by Eric Meyer
He drove to the Shia district and parked close to the mosque of the now deceased Ali Mazari. He could leave Khan to his own people. Which left another account to settle. Not the last account, by any means, but a crucial one. Hezbe Wahdat. The men who’d rampaged through Lena’s house after they destroyed it with rockets, and who’d tried to force her marriage to Mazari.
"What about Crawford's men guarding Khan?" Blum asked from the back, "You reckon they'll be okay?"
"If they see five hundred angry fanatics coming for them, they'd be stupid to stay put, Ivan or no Ivan. Bob Crawford is a mercenary. He'll weigh up the odds and then leave town. He's in it for the money, not the glory. There're no paydays when you're dead."
"It seems cruel, leaving Crawford to those people," Lena said.
"Sure. Like it was cruel to ditch us and join Ivan."
"But you said the contract was over."
He grimaced. "The guy could've given us notice."
They drove past the Shia mosque, noting the positions of the men guarding the building.
"I used to come here to pray," the girl said, her voice laden with guilt, “I don’t like the idea of fighting a battle in this place.”
Stoner pointed out the armed men hiding in the shadows. "You see them? They're the ones who targeted your home with RPG missiles. I wouldn't sweat it, if I were you."
She shook her head. “What do you plan to do?"
"Persuade them to go home."
She stared at him in shock. These men were Hezbe Wahdat, a group with ties to drug trafficking, people trafficking, arms trafficking and just about every terrorist activity in the book. They were violent people, serious people. They’d also seen them approach. A crowd of fighters emerged from the mosque. A man pointed to the Wrangler as they drove past, and seconds later a burst of automatic fire smacked into the bodywork, shattering the rear windows and showering Greg with shards of glass.
While the Russian was still cursing, Stoner floored the gas pedal and swerved around a corner out of the line of fire. He parked the vehicle in a narrow alleyway out of sight, and climbed out with his M4 A1 held ready. The Jeep bodywork had suffered multiple gunshot hits, but they’d come through unscathed. He ran back to check for any sign of pursuit, but there was none. Greg had Archer at his heels, and he and Lena joined him. He pointed to the other end of the lane.
"We'll circle the building and hit them from the rear."
"They’ll still have guards on the door," Greg objected.
"Sure, but let’s hope not too many. It's the only way we'll get near the place. Let's go. Lena, where's your gun?"
"The pistol? In my purse."
He sighed. "Get it out, and if you need to use it, pull the trigger."
He didn't wait for a reply but started running. At the end of the lane, an armed man was walking around the corner, looking in every direction. Probably searching for them. He saw them and raised his assault rifle ready to open fire, but Stoner smashed the butt of his M4 into the man's head, and when he went down, hit him again.
"You nearly killed him," she gasped.
"He was lucky. I meant to kill him. We have to keep moving. He was looking for us, which means there'll be others doing the same. We need to get inside the mosque."
"Why?"
He worked to hide his exasperation with her. "Because the guy in charge will be in there. That's the way they work. The man at the top stays away from the bullets and gives the orders. If we're going to stop this, we need to get to him."
“And then what?”
“We kill him.”
They jogged along the empty street and stopped fifty meters from the mosque. Two men were outside the rear door, both of them alert, their heads constantly turning to cover all the approaches.
"We need to get past them," he murmured, "Lena, you're a woman. You’ll have to distract them. Get them to look the other way."
She understood at once and nodded. She tucked her gun into her purse and then started to comb her hair. When she was done, she took out her make-up mirror to tidy up her face. Stoner sighed. "We don't have time for this."
"I can't distract them if I don't look my best," she snapped, "I'm nearly ready."
She applied a final flourish of lipstick, brushed a hand over her hair, and stepped out. The guards watched hungrily as she neared them. One whistled. She walked up to him, turned, and smiled. They had no choice but to turn around if they were to face her. Which meant they were looking away from Stoner and Blum. She smiled and tossed her head so that her lustrous hair caught the rays of the sun. It was a great performance, and no ordinary man could fail to fall under her spell.
The guards were ordinary men, and Stoner couldn't blame them for their reaction. She was mesmerizing, moving the curves of her body to emphasize her sexuality. He had to force himself to look away and keep searching for signs of other hostiles. But the area was clear, apart from the two guards. He touched Blum on the shoulder, and they crept forward in silence. The precaution was hardly necessary. Their targets had lost focus in everything except the alluring girl who'd captured their attention. A tap on the head for each of them with the butt of a rifle, and their spell on sentry duty came to a fast and painful end.
Greg looked at Archer. “Guard.”
The dog lay down in the shadows, almost invisible, powerful, and menacing. If anyone tried to get past him, he’d hit them like an express train. He was a Marine dog.
They dragged the two men inside, ripped strong cord from the wall hangings emblazoned with Arabic symbols, and tore the cloth to fashion improvised gags. Lena looked on.
"You didn't kill them."
Stoner nodded and looked at her. "They didn't try to kill me. When someone tries to kill me, I take it very personally."
They went forward into the main prayer room of the mosque. It was empty, although they could hear shouts from out front. The man they sought wouldn't be at the sharp end of the violence. He'd be behind the scenes, sending other men to do the killing. He had to be inside this mosque, issuing orders to his men, but where?
He grabbed Lena and pulled her into a dark corner as a shaft of light pierced the gloom. Someone had opened a door. He heard voices, shouted orders in Pashto, and then a man emerged, closed the door, and walked to the front of the mosque. Stoner pointed.
"That's it. That’s where we'll find the bastard. Lena, stay here, Greg, let's go."
He could have saved his breath. She wasn't the kind of female to stay back when something important was about to happen.
"You’ll need me to translate," she murmured.
Before they could stop her, she walked over to the door and opened it a fraction. The murmur of voices indicated at least two men were inside, maybe more, although not close. The light illuminated a flight of steps going down, so they were in a basement. He used his hands to sign how it would go down. He’d go first, Lena behind him in the center, and Greg to bring up the rear. He started down the stairs.
At the bottom, a narrow passage stretched in front of them, an open doorway allowed the light show through and illuminate the passage. He edged forward and peered past the door. The leader of the Hezbe Wahdat fighters was sitting in an armchair. Three men were standing before him as he spat out a series of orders.
He made sure his M4 was ready to fire, pointed the barrel forward, and stepped inside the room. At first, only the man in the armchair noticed him. He stared with incredulity at the American infidel who'd invaded his inner sanctum. Lena stepped inside and stood next to him, while Greg covered the room from the door. The three armed men turned, and one started to bring up his rifle. Stoner waggled the barrel of his M4, and the implication was obvious. The man sagged, and the silence stretched for a few tense seconds. Lena said something in Pashto, but the man waved her away, as if she was of no consequence. She was a woman.
He looked at Stoner. "You are the American, Stoner."
His English was heavily accented but clear enough to understand.
"Th
at's me, pal. Who're you?"
"My name is Haji Kamran. Mr. Stoner, you will not get out of here alive. I suggest you leave while you still can."
"It's Stoner. Not Mr. Stoner.”
The other man shrugged. "Whatever."
He didn't look worried by the threat of their guns, and Stoner wondered what kind of ace he had up his sleeve. He stared at the Afghan. “The way I see it, we'll go back the way we came in, except you’ll will be coming with us. Yeah, there’s one more thing. If you want to stay alive, you'll call off the lunatics who're turning this town into a bonfire."
The man stared back at him. "No."
"If you're that keen to die, it's no problem. Last chance, Kamran. Call them off, or in a few seconds you’ll be taking a short cut to Paradise.”
The man in the armchair shook his head. "Put down your weapon, Stoner. All of you, place the guns on the floor and raise your hands."
"Better do it," Greg said.
He turned and looked toward the door. A bunch of Shia fighters were standing there, covering them with their guns. Every one of them looked as if he didn't need much of an excuse to pull the trigger. Stoner hesitated for only a second. The first to go down would be Lena, and the threat of killing Kamran as a bargaining chip wasn’t likely to work. These fighters sought death; many welcomed it. Not their deaths, but the death of their senior officers, in effect a stepping-stone to promotion. There’d be more than one in that crowd of men happy to see the Hezbe Wahdat commander shot to pieces. He’d also be happy to step forward and fill the vacant post. He put his gun down.
Kamran smiled. "The rooms in this basement are set aside for our fighters when they need a place to stay and rest. Thank you for making my task so much easier by coming to us." He raised a hand and nodded at the men in the doorway. They rushed forward and rifle butts slammed down on Stoner's head. As he fell, he saw Greg Blum and Lena suffer the same fate. He lay on the floor, still semiconscious, wondering how painful Haji Kamran would make their deaths. Another rifle butt slammed into his head, and he lost consciousness.
He awoke in a pitch-black room. His hands were bound behind his back, but he was able to stagger to his knees and feel his way around the dark space. His first encounter was with the door, which was constructed of thick steel, so he guessed they'd used this room once to store valuables. He continued to search, bumped into Blum, and put his ear close to his mouth to check he was still breathing. The Russian's breath came in short, ragged pants, so he knew they'd hurt him badly.
Still, breath is breath. He’s alive.
"Stoner?"
He looked in the direction of Lena's voice and crawled to her. "How bad is it?"
“They didn't hit me as hard as they did you and Greg. I guess they want me trussed up ready for a forced marriage, so they wouldn't want my head covered in bruises. What're we going to do?"
In spite of their dire circumstances, he chuckled to himself.
What does she think I am? Superman? Then again, it’s good to have someone believe in you.
He kept his voice patient. "There’s nothing we can do."
"Crap!"
The voice slashed at him like a blow from an iron bar. He stared in her direction, not sure if he'd heard correctly. "Excuse me?"
"I said crap!"
This was the Lena Stori who ran a nationwide transport company. The young woman who'd succeeded in the misogynistic world of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. Against opposition from the Muslims, she'd successfully provided employment and prosperity to a large section of her community. Until those same Muslims decided to destroy it.
"We need to find a way out of here and beat these people. The only question is how?”
He shook his head in both admiration and exasperation. "You find a way, you let me know, lady. Last I heard, escaping from a locked room with no windows and a door big enough for a strong room was impossible. If you want to prove me wrong, you go ahead."
"They can't leave us in here forever. Sooner or later, someone will open the door, and it's up to us to get past them."
He sighed. "It'll be several men, all armed with assault rifles. I doubt your feminine charms will work this time. They'll be hoping we make a move to escape. Then they'll kill us."
"They won't kill me. They need me, at least for now. Until they manage to marry me to one of their men, I'm a valuable commodity. I can use that."
"How?"
A pause. "If they think I'm ill, they'll be worried."
"Ill?"
"Like I'm dying. How are they to know how much damage they caused with the blows to my head? If I were lying on the floor, semiconscious, foaming at the mouth as if I'd gone into a coma, they'd be terrified."
He thought about that for a moment.
It’s true. Lena Stori is the prize in the big game. The game played by the ruthless traffickers plaguing the country and keeping Afghanistan in perpetual poverty and war. She’s right. They'll be terrified if they think she’ll die before they can complete the ceremony. It might give us a slight chance, a very slight chance. Just that split second when their eyes are all on Lena.
"It may work. Are your hands tied?"
He felt her body touch his, and then she put her hands so he could feel them. Bound with thin line, like his.
"Keep still. I'll try and loosen the knots."
He fumbled with the ties for several minutes. The line was thin, and they'd tightened the knots so it would be impossible to undo them. The only way to escape would be to use a knife or something similar.
"We need something metal with an edge."
He felt her body wriggle as she brought her hands up to her head, and then she passed an object into his hands, a metal object.
"It's my hair decoration. It's quite sharp. I once cut my finger on it, but I kept it because it's so beautiful."
"What is it made of?"
"Solid silver."
Silver’s a soft metal, but it may be enough.
He felt around the ornament until he found an edge, and then went to work on the line that bound her hands. It was a long job, and several times he felt her flinch as the metal slipped and cut into her flesh, but she made no objection, and he kept on working at the line.
As he rubbed the metal backward and forward across her bonds, she murmured, "What will they do with us? Once it's all over."
She meant the marriage.
"If we're lucky, they'll shoot us out of hand. Not you, of course, not until the marriage contract is signed."
"And then?"
"I think you know what happens then. These aren’t the kind of people to allow any loose ends to interfere with their plans."
He felt her shudder slightly, but there was no way he’d deceive her with false hope. Besides, they needed her cleverness and determination. The blow he'd taken on the head must have been harder than he thought. It had needed a girl to push him into action.
"You said if you’re lucky they'll shoot you," she went on, "I would have assumed a bullet would be about as unlucky as you can get."
"These people specialize in brutal death. They enjoy it. They get off on it, and are more than capable of giving us a very slow death. Kind of revenge for the trouble we've given them."
"It's not going to happen," she said. Her voice was firm and resolute, "We're getting out of here. The plan will work."
Just as she finished speaking, the line parted and her hands were free. She took the hair ornament from him and started on his bonds. She was very precise in her cutting, and he only took a couple of cuts to his skin before he was free. Then it was the turn of Greg Blum. While Lena worked on cutting the line, Stoner did his best to bring him round. He leaned down and spoke close to his ear.
"Greg, Greg, talk to me. It's me, Stoner. Lena is here, too. Say something."
There was only a low groaning noise. He put his head down and listened again to his breathing. It sounded a little better, but he had to do something, and fast. If they were to have any chance of jumping
the guards when they turned up, he’d need Greg. In desperation, he took him by the lapels of his coat and started to shake him.
"Yob tvoyu mat! Fuck you, Russian, talk to me! Say something, fuck your mother."
He heard a faint murmur, and he put his ear close to Greg's mouth.
"What was that? You said something, you Russian piece of shit?"
It was so faint he almost missed it.
"Yob tvoyu mat. Fuck you, American."
He smiled.
Greg’s starting to recover, but will it be soon enough?
He swung around to Lena. He couldn't see her but could smell the unique scent of her body only inches away from him.
"You need to get into position. That door could open any time. Keep your hands behind your back so they can't see you've freed them, and I'll start making it look good. Rub your hands over your face. That'll cover it in blood, and they'll assume it came from a head wound. I don't know about foaming at the mouth."
"I'll manage. Just make sure Greg is recovered enough to move when they turn up."
"You don't need to worry about me." It came out as a rasping, hoarse croak.
“Blum, you’re awake.”
“Yeah, where are we?”
He explained about the cell and how they planned to get out. Greg acknowledged, although his speech was slurred, and Stoner worried if he’d be in a state to take on armed men with his bare hands.
And as long as he can draw breath, he’ll fight. Anything’s better than dying.
They waited. The air in the cell grew stuffy; there was no ventilation. He worried that without air Greg would weaken from his wounds. Lena lay on the floor, ready to go into her act. Stoner went through a series of exercises to loosen up his muscles, to get the blood pumping around his body. To force the adrenaline to race through his system for when the moment came. When it happened, it almost took him by surprise.
A key rattled in the lock, and two iron bolts slid back with a rasp of rusty metal. It was a simple plan. He’d stand in the open in full view, and Greg would stay out of sight behind the door. As soon as the men came inside and noticed the girl in a bad way, they'd rush to her. As the last man came past, Stoner would tackle him and grab his gun. At the same time Greg would push the door closed to hide what they did from anyone waiting outside. As soon as they had one weapon, they'd disable the rest of the men who came inside, and surge out through the door to finish off any more guards waiting there.