part0012

The dust cloud in the distance was an ominous sign. They were coming back, Khan, Griggs, together with their murderous rabble. They’d arrive soon, and all they had were a few rifles, and an insufficient supply of ammunition. The Haqqanis had no such problems. They were heavily armed, and in addition…

It came to him then. “They must have rifles and ammo stored here, maybe a machine gun or two, somewhere in the town. We need to find out where.”

Greg cocked an eyebrow at him. “Stoner, we can only fire one rifle apiece, and I have the sniper rifle. Sure, we could use a few more bullets, but that’s about it. Fingers on triggers we don’t have.”

“We have the women. Each of them can fire a rifle.”

“The women?” He chuckled, “They won’t even know which way to point the muzzle when Khan attacks.”

“We’ll show them. All they need to do it put up a hail of bullets. If Khan’s men get near enough, some bullets are sure to find targets.”

“Except we don’t know where they have these bullets stashed.”

“Khan and Nadiri have a Haqqani prisoner. He’ll know.”

Their eyes met, and both men grinned. Greg nodded. “Now would be a good time to ask him.”

This time, there were no screams. The prisoner told them what they needed to know within seconds. No doubt Mohammed Nadiri's hard face staring down at him in grim anticipation of the fun he’d have beating it out of him influenced his decision. A short time later, the men were handing out 7.62mm AKM assault rifles to the women. They'd found a total of sixty AKMs in wooden cases, and thousands of rounds of ammunition, much of it already loaded into spare magazines. They also found a machine gun. Not much of a machine gun, a scratched and battered Russian-made PK 7.62mm that looked as if it had fought its way across Asia, the Mideast, and all the way back. When Stoner tried the action, he found it worked. They'd have no way of knowing how effective it was on sustained automatic fire, but time would tell. Either it would spew out bullets, or it wouldn't.

They directed the women to their positions, split into four small groups. Stoner and Blum each commanded a group, as did Nadiri and Noyan. While they were waiting for the enemy to arrive, they went through the procedures of dry firing rifles, demonstrating function of the fire selectors, how to detach and reattach magazines, and how to clear blockages. Greg came up with an idea.

"What are we doing here? There’re enough rifles for the women to have spares if they need them. Hand them out. They're doing no good stored inside wooden cases."

They distributed the spare rifles and repeated the drill of dry firing and loading and unloading magazines. When they were done, he made doubly sure they understood the function of the safety lever. The last thing an experienced shooter wanted was to have a rookie pull the trigger by accident. Especially when they were standing right behind, with the barrel pointed at their back.

Stoner went around each of their positions, and when he was ready, he ducked down behind cover with the four women of his group. One was Barbara Adams. Another was Sara Carver. For some reason, Javed had attached himself to him, and he had also attached himself to Archer. From his upbringing as a typical Afghan Muslim, with a terror of large, black German shepherds that bordered on a deep-seated phobia, dog and boy had become firm friends.

"Javed, keep Archer with you, and stay out of the firing line."

His face fell. "I can help, Mr. Stoner. I can use a rifle and kill the enemy."

He'd seen evidence of Javed's murderous skills, and had no doubt he’d deal a world of pain to the Haqqanis.

It wasn’t going to happen. He had good reasons for wanting him to stay away from the fight. The first was because an underage kid had no place in a fight like the one that was coming. The second was Archer. Archer’s power and effectiveness had little place in defense. But if they needed his special skills to track and take down a man, they must keep him in reserve. Keep him safe. Keep them both safe.

“I want you to look after Archer.”

Reluctantly, Javed agreed and stepped backward. Archer followed, and when he looked around, the boy was smoothing the dog's fur, like they were buddies for life.

They didn't have long to wait. The first indication of the coming attack was the noise of engines approaching, but they stopped before they came into sight. Nothing happened for some time, and he could almost smell the Haqqanis making a stealthy approach to the town. Except it didn’t seem right. He called softly to Greg, ten meters away with his tiny group of women.

"I’m going forward to see what they're doing. Something’s not right."

"I hear you. We’ll cover you.”

He ran doubled over, keeping to the low walls that bordered the small rear yards between him and the enemy. Beyond the edge of the town, he saw the vehicles halted almost a kilometer away. The reason for the delay was obvious, and he knew they were in a lot more trouble than they’d realized.

Ishaq Khan was no fool, and he'd worked out a straightforward frontal attack would lose him more fighters than he was prepared to sacrifice. Somehow, they'd come up with another Technical, a Toyota truck with a 12.7mm DShK heavy machine gun mounted on the bed. Already, Greg was sniping at them, and men began to fall.

Some were clustered around the rear tire of the Technical, trying to change the wheel. They'd jacked up the truck and were working when the jack started to topple. Men rushed forward to jam balks of timber and chunks of stone underneath the chassis to stop the vehicle collapsing. They shouted and cursed each other, their voices carrying on the wind. He watched them for several minutes and saw Greg take down three of their men. They hit the deck and worked prone, breathing in the dust. Greg made life miserable for them, continually sniping whenever a head showed itself, but a last they bolted the wheel in place and removed the supports.

They’d be planning to use the DShK to spearhead the assault. Hosing down everything in range with a curtain of lead, and the fighters would come in behind. Moving from house to house, the defenders would be swamped by heavy machine gun fire, .50 caliber-sized bullets ripping through stone, thick timber, and steel to tear them apart. But they didn’t hold all the advantages. The Dragunov had hurt them, and they were nervous. When they came, they wouldn’t be quite so enthusiastic.

He raced back to their positions and called Nadiri, Noyan, and Blum to describe what he'd seen.

"If we don't stop that Technical, we’ll lose."

"We need an RPG," Noyan said at once, “A single rocket would turn that machine gun into scrap metal."

"Except we don't have an RPG."

Nadiri was thoughtful. "We could shoot up the tires. If we manage to hit at least one, it would slow them down. If they've used their spare, it could stop them dead."

"Except the Technical will be in position, in front of us. They don't need to move it to shoot up our positions. Those guns have a range of two kilometers or more. We don't have anything capable of dealing with it."

"Then deal with the men."

He looked at Greg. "What you mean?"

"Remember when we loaded up the GAZ we packed four Claymores. If we position them where we expect the Haqqanis to come, we could do some wicked damage. Maybe enough for the rest of them to think twice about carrying on."

"They’re still in the GAZ?"

Blum nodded, and he called Javed to help him. The boy ran out with Archer close behind, and Greg grinned. Archer was his dog, and he was pleased to see him doing his bit to improve Muslim and canine relations, a small step for mankind, but still a start.

Greg and Javed reappeared carrying the four green painted Claymore mines, Archer trotting along behind like a cautious rearguard. The mines looked like rectangular steel boxes, like biscuit tins, with a metal stake attached to push into the ground. The immortal words ‘Front Toward Enemy' on the case made certain there'd be no mistake about where to stand when the shit hit the fan. He positioned one on either side of the track. The remaining two he stationed one each next to the paths that led behind the parallel rows of houses flanking the main street. There were no alternatives, and if the enemy did manage to find another route, they’d lose. All they could do was what they could do, and no more. He ran the thin, almost invisible cables back to his position in the rear yard and settled down to wait.

They didn’t have long. They'd replaced the faulty wheel, and the engine of the vehicle roared into life. The hood of the Technical appeared, the crew standing behind the gun, ready to open fire. The range was long, still almost a kilometer, too long for accurate fire with AKs and M4s, but not for the DShK. The gun opened fire, and the heavy slugs smashed around their positions. The enemy had ammunition to burn, and they fired repeatedly. Sheets of 12.7mm bullets buzzed around them, crashing into the stonework, and in some cases ripping through it. Twice he heard screams, both times women's voices. There was nothing he could do. They were pinned down. The Technical was still five hundred meters away when the Haqqanis came on foot, keeping close behind it the vehicle for cover. The heavy machine gun kept on firing, and all they could do was hug the ground while it got closer. And closer.

But they weren’t entirely powerless. Greg had his Dragunov sniper rifle out of the case and loaded. Between bursts of fire he propped it on the top of a low wall, took careful aim, and fired a single shot. The front of the truck dropped several inches. He’d scored a hit on the newly replaced tire. But not enough to stop the vehicle, and it carried on, bumping up and down on the now uneven wheels. Greg popped up again, and another round hit the Toyota on the other side. Now both front tires were in shreds, but still the vehicle kept on moving. The gunfire intensified, and they were lucky not to take any more casualties. And then everything changed.

The fighters were coming within range of the Claymores, and he held the detonator ready. A crowd of snarling, bearded men charged into the town. He watched them come abreast of the Claymore through a gap between two cottages. Almost. And then they were there, a vengeful rabble, and he hit the detonator button. The mine detonated, and steel ball bearings ripped through the enemy, taking them unawares. They didn't fall back, but neither did they advance. The survivors, about ten of the twenty who'd attacked, threw themselves to the ground, and didn’t move. Another group of Haqqanis tried to approach from the other side, and again, he waited for the right moment. When it came, he punched the button a second time. More steel ball bearings tore through them, but they knew something was wrong, and were waiting for it. They fell back, leaving just three of their number bleeding out on the ground, and four men limping and favoring hits to their limbs and bodies. They regrouped and waited for the Technical to finish flattening. Bumping along on the remaining strips of rubber and steel rims of the front wheels, the vehicle came closer. And closer. The DShK resumed firing, and a relentless fusillade pinned them down. They had no defense against the powerful weapon. Except…

The Claymores were still in place. Designed for anti-personnel work, they were also effective against light-skinned vehicles, like a Toyota truck. Right now, the truck was almost abreast of the two remaining mines. Quickly, before it went past, he hit the last two detonators, and the truck was sandwiched between the simultaneous hurricanes of flesh-flaying steel from both sides.

It stopped instantly. The driver had been hit by a large number of the steel bearings, and the gun crew was no longer visible. The blast and subsequent shower of metal had torn into them and thrown them off the bed of the truck. What remained of their bodies lay broken and bleeding at the side of the track. The Toyota was dead, wrecked by the high explosive and hurricane of deadly fragments. Even the deadly immensity of the heavy machine gun was little more than scrap. He wanted to think Griggs had been amongst the gun crew, but somehow he knew it wasn't to be. Griggs was the kind of man who'd fall into a heap of pig manure and come out smelling of roses.

A stunned silence had descended on the town, and he stared around, wondering why.

The enemy has taken a terrible beating, but these people aren't finished. They fight for the Hammer of God, Ishaq Khan, and for loot. For those reasons, they'll climb over the bodies of the dead and keep coming at us in an insane urge to kill.

Even as he had that thought, he heard heavy gunfire, but this time from the other end of town. In a flash of revelation, he realized what they'd done. The main attack from the front was designed to divert their attention, while the serious attack intended to infiltrate the town and finish them off was coming from behind.

He leapt to his feet, grabbed the PK machine gun, and he was running back, shouting at Greg to follow him. The women ran alongside, and one was Sara Carver, a trained soldier. Another was Barbara Adams, who knew how to handle a rifle. He realized they’d lost two of the women, and Greg only had two with him, which meant more casualties. He’d heard the screams but couldn’t put faces to the missing women.

He didn't make the end of the town. Griggs and his party had fanned out and taken cover in the houses on both sides of the street. They ran into a curtain of gunfire and had to take avoiding action. Stoner moved fast, so did Greg, and Sara pulled Barbara down. But two more women took hits before they could dive into cover. They were inside a cottage, and he knew instantly they'd made a mistake. He’d led them into a trap. Gunfire was coming from the other end of the town, where more of Khan's men had gone past the wrecked Toyota. They were chasing down the remainder of the irritating women who were holding up the assault and looking to kill the men who led them. If there’d been any precautions about keeping valuable hostages alive, they’d disappeared in the fury of the attack.

The cottage was exposed to fire from both sides, Griggs’ band in the east, and Khan’s force in the west. Nadiri and Noyan were firing magazine after magazine. The women were also blasting away, although much of the gunfire went skyward, to little effect. He was working out how to get out of the trap he’d led them into when he saw a pudgy figure in a dark blue turban at the rear of the yard. Colonel Rahman and another man, his Sergeant, were attempting to get behind them and blast them while Griggs and Khan drove them from the cottage. He looked at Blum.

"Stay here and keep shooting. We can’t let them get any nearer. Rahman is out the back, and I’m gonna make this his last mission. I think he's setting up an ambush. Griggs and Khan will try to force us out, and they'll shoot the moment we show our faces out the back door."

He nodded. "Keep your head down, Stoner. If anyone kills you, make sure it's not that bastard Rahman. Bad for your reputation.”

"It’ll snow in hell before that happens."

He burst out the back door and almost died. Rahman had pulled the trigger to splatter the rear door. Perhaps he’d been hoping to punch bullets through the woodwork and ricochet them around the inside. Stoner walked straight into part of the burst. He was more than lucky. Two bullets smacked into his chest, and it felt like a mule had kicked him. By an incredible chance, both had hit the heavy steelwork of his Desert Eagles, and the lead had flattened and dropped away harmlessly to the ground. He went over backward with the kinetic force of the blast, but he was uninjured. Although he’d little doubt he'd suffered a few cracked ribs and would be in agony during the days to come.

I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m breathing, and I have bullets in the gun.

He rolled over and sneaked out into the yard. He was looking for someone. A man who’d almost killed him. And he was about to return the favor.

He caught a glimpse of the ornate blue turban as Rahman ducked away. He snapped off a single shot chipping stone from the wall where he’d disappeared. A moment later, a head appeared. It wasn’t Rahman, but one of his men. The Colonel was shouting at him, ordering him to go forward and kill Stoner before he got near. Hesitantly, the man came nearer, hunched over, as if it would be enough to keep below incoming fire. It wasn't.

He'd no idea if the Desert Eagles would fire after the damage they'd taken, but now was the time to find out. He took one pistol in his left hand while he held the rifle in his right, ready to fire if the automatic failed. He aimed at the Afghan and pulled the trigger. The target went backward, fell, and slammed to the ground. He could have been dead, or just knocked senseless by the powerful bullet. Either way he needed a reason to check out the other gun. He pulled out the second automatic, took a moment to aim, and pulled the trigger. The pistol fired, and the bullet slammed into the target. He knew what he needed to know. Both guns were working, so the damage they'd taken was merely cosmetic. He slung the rifle over his shoulder on the sling and held a Desert Eagle in each hand. It was time to go after Rahman.

In several strides he reached the wall and peered over the top, but there was no sign of him. He was about to climb over, but decided he’d be a sitting duck if the bastard were waiting for him. He backed off four paces and ran at it, clearing the meter-high wall with a flying leap, and throwing himself flat.

Three shots spat overhead. Rahman had retreated to a nearby cottage and was firing from the window. Stoner put a couple of bullets through the window to force him to duck. Then he ran, sprinting towards the cottage, and he didn’t pause when he reached the door. He smashed into the woodwork with his shoulder and crashed through, searching for a target. Nothing.

The Colonel wasn't there. The dwelling was so small; he must be in the next room. The door was closed. He kicked it open and fired two more shots that ricocheted around the stone walls. He heard a whimper, and he stepped inside.

Colonel Rahman of the Afghan National Army, and relative of the President, was crouched in the far corner. Knees pulled up against his chest, and his arms wrapped around his knees, pulling them toward him. As if making himself as small a target as possible to avoid what he knew was about to come.

Stoner fired a single shot into the wall inches above his head, and the man screamed in terror.

"Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"

"Why did you do it, Rahman? Why did you sell us out?"

"It was my wife!” he gasped, sucking in deep, panicked breaths, “She wanted us to buy a ranch out in the country, away from the constant attacks by the Taliban, ISIS, and al Qaeda. We couldn't afford it because we were already in debt, and so I offered to help General Khan."

"What about the President? Is he involved?"

He looked up, astonished. "The President? No, he knew nothing."

There was something in his eyes, something shifty, and he was determined to find out the truth. He fired another shot, and once again, Rahman screamed.

"Who else knew, you bastard? What about the Embassy, did they know what was going on?"

Another pause, and the man was sobbing, his face wet with tears of guilt, terror, and shame. Finally, he started speaking, and Stoner heard truth in the trembling voice. "Yes, yes. Inside the Embassy."

"Was it the Ambassador?"

"The Ambassador? No, it wasn’t him. There was another."

"Who was it? I want a name.”

He was shaking his head. "If I knew, I would tell you. But I swear on the Prophet, I never found out the name. Before I made the arrangement with Khan, I called the Embassy and asked to speak to Seth Adams. I said it was to do with his wife, and I spoke to someone in his office. Whoever it was said as far as the Ambassador was concerned, he didn’t much care whether the operation to free his wife succeeded. He’d come up with a lesser ransom, pay up, and if his wife died in the operation to free her that was too bad. I just took it as an okay to do the deal." He half-smiled, "If the man wasn't interested in getting his wife back, why should I worry? I might as well make some money out of the deal.”

He held back his fury on a tight rein. If the national game of America was football, in Afghanistan it was murder.

"What about the women, the prisoners, in danger of rape and murder from Khan and his men? Didn't that make you stop and think?"

He murmured something, and it sounded like, 'they were just women.'

His anger boiled over. He was sick of it all, sick of Afghanistan, sick of the backstabbing, corruption, the violence, the deaths, and the miserable poverty of its population. It was men like this, paid generous salaries, as well as the brides they took, and money they stole for phantom soldiers. Men who appeared on the rosters but never existed. A corruption that diluted the security forces and perpetuated the misery of armed insurgency for the average Joe, and the average Joanna, or whatever was the Afghan equivalent. He thought about his business.

Me and Ma Kelly do everything we can to make certain the girls have as good a life as possible, considering the nature of their work. Sure, it would be easy to dismiss them as cheap whores. Treat them badly and screw every penny out of their earnings so they make almost nothing for their efforts. Instead, we treat them well and care for them. As a result, the girls prosper. It’s pieces of shit like this quivering coward in front of me who are responsible for keeping the country in the Dark Ages.

He was tempted, but he couldn't shoot an unarmed man. Neither could he leave him unpunished.

The rifle was lying on the floor where he’d put it down when he knew Stoner was coming for him. He shook his head, and his fleshy jowls quivered.

"I will not. If I pick up the rifle, you'll kill me."

"If you don't pick it up, I'll kill you. Take it. At least try to fight like a man."

He shook his head again, his eyes wide with fear and desperation. Stoner sighed. He’d have to do it another way. He turned his back in a gesture of dismissal and started walking out of the room. Rahman was true to his lily-livered character all the way to the end. As he'd expected, Stoner heard him snatch up the rifle to shoot him in the back. He dodged to the side and rolled on the ground, as a burst of gunfire tore past the spot where he'd been standing a second before. He turned, aimed, and fired. One bullet each from the big automatics, and two .50 slugs buried themselves into Colonel.

The damage was awesome. Two gaping, bloody holes in his chest as the force of the bullets slammed him back against the wall. Then he pitched forward and fell on his front, exposing his back. Both slugs had exited his back, and Colonel Rahman’s career of corruption and bribery had ended. All that remained was a bloody mess, and a soul consigned to hell.

He left the cottage to return to where they were waiting for him. On the way back, he surprised two of Khan's men. They’d crept in unseen and made it close to the house where his friends were sheltering. They didn’t hear him coming, and he didn’t pause. He walked past the two men and put a bullet in each before they even knew he was there. Seconds later, he was back inside the house.

Javed was waiting for him, and he announced his arrival in an excited voice.

"He’s back. He’s back. I just saw him kill two men.”

Stoner stepped inside the cottage, just in time. A blast of rifle fire smacked into the door as he closed it, and several slugs punched through the woodwork to flatten into the opposite wall. Greg stared at him, and his face was grim.

"What happened out there?"

"Colonel Raman’s moneymaking schemes are over. He won't be double-crossing us again."

Blum didn't look cheered. "You'd better look out front. It’s not good."

Stoner ran across the room and nodded to the two Afghans, Noyan and Nadiri. They were watching through the narrow window. Greg was right. It wasn’t good. The convoy of vehicles was moving into the town, and each truck and the SUV was crowded with fighting men. Khan had lost patience and decided to finish them off. They were blasting sheets of bullets through every window, doorway, and gap between the houses. They were still one hundred meters away, a slow-moving avalanche of lead, but they'd be on them in minutes. Griggs had moved in from the opposite end of the town, and his men had occupied some of the surrounding cottages.

There was no way out. They’d done everything they could, taken out at least twenty of the enemy, smashed an attack by a Technical loaded with a heavy machine gun. Yet for all the difference it had made, it was a waste of time. The oncoming convoy put out a hurricane of fire impossible to fight. No matter where they went, at least forty assault rifles would follow them. Firing on full automatic, expending bullets like they'd gone out of fashion. Clearly waiting for them to run out of ammunition was a non-starter. The Haqqanis had enough ammunition to supply a company of troops, probably a battalion. And Khan was using it to lay down a curtain of fire that trapped them as much as the walls of a prison.

"Any suggestions?" Greg murmured. Muzzle flashes winked out from inside the houses around them. There wasn't one single place that wasn't under attack.

Stoner shook his head.

"I’m still thinking.”

He grinned. “I am, but I don't see a way out. They’re behind, in front, and either side of us. They outnumber us by a factor of almost four to one, and we don't have much to fight with. Four men, a boy, and a bunch of women who’ve never fired a shot in anger."

Sara glared at him. "You sonofabitch! You know damn well I was infantry. I've killed my share of men, and I’ll take down a few more."

He winced. "I'm sorry. You’re right. I know Barbara Adams is handy with a gun, too, but most of the women aren't. There’re too many of the Haqqanis, and not enough of us."

“Why don’t they come?”

“They don’t want to lose more men, not yet. And they’ll be wary of sniper fire. They know all about Greg’s rifle. They’re worried about him picking them off one by one.”

“So they’re scared.”

He grinned. “I wish. They’re cautious, is all.”

He stopped as Blum held up a hand. He’d seen a target in the distance, and he had the barrel of his Dragunov aimed out the window.

"Khan. You know that crazy tunic he wears with all the medals. He’s out there. Stupid bastard is walking up the middle of the street. He was behind the lead truck just before it swerved over to the right, and now I can see him."

"Take him. Kill him, and it could take the edge off their enthusiasm."

"I'm on it. One second."

He watched Greg prepare to take the shot, and he was worried.

He’d adopted the absolute concentration that is the hallmark of the professional sniper. They waited, holding their breath. Hanging on a single shot that could turn the tide. One single bullet, and it could make all the difference. They watched his finger move a fraction as he started to take up the pressure on the trigger. Then he released it.

"Shit, it’s not him."

At the same moment, a storm of rifle fire erupted and smacked through the window. Greg shouted as a bullet hit him in the head and spun him backward. Stoner and Sara ran to him, and his stomach lurched. His head was bleeding badly, and Stoner found it hard to breathe.

My friend, no not just my friend, my best friend is dead or dying. The bastards suckered him into showing himself, and they were waiting. They dressed a ringer in the garish tunic, and the plan worked perfectly.

He leaned down and shouted in desperation. "Greg, talk to me."

One side of his face was red with blood, and more blood was welling out of the wound. His eyes were closed, his body still, and Sara was wiping away the blood with strips of fabric she’d torn from her clothes.

She looked up at Stoner. “It's not bad. It looks like a flesh wound."

He didn’t believe her. “It looks terrible. Is he going to die?”

"He should be okay. The bullet tore off a slice of flesh, and it may have grazed his skull, but I can’t see any damage that won't repair."

“You’re sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. I just think so. I’m not a doctor.”

"I hear you. Anything you need; spit it out. If Greg dies...."

She didn't reply. Barbara was cleaning more blood from the wound, while Sara tore more strips of material from her blouse. She’d taken so much material for dressings a large area of skin was visible below her breasts. She was grimy, exhausted, and her clothing little more than rags. But she’d never looked more beautiful while she concentrated on saving Greg.

Abruptly, she looked up. “I need more dressings. This won’t be enough to staunch the bleeding.”

Barbara reached under her dress to tear off material to press against the wound. Sara fastened the improvised bandage around his head, and already it was soaked through with blood. But the flow was starting to dry up, and then he opened his eyes.

"What happened? Did I get him?” His voice was shaky, his words slurred.

Stoner explained what had happened. "It's not your fault. We underestimated them, is all.”

Greg squinted his eyes in pain and frustration. "What about that convoy, did they get any nearer?"

He peered around the corner of the window. "No, they stopped. I expect they’re waiting to see if the sniper fire starts again. They won’t know if they hit you, and Khan doesn't want to waste men when he knows he's got us beat."

His voice dropped to a low murmur. As if he didn’t have the strength left to get the words out. “There's nothing we can do?"

They were all watching him, waiting for his answer, Sara, Barbara, Noyan, Nadiri, the rest of the women, too. Javed was smoothing Archer’s fur. Yet he was listening intently.

"It's not good," he admitted. There was no point in telling them anything less than the truth, "I'm not saying we’re finished. They suckered Greg into a trap, and maybe we can do the same to them. We have to keep them as far away as possible. Don't let them get near. I’ll work something out."

He could almost feel their sigh of relief. His words had given them hope when they’d had none. Maybe too much hope.

Sara was looking at him with an expression he’d seen before. If she'd put it into words, it wasn’t difficult to work out what she would have said.

He looked at his friend with concern after he’d lapsed into unconsciousness. He looked at Sara, but she avoided his gaze. She was worried about Greg, that he could worsen, and worried they’d never get back to civilization.

He'd already decided on a solution. More of a last gasp attempt to beat them. There were too many Haqqanis to kill them all, but he was thinking about Greg’s abortive attempt to take down Khan. The only solution, kill General Ishaq Khan. Kill the Hammer of God. Once their leader had gone down, there was a chance the rest would give up. A small chance, that was true. There was little to gain by carrying on the fight, and slowly they’d trickle away to find easier targets. Targets to rob, rape, and murder.

Griggs was another matter. As long as he scented blood, and there were people to kill, he'd stick around. But Griggs they could deal with. If the rest of them left, he was just one man, or maybe he’d have two or three of his sidekicks. Nadiri and Noyan could handle them, backed up by the women. They’d learned fast how to use a rifle, and some were modest shots. Then there was Javed. The juvenile killer, and the kid was damn good at killing. Of course, Archer was still there, keeping the boy company, and the big German Shepherd was always a force to be reckoned with, perhaps an ace in the hole, if things went badly. More than once in the past, the big Marine-trained dog had pulled the fat out of the fire.

He’d spent some good times with Archer. A pity those times were about to end. He had to face facts. He wouldn't be back. They’d have to hold out until dark, and there was no reason why they shouldn't. So far the enemy had shown no sign of trying to get closer. Maybe they were waiting for darkness to fall, like him. He’d have to move fast, find him, and kill him. The mission would be a one-way ticket, but that was too bad. He couldn't enter an armed camp and kill the enemy commander without them falling on him like a pack of rabid dogs. All he had in his favor was his SEAL training and his two Desert Eagles. Once he'd located the bastard, he’d move fast. Rush in and start blasting. Two shots from the .50 calibers, and that would be enough to finish the bastard. The rest of them would start shooting and fill him full of lead. At least it would be mercifully quick, and he’d die knowing he'd given them a chance.

He extracted the magazines from the big handguns and topped up the bullets. He didn't bother with the rifle. When he went in, it would be a close-range kill. The last thing he wanted was to burden himself with a cumbersome assault rifle. He sat back to think it over some more, just as Sara finished tending to Greg.

She gave him a curious glance. "What are you up to?"

A shrug. "Just getting ready for when they come."

She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. The strength in her arm was surprisingly strong. "You’re lying again, and I know you’re up to something. Whatever it is, it's something you know I wouldn't like. Otherwise you'd have talked to me and given me a clue what it was about."

"Maybe it's best I keep it quiet." He tried a grin, but she didn't respond, "It’ll be a surprise when it happens."

"No it won’t. It's nothing good, so tell me."

Her brow furrowed. "Khan? You mean kill him?”

"Kill Khan, and there’s a chance the rest of them will run. If the Hammer of God goes down, it’s possible they’ll leave," he ended lamely.

"And how do you plan to kill him?" She folded her arms and locked her eyes with his, waiting for the explanation that didn’t come.

He hadn't realized the Congresswoman was listening. "You’d better tell us about this plan of yours, buster. If you’re about to do something stupid, we may as well know what it is."

"Like I said, killing Khan's the solution."

She looked scornful. “I assume you haven’t forgotten the men surrounding him. Twenty, thirty, maybe even forty, as I recall. You’re going to kill them all with two pistols?"

He didn’t get a chance to reply. Sara's expression changed from puzzlement to horror as she worked it out. "You’re not coming back."

He couldn’t meet her gaze. "Everything has a risk, so I can’t guarantee to make it back." He tried to laugh it off, but all came out of his throat was a hoarse rattle, "Like I said, it's a chance. Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won't."

She shook her head. “It's a one-way mission, and you know it. You’re planning to get in amongst them and kill the bastard. You know they’ll shoot you dead."

Her eyes were moist as she stalked away from him, as if he carried some virulent disease. He heard her talking with Barbara, and more women moved closer. Then Noyan and Nadiri joined them, both Afghans impassive. They'd been weaned on the value of suicide missions. Neither man could see any issues with what he was planning. They probably thought it was a good idea, the death of one man to save so many. What was the problem? The women’s voices rose until they were shouting. The conversation descended into chaos until he bellowed, "Stop! Shut up!”

"I'm going out there to kill the bastard, and that's the end of it. Don't even think about trying to stop me. I’ve made up my mind. Now leave me alone."

He walked to the other side of the room and stared through the window. Absently, he stripped each pistol and reassembled the weapons, just to kill time. He understood why they were trying to stop him, and he'd expected it.

He could feel the stares. Sara and Barbara were talking quietly to each other, and he assumed they were trying to cook up some scheme to stop him going ahead.

They’re wasting their time. No matter what happens I’m going out there, and I’m going to kill Khan; a death for a death, in exchange for the lives of all of them.

He was watching the sky, and the light began to dim. He estimated another half hour and it would be almost dark. Twilight, the part-darkness not quite full night. When visibility was at its most difficult, and a lone gunman stood a chance of getting through. He was still on his own when Archer came to him and began licking his hand. He smoothed his coat, and the dog gave him several licks on the face for good measure. He looked down at him.

"You understand, don't you, pal? I don't have a choice, but no matter what happens, you look after them. You’re the backstop, the one they can rely on. Get them home, Archer. Get them all home."

The dog gave a low whine, as if understanding every word. Stoner often wondered if he understood everything.

His mind wandered, thinking about the life he'd had. The brothel, his ailing machinery business, the number of times he used his gun for hire. And each time he’d come back alive. This was just one time too many, sure to happen sooner or later. He'd learned his trade in the U.S. Navy SEALs and fought more than a few hard battles in Afghanistan.

I enjoyed every moment. Well, almost. Not the deaths of those women close to me. I'd have died a thousand times over if I could’ve prevented it, but that’s all in the past. Now, it’s just Khan and me. I have no fear, quite the opposite. If there’s an afterlife, as everyone secretly hopes, maybe I’ll meet those girls again, and give them my apologies. Perhaps make up for some of the wrongs I did to them.