part0007

It was bitterly cold, but visibility was good, and he could see the tracks where the Haqqanis had passed. They’d arrived on foot, like many insurgents, wary of using vehicles when there was a chance of encountering an enemy equipped with armed drones, gunships, and fighter aircraft. The light began to fade, and he struggled to follow. He checked his watch. It was mid-afternoon, yet dark storm clouds were rolling across the sky, like lines of gray battleships. The light faded faster, like someone up there had turned a dimmer switch, and the tracks all but disappeared.

He wasn't too worried, at least not yet. He was following a well-used track that led due east from Torkham and disappeared into the boonies. If they stayed on the trail, he couldn’t lose them. The problem would come if the insurgents disappeared into rough ground. He’d have to rely on his skills, and he’d learned the craft of tracking during his service with the Navy SEALs. Since then, he'd sharpened his technique during long years spent inside Afghanistan. Years spent pursuing bad men, men who needed to be killed. Losing sight of that kind of target could mean the difference between life and death. If you couldn't see where they went, you couldn't see them waiting in ambush.

The track crossed the peak of a low hill, disappeared down the other side, and reappeared on the slope of the next hill. There weren't many alternative routes if they didn't want to break their necks hiking cross-country in poor light. Soon, he estimated they were heading toward the town of Chitral, which was strange. The place they'd attacked when they ambushed and kidnapped the women. He wondered if they were that stupid they hadn't moved them away to a remote hiding place.

If they’re still here, the job will be straightforward. Follow them to the town, and call Colonel Rahman to bring in his men. They can stage a diversionary attack while me and Greg creep in to free the women. Simple. That’s the plan, anyway. What was it they said? The plan is the first casualty in war.

The place was deserted, and there was no sign of them. The sky was also empty, so at least there was no immediate threat from wandering Pakistani patrols. Then he saw he was wrong. A helicopter was buzzing in from the north, from the border area with Afghanistan. Out of habit, he ducked out of sight and watched it fly past. A Russian-built Mi-24, a gunship. Armed with a powerful Yak-B Gatling gun in the nose, operated by a gunner who sat forward and below the pilot. Additional armament consisted of multiple rocket launchers and 9K114 Shturm missiles in pairs on the outer and wingtip pylons. To his astonishment, he noticed the insignia of the Afghan Air Force. He frowned. If the Paks spotted the helo on radar, they’d be sufficiently pissed to send up a couple of interceptors. The aircraft flew past and disappeared over the peak of a low mountain.

He continued plodding along as the light faded, and several times he fell. Each time he got back to his feet with his clothes smeared in the clinging mud that coated the surface of the track. Churned by donkeys, horses, and thousands of bare peasant feet. By the crude wooden wheels of carts carrying unimaginable quantities of contraband away from prying government eyes. He thanked the Gods it wasn't raining yet. In this region, when the rain started it went on for what seemed like forever, and the track would become a quagmire.

At least the visibility was still tolerable, and he continued to follow until the sky grew darker. He was starting to wonder how long he had before the rain arrived when it started. Several huge drops splattered on his head, and without warning the deluge began, a blinding torrent, a torment of water, like God had turned on a tap. What a few minutes before seemed easy was fast becoming a nightmare. His progress slowed, and he’d lost them. The route had forked, and in the darkness he'd missed their trail. He was on what was little more than a goat track, and he considered turning back to pick up the trail, except there wasn't time. Besides, he could gamble. It was always possible the Haqqanis had gone this way.

The faint light he'd been using to negotiate the route had disappeared completely. He staggered along in the inky black conditions. At times he even lost the track he was on, and he had to go down on hands and knees to feel around for the rutted path to make sure he was still on course. The inevitable happened, and he had no choice but to take shelter. The rain was still coming down like a waterfall, and he found a shallow cave. Little more than a niche carved into the rock, probably thousands of years before. But he was sheltered from the rainstorm. He kept watch for the first hour, and his sixth sense made him uneasy. He felt like he was being followed, although how that was possible he couldn’t work out. How could anyone follow him across this terrain in this appalling weather? Eventually he dismissed the idea and put it down to nerves.

He must have slept, for when he opened his eyes the rain had stopped. Although thick clouds were hovering in the sky, threatening to restart the deluge. Feeling numb with damp cold, he started walking along the track. In the cold, hard light of early dawn it was once again visible. He crested another rise, and to his astonishment, a small town lay in front of him.

He’d reached what could only be Chitral. Somehow, stumbling through the dark and torrential rain, he'd made it. Although he’d no idea if the Haqqanis were there, or if they’d bypassed the town and gone on elsewhere. He’d have to go down and take a look. As he watched, a truck drove into the town from the west, just another anonymous vehicle carrying a merchant’s goods to market. There was no other traffic, civilian or military, and he started walking down the hill. The town lay three kilometers in front of him.

He still felt the effects of his recent drinking binge, and he could almost have sold his soul for a drink, but all he had was water. Zero percent proof.

Then he remembered how he’d been two days before, drunk and almost incapable. He put the idea of looking for a drink on hold. As he walked, he took out his guns, checking the actions, making sure the torrential rain hadn't interfered with their mechanisms, but everything worked as it should. He tucked the Desert Eagles back into the holsters and held his M4A1 rifle under his arm. After a short distance, he rounded a bend and stepped out onto a proper road. Not exactly a road, but it was more than a goat track, less than a highway.

The surface was hard-packed mud, repaired in places with small stones. He looked back along the road and worked out he’d come on the road that ran from Torkham through to Chitral, and it made sense. The Haqqanis would have avoided the main highway and cut across the hills on the old smuggler trails. By chance, he'd managed to follow the same route to their destination. Which meant they ought to be somewhere ahead of him, and his spirits rose.

He was considering finding somewhere to hole up for the rest of the daylight hours and enter the town after dark. Abruptly, the truck appeared in the distance, heading toward him, out of town. The same truck he'd seen driving into Chitral. He assumed they'd made a delivery and were going home. Although something about that truck made him feel uneasy. He stepped off the track, but there was nowhere to hide, and he sprinted up the slope and lay flat on a small plateau. He waited for the truck to go past, but it stopped nearby, and he assumed the driver was getting out to take a leak. He heard voices, and then the ominous snick of men cocking rifles.

A voice shouted, "Mr. Stoner, we know you’re there. Come out, or we open fire.”

He slowly put his head up, and in a blinding flash of revelation, he knew what had happened. They’d double-crossed him. The voice belonged to Colonel Rahman, and the truck was the same vehicle he’d arrived in at Torkham. Three men ran toward him, the muzzles of their guns pointed his way. Slowly, he held up his hands. Rahman was breathing heavily with the effort of climbing the slope. He stood over him, his face set in a smile.

Stoner gave him a flat stare. “Colonel, one day I'll take that gun off you, stuff it down your throat, and pull the trigger."

The smile faded. "I think not. You've lost, my friend. You just didn't realize what you were up against."

Something hit him hard from behind, and through the dim waves of semi-consciousness, he saw another man step from the truck. He recognized Bruce Griggs, or as he called himself now, Colonel Bruce Griggs. The man he'd sworn to kill, and he stared at him grim-faced, like a wolf sizing up a lamb for dinner. A moment later, he passed out.

He came to lying on a cold stone floor. Men were bending over him, and one was kicking him to rouse him. His vision was still blurred, and he couldn't make them out. His eyes cleared, and he saw the man kicking him was Griggs. The other man in front of him was Khan, and he gestured for Griggs to stop. He’d had a chance to look around and examine his surroundings, but as his vision cleared, he saw he was inside a peculiar building. At first he thought it was a prison, and then he understood. It was no prison, or at least, it hadn’t been designed to house prisoners. The barred windows, the tough locks on the door, they were using a bank as a headquarters, and the vault was serving as a cell.

"We have a problem," Khan began, "My friend here wants to kill you, but I'm not so sure. I don't wish to do anything to upset the ransom negotiations. That is why you came to Pakistan, is it not? To negotiate a ransom."

He didn't answer, and Griggs kicked him again. Stoner stared at him. "I came here to kill you, Griggs. Your death is way overdue."

The man chuckled. “You’re dreaming, pal. Right now, you're this much away," he held up two fingers close together, "from me killing you. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it."

They'd fastened Stoner's wrists behind his back with some kind of electrical tape. The bindings were so tight he'd lost all feeling in his hands, and numbness was creeping up his arms. He had no chance of getting free.

“Stop this nonsense," Khan snapped at his second-in-command, "It seems to me you've given us a unique opportunity for more profit. An extra hostage, and I've decided to increase the amount of ransom the American government will have to pay to get you back. The price for the women is one hundred million dollars, and I estimate an extra two million dollars for your life. I’ve already sent a message to Ambassador Adams, in case he deludes himself into thinking there is another way he can free his wife. Tell me, Mr. Stoner, did you come here to negotiate, or was it some quixotic idea to free the women without paying?"

"Like I said, I came to kill him."

"Because he's a rancid piece of shit who deserves to die."

He sighed. "I grow tired of your stupidity. I will leave you here to think about your replies. If I don’t get the answers I require, I’ll instruct the Colonel to break every bone in your body, and then beat you until you’re almost dead. If you still don’t cooperate, he’ll finish you with a bullet in the head. Do you understand me?"

"Fuck you. Is that enough understanding?”

He ignored the insult. “My men will give you a taste of what is in store for you, should you decide not to cooperate. I suggest you think very seriously about your answers before I come back.”

He nodded to Griggs, and they left the vault. Two men remained, and without a word they set about beating him with the butts of their rifles. When their arms ached they used their boots, and all he could do was try to roll with the hardest blows. The beating lasted for ten minutes, and when they left, he spat out a bloody tooth on the floor and tried to move his body to favor the worst of his injuries. They'd beaten him on the head several times with wooden rifle butts, and his vision was blurred, so he was seeing double. He assumed it would clear. Unless they’d cracked his skull and he was suffering from severe concussion. In which case, he’d probably die anyway. Why worry?

He cursed himself for trusting an Afghan. For not suspecting Colonel Rahman was using his Presidential connections as a cover so he could carry out his own agenda. Like many Afghan soldiers, that agenda could be descried in a single word. Loot. With the President behind him, he’d be untouchable. His unit of former insurgents, drug traffickers, and hitmen would follow him as long as they thought they'd get rich.

They'd thrown in their lot with the Haqqanis, and were no doubt already working out their share of the ransom money. Which meant he was on his own. Back at the coffeehouse, Greg would have no idea what had happened. When he failed to return, Blum would assume he'd run into more trouble than he could handle, and he may return to the Ambassador and report failure. In which case maybe they'd cough up the ransom. By then he’d be long dead. He briefly thought of Ivan but discounted any help from him. The man was CIA through and through, and under strict instructions to avoid any Pakistani entanglements. He was screwed.

He passed out again from waves of pain and surfaced after a further few minutes. He felt his head clearing, and it helped him think straight. He’d been about to give up hope, and that wasn't the way he operated. Nor was it the way they taught him in the SEALs, and since then, he'd operated on a simple set of principles. Well, one principle. As long as he was breathing, he was in with a chance.

His vision cleared, and he glanced around the bank vault that they'd made his prison. The glow of an emergency light was enough for him to see his surroundings. Unsurprisingly, there was a single way in and a single way out. The massive steel door, and it would be opened by means of dialing a combination on the outside. He continued gazing around the room. Looking for anything that might make an opportunity to get out. He faced two problems. One was the plastic tape that held his hands fastened behind his back. The other was getting the door open. He didn’t have a solution for either.

After several minutes of searching the room, examining every possibility, he came up with some ideas. He staggered painfully to his feet. They’d left a drawer to a filing cabinet slightly open, and when he reached it, he managed to open it further using his bound hands and found what he'd expected to find. The thin steel runner that supported the drawer along the bottom edge was unfinished metal. With a feeling of elation he put his hands against the thin metal slide and began rubbing the sharp edge over the tape. After several minutes the tape parted, and he brought his hands in front of him to examine the damage.

He’d cut the skin of his wrists to a bloody mess, but the cuts were superficial, and he wiped the blood away on his shirt. The circulation was returning to his hands, and he started on the next stage. Looking for a way out of the vault. The door was massive, impossible to open without either the outside combination or an oxy acetylene torch. He was still searching when he found it. The manufacturer had taken precautions against an employee locking themselves inside.

An emergency release button, or so he assumed. The label below the big red button was printed in Urdu, which read like Martian. The problem was deciding what would happen if he pressed it. A squad of men could come running inside and start blasting, or maybe not. He stared at the strange letters for several minutes, trying to decide. Either it was the way out, or it’d bring a heap more trouble down on his head.

Although sooner or later men would come, so it would be better if they came at the time of his choosing, rather than theirs. He searched the vault again, looking for a weapon. He found a single possibility, the cabinet he’d used to free himself. He slid the steel drawer all the way out. It was weighty, sharp-edged, and all he had. He rested for a short time to recover his strength. Preparing for when he pressed that button, and armed men may come pouring into the vault. His last throw of the dice, until waves of dizziness came over him. He realized the beating had left him weaker than he thought.

On the face of it, it seemed impossible, but through the dizziness, a picture took shape. Sara Carver, the girl he still loved. She was a captive of these same people, and she may not be far away. She would be in a dark prison, praying that someone would come to get her out. Someone like him, and his mind cleared.

She’ll expect me to come for her, and why not? Stoner, the man who fights battles for those too weak to fight for themselves, she’ll be waiting for me to come. Yet here I am, stuck in this miserable vault. It’s time to gamble. Time to kick ass.

The dizziness came back. He swayed violently and fell on the floor. The fall was all that saved him. The lock snapped open, and the door swung outward on its hinges. He held his hands behind his back, so they’d assume he was still tied.

The two Haqqanis who'd beaten him stepped into the vault and stared down at him. They didn't seem to notice the filing cabinet drawer lying on the floor.

"We have a message."

"What does that tubby little shit want now?"

His eyes narrowed, but he chose to ignore the insult. "General Khan wants you to tell him the truth. Do the Americans intend to pay the ransom or not? If you are honest with him, he’ll consider sparing your life. You should know we’ll be leaving this place soon to go to the town where we’re holding the women. A wrong answer will mean you won’t be coming with us. You’ll be dead, and he’ll assume they don’t intend to pay. Which will leave him no choice but to start killing the women to make the Americans take him seriously.”

The guy had given him important information. One, his time frame was limited, two, the women were elsewhere, and their time frame was also limited.

The guy stared down at him. "Well, what is your answer?"

"Tell him to give himself up, and I won't kill him, but not Griggs. No matter what happens, he dies."

The man sneered, snarled something in Urdu to the other man, and they left the vault. The door slammed shut, and he was on his own. Waves of dizziness returned to leave him nauseated, and he felt weaker.

He was one man, and even if he did manage to get out, how could he fight his way through them with a chunk of metal office furniture? Then escape the town and find where the women were held. Even then, he’d have to find a way to free them. Khan held all the cards, and even worse, he was in Pakistan. Which cut Stoner off from any help.

Once again, he cursed Ivan for leaving him in the lurch. But then he thought of Sara, and the doubts fell away. Nothing would stop him from doing everything possible until he’d drawn his last breath and fired his last bullet. He gave it a few minutes, picked up the metal drawer, and after taking several deep breaths, pressed the red button.

An alarm began to chime, and within seconds, the outside lock rattled, and the vault door began to open. He waited at the side of the door. A man stepped into the vault, followed by another, the same two men who'd come to make the offer, the Haqqanis who'd given him the vicious beating. He swung the metal drawer hard, and it smashed against the head of the first hostile. The man went down, and already Stoner was leaping toward the second man, who was starting to bring up his rifle.

He had one chance, and he swung the steel drawer when he slipped. The first man he’d hit cracked his skull when his head struck the edge of the vault door. Blood and brains had spilled out onto the floor, and he’d stepped into the slippery mess. His feet went out from under him, and Stoner tumbled to the floor, throwing up a hand to stop himself hitting his head on the steel doorframe. The fall gave the man time to step back, level his rifle, and the thick lips drew back in cruel snarl.

"You will die for that, American pig. Your death will be longer and more painful than you can imagine. The man you killed was my brother-in-law, the husband of my sister. She will want to know I took revenge. Your life is over, American pig. Hell is waiting for you.”

He was shaking with a fury, and in that moment, Stoner knew he was finished. He'd come so close. The room outside was empty, and if he could have taken out both guards, he’d have scooped up their rifles and had a good chance to get clear. The freak stumble, something he couldn’t have foreseen, had finished him. His eyes darted everywhere, looking for a way out, but he was helpless on the floor. There was no way out.

The man who stood over him had his finger on the trigger, and a round in the breech. In a couple of seconds, he’d take up final pressure on the trigger, and the bullet would tear into him. Probably a gutshot, he'd want to carry out his threat to make his death painful, and Stoner knew he'd bleed out in agony inside the vault. The guy may even put a bullet into each of his knees to make sure he couldn't even crawl, maybe a bullet through each hand so that he was totally helpless. It wasn’t going to be pretty. He'd spend the last minutes, maybe an hour of his life in extreme agony, a tortured death in a dark vault in Nowheresville, Pakistan. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

The man’s fury peaked. "Goodbye, American. After I put the first bullet in you, I intend to stay a while and watch you die. No one will hear your screams. This vault is in a sub-basement level, and no sound can escape. When I leave, all you will have left for company is the devil himself. Soon you will descend into the darkness of hell for what you have done."

Stoner watched the finger tighten on the trigger, seeing the eyes narrow to tiny slits. If he were going to die, he’d die like a man. Not show him he was scared. He was better than this sonofabitch. But the waves of dizziness overcame him at the crucial time, and his eyes closed. He knew he was cringing, waiting for the bullet to tear into his belly, and he cursed himself for not having the strength to face down the bastard. There was nothing he could do, except die.

After several seconds, he’d heard nothing. No shot, no agonizing stab of pain. Nothing. He opened his eyes, and the man was still standing in the same position. Still with the rifle pointed at him, but he wasn't alone. Someone had come up behind him, brought a thin dagger around his head, and stabbed it into his eye. He hadn't cried out, for the simple reason the long, narrow blade had penetrated all the way through to his brain. The assailant was supporting him, holding him to stop him crashing to the floor. It was clearly a struggle to hold the weight of the man, because the assailant was a mere boy. A boy named Javed. Orphaned by the war, an expert thief, and a kid who could move across ground like a wraith. A survivor. And a killer.

With an effort he lowered him to the ground. "Mr. Stoner, I couldn't let him go, not until I was certain he was dead. If he’d dropped his rifle, it might have made too much noise.”

“You did well. Are there other hostiles nearby?”

“There are men in the room above. Are you okay?"

He dragged himself up from the floor and picked up the rifle dropped by the man whose brains were still leaking onto the vault floor. "Kid, I’m okay now. How the hell did you ever manage to get in this place?"

He grinned. "I waited until they were looking the other way. Some of these men are very stupid, and even when I couldn’t avoid them, they didn’t see anything wrong with a boy creeping around. Should I take the other rifle?"

"Good idea. Take all the spare magazines you can find. Anything else that might be useful. How many men are there in the building?"

Javed didn't answer at first. He dragged his dagger from the man's eye, and it came out with an obscene sucking noise. He wiped the blade on the dead man's robe, and almost like a conjuring trick, it disappeared inside his sleeve.

"Four men, but I don't think they'll be a problem. They seemed to be asleep.” He stopped and considered for a few moments, "I could smell alcohol, perhaps they’d been drinking."

"Let's hope so. Let’s hope they’re ratted. I’ll take a look. "

He crept up the staircase and opened the door at the top a couple of inches. The room was long and wide, with four couches and a huge coffee table in the center. More filing cabinets lined the walls, and Stoner assumed the bank had used the space for meetings. Confidential meetings. Confidentiality in a land of drugs, people, and arms smugglers was important, especially for those banks catering to that shadowy line of business.

Four men were in the room, and one lay prone on each of the four couches. They were asleep, and the noise of their snoring resembled the roar of aircraft engines. A number of open bottles lay scattered on the coffee table, and he spotted an open cupboard squeezed between two filing cabinets. A liquor cupboard for when the bank entertained their less abstemious clients. The insurgents had smashed the lock and consumed enough of the contents to render them senseless. They were all dead drunk and sleeping it off.

He beckoned to the boy. "They’re not in any position to stop us. We need to go."

Javed followed him across the room. Stoner was about to open the outer door when he spotted his guns lying on a small table. They'd removed them from the holsters and slid out the magazines. Bullets had spilled out on the table, and he took a few seconds to reload and stuff the guns into his shoulder rig. He strapped it back on and felt almost human again. There was no sign of his M4A1, but he had the AK assault rifle he'd taken off the guard, and the boy had the other. He was about to leave when he realized Javed wasn't with him. When he looked round, the kid had just finished plunging his dagger into the eye of the last of the sleeping men. He looked up at Stoner and shrugged.

“I thought I'd make sure."

"They were drunk, Javed. They weren’t going after anyone."

One day, he’d need to explain certain facts to him. Warfare was dirty, but there were certain niceties. Like not putting a dagger through the eyes of sleeping, drunken men. The boy followed him to the first floor, and Stoner halted to peer through a narrow crack in the woodwork. Men were milling around, and he gestured to Javed to step back. The boy was staring across the room, looking at a guy coming in. He was carrying an ornate silver tray containing a coffeepot and small cups. No doubt refreshments for the General and his men, and Javed pushed past him, the dagger drawn once more. The man froze in terror, and Stoner raced to intercept before he cried out.

"I’ve got him. Just take the tray off him before he drops it."

He jabbed the muzzle of the rifle into the man's belly, slammed it forward again, this time into his groin, and while he was gasping for air, jabbed him again. The steel barrel smashed into his throat, smashing his vocal chords and cutting off any chance of him calling for help. Javed grabbed the coffee tray before it fell. Stoner lowered the body to the floor and hit him a fourth time, a scything blow across the carotid artery, leaving him unconscious. Javed raised the dagger, but he stopped him.

“We need him to find out where they’re holding the women. We’ll take him back with us.”

The boy looked disappointed, but he didn’t argue. He glanced out the door, and the street outside was empty, except for two vehicles. One was the truck Colonel Rahman had used to transport his men, and the other a luxurious SUV, a late model Porsche Cayenne. Not the most effective off-roader in the remote boonies of Pakistan, but certainly the quickest. He dragged the still unconscious man to the vehicle and looked inside, but there was no sign of the ignition key. He looked at Javed.

"Can you get this started?"

The boy raised his eyes to the heavens. "Can a camel fart?"

He left the boy to it, grinning as he worked. Stoner went to the truck, opened the hood, and found what he'd expected, a gas engine, with spark plugs and cables. It was the work of seconds to rip out the wiring to the ignition system, and he returned to the Porsche in time to hear the throaty roar of the engine, as Javed managed to get it started. He beamed at Stoner, proud of his handiwork.

"I had to damage the instrument panel to break the steering lock. I'm sorry."

"It means we won't be able to sell it. Not for its full value. You won’t get your full share.”

"When we’ve finished with it, it's all yours. Lock, stock, and damaged instrument panel.”

He looked up and down the street, but although he could hear a commotion from the other side of the building, the rear was empty of insurgents. A man walked past, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with sacks of what he assumed was grain, but he took no notice of the American and the boy. In the lawless region of Northeast Pakistan, men learned to ignore other people's business. Those who wanted to live a long and healthy life. They climbed into the soft, leather seat, Stoner moved his hand to engage drive, and paused when Javed said, "Where are we going?"

They were about to escape the town, but he'd forgotten the reason he’d come, to locate the hostages. For him, there was a single hostage more important than the rest. He was about to go charging out of town, and still he had no idea where they were holding their captives. Except for the man he’d dumped on the back seat.

He was groaning and starting to come around. Stoner punched him hard in the side of the head, and he went out again. Javed climbed into the driver's seat, and he'd no doubt the kid would have driven the SUV away, if he’d let him. It wasn't going to happen. No way was he going to let a boy of twelve or thirteen-years-old drive a high-performance SUV, not when their lives depended on it, and the lives of so many others.

"Move over, pal. I'll drive."

The boy grumbled but brightened when he told him to climb over into the back and keep an eye on the prisoner. "But don't kill him. He'll have information in his head, information that I'll need."

He floored the gas pedal, and the powerful SUV skidded away from the building. Stoner flung the wheel over to turn onto the main street. He was hitting almost one hundred miles an hour when he had a thought.

The Porsche Cayenne has a phone in the central console, and at least I have something to tell Ambassador Adams; the amount of the ransom, where the Haqqanis are right now, and that they can attack in safety, as the women are elsewhere.

He got the number of the American Embassy and made the call, punching the buttons with one hand and holding the wheel with the other. He got through to Adams after several minutes.

“Sir, I’m leaving Chitral, and the Haqqanis are here in the town. If you order the military to attack now, they can wipe them out.”

A pause. “I guess you don’t know the latest. They sent us a video clip. They stoned one of the women to death. They said if they see any sign of mounting a military action against them, or to rescue the prisoners, they’ll execute one woman every hour in the same way.”

“Sir, that just means we have to make sure they don’t see us coming. I doubt they’ll execute more of them, because they’re valuable.”

“Still, I don’t like it. It may be better to call it off.” He didn’t answer. Calling it off when they’d got this far was insane, “What about the women? I gather you don’t yet know where they are.”

“They’re holding them somewhere else. Sir, you must listen to me. If our people move fast, they can end this.” There was another pause, this time even longer, “Ambassador, are you still there?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m still here. So you’re outside of Chitral?”

“Uh, huh. Mr. Stoner, that’s in Pakistan. There’s nothing we can do on that side of the border. It’s a diplomatic nightmare, you see. I doubt you can begin to imagine the hard work I have to put in to keep all sides happy.”

“You need to attack now, Sir. Contact the Paks. Get them moving. The Haqqanis are their enemies as much as ours. Or send our Special Forces in.”

“Our people don’t see it like that. I wish it were that simple. What about Colonel Rahman’s men?”

“They’re working for the other side, for the Haqqanis.”

“Working for the other side? That’s unfortunate.” He sounded like he’d just told him his car had a flat tire, “It looks like we’ll have to pay up, Stoner.”

“If you were prepared to pay a ransom, why send us here?”

He snorted, almost as if with amusement. “We had to do something. Otherwise it’d look bad. What kind of figure are they asking?”

“One hundred million.”

“U.S. Dollars, yes.”

“Hmm, that might be a problem. Okay, Mr. Stoner, get out of there and make a report when you get back inside Afghanistan.”

“That’s it? You want us to pull out?”

He heard another voice in the room, someone whispering to him urgently.

“The advice I’m getting is that would be best. Anything else could risk starting a war with Pakistan. Call me when you get back to Afghanistan, and let me know how you got on. I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”

The line went dead, and he fought to contain his anger. There was nothing he could do. And yet, the women needed saving. Sara needed saving. He concentrated on his driving, and they reached the outskirts of town. The vehicle was Khan’s, so the insurgents were reluctant to shoot at it. Sure, they suspected it was stolen, but they had no way of knowing for sure. No man would want to risk his life by gambling it was an enemy.

He recalled the main road that ran from Chitral to Torkham. There'd be plenty of other vehicles for the insurgents to choose to come after them, and so time was short. Colonel Rahman would be more than desperate, knowing that when word of the deal he'd struck with the Haqqanis got back to Kabul, his career as a Special Forces officer was liable to be much shorter than he'd envisaged. He kept his foot flat on the floor, and several times the vehicle almost left the road, but he corrected it. And reminded himself to send the Porsche Company a thank you note. The off-road performance of the Porsche may have been less than perfect, but the handling on the open road was astonishing, almost like a racecar.

They reached the coffeehouse in record time, and he squealed the Cayenne to a flashy stop. The GAZ 69 was still parked outside, and Archer was on watch. Unmovable, threatening, and radiating danger to anyone tempted to make off with their gear. Greg had rigged a canvas cover to form a temporary shelter for the dog, but Archer was sitting in the driver’s seat. Daring anyone to approach, except Stoner, who he greeted with barks and furious tail wagging. Greg heard the commotion and came outside. He stared at the wounds inflicted by Khan’s men.

“Dammit, Stoner, you look like hell. What happened?”

“They had their fun. The bastards used me as a soccer ball.” He forced a bloody grin, “You should see the other guys.”

“How bad are they?”

He grimaced. “At least you acquired yourself some decent wheels."

He frowned. “The Porsche’s not too shabby, but the off-road performance is crap. There’s something else. The car used to belong to General Khan. When he finds out it’s gone, he’ll go crazy."

"Any news on where they're holding the women?"

"We brought someone along who should be able to help. He’s on the back seat.”

Javed had disappeared, but he came back moments later with the two Talibs, Abbas Noyan and Mohammed Nadiri. They stood outside the coffeehouse and watched as Stoner dragged the prisoner out onto the road.

His eyes were open, and he shook with fear as he waited for the hurt to begin.

"Where are they holding the women?"

He shook his head and mumbled something. Javed strolled over. "He said he doesn't know."

"Tell him that's too bad. If he doesn't know anything, he’s no use to us. You may as well put your dagger through his eye. I’ll let you choose which one.”

Javed spoke to him in Urdu and got nowhere. "He still says he doesn't know where they are.”

"He’ll talk to me."

The growl came from Mohammed Nadiri, and Stoner nodded. "Go ahead."

Nadiri dragged the protesting man out of sight around the back of the coffeehouse, and they left him to it. After a minute, the screams started. They were piteous howls of terrible agony, and he moved to walk around the building and find out what was going on.

Noyan blocked him. "No, you must leave him to do what he does best."

"Torturing a man to death?"

"Would you prefer they torture the women instead? Getting the truth from this man may be the only way we'll find out."

He waited. The howls and screams continued for a few minutes more, and then abruptly stopped. Nadiri came around the corner, with his robe and face covered in blood.

"He was tough, that one. He didn't want to tell me. But in the end, he saw sense. They're holding the women somewhere out in the mountains of Northeast Pakistan.”

Noyan stared at him in consternation. "That is one of the most hostile and inaccessible regions on earth. There is an airfield outside the town, and not a single airline has shown any inclination to fly in there. It’s like the surface of the moon.”

“It sounds like he’s chosen an ideal place to hide his hostages.”

“Yes, he has. Did he say anything about my son and daughter?"

"He said they are there. But when he knew he was about to die, there was something in his expression, it was almost like he was smiling, expecting us to die before we can get them out."

"You've no idea what was in his mind?"

"You did well, Mohammed. At least we know where they are, even if getting them out proves to be more difficult than we could possibly have imagined."

"What is this place?" Stoner asked him.

He sighed. "It is about one hundred and fifty kilometers from here, in the middle of the tribal badlands. Even the Pakistani Army is reluctant to go there. The locals support the insurgency to a man. The moment we draw near, every hand will be turned against us. The simple reason we are strangers, and no other. Even the British Army during their occupation of the region in the days of the Raj, suffered a major defeat there. They sent in an entire army, and the local tribesmen fell on them. The attack was so vicious, most of them died, and they never recovered the bodies. After that, they gave the place a wide berth."

"There are two of us," he pointed out, "Not an army. Greg, we’ll ditch the Porsche. At least, we’ll leave it with Javed. It's his property. We'll take the GAZ and hope the engine doesn't fall out on the way."

"You’ll never make it," Noyan snarled, “I guarantee you won’t get more than half way.”

Stoner shrugged. "It's been said plenty of times before, and we're still alive."

"Not this time, American. However, there is an alternative.”

"We will join forces. I can see you’re a good fighter, and I've no doubt your friend is good with a gun. But you know nothing of what you're up against. I’ve been there before, as has Mohammed. Years ago, we had discussions with local Islamist warbands, with a view to forming an alliance. In the end, we decided not to go ahead. Those people are not devout Muslims. Most of them are bandits, wild, bloody, and brutal."

Stoner said nothing.

When he didn’t reply, Noyan looked impatient. "What do you say, American? If you wish to succeed, and get out alive, you’ll need our help. Otherwise, you will surely die."

He looked at Greg, who gave a faint nod, and gazed back at Noyan.

It seems kind of weird, joining forces with Taliban fighters, but what the hell? There’s more at stake than old enmities, like the lives of innocent women, including Sara Carver.

"Why not? But like I said, we have to ditch the Porsche. Otherwise, they'll see us coming from a long way away. The GAZ is going to be mighty crowded, with all our supplies and two extra two men."

Javed’s face was set in a determined expression. "I saved you back in Chitral. Besides, you need me to get into places where grown-ups cannot go."

Noyan nodded. "The boy's right. He could be more than useful." He grinned, “Besides, now he owns a gun.”

“And the Porsche,” Javed reminded them.

“And the Porsche. Mohammed Nadiri will ask the coffeehouse owner to keep it around the back until we return. I doubt he’ll refuse.”

Stoner doubted he’d refuse either. He could hardly fail to have heard the blood-chilling screams when Nadiri had tortured the captive.

“It'll be something of a squeeze. The jeep is already overloaded with our supplies and the dog."

"The dog?" The two Afghans looked horrified, although Javed didn't seem unduly worried. Nadiri was shaking his head, and Stoner noticed a glimmer of fear in the brutal face, "We cannot take the dog. That is impossible. Dogs are…"

"Dogs are man's best friend," Stoner told him in a tone that brooked no argument, "I don't give a shit what the Prophet said about dogs, this one has more sense, more guts, and more decency than most men I've encountered in this Godforsaken place. The dog rides with us, and if you don't like it, you can stay behind.”

"But, my children…" Noyan said, "I have to find them."

"It's up to you, buddy. If you don't like the dog, you can stay behind. Besides, they’ll love Archer. He’s all heart. When he’s not eating one.”

The Afghans spoke to each other in rapid Pashto, and Noyan nodded to Stoner. "Very well, we have a deal. But I think you're making a mistake with the dog. Nothing good will come out of taking the spawn of Satan with us."

“You’ve got it wrong. The spawn of Satan are the guys we’re going to find, men who make war on innocent women. We need to move out, time’s a-wastin’."

Lieutenant Ali Mirza, attached to ISI Islamabad, glanced through the reports on his screen. He was conscious of the awe and fear his organization inspired. Many people compared the Inter-Services Intelligence, or ISI, to the Nazi Gestapo. Not without good reason. Their reputation for extreme brutality was legendary.

Most of what he browsed through was routine. The usual denunciations, invariably people seeking revenge for some imagined sleight. Often related to land disputes, or arguments over marriage. He dismissed all of them as not worth his time, until he came to a report that was more interesting, from an asset inside the small town of Chitral that suggested a raid by Islamist militants. When they left, he’d followed them as far as the village of Chilas to the east, and they’d been herding a number of captives. All women, and of more significance, they were Westerners. Islamist militants running rampant, Western women hostage, a combination that spelled trouble. There was worse.

Their man had picked up a whisper in a bar. They were saying one of the captives was a U.S. Congresswoman, no less. She was also the wife of the American Ambassador in Kabul. He knew what to do. Pass it up the chain of command, before he got his fingers burned. He picked up the phone and called his duty line manager. The phone took almost a minute to answer.

“Major Mazari.” He sounded breathless, like he’d been running. Or screwing. Senior officers made certain they had first pick of the young recruits to ISI.

“Sir, this is Lieutenant Mirza. I believe we have a problem.”

A sigh. “Very well, what is it this time?”

He explained about the captives, and Mazari came awake. “What have you done so far?”

“Nothing, Sir. I thought it best to call you.”

“You did the right thing. Let me think.” The line was quiet for several minutes, and then the voice came back. During the silence, Mirza had heard someone talking in the background, a female voice, “Mirza, contact the Embassy in Kabul, and see if this woman is missing. We need to know more; these Islamists are becoming a nuisance. You said they attacked the town of Chitral?”

“Yes, Sir. Then they took the captives to Chilas. At least, that’s what the report says.”

“Chitral and Chilas. You came to us from the Air Force, is that correct?”

“Contact the Air Force liaison, and order them to get a reconnaissance flight up in the air. They’re to patrol the region between Chitral and Chilas, and report back to ISI anything out of the ordinary. But make sure you contact the Embassy first. If the wife of the Ambassador is down there, we’ll have to handle this with kid gloves.”

“And if she isn’t, Sir?”

“Then you can tell the pilot who overflies the area he has a free hand. If he spots what he believes to be a hostile group, he is to destroy them. But, Lieutenant…”

“Check with the Embassy first. Let’s see what we have down there. Don’t screw up. This could have the makings of a diplomatic nightmare. Any sign of a VIP down there, and the pilot is to hold his fire. Clear?”

“Good. Call me tomorrow with an update. I’m about to go off duty. It’s time I got to bed.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Ambassador Adams’ office, how may I help you?”

Mirza explained about the intelligence reports. “The thing is, we need to verify who is down there, if anyone, before we mount any kind of an attack. Are you aware of the capture of Congresswoman Adams by Islamic militants?”

June Reeder smoothed her bottle blonde hair while she gave it some thought. Of course she knew about the kidnap of the Congresswoman and her party, but the situation was complicated. She loved Seth with a powerful intensity, though she knew he’d never leave his wife. Even though he didn’t love her, he had political ambitions, and he had to tread carefully. She understood his dilemma. He didn’t want her back, but he had to go through the motions.

In her dreams, she fantasized about Mrs. Adams dying suddenly of a heart attack or something similar.

This Pakistani officer is offering me a gift-wrapped solution on a plate. Should I take it? Would anyone ever find out? Would Seth find out? No, the call isn’t recorded, so no one need ever know.