* * *
They crunched through the snow that coated the track until they reached the entrance to the valley about mid-morning. Stoner stopped the Jeep and stepped out to survey the terrain with his binoculars. Vision was poor, snow was still falling, and he couldn't see more than a couple of hundred meters. If there were sentries up there, he couldn't see them.
"What do you think?"
Greg had stepped out to join him and was staring in the same direction.
"We'll have to chance it. We don't have the time or the people to make a reconnaissance. Either they're there or they're not. If they start shooting, we'll know."
He climbed back into the warm interior of the Wrangler and set off again. Greg was in the passenger seat, scanning ahead of them with the glasses. They drove slowly until the Russian shouted, "Stop!"
He jammed on the brakes. "What is it?"
"A reflection, on top of that hill about eight hundred meters ahead of us. Could be binoculars or a sniper scope."
He glanced up. "I see him."
He stepped on the gas and started moving forward again until they reached an overhang that hid them from the watcher on top of the hill. He stopped and looked at Marina. "Can you drive this thing?"
"Yes."
"Take over the wheel. Greg, I want you to ride shotgun and take care of her. Marina, drive slowly forward, as if you're not quite sure what you're doing."
She grimaced. "That won't be difficult, believe me."
He eased out of the Jeep and started climbing up a narrow fissure he'd seen in the rocks, deep enough to shield him from the watcher above. Marina drove slowly, and either by accident or design, swerved the wheel from side to side like someone who hadn't driven in a long, long time. He looked down and could see Greg scanning the terrain, searching for further threats. The barrel of his rifle poked out of the passenger window.
The climb was hard. His bare fingers gripping the icy rock as he ascended, higher and higher, to reach the position from where they'd observed the reflection. He was lucky. The fissure veered away from a direct line to the target, and when it petered out at the top, he was only fifty meters above the target. He could see the figure of a man staring down at the slowly moving Jeep through a pair of binoculars, a sentry, not a sniper.
The man's weapon lay at his side, yet another of the AK-47s of which Afghanistan had a seemingly exhaustible supply. He crawled down the rocky hillside until he was only three meters away from the sentry.
"Looking for someone?"
The man jerked up and spun around, grabbing for the gun.
"Uh-uh, not this time. Put 'em in the air."
He obeyed, and Stoner patted him down. "Who are you?"
He replied after a hesitation. "My name is Sardar Khan."
"Is that right? I believe you're the man that kid is looking for. Tell me, Sardar, how do you let them know when an enemy is coming down the valley?"
"The field phone, Sir."
He pointed at a waterproof canvas pack, with wires snaking out the side and running down the valley. A primitive form of communication, but after the Soviets left, there were plenty of sets, and they were cheap and robust in a land where electronics and radios were not always reliable.
He was nervous, terrified.
"Are they expecting you to call anytime soon?"
He shook his head. "No, Sir, only if I see something."
"You saw our Jeep, did you call that in?"
He hesitated, and then hung his head in shame. "No, Sir."
"Why not?"
"I was smoking, and I decided to wait until I'd finished, in case they called me down."
"Call you down to fight, that's it, isn't it? You were yellow."
The man mumbled a reply, but he didn't need to hear. He could see the answer written all over his gutless face. "I thought so. I'll take you down the hill so you can wait in the Jeep while we clean out your nest of vipers."
He knew they'd need something to keep him quiet until they could get him back. He kept a small store of horse tranquillizers in the glove box, enough to do the trick. He pushed him down the hillside.
"Let's go see Ahmed."
Khan's face jerked up, and he could almost smell the fear. Afghanistan was a country that lived by the vendetta. They made the Sicilians look like amateurs.
"Ghulam Durani's son? He's here?"
"Sure he is. Waiting to take you all the way back to Jbad. There're some cops there who want a word with you about a murder. Let's go."
They scrambled back down to the Jeep. Greg held the shivering man while Stoner pushed a huge needle into his arm. It only took three seconds before he folded, out cold.
"How do you know the exact dose?" Marina asked anxiously, "That product is only intended for animals. I doubt there's a recommended quantity for humans."
"He ain't a human being, so it doesn't matter."
"I should check his breathing, just in case."
He shrugged. "It's up to you. Personally, I'd prefer not to waste good fresh air on this piece of shit."
She listened to his mouth and touched his chest. Then they tossed him in back, and Stoner fastened his wrists and ankles with plastic ties for good measure. He looked at Greg, and his face was grim.
"Now it's time to earn our fifty thousand dollars. We're going in. Marina, you'll need to stay here out of sight. This is going to be bloody. If you can tell us anything about the layout of this place, now would be a good time."
"I should go in with you. It's not easy to describe."
"Try. How many men are we up against?"
Her forehead wrinkled in thought. "There's Massoud, of course."
"Yeah, I kinda imagined he'd be home."
She gave him a sharp look. "I'm doing my best. There's Hassan, his lieutenant. He wears Westernized clothing, jeans, and stuff like that. Kader Ras, he's a Tajik. Let me think, there's Ulyanov, the Russian. He was Spetsnaz. That's, oh, yes, there's one more. Vernon Parks." She shuddered as she spoke the name.
"Something wrong?"
"He's a psychopath. No, worse than a psychopath, an American deserter, a sniper, and very, very good. He'll kill anything and anybody, just for the fun of it. His pleasure is hurting young girls. There's a rumor he's killed some of them."
"One to watch."
"Yes. He lives for one reason and one reason alone, to kill. As I said, he's very good at it. I don't know how you'll deal with him."
"The usual way. We'll kill him."
She grimaced. "Plenty of people have tried, and he's still with us."
He nodded. "He hasn't met me yet. Okay, where do I find Massoud? In the main house, I assume."
"It's not quite so easy. Really, I have to come with you. Besides, I still have that gun."
"The Nagant 1895? I thought you'd donated it to a museum."
She didn't smile. "You didn't say that when I used it to kill a man. A man who was trying to kill you."
He stifled a curse.
First the kid, insisting on getting himself killed, and now the girl, just when I was starting to like her.
"I'd sooner you stayed alive."
"I'm sure you do." She dragged out the big Nagant and stared him in the eyes. She knew she'd won, "What're we waiting for?"
He glanced at Greg, as if to say, 'Women!' Then he climbed into the driver's seat. Marina slid into the passenger side, and Greg in back. Sardar Khan was slumped across the seat. Stoner peddled the gas, and they crunched forward through the valley. The snow was falling even thicker, and several inches formed a soft layer over the track. No problem for the Wrangler, provided they didn't run into a pothole deep enough to stop them. If they had to dig the vehicle out, they'd be sitting ducks.
He looked at Marina. "Tell me about the layout ahead of us."
She nodded. "In about another five hundred meters, the valley widens. It's about a half a kilometer square, and the house is in the center. It's pretty big, three rooms on the first floor and five on the second. There's a
separate garage at the side, big enough for about four vehicles."
"Basement?"
"None. It's built on bedrock. There's no way you could build a basement without getting a construction team in here."
"What about another way out? Could he go out by another route?"
"No way. The hills are more like mountains, and you'd need climbing gear to get out. Especially in this weather, it would be suicide."
"So he has to come past us."
"Yes."
He thought about what she'd described.
There’s no way she needs to come with us, except one. She wants revenge. Fair enough, I’ve heard of worse reasons. Provided she doesn't take a bullet and die. I’m starting to grow fond of the Afghan surgeon.
The end of the narrow track worried him. It was too obvious a place for an ambush. He called to Greg in back.
"I'll slow, and I want you to roll out into the snow. Hike the last couple of hundred meters on foot, and I'll stay well behind you. I'll gun the engine, so they'll know I'm coming. If Massoud is half the man I think he is, he'll have someone waiting to ambush us just before we enter open ground. If you see anything, use hand signals when we come into view."
"No sweat."
In a single, smooth movement, Greg gripped his rifle, opened the rear door, and tumbled out into the snow. In a fraction of a second, he was on his feet and jogged ahead of the Wrangler. Stoner slowed, slipped the clutch, and gunned the engine. If there were anyone ahead, he hoped they'd assume he was still some distance away. Greg disappeared around a bend, and he kept going. When he rounded the bend, the Russian was crouched behind a rock one hundred meters ahead, with a hand held up for them to stop.
He hit the brakes and waited, still gunning the engine. As long as the enemy assumed they were still coming, they wouldn't be unduly worried. The next hand signal was two fingers, followed by gestures left and right.
"Two men up ahead, one either side of the track," he said to Marina, "Greg will take the man on the right; I'll take the one on the left. We’ll go in fast, so keep that shooter of yours ready."
"You want me to shoot one of them?"
"I want you to shoot the guy in back if he wakes and so much as moves a muscle. Don't hesitate."
"I can do that."
Greg gave another hand signal.
"Time to move."
He stamped on the gas pedal, and the vehicle surged forward. Almost immediately, they were at the end of the track, and he saw through the driving snow two dark figures kneeling on the ground, one on each side. Their cover was limited, just a low heap of rock, probably pushed either side of the track when the place was excavated. It was no more than half a meter high, and as cover went, they'd chosen just about the worst possible position. They likely took their job seriously and sampled too much of the product. They may have enjoyed smoking the opium, but they wouldn't enjoy what happened next.
He was close to his target when he saw the man on the right slump to the rocky ground. The other one was quicker.
"Ulyanov," Marina exclaimed, "The Russian."
"Got it." He recalled she'd described him as a former Spetsnaz operator. Even if he smoked too much dope for his own good, he'd still be quick and expert. Stoner grimace.
Not quick and expert enough.
He took aim, but before he could fire, the Spetsnaz man ducked down and disappeared. He cursed. He'd gone to ground, so he'd have to go after him. Although the snow would help and leave a trail a blind man could follow. He reached the spot where the man had disappeared and opened the door.
"Keep that gun handy," he murmured to her, "Safety catch off and make sure the hammer is cocked."
She raised it to show him she was ready. He nodded, slid out with his rifle in his hands, and started crawling across the snow. As he'd surmised, the tracks were easy to follow. The man had crawled away to the foot of the hill where there was a narrow gap in the rock, like a small cave. He'd gone to ground like an animal. Stoner crawled after him, all the time watching ahead for the moment when he'd pop out and snap a shot at him.
He only made it halfway.
"Drop the rifle," The voice spoke English but with a thick Russian accent. He cursed. The bastard had double backed and then jumped behind a low boulder. It meant he couldn't see his tracks. Stoner squinted sideways and saw the man had flattened against the snow-covered rock face. Covered in snow and slush, he was almost invisible. Of course, he was Spetsnaz. He carried an AKSU assault rifle. A development of the AKS-74U, the U suffix meant Ukorochennyj. Russian for shortened. Designed for Special Forces, the magazine carried thirty 5.45mm rounds. The barrel pointed at his guts, and Stoner had no doubt if he so much as twitched, the guy would pull the trigger.
I should have been more careful.
He put the rifle on the snow.
"The handgun, as well."
He took out the Desert Eagle, slowly placing it next to his rifle. Then he looked at the man with the assault rifle trained on him.
"This is nothing personal, Ulyanov. We are not here for you. We want Massoud, that's all."
The reply was a grating laugh. "Nothing personal? It may not be for you, but it is for me. When people shoot at me, I take it very personally. Besides, Massoud pays me to take care of his interests. Tell your friends to drop their weapons and surrender. I'll put in a good word for you, and the boss will let you go."
Yeah, and next week I'm gonna sprout wings and fly.
He wondered what Greg was doing. The man was no fool. When he heard the shot, he'd come looking. The problem was how to get near enough to fire. Besides, Stoner hadn't even seen the man, covered in snow and standing in front of a white snow-covered cliff face. Neither was there anywhere Greg could find cover to take the shot. If he came, he'd be out in the open, and the chances were the Spetsnaz operator would see him first and kill him. He needed to give him a chance and get him somewhere Greg could shoot him.
"Okay, let's go talk to them." He had his hands in the air so he was no threat, and he turned as if to start walking.
"Stop."
He stopped.
"Call them here. Tell them to come, or I will kill you."
"They won't hear me, not from this far away. It would be much easier if we went to them."
"Yob tvoyu mat, you think I'm a fucking amateur? Call them."
"Okay."
"Greg, it's no good. The guy says if we give up he'll let us live. He wants you to come out with the other one, the one hiding on the floor in the back of the Wrangler."
He had an idea how much this man knew about them, although he doubted he'd know the girl was with them. Greg had handled it right, and they had a slight chance.
"You sure you can trust him?" he called back.
"We don't have a choice. It's that, or he kills me."
A pause. When he answered, he sounded like a beaten man. "Shit, it's all over. Okay, give us a minute, and we'll come over."
"Tell them to drop their weapons. No guns, or you all die."
"No guns, Greg."
"I kind of figured that."
Stoner kept his hands high, but his brain was working overtime. He was confident Greg had understood, and he'd bring Sardar Khan with him instead of Marina. At least if it all went wrong, she could get away in the Wrangler. Problem was, they hadn't come here for it all to go wrong. He wanted Massoud's head on a plate. Yet without weapons, it was impossible to get past this Spetsnaz bastard. He had to do something to help.
Ulyanov hadn't noticed he carried a second Desert Eagle on the other side of his belt. If he had the chance, he could draw and fire, but the problem was the only chance would come when the man was shooting Greg. It wouldn't work. There was only one scenario, and he almost held his breath praying Blum had worked it out.
"We're coming," his voice shouted. Several seconds later, two men came into view from round the corner. They both appeared to be unarmed. Stoner breathed a sigh of relief. He'd cut the prisoner’s bonds and was pushing him ahead of
him. He was staggering and barely standing, but it looked as if he was sliding on the snow and not because of the effects from the tranquilizer. If Ulyanov fired, he'd almost certainly kill Sardar Khan first. The moment he did, Stoner would dive to the ground; drag out his pistol, and fire. Greg stopped.
"Come nearer!"
He shook his head. "No way, pal. We've done what you said, but this is as far as we go until we have a guarantee you're not going to kill us."
The other man didn't reply for a few moments, and Stoner could see him squinting through the falling snow to stare at the two newcomers. Then he shouted, "I promise I will let you live."
"That isn't going to do it," Greg shook his head, "You'll have to do better than that. Do you think I'd trust the word of a Spetsnaz pansy?"
Ulyanov's mouth dropped open in astonishment at the insult. "Did I hear that right? Are you calling the Spetsnaz pansies?"
"How about yellow livered cowards, running out of Afghanistan when it got too hot for you?"
The man reacted in the only way he knew. He pulled the trigger. Three bullets cracked out of the AKSU, and Greg stood behind Khan, using him as a shield as the lead punched into the Afghan murderer's guts. He could hear the Russian shouting curses and insults, but he had the opportunity Greg had given him, probably the only one they'd ever have. He jumped sideways, dragging out the big automatic while he was in the air. As he crunched the snow, he'd already drawn a bead on the target, and he squeezed the trigger twice.
Ulyanov turned with astonishing speed when he detected movement out of the corner of his eye, but he was too slow. Probably it was the opium, but he was still lining up the shot when the first .50 caliber bullet smashed into his chest. The second bullet followed a split second later. Stoner had gone for the heart shot. He wanted a target big enough to be sure of a hit. The first round hit, and even as the second went in, the man was as good as dead, his heart ruined by that heavy mass of lead.
Stoner strolled up to him and collected the fallen rifle. There was no need to check for any sign of life. The dead body had several spare clips strapped to his webbing. He took it and strolled back to Greg.
"I wasn't sure you'd understand."
"I had an idea you'd screw up taking the second guy, so I was ready for anything."
As he spoke, he let go of the dead body of Sardar Khan, and it slumped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. In the hand he'd had hidden behind Khan, he clutched his Stechkin. He saw the other man's glance and grinned. "Just in case you'd missed with that Desert Eagle."
"Fuck you." Nevertheless, he slapped the other man on the back, "You're not a bad guy for a Russian."
"I'm not a Russian. I'm an Afghan. Born here, Afghan papers, what more do I need to prove it?"
"A one mile wide chip on your shoulder about Americans should do it."
"I already have that," he grinned.
"Thought so. We need to get back to the SUV. After all that shooting, if they were ever in any doubt before, they'll know we're here now."
When they reached the Jeep, there was no sign of Marina, but she stepped out from the cover of the same rocks the first man Greg killed had sheltered behind. She looked anxious.
"What happened? I heard the shots and thought they'd killed you."
"Not this time. We're going up to the house. Three of them are dead, that leaves only three, is that right? Massoud, Hassan, and the other guy, Parks?"
She shuddered. "Vernon Parks, yes. Remember what I said. He's a sniper, so he could be lying in wait."
"They'll all be lying in wait to pop us the moment we come into view," he murmured, "The question is how do we handle it? I have an idea."
He went to retrieve the body of Sardar Khan and propped it into the driving seat of the Wrangler. He fastened the hands of the corpse to the wheel with plastic ties. Another plastic tie wrapped around the neck to fasten it to the headrest. It was enough to hold the man upright. He looked at Greg.
"I'll put her into gear and operate the gas pedal. I want you and Marina to walk behind, like combat troops following a tank. That way, you'll at least have some protection when they start pouring lead into my shiny black bodywork."
They both looked doubtfully at the paintwork. It had been a rich polished black when they left Jbad, but now it had given way to mud, scratches, and deep gouges. They said nothing. It was his pride and joy. At least it was once. If they lived long enough to finish Massoud, he'd have enough cash to buy a replacement.
"You won't be able to see to steer," Marina objected.
"No. I'll do my best to keep a straight line pointed at the house. If you see me veering off, just shout and I'll correct it."
"It's a stupid plan," she muttered, "What if they hit it with an RPG? I know about them because they used to come into the bar, waving their stupid missiles around and boasting how they could take out a tank. I don't see your Jeep would be a problem."
He put his hands on her shoulders and stared straight into her eyes. "All life's a gamble. If they use an RPG, we’ll be dead. Always assuming they score a hit, and those things aren't infallible. More often than not, they miss."
Greg shook his head in disbelief at what he was hearing. Maybe he was upset at the insult to Russian-built equipment. More likely he didn't want to die.
She still looked doubtful. "There has to be a better way."
"There isn't. Here, take this." He handed her the AKSU he'd taken off the former Spetsnaz operator, together with the tangle of webbing that held the spare clips, "I've checked the clip. All you need do is point and shoot. The magazine holds thirty rounds, best keep that in mind and only fire on semi-auto."
She grimaced as she put down the rifle and buckled on the webbing. She looked more martial when she was done, and the Special Forces assault rifle fitted her slight stature to perfection.
Stoner grinned. "We all locked and loaded? It's time to go kick some ass."
He turned the key to start the engine and wriggled onto the floor in front of the passenger seat. Greg and Marina took cover outside at the back, and the Wrangler began to move across the snow-covered terrain. Ahead of them about two hundred meters away lay the target, the house; to one side was a vehicle garage, and fifty meters to the side, a high water tower. They plodded through the snow, keeping their gaze fixed on the target, the house of Massoud.