by Eric Meyer
* * *
The old GAZ rattled as if they were inside a steel drum filled with loose bolts. He'd cursed when Greg suggested they take the vehicle. Although he had to admit he was correct, the Wrangler would be a dead giveaway the moment Massoud saw it approaching Mehtar Lam. The Russian SUV wasn't the only change they'd made to their appearance. Stoner managed to find them a couple of robes to wear over their normal clothes. When they'd put on the turbans, Greg looked in a mirror and grimaced.
"I look like a fucking camel jockey. If I die, for chrissake don't bury me in this stuff."
Stoner had stared at him, and his voice was icy. "Someone's gonna die today, but it isn't going to be us. Let's go, we have some killing to do."
They had a heap of weapons piled in the back. Greg's trusty Dragunov, and Stoner had equipped himself with an M-60 to add its awesome firepower to his Desert Eagles. They'd brought along the RPG captured in the ambush, as well as a bag of grenades. The Russian had borrowed a handgun, a throwback to the Soviet invasion, a Stechkin OTs-38 silent revolver; beloved of that country's Special Forces for its almost noiseless killing power.
The tough little two-liter gas engine pushed them hard along the snow-covered highway. The primitive four-wheel-drive system even kept the wheels on a straight line, more or less. The traffic had been light, only passable by four-wheel-drive trucks, and only then at a pinch. In places, the snow had drifted, and Greg had to concentrate every second to avoid sliding off into deep snow piled into gullies at the side.
Stoner was experiencing feelings he hadn't known for a long time. He cared about someone, and it astonished him. After the death of his fiancée, Madeleine Charpentier, he'd hardened his heart against getting too close to another human being. Yet somehow, Marina Tanai had bust down his defenses.
It was nothing like his relationship with Anahita, one of Ma Kelly's whores. She was a whore with a heart of gold, in fact she was his favorite, and they'd enjoyed more than a few romps between the sheets. That's where it stopped. He'd never slept with Marina, yet she had an indefinable something about her that gave him emotions in a place that had been cold for so long. But he may lose her, just like he'd lost Madeleine.
She lies close to death in a hospital bed in Ghazni, and it’s anybody's guess which way it’ll end. No, she isn't in Ghazni; she'll be on the way to the specialist unit in Jbad. Without a doubt, they'll treat her before the infection kills her. She’s in good hands.
Now they were going after Massoud and his psycho buddies, and it wasn't for money. It was a simple act of revenge, nothing new in this country.
What do they say? Revenge is a dish best taken cold. Fuck 'em.
He felt a blazing anger inside him. Only the bodies of Massoud, Daud, and Parks would expiate the fury inside him.
I want my revenge in a dish served hot.
"There's a barrier across the road, a single pole and a couple of sentries," Greg said abruptly, breaking into his thoughts. "I guess they must be Sheikh Daud's people. He's ringed the town with his Mutaween to make sure no one interferes with the execution. I'll bet they're not too happy standing out in the open in this weather."
Stoner peered through the falling snow. Both men wore paramilitary pants and coats, with traditional tribal headdress. They had a pole decorated with red stripes across the road, and one man was standing next to the barrier with his hand held up for them to halt. The other soldier had his AK-47 slung on his shoulder. Who would be mad enough to go looking for trouble in this weather?
Greg looked across at him. "What do you want me to do?"
Fuck 'em.
"Don't slow down."
He had his M-60 stashed on the back seat. In a single motion, he swept it up, pointed it out the window, and pulled the trigger. A long burst of 7.62 mm bullets spewed out of the barrel. The first took down the sentry standing in front of the pole, and the weight of lead smashed into his body to tear it into a bundle of bloody rags. The second man managed to swing his rifle round, and he even got off a single shot before the second heavy burst sliced across him and almost cut in half. A second later, the GAZ smashed through the remains of the pole, and they were through. Greg hadn't even slowed.
They reached Mehtar Lam several minutes later and found the outskirts devoid of people. There would normally be activity on the streets as people went about their daily business, but it was empty. They began hunting for a hiding place for the vehicle. The best they could find was a Halal slaughterhouse, with doors wide enough to take the GAZ and bolts to hold them shut. Probably the men who worked inside had gone looking for a different kind of slaughter this day.
They left the RPG in the vehicle. If they needed to make a run for it, it would be useful to dissuade any pursuit. Stoner had his Desert Eagles stashed underneath his robe. He shouldered the M-60 and pocketed a couple of grenades. Greg tucked away the silenced Stechkin and carried his Dragunov.
The final part of their disguise was to scoop up dust and dirt from the floor and smear it over their white faces. The dirt had mixed with dried blood from the animal slaughters, and when they'd finished, they looked as if they'd just come from the slaughterhouse, or a battlefield. The two men looked at each other, and without a word walked outside and bolted the doors shut. They walked in the direction of the town center. Their weapons began to attract some attention, although there were plenty of other men carrying weapons. Mostly AK-47s, in the benighted region, it was the norm, not the exception. After the first few glances, they understood men were admiring their weapons. The way a guy in the West may check out another man's German sports car. In Afghanistan, people took their fun in different ways.
In the center of town, the main square seethed with people waiting for the main event. Vendors hawked their wares, spicy foods, and sweet snacks, and outside the main jail, a half-dozen armed Mutaween scowled and pushed back the eager throng.
"We'll need to hit them first," Stoner said, pointing to the religious cops, "Find a good position in an empty apartment at the back of the square, and take down as many as you can with the Dragunov. I'll wait out of sight in a side street. The crowd will panic as soon as you start shooting. When the square empties, I'll draw the surviving sentries away. When it's clear, go around back, get inside, and locate Faria. There'll be so much confusion out here, you should be able to get in undetected and find your wife. Any questions?"
"Where do we meet afterward?"
"The place we left the GAZ. We're gonna stir up a hornets' nest, so as soon as we're done, we're outta here like yesterday."
He nodded. "Sounds like a plan. I'll get into position. When do you want me to start shooting?"
"The sooner the better."
His voice was raw and angry. Greg gave him a curious glance. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were taking this as personally as I am."
"You bet your ass I'm taking it personally. These savages are about to murder a woman, and not just any woman. You know how I felt about Faria. How else did you think I'd take it?"
The other man nodded. "Point taken. Good luck."
"We don't need good luck. We need good shooting. That'll give us all the luck we need."
Stoner strode away and merged with the crowd. He fought his way to the side of the square and waited at the end of a narrow, stinking alleyway. Some passers-by gave him curious glances, but his dark, dirty, bloody face and machine gun were enough to make them look the other way. Some may have assumed he was part of the security detail assigned to cover the execution. Others were too cautious to ask.
He had a perfect view of the action. The Mutaween guards were still standing out in the open. Unaware that the sniper who was about to send them to Paradise was at that moment propping the barrel of his rifle against the window of a second floor apartment, only two hundred meters away. Stoner could spot the Dragunov barrel, but he doubted anyone would see it if they weren't looking. Besides, these people were here to look at something else. The shallow pit dug in the packed earth in front of the jail;
the pit where they planned to half-bury an innocent young woman and subject her to a lengthy and agonizing death.
All he could do was wait. He looked back at the sniper, and then at the guards, measuring angles.
When will he shoot? Greg, we don't have long.
He cast his gaze over the crowd, back to the sniper, and again at the guards. He was about to turn his head again when one of the Mutaween looked as if something or someone had punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, screaming in agony. The other men turned their heads to stare at him, and another man went down, and then another. The whip crack of the shots was loud in the packed square, echoing off the concrete apartment buildings. The crowd was silent for a moment, and then the stampede began. There was real panic in the air, like a moving, fire-breathing demon.
As they surged away from the targets of the sniper, the three remaining Mutaween dropped flat, cocked their rifles, and began searching for the shooter. Greg was careful to pull back from the window after he'd fired the first shots, and they couldn't see him. In their panic, they fired at anything, and the bullets chipped stone off nearby buildings. Stoner checked the M-60 and stepped out into the now half-deserted square. They didn't notice him until he fired off volley after volley.
He was less than one hundred meters away from the jail, and he couldn't miss. He had the trailing ammunition belt looped over his right shoulder, and he felt the tug of the brass cartridges as the mechanism dragged the belt through the breech. With a rate of fire of in excess of six hundred rounds per minute, he released the trigger after twenty seconds. As he walked forward, almost two hundred 7.62mm rounds poured into the guards. If the kinetic shock of the bullet strikes didn't kill them, the weight of lead did the job, slamming into their bodies and tossing them to the ground like abandoned rag dolls.
He kept walking forward, waiting for the inevitable reaction of the men guarding the jail. He knew Greg would be racing around the edge of the square, heading for the rear entrance. He had to keep the pressure on, in order to keep the Mutaween focused on the attack from the front, and he kept walking. He was inside of thirty meters from the entrance when the main door burst open, and more men spilled out. He waited until they were all out, bunched in front of him like a row of skittles. A perfect target, and he pulled the trigger again.
They went down, until the belt finally gave out. Stoner slung the heavy machine gun on his back and dragged out the Desert Eagles. Three more men appeared, and he blasted two of them before the third ducked back inside. He reappeared seconds later with an RPG, but Stoner shot him dead before he could deploy and kept walking.
He climbed the steps and walked past the bodies of the men he'd shot first. AK-47s lay on the ground, abandoned by their former owners who had no more use for them. He picked up two rifles, and found they hadn't managed to get off a shot.
No problem, I can put them to good use.
He dragged back the cocking levers. In front of him, a long narrow hallway stretched inside the jail. More men raced out to tackle the intruder, only to fall victim to the hammering bursts from the AKs. When they'd had enough, they stopped coming at him. The hallway was clear, with only the dead left at their posts.
He went back outside and stooped to collect more clips to reload the AKs. Across the square, a squad of Mutaween was running toward him, at least a dozen men. Too many to fight, it was time to lead them away from the jail. As he ran, he wondered about Greg.
Has he located his wife? We don't have much time.
