by Eric Meyer
Bullets pinged off the steelwork, and he hunched as low as he could. A quick glance was enough to familiarize him with the gun. A Soviet built DShK, 12.7mm, firing heavy, fifty-caliber bullets, each almost four inches long. The belt feed system held fifty rounds, and he knew there'd be no time to reload. The moment the firing pin clicked on empty, they'd come at him with a fury. Although if fifty 12.7mm rounds, each weighing almost two ounces, weren't enough, nothing would be.
The fighters had taken shelter behind a low ornamental wall in front of the mosque, to shield them from the barrage of fire they knew he was about to unleash. No doubt they planned to stay behind cover until the belt was empty, and then storm the truck in a hail of bullets. He grinned to himself.
Someone didn't tell you a thin wall isn't enough to stop the bullets from this baby. Not in a million years.
One of the hostiles decided to shoot first. He got to his feet, tucked his assault rifle into his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. A short burst peppered the rear of the Toyota, and a bullet sliced through Stoner's left arm. It was enough. He pulled the trigger, and the initial burst flung the shooter several meters back, slamming his lifeless body against the wall of the mosque. Then he worked the hammering volley along the ornamental wall, and the effect was devastating. The bullets chewed huge holes, chewing up the men who thought the thin concrete would give them cover.
It was like a scene from Dante's Inferno, smoke, fire, smashed concrete, and bodies torn apart and shredded. Yet he knew he'd only gained a few seconds grace. There were two truckloads of Mazari's fighters, and so far he'd only taken care of half of them. A bunch of men appeared from the side of the building.
At that moment, the engine fired and burst into life. He shouted to Lena, "Go now! Give it everything you’ve got. Get us away from here."
The second wave of fighters started to shoot, and more bullets tore into the body of the truck. At that moment she stamped on the gas. He grabbed hold of the gun mounting to stop him from falling over the side. The Toyota careered along the track, heading back the way they'd come. He looked behind and saw men leaping into vehicles. The first truck hurtled after them, but the second vehicle, the Imam’s personal SUV, was waiting for something. Then Mazari raced out of the mosque, jumped into the rear seat, and they joined the chase.
Stoner searched around for another belt and searched again. There was nothing. Whoever had prepared this truck decided one belt would be enough. It wouldn’t, not with a horde of vengeful Mohammeds chasing their tails. He looked ahead. Lena had slowed as they came up to a bend, but he shouted through the splintered and broken rear glass of the cab, "Don't slow up! They’re coming after us at high speed. If you take your foot off the gas for a second, they'll be all over us."
She turned her head, and he saw the naked terror in her eyes. "Stoner, I didn't slow. Something's wrong. I think we may be out of gas. We’re screwed."
He tried to gauge how far they had to travel before they were out of sight. Then he looked back at the pursuing SUVs. He'd dropped his assault rifle when it emptied, and all he had to fight with were the two Desert Eagles still strapped to his belt. There were at least eight hostiles coming at him, all armed with automatic or semiautomatic rifles. Not good odds, but they were the odds he had to deal with. He spotted a small stone building fifty meters before the bend and knew they had no choice but to gamble. He leaned down again and shouted through to the cab.
"That building up ahead, pull up immediately we pass it, then get out of the truck and keep your head down."
"What're you going to do?"
"What I always do. Fight."
* * *
"Faster, faster! They must not escape. I want that man dead."
The driver didn't turn his head as he replied, "They’re slowing, Imam Mazari. We will have them soon. What about the woman?"
"No, no, I want her to live." Then he stopped.
Why did he need her alive? People had seen her in the mosque for the wedding ceremony, and it would be easy to fix the documents to prove the ceremony had taken place. There were witnesses, and the Imam who was recovering from the blow to his head would be more than pleased to swear they were legally married.
He had everything he wanted, so he could relax. He'd won the big prize. He was aware of the man in the passenger seat staring at him, waiting for his reply. Haji Kamran, his new bodyguard, following the death of his previous bodyguard at the Stori house; this man would carry out his wishes no matter what. He’d slaughter the entire town if he gave him the order.
He saw the two people jump from the Toyota and race behind the cover of a small, stone building. "Forget the woman. Kill them. Destroy their vehicle, and make sure they cannot use it to escape.”
Kamran nodded, leaned out the window, and signaled to the men in the lead vehicle. The message was clear. He pointed forward to the vehicle that even now had almost slowed to a stop, held up two fingers, and then pointed them down. He saw their answering grins, and then they took aim. A second later, the Toyota erupted in smoke and flame as one of the bullets hit the gas tank and ignited the fuel.
Mazari chuckled.
I will find the man who fired that shot and reward him. Truly, Allah blessed his aim. There’s no way they can escape. It’s only a matter of time. I have them.
Chapter Nine
For the third time, he ejected each clip from the Desert Eagles and counted the cartridges. The arithmetic was always the same. He carried a few loose rounds in the pockets of his coat, but they weren’t enough. Not even near enough. There was no way they could make a run for it, even if they’d got some gas. The Toyota was a smoking wreck. And then it got worse. One of the Afghans had worked his way to the high ground behind the stone hovel, and the first indication he was there came when he opened fire. They were lucky. His aim was poor, and the shots went wide. It gave them enough time to alter their position and get out of the line of fire, but the respite would only be temporary. He'd move around until he had them in his sights, and next time, he'd make sure he didn’t miss.
They had one chance, and Stoner hated taking it. He handed Lena one of the Desert Eagles and warned her to prop it against something solid before she pulled the trigger. "It packs a kick like a mule. If you are not used to it, you could fracture your wrist."
She took the gun, and her hand dropped as the heavy weight of the automatic surprised her. "You think this will be enough if they attack?"
He stopped and focused on her eyes to make sure she was paying attention. "You have three rounds in the clip. If two doesn’t do it, save the last bullet for yourself."
"What about you?"
"If I'm not back by then, I won't be coming back. There's not much cover, and the only way to take that shooter is to rush him. It's always a risk."
"Do you have to take the risk?" She looked worried, and it wasn't selfish concern. Her eyes reflected the kind of feeling one person would have for another they cared for.
"It's that or let them kill us."
She shivered. "In that case, I wish you luck. Stoner. Before you go, I have something for you."
"What is it?"
She reached up and pulled his lips toward hers. She gave him a kiss that was long and deep. He started to pull away, but her eyes held his.
“Stoner…”
He nodded. “Yeah, in another time, maybe…"
He froze. He'd allowed his guard to slip, and any girl he cared for wound up dead. Experience had shown him the best way was to stay with the girls at Ma Kelly's. Girls like Anahita, young, pretty, and happy to move on when things didn't look so good, girls who didn't die after a relationship with him. He returned the gaze.
"Forget I said that. It's not another time. Remember to prop that gun against something solid before you pull the trigger."
He crawled away, moving fast, hating himself for leaving her to almost certain death, and for being unable to respond to her warmth.
By Christ, how I wanted to.
Yet th
ey faced a long, hard and bitter road, leading only one way, to death. He had no illusions; a few heavy caliber pistol bullets wouldn't be enough to fight off the opposition. There was no way. He'd fight, and continue to fight until the last breath escaped his body.
In another time, that’s what I murmured to her, but there won’t be another time.
The guy was still hiding in the rocks. From time to time Stoner caught a glimpse of a piece of fabric, the edge of a turban or part of the barrel of his weapon. He was good, sliding along the side of a low hill overlooking the stone cottage, keeping behind the rocks that littered the slope. In a few seconds, he'd be able to pour fire down on them from behind cover until they were both dead, but not if he got to him first. He reached the edge of the broken ground and there was only the bare slope of the hill. He had to wait until the shooter was exposed for a brief couple of seconds.
The odds weren’t good. He hadn't given her the bad news. Her Desert Eagle had three rounds in the clip. He had one. A single bullet to take down a target armed with an AK-47. Impossible, so the experts would say. He forced himself to ignore what was possible and impossible, focusing his mind on the target ahead of him.
One man, soft tissue, bone, a thin cotton robe, and a greasy turban, the fifty-caliber round will rip into him and tear him into bloody ruin. It will also give me his rifle to fight back. Provided I don't miss.
He crouched in the last of rocks. They were low, barely enough to conceal him from the man above. He worked out the distance, estimating he had to run ten meters, ten meters uphill, with a single round in his weapon. And then a flash of dirty white robe appeared, and he knew the moment had come. The man rose, slowly, cautiously. The barrel of the assault rifle came into view, and Stoner launched himself up the hill. He shot out of cover like a missile, legs pounding and sucking air deep into his oxygen-starved lungs. Knowing that anything less than an Olympic standard sprint wouldn't be enough. Even then, it may not be enough.
For a few moments, the other man stood, frozen in astonishment and indecision.
How can anyone, even a crazy infidel, be stupid enough to race up the slope toward me armed only with an automatic pistol?
His lips cracked into a smile, and he brought the AK-47 into the aiming position. Stoner was close now, very close, and he fired. The man was moving at the same instant, and the shot went wide. He was about three meters away, almost near enough to smell the spicy stench from the man's last meal. To be repelled by the stink of his unwashed body and clothing. But not quite near enough to reach out and batter him to death with his bare hands. He had nothing else. He flung himself to one side just as a short burst whistled past him. Then he rolled over, catapulted to his feet, and desperately rushed across the last two meters.
It wasn't to be. His boot found one of the treacherous potholes that littered the slope, dug by the small animals inhabiting the place during the hours of darkness. He went sprawling in the dirt and loose pebbles, and could only look up at his would-be executioner. Only two meters away, little more than the height of a man separated them, yet it may as well have been a thousand meters. He still had hold of the Desert Eagle, but it was no more useful than a club. Not without ammo. The barrel of the assault rifle facing him was a round O shape, pointing directly at his forehead. He could see the man's hand gripping the butt, the dirt ingrained finger curled around the trigger, waiting for the moment.
The man's lips twitched in a ghastly rictus of a smile. He was enjoying himself. This was grand entertainment, the chance to kill an American fighting man. One of those men who'd devastated the ranks of the Taliban and Al Qaeda over the years. Now he could even up the odds. He said something in Pashto, a farewell, and his eyes squinted as he prepared to take the shot. Stoner stared straight ahead at those eyes. If he were about to die, he’d face his executioner and show no fear. He waited.
When it came, he was so shocked he froze for several seconds. A black shape appeared over the Afghan, diving at him like a missile engaging its target. The nose ended in a point, like an anti-armor rocket, but this was no rocket. Covered in thick, black fur, its teeth bared, the creature closed the gap at an astonishing speed. Archer wrapped his huge jaws around the man's wrist, the wrist that clutched the gun about to kill Stoner. He held on and savaged the man’s flesh. Just as the U.S. Marine Corps had trained him to do.
Stoner stared.
Where the hell did he come from?
The Afghan recovered and managed to fire a short burst, but the shots were wild. He fought and struggled to ward off the attacking dog, but it was like staving off a mechanical grab. Archer was obstinate, he had his target. He was a Marine dog, and he snarled, clawed and bit, to prevent the enemy from drawing a bead on his friend. Stoner, the man he’d come to protect.
He jumped up, bounded across the intervening gap, and shouted, "Archer, back."
At the same time, he scooped up the rifle the man had dropped, checked there was a round in the breech, and waited for the dog to back away, which it did. Archer was trained to obey instantly in a combat situation. He crouched less than a meter from his victim, growling as the Afghan started to climb to his feet. His expression showed the depth of his fear. A dog, an agent of Satan, had attacked him. It must be the punishment of Allah for some crime he’d committed, to send such a creature against him. The infidel should have been dead, yet he wasn't. He was standing over him, pointing the rifle at his head.
Stoner ignored the torrent of Pashto coming at him, the final plea of a man who was about to die.
You have a short memory, pal. A few seconds ago, you were about to pull the trigger on me. You expect me to do nothing?
He fired and spattered the Afghan’s brains over the dirt. He was about to reach out to Archer and ruffle his fur, when he heard more firing from down below, the heavy, dull reports of 7.62mm bullets, and then two single, louder shots from the Desert Eagle. She had one more in the magazine. He recalled the advice he’d given her and started racing down the slope, shouting over his shoulder, "Archer, stay down."
The dog lowered its head and kept his profile as low as possible as he ran, and they reached the side of the stone hut. Lena had the gun pointed at her head, her finger white on the trigger. He reached up and smacked it out of the way. She turned to him, her face creased with terror. She’d been dead. She knew she was dead, and yet. She was alive.
"Stoner." Her voice shook, her whole body shook.
"Yeah."
"I thought you were dead. What happened?"
"Archer happened."
She hadn't seen the dog, but she looked past him, and her eyes widened. "Archer, here? But, how…"
She didn't finish the question. A man appeared at the top of the slope and slid down toward them, Black Bob Crawford.
"Sorry I'm late," the big man greeted them, "We lost you. It was only when we stopped and let the dog out, he showed us the way. We thought he wanted a piss, but he knew the direction to take. Christ knows how, it's like he has built-in radar."
Stoner nodded. "He's a Marine dog. I expect he can swim and jump out of airplanes."
The dog barked twice, and the girl leaned down to stroke his fur, murmuring words of praise. His tongue came out, and he licked her hand.
"He likes me," she said wonderingly.
"That's because you're easy to like," Stoner said. Then almost bit off his tongue for blurting out the endearment. He looked at Crawford to cover his embarrassment. "We still have a hostiles down the road. They'll be on us at any moment. Where are the rest of your guys?"
"We expected there’d be others. We could see what was going on from up on the hill. The others are flanking the uglies right now. When you hear the shooting, you'll know they reached them."
The words had barely left his mouth when they heard the gunfire. Stoner rushed to the top of the hill for a better vantage point. He observed Sebastian Koch leading Greg, Akram, and Malik past the mosque, firing from the hip. Bukharin and his men kept to the high ground on the far slop
e. They hit the Shias like the Angels of Death. The beleaguered fighters retreated toward the stone huts, looking for cover. If they thought to take refuge inside the dwellings, it was not to be.
The inhabitants learned long ago to avoid trouble. Their thick hardwood doors were barred to the retreating fighters, and all they could do was retreat in the open from the onslaught. Retreating toward where Crawford waited. Stoner slid back down the slope to join him, and Lena kept her hand firmly on Archer's collar. He’d done his part. Now it was time for the guns to speak.
Sebastian Koch's men kept up a heavy volley of fire, and the Afghans fell back in disorder. Two tried to shoot back, but Malik aimed a Russian PK machine gun. Firing from the hip, he devastated the enemy with a single long burst. Only two remained standing when they reached where Crawford and Stoner waited. One was Ali Mazari.
The shooting stopped abruptly as Koch called a halt. The Imam looked around, his eyes wild, trying to discover why they'd spared his life. Seeing nothing, he started to run, but Stoner stepped out in front of him.
"Well, well. If it isn't the blushing bridegroom."
The Afghan with him recovered fast and started to swing his gun up to fire. Almost as an afterthought, Black Bob tapped off three shots from his M-16. The man pitched to the ground, his guts spilling out from the gaping wound in his belly. Mazari stared down at his fallen henchman and quickly raised his hands.
"This was not my doing, I promise you. I meant no harm to come to the woman.”
"Is that right? Funny, I could have sworn it was you who gagged and hogtied Miss Stori. Tried to force her into a marriage she didn’t want. What were you going to do with her afterward? Kill her?"
"No, no! I love Lena."
At that moment, she emerged from the stone hut. The Imam's face dropped, and he looked wildly toward the mosque in case there was an escape. There wasn’t. He made a desperate attempt at negotiation.
"You have to believe me," he spluttered, looking from one to the other, “Please, I will give you anything.”