Chapter Three
Stoner drove his Wrangler hard, enjoying as always the fierce battle against the appalling highways that were a feature of Afghanistan. Despite the billions of dollars poured into the country during the war against the Taliban, and since, little maintenance or improvement took place on the transport infrastructure. The money always seemed to find its way into the pocket of a politician or bureaucrat.
The result was a road system that could compete with Coney Island for hair-raising thrills. The rifles were stowed on the floor in front of the back seat, and both men carried handguns on their belts. Stoner adjusted the position of the heavy Desert Eagles and eyed the rugged, mountainous terrain they had to cross. Then he checked the road as far as he could see, both in front and back.
They were on their own. Without warning, he swung the wheel to the right and plunged into the rough ground. As ever, he enjoyed the increased challenge of swerving past deep crevasses in the ground, even the occasional shell hole. There was also the risk of landmines, and both men watched anxiously for any sign they were driving into a minefield. An early indication would be the debris and small crater left by a wild animal that had inadvertently decimated the mine.
The terrain began to rise steeply, but he kept his foot down on the gas. Greg had been silent so far, until they narrowly missed driving into a deep gully.
"We don't need to travel this fast. All we need is to get there with the Jeep in one piece. If you ground the wheels in a ditch, I told you, there's no handy tow truck to drag us out."
"You never did like taking risks, did you, Russian? I guess that's why I live on the top floor of a brothel, with money in an offshore bank account, while you scratch a living on that crummy farm."
"My father was Russian. I'm an Afghan," he objected.
"You don't look like any Afghan I've ever seen."
"Maybe I don't, but I can tell you me and Faria do fine. You know it's not all I do."
Stoner stiffened at the mention of the girl. He tried to cover it. "Is that right? I've heard about your freelance work. Popping some poor guy for screwing another man's wife or stealing a goat. Big deal."
"It isn't like that. If someone rapes and murders another man's wife, then I'll agree to get involved."
Stoner nodded. "How much do you charge the principal?"
"That's my business," Greg snapped, "How much do you charge?"
He shrugged. "You know what I charge, and what you're in for if we pull it off."
He looked impressed. "You mean fifty grand is normal."
"Not every time, but I don't work for peanuts. Not like you." Greg squirmed, but didn't take the bait, "Then again, the guys I target aren't pissant peasants armed with a scythe and two bullets for their worn out AK-47."
"Some of 'em are former Mujahidin. They're not all patsies. Anyway, the bastards deserve everything they get. Killing them's the only way to stop them doing it again. Left to the cops, the perp just pays them off, and he's free and clear. I offer a service. I don't just do it for money. I have scruples."
"So you're judge, jury, and executioner, where're the scruples in that?"
Greg shrugged. "It's the right thing to do. There's also the fact it pays the bills."
"You should consider moving up a notch. Jobs like this one, with a big payday at the end. It soon builds up."
"Me and Faria like it just the way it is."
Faria, the girl I lost, and then I lost Maddie. Am I fated to lose every girl I love? At least living over a brothel, they come and they go, and I pay them well for their time.
He worked to control his anger. Every time Greg mentioned Faria, he hated him more. She'd been free to make a choice. Problem was, she'd chosen the wrong man, the two-bit farmer and small-time gun for hire. There were plenty of those in Afghanistan; revenge was the fuel that powered the country.
If Faria had chosen me, I could've given her so much more. He smiled to himself, although I'd have needed to find something other than a brothel for us to live in.
He didn't reply and savagely pressed his foot down on the gas. The Wrangler bounced over the rocky terrain, at times teetering on two wheels before dropping back onto four. Greg didn't say anything, but he could almost hear him wanting to criticize the way he was driving. Too bad, they needed to get there in a hurry. Besides, he was having fun, and he'd almost forgotten his hangover. It was a pity the deep scar in the ground was in shadow. He didn't see it until it was too late.
One moment they were accelerating up the hillside, swerving from side to side to avoid loose rock, and the next the front wheels slammed into the gully. It was fortunate they were wearing their seat belts. Afghanistan had yet to implement any kind of legislation for drivers and passengers to wear belts. Yet his years of hard driving across rough terrain, and more than a few accidents, had made him decide long ago to use them cross-country. Besides, it meant he could drive faster, and that meant more fun. Vehicles could be repaired. Broken limbs and cracked skulls were more difficult, so it was better to stay in one piece.
The breath whooshed out of him as the impact threw him against the restraint. He saw Greg put up his hands to save himself, as the centrifugal locking mechanism for the passenger belt gave way. He slammed against the dashboard, and then crumpled back into his seat. Stoner saw stars for a few seconds and fought to gain air into his lungs. When he'd recovered, he unclipped his belt and took a look at the passenger. Greg was unconscious.
Stoner unthreaded the tangle of broken seatbelt from the limp body, climbed out of the vehicle and went around to the passenger door, carefully lifting him out and placing him on the ground. Although the Russian's eyes were closed, his chest was rising and falling. He bent down close to him and spoke into his ear.
"Greg, Greg. Talk to me, can you hear me?"
His reply was a long groan of pain, and then his eyes flicked open. "I told you not to drive so fast," he croaked, "You stupid bastard. Are all Americans as dumb as you?"
Stoner was too relieved to feel insulted. "Probably not. I'll get some water."
He found the canteen in the Jeep and held it to Greg's lips. After a few sips, he nodded his thanks and propped himself up on one elbow.
"How about the Wrangler? Any chance we can get it out and keep going? That was some ditch you drove us into."
"I'll take a look."
He walked around the vehicle and looked at the problem. Although the tough Jeep appeared undamaged, the wheels were deep in a ditch. Even worse, the ditch was on the edge of a low rise in the ground. Normally, they'd try jacking the front wheels and attempt to roll it back when they were at ground level. The problem was the floor pan had grounded on the hump in the ground. The two-ton vehicle was too much for two men to maneuver away from the obstruction. He walked back to Greg to explain the problem. The Russian didn't sound surprised.
"So you've fucked up, is that what you're telling me?"
His eyes flared with anger. "I can't predict every pothole and rock across Afghanistan."
"I could predict you were going to hit something hard. It wasn't difficult."
The American nodded. "Maybe you should have brought that Russian heap of crap you drive. We wouldn't have made it this far to hit that gully. Don't worry, I'll work something out."
"Like call for a tow truck?"
"Yeah, funnee. There's a pickaxe and shovel in the back. I'll start digging and try to level the ground."
"You're not serious! Most of it's rock. It'll take you a week."
Stoner nodded. "Probably, but I may as well start now. We don't have anything better to do."
"Like eating and drinking. Do we have food and water for a week?" Greg asked.
Stoner was expressionless as he dragged the tools out of the back. "No."
Two hours later, he stopped for a rest. It was painful, backbreaking work, chipping away at the rock. Greg started to recover and lent a hand, but he could only work for short periods. Stoner flung down the pickaxe and found the dried food he'd packed. He slum
ped next to Greg. They munched on the unappetizing bars, washing them down with water from the canteen.
"It's not gonna work. You know at this rate we'll be dead of starvation or dehydration before we dig that vehicle out of the hole."
Stoner nodded. "I reckon you're right. Problem is, we're out of options. We'd need something heavy to pull us out, like an excavator or a tractor, and the chances of finding a tractor around here are zero."
"You mean like that kid, Ahmed, his old tractor?"
"That would probably do it, but he'll be back in Mehtar Lam by now. That don't help us none."
He sat on a large rock and brushed the dust off his black clothes, cursing everyone and everything, Afghanistan, the Afghans, the Taliban, Massoud, and ditches, especially ditches.
"He's not in Mehtar Lam."
He looked up. "You know that, how?"
Greg pointed down the hill. "Because he's down there, driving toward us."
He whipped around and stared. Sure enough, an ancient, battleship gray tractor was trundling along the road. As they watched, the driver waved, turned off the road, and headed up to them. As he drew nearer, they could see Archer sitting next to him, squashed into the driver's seat.
"Well, I'll be," Stoner said, shaking his head, "If that don't beat all. He sure has guts."
"Maybe, but he should be looking after his sisters, as well as the farm."
"Like you look after your farm?"
"Yob tvoyu mat, American."
"You, too, comrade. But don't send him back until he's pulled us out."
It took the Fordson model F twenty minutes to climb the hill. Finally, the old machine stopped a few meters away. Ahmed stepped down. Archer barked and bounded across to lick Greg's face. He stroked his fur, fended him off, and stared at the boy.
"Ahmed, what're you doing here? I told you to go home."
"Me? I'm on my way to make certain Sardar Khan is brought back to Jalalabad to face justice, Mr. Blum." His face lit up in a beaming smile, "When I saw your vehicle, I came to help. I have a chain on the tractor. I'll pull you out. Then we can find Sardar Khan and take him back."
Both men looked on, too stunned to respond. The boy climbed back onto the tractor and maneuvered it in front of the Wrangler. He took out a thick, rusty chain and attached it to both vehicles with heavy steel shackles. The he smiled at them, his expression filled with pride.
"I'm ready. I need one of you to keep the wheels straight while I pull out the Jeep, otherwise the steering could be damaged."
"I'll do it," Stoner mumbled, "It's my Jeep, and I don't want some Russian screwing it up."
Ahmed applied power to the engine and slipped the clutch as Stoner steadier the steering. The huge iron wheels at the rear were fitted with curved blades to dig into the ground for traction. Almost without pause, the Fordson dragged the Wrangler forward inch by inch, until the front wheels were out of the ditch. The boy kept the forward momentum until the rear wheels of the Jeep were also clear. Only then did he apply the brake, stop the engine, and unscrew the shackles to remove the chain. Greg and Stoner stared at him, unsure of how to react to their savior.
Ahmed sensed their uncertainty. "I will come with you. If something else happens, I can always get you out."
"No," Blum was adamant, "Son, we can't even be sure we'll get back from this one. Massoud's people aren't a pushover, and you could wind up dead. Probably you will wind up dead. What would your sisters do then?"
"My sisters want me to get justice for their father."
"Leave that to us. It's what we do. Go home before something bad happens."
"Something bad has already happened, Mr. Blum. Sardar Khan murdered by father."
He sighed with exasperation. "Yob tvoyu mat," he cursed.
Stoner stared at him. It was hard to read his expression. "Not in front of the kid, pal."
"He doesn't speak Russian."
"Best he doesn't learn, with that kind of language going around." He looked at Ahmed. "Listen, you coming with us, is not going to happen. You've helped us out of one hell of a mess here, and we're more than grateful. It means we can keep going after your father's killer, and with luck, we'll find him and make sure he pays for what he did. But you can't come along, period. No argument, it's not going to happen. Savvy?"
Ahmed was expressionless. "I must face him for what he did to my father. I will come with you."
It was Stoner's turn to sigh. He nodded to Greg. "Let's go. Sooner or later, he'll understand it's for the best." He looked back at Ahmed. "For the last time, stop following us and go home. While you're still alive."
The boy stared back at him. They climbed into the Wrangler, and Stoner started the engine and stamped on the gas pedal. The Jeep roared away, throwing up dirt and pebbles in its wake, as they left the forlorn figure standing next to the ancient battleship gray Fordson model F. The dog was sitting on the ground next to the boy, watching them leave, with his back erect. Stoner felt like the dog was reprimanding them for leaving them behind.
Tough. I can't take another death on my hands.
They crested the summit of the hill and cruised down the other side. This time, he kept the speed down. Maybe he'd been wrong before. He looked at Greg, who was studying the map. "How far do we have to run?"
"We'll reach a wayside bar in about thirty klicks, not much more than a goat shed that serves coffee. With any luck, they'll sell us some food. It would be good to stock up, just in case you drive us into any more problems."
The American shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the treacherous terrain. "Okay, I was wrong not to bring more. What about gas?"
Greg shook his head. "No idea. I went through that place a few months back, and I didn't see a gas pump. Why, are we short of gas as well?"
"Nope, but we could always do with more."
"Okay, we'll ask them."
"Yeah. Say, do you think that kid will give up and go home?"
A pause. "I don't know. I sure hope so. He doesn't know what he's getting into, but he's got guts, I'll say that. Then again, you learn early in life that guts don't stop bullets. And where we're going, there's going to be plenty of lead flying. Massoud won't give up without a fight."
"I guess not." Stoner drove for another hour, and the terrain became even more difficult. He had to slow the speed down until they were making barely fifteen miles an hour, and slowed even more when they began to ascend another hill. This one was much steeper than before. Just before they crested the rise, Greg look back, shook his head, and looked again.
"The little bastard, he’s still coming. I can see the dust about twenty klicks back. It's no wonder. That tractor is so slow it'd be quicker to get out and walk."
"Until you need it to pull you out of a ditch." Greg didn't reply. Stoner eased off the gas a fraction and turned his head to look back.
"What're we going to do about him? If he keeps coming, someone will shoot his stupid head off. Did you see that AK-47 he's toting behind the seat? He'd better know how to use it. The way he's going, he's gonna run into trouble sooner rather than later."
Greg was still staring at the dust cloud kicked up by the tractor. "I dunno. He's pretty resourceful. It wouldn't surprise me if he knew how it all works."
Stoner turned his head back around to watch the track and murmured, "If he doesn't know now, it would be a good idea for him to...fuck!"
They'd crested the rise and started back down the other side. There was no alternative route, only the narrow scar of a centuries-old drover trail to follow. Either side of the track someone had stacked boulders, enough to make a low wall to stop anyone driving off the track. In front of them they faced a battered SUV, parked sideways across the trail like a roadblock. A UAZ 452, another relic of the Soviet invasion. Ugly as hell, they built the odd-looking vehicle over a GAZ 69 chassis and made the bodywork more along the lines of a people carrier. Designed to transport troops, the Russians left thousands of them behind when they abandoned the country in a hurry.
&
nbsp; This UAZ was the worst Stoner had ever seen, and he'd seen some bad ones. The steel panels along the side were battered, like a gang of crazies had attacked the metal with sledgehammers. The windshield and every window were broken, and the fenders had long disappeared. Despite the dereliction, the UAZ was enough to prevent anyone from passing.
"A fucking roadblock up here!" Greg exclaimed.
"It's no roadblock. It's a trap. They want to rob us." Stoner had only seconds to react, and he jammed on the brakes. All four wheels locked as he sprayed up dust and gravel. They halted fifty meters from the UAZ and stared at a bunch of Afghans who watched them.
There were eight men, seven of whom cradled AK-47s. More ominously, the eighth man carried an RPG launcher on his shoulder. Behind them, a large area of cultivated fields stretched down the hill. Instead of a surface of dust and rubble, at some time they'd covered the ground with a layer of earth and planted it with poppies. Opium poppies.
He quickly re-evaluated. "It's not a stick up, only a clever operation. No one would think to look here. They're just protecting their turf."
The anti-drug patrols wouldn't come this way, and the men who cultivated the plants knew the police or military would likely leave them undisturbed, until Stoner and Blum happened along.
"We can talk our way through this," Greg murmured, "There's no reason for anyone to get killed."
"The question is, do they know that? Let's go see what they want."
He eased the Wrangler forward until they were only twenty meters from the Afghans. So far, there was no sign of anyone preparing to shoot.
"Wait here. I'll deal with this."
Without waiting for a reply, Stoner climbed out of the Jeep and walked forward, keeping his empty hands on show. It was a touchy situation. If they thought he had a gun in his hand, they were liable to shoot first. He stopped ten meters from the nearest man and shouted.
"We're not cops. We just need to get past. Your business is not our business."
One of the men who'd been standing next to the UAZ came nearer. "In that case, tell us why you make our business your business, Mr. Stoner?"
His eyes widened with the knowledge they knew his name. He scented trouble, big trouble.
"I'm not interfering with anything. Live and let live, that's my motto."
The man looked young, and he wore a black turban like those once favored by the Taliban. It was unlikely any of them were Taliban. If that'd been the case, they'd have opened fire the moment they saw two Westerners approaching.
"Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Hamid Sirobi. We haven't met, but you kidnapped my brother Sima. Sima is the man you took back to Jalalabad. The man they hung in the main square this morning."
Fuck. We don't need this, a revenge hit.
For a few seconds, no one moved. The Afghans were frozen as if in a tableau. Stoner reacted first. He dragged out the two Desert Eagles, and at that moment, they charged. He cursed the bandage on his right hand. It made shooting awkward. Although it didn't stop him firing a half-dozen fifty caliber slugs into the charging Afghans before he kept low and ducked back to the Wrangler. Two bodies lay in the dust, both unmoving.
"Greg, we're in trouble. For fuck's sake, start shooting!"
Bursts of gunfire hammered into the dirt close to his feet, and he dived behind a pile of rocks at the side of the track. Greg leapt out of the Wrangler and took cover the other side. He carried his precious Dragunov. Not enough, five Afghan psychos with automatic rifles and another with an RPG were trying to kill them.
Fucking missile launchers, I hate missile launchers. Always trouble when people start shooting off rockets.
Greg hadn't replied, and he shouted, "Take the guy with the launcher!"
"I'm on it."
He still didn't fire, and when Stoner looked across, he was adjusting his stance, carefully pulling away pebbles and small rocks to make himself more comfortable. It was a difficult shot, the range wasn't that long, but the missile shooter had gone to ground behind the rear wheel of the UAZ. It meant only a tiny portion of his head showed, as well as the tip of the missile.
For Christ's sake, shoot the bastard!
The Afghans had dived for cover, hugging the ground. At a shouted command, they catapulted to their feet and charged. They'd have been confident, and why not? They had the upper hand, for they faced only two men. One they knew carried two pistols and the other a rifle. It wasn't a bad assumption, not normally. Except neither the pistols nor the rifle were normal.
He waited until they got nearer, and then leaned out and fired four shots. Two more men went down, and he knew without looking they were dead. When one of those fifty caliber bullets struck a human body, it was the end of the argument. The big bullets were man stoppers. Four down, but still four crazies left alive, and one of them was armed with an RPG. He shouted across to Greg, "For fuck sake, kill the guy with the missile."
Amid the sound of shots that chipped rock and spattered dust and dirt all around him, he heard Greg's calm reply, "I'm working on it."
"Work faster!"
As he shouted, a rifle bullet hit him in the side. He felt the massive trauma of the impact, but when he put his hand down, there was no blood. Only the shattered remains of plastic and microchips. He could hardly believe it.
The bastards hit my satphone. Jesus, that was close. If I didn't have the phone in that particular pocket, the bullet would be inside me. That's one kickass phone.
The three Talibs nearest to him had gone to ground. He saw them start worming their way toward him. He had an idea and snaked across the ground to a new position a few meters away. Then he waited. They came nearer and nearer. He could hear them whispering, and then he could smell them. A rank stench, like a cross between a stockyard and a slaughterhouse, combined with the perfume of pure opium.
He waited for the moment, and sure enough, they rose up and charged him down. At least, where they thought he was hiding. They cleared the final rock and poured bullets into the empty ground for several seconds, before they realized he'd gone. They looked around, but he was already on his feet with both weapons aimed. He fired alternately, left, right, left, right. The massive vibration and shock of the heavy automatics firing had opened the wound in his right hand, and blood soaked through the dressing and dripped to the ground, but two more of the Talibs went down. But the last man disappeared. And Greg still hadn't fired.
He couldn't shout to him, the other shooter was so near, but where? And what about the RPG, was it about to blast them into little pieces? He could only hope the shooter would have to wait because of the proximity of the Afghan to the position. He put the threat out of his mind and began crawling in a semi circle toward where he assumed the man would be waiting. Then he saw it, the tiny edge of dirty cotton sash poking out at the side of some rocks. He ejected the clips of both guns and saw he had two bullets in one, one left in the other. It would have to be enough.
He jumped to his feet, ran around the rock, and fired. At nothing, the Afghan had played exactly the same ruse on him as he’d done on the others. As he started to turn, he heard a grating laugh.
The man had hidden in a shallow depression in the ground where stray poppy plants had found enough of the barren soil to take root. It was a perfect place for deception, and he'd fallen right into the trap. The Afghan stood up, Hamid Sirobi. He walked forward until he was only two meters away, then stopped. His mouth opened with an expression that was a cross between a big smile and a deep sneer. His teeth were rotten, most of them only stumps. Stoner could smell his breath as he spoke.
"Not this time, Mr. Stoner. Your life is ended, and I intend to make sure you die an agonizing death. Just like they tell me my brother suffered at the end of the rope. You should have kept your nose out of my business."
He pulled the trigger and nothing happened. Either the gun was empty, or it jammed. In a lightning moment, Stoner whipped up the gun in his left hand, but like Sirobi's AK, it was also empty. The Afghan mov
ed as fast as a striking rattlesnake, dragging an old U.S. Army Colt .45 from his sash. Stoner saw the gaping black hole of the end of the barrel staring at him, like the black eye of death. He’d played his last card, and his only thought was of Faria. He'd screwed up a long time ago. Then again, he'd had a good life.
The shot rang out, but the echo was curious, as if it came from some distance away. Sirobi swiveled around to look for the shooter. It was followed by two more shots in rapid succession, and the lead punched him back, so he fell to the rocky ground. He was already slamming fresh clips into his Desert Eagles when Greg ambled up. He brought a pungent smell with him. Gasoline, his clothes were drenched with it.
"All okay here?" He looked down dispassionately at the body of Hamid Sirobi, "I guess they should have let us pass. Why did they want to fight?"
"The guy I brought in, the one they hung this morning. That was his brother."
"No wonder he was pissed."
"Yeah. Did you get the guy with the missile?"
"One shot one kill, that's the Russian way. We got them all."
Stoner nodded. "We need to clear that truck out of the way and drive away before any more of them come pouring out of the rocks like fucking lizards. By the way, you stink."
"Yeah, we have a problem."
"We'll worry about it later. Let's go."
He shook his head. "Not before we fix the gas tank. One of those rounds they fired punched a hole in it. There was fuel pouring down the hillside, all around me. I couldn't shoot; the flash may have ignited the gas. I had to move my position."
Stoner walked to the Wrangler and looked underneath. The ground had soaked up the fuel, and he could see two gaping holes where the bullet had gone all the way through side to side, one hole was at the bottom. They had no gas. They were stuck here. Greg had an idea and went to check out the UAZ. He started the engine and maneuvered it to the side of the narrow trail, leaving just enough room for the Wrangler to pass. He switched off and returned a few moments later, shaking his head.
"There's hardly any fuel on board, less than a gallon. Maybe they planned to coast down the hill and start the engine at the bottom. They'd have had enough fuel for about fifteen klicks. There's probably a cache of Jerry cans somewhere, but we don't know where. Pity there's no one left alive we could ask. Maybe you shouldn't have killed them all."
"Yeah, next time I'll talk to you first."