get in here."
The door crashed open. "Massoud, what is it?"
"We may have company. Are they ready?"
"Er, yessir. Well, kind of. Khan's on top of the hill, and he'll call if anyone tries to come through the valley."
"The others?"
"Ras and Ulyanov are out on patrol."
He knew it meant they were hunkered down somewhere, probably inside the cab of the SUV with the engine running and the heater switched on. Smoking opium, they'd often moaned there was nothing else to do in this barren place.
"Did you tell Ras to keep an eye on Ulyanov? I still don't trust that Russian bastard."
Vladimir Ulyanov had wandered over the border from Russia. He was a deserter from a Spetsnaz unit, tempted to try his luck after the exotic tales he'd heard of the wild badlands of Afghanistan. He was a tough soldier, no question. All Spetsnaz were good fighters, as they'd proved during the Soviet invasion. The problem was Ulyanov complained constantly about money, which was unsurprising. He was a heavy drinker and an inveterate gambler. It was fortunate there was no shortage of opium in his current work to feed his habit.
Kader Ras was a Tajik, a criminal wanted for theft and murder in Tajikistan. When he came across the border, he almost fell foul of the Taliban unit commanded by Massoud. He'd seen something in the murderous scoundrel, a man like himself, an opportunist, and a ruthless and tough fighter. He'd come to trust Ras, and when the time came to replace Hassan, was considering him for promotion. Ulyanov was another matter. If he had the opportunity, he'd double-cross him, no question.
"I told him," Hassan replied, "But I think you're wrong about Ulyanov. If he tried to mess with us, where would he go?"
"Perhaps he has his eyes on my chair."
Hassan's eyes widened. He thought about that and then nodded. "I'll remind Ras."
"You do that. I want them in position either side of the track at this end of the valley."
He grimaced. "The snow is getting worse. They won't like it."
"I don't give a shit what they like. Get them out there. Do you trust the new man, Sardar Khan?"
His number two shrugged. "You know his cousin, Sheikh Habib Daud. I don't think he'd do anything to make The Sheikh mad."
Massoud nodded. "What about Parks?"
A shudder seemed to ripple through the other man. "Parks, I hate that man."
His boss grinned. "You hate all Americans, nothing wrong with that."
"No, Parks is something else. He reminds me of a barrel of gunpowder with the kid sitting on top lighting matches. He's liable to explode at any moment. He's an animal."
"True, but he's my animal. He'll do exactly what I tell him. Otherwise, his little treats will come to an abrupt end. Is he with the girl now?"
Hassan nodded. "Poor kid."
"Go get him, and tell him he'll need his sniper rifle along. Put him up on the water tower, and if he moans about the cold, tell him to take a blanket. He can cover everything from there, the approaches to the valley, the house, all of it. He's my ace in the hole. If Stoner does come, and those other useless bastards fail to stop him, there's no way they'll get past Parks."
"Right away."
He left, and Massoud thought about his American employee. Vernon Parks was a deserter from a U.S. infantry unit. He'd proved to be a good soldier, and his unit valued him for his skill as a sniper. His weapon of choice was a CheyTac Intervention. An American bolt-action sniper rifle, the weapon utilized a 7-round stack magazine. The ammunition was .408 CheyTac, giving the rifle uncanny accuracy at ranges of up to 2,500 yards. The manufacturer claimed with some truth the CheyTac Intervention had the longest range of all modern-day sniper rifles.
When he joined Massoud eighteen months before, Parks brought along his CheyTac rifle, and already he'd used it to dispose of a number of rivals to the organization. As long as he had a steady supply of young girls with which to indulge his brutal sexual fantasies, and a succession of people to kill, men, women, or children, it made no difference; Vernon Parks would give undying loyalty to him.
Massoud took out his rifle, an American M4 A1, and checked the ammunition in the clip. As he already knew, it was full. He paid other men to do the killing. Next, he pulled out his handgun, also American manufactured, a Dan Wesson M1911. He appreciated American-made weapons. They had a precision of manufacture that gave a man confidence. They were a statement. When you carried American weapons, your rivals knew you were a man of substance.
He racked back the slide, ejected a round, dropped out the clip, and inspected it for dust and dirt, then slammed back. There was no dust and no dirt. He kept his weapons in pristine condition. He was ready.
Any time, Stoner, I'm waiting for you. When you enter the Torgan Valley, it'll be the last journey you ever undertake. Get ready to shake hands with the Devil.
