The Warlord of Tora Bora

by Eric Meyer

  When we’ve dealt with my problem, how can I keep him engaged? He should take that contract with Ivan, then he’ll find out who’s behind the attack on his business, and he’ll have all action he craves. But there’s no way I can persuade him to agree to Ivan’s proposal, or is there?

  They reached the farm in the early hours, and the family was awake, waiting nervously for Greg’s return. Faria rushed out to give the former SEAL a big hug. When she’d finished embracing him, the kids were waiting to greet him. Behind them, Archer’s tail wagged enough to power a small generator. Dawn broke, and both men set about preparing for the arrival of the cops. Greg set up the Dragunov next to a small window, ready to fire and instructed Ahmed in its use, should it be necessary. He didn’t need to explain what he meant by if it was necessary. Ahmed understood it would be if Greg went down.

  Stoner planted C4, buried below the ground in the place they expected the cops to park their vehicles, and went inside the house to check out the defenses. Ahmed was happy because he could use the AK-47 bequeathed by his natural father. The two girls made sure the basement was fully stocked with food, water, and medical supplies, just in case. Archer prowled around, keeping a watchful eye on their work. Fully aware something was up, his restlessness betrayed his tension; a tension they all shared. Finally, they were ready, and they sat down to eat the breakfast Faria had prepared.

  She smiled her thanks to Stoner. “We’re all grateful you came. Without you, that cop may have got his filthy hands on her.”

  “He won’t, not while I’m alive. That’s what godfathers are for.”

  Kaawa smiled with pleasure. “I like having you as my Godfather, Mr. Stoner.”

  “It’s mutual. You girls need to remember, when they come, you get below.”

  “Yes, Godfather,” they replied in unison, and he grinned, enjoying them calling him by that name.

  Faria caught his attention. “Greg said you still don’t know what happened to Wayne Evers.”

  “Nope, he took off. Said he wanted to see something of the country, can’t imagine why. A pity.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a good man to have around you in a fight. And when those cops turn up, there’ll be a fight. Unless we can persuade them to back off.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?”

  He stared back at her, and his expression was eloquent. Afghans were the most macho men on earth. Give them a cop’s badge, uniform, and gun, and they felt like they were the kings of all they surveyed. In places where people let them get away with it they usually called all the shots, using the tried and tested means of threats, terror, graft, and false arrests. The trick was not letting them get away with it. Staying alive in the process was another trick.

  Throughout the day, they had little to do but wait. Stoner tossed the ball in the yard for Archer, and the two girls played hopscotch. Ahmed worked on his beloved Kalashnikov, cleaning and oiling it, putting it back together, loading and unloading. Faria watched them from the stoop and went back inside. Greg had picked up his Dragunov and was surveying the surrounding area with the scope sight.

  “Please, put the gun down. We have to talk.”

  He propped the rifle back against the window, and they sat opposite each other at the table. “What’s eating you?”

  She laughed, a harsh, bitter laugh, very unlike her. “You know what it is. There’ll be any amount of shooting, and someone could get hurt.” She held up a hand to stop his protest, “No, don’t say none of our family won’t take a bullet. You can’t know that. I wish there were some way to stop it. Something we could offer those people to make them back off. Cops are notorious for taking bribes. There has to be something they want.”

  He sighed. “Give them graft money, and they’ll come back for more. They always do. Besides, there is something they want. Kaawa.”

  She frowned. “Then there must be something else. Some way to stop this happening.”

  “Like what?”

  “If you start shooting cops, or just shooting at cops, they’ll hold a grudge for God knows how long. They could make our lives hell.”

  “We’re not planning on firing at them, not unless they start it.”

  “Same difference. I just wish there was someone, an outsider who could deal with them, so they didn’t hold us responsible.”

  “Yeah, well, there isn’t.” She was distraught with worry. He walked around to join her, took her in his arms, and held her tight, “I promise I’ll do everything possible to avoid doing any shooting.”

  Her face turned to his, and she was wet with tears. “It may not be enough, Greg. Nowhere near enough.”

  She pulled away and went into the kitchen. Greg thought about Stoner, about asking him for his advice, and dismissed it. For him it was another fight in a long series of fights. Was there anyone he could he call on to help resolve this permanently, other than Stoner? A name came to mind, and he dismissed it out of hand. Ivan Vasilyevich, the CIA sponsored warlord they’d worked with on occasion, most recently during the Tora Bora episode. Ivan would come for one reason only. In return for something he wanted. Without that incentive, he wouldn’t even give them the time of day. They had nothing he needed on their tiny farm. Then a stray thought entered his head.

  There is something Ivan wants. He wants Stoner to carry out a hit. What if I can persuade my friend to change his mind, what would it take? A favor for a favor, would he go for it? Make Ivan help them out with their problem in return?

  He felt guilty, but remembered how he’d worked out what kept Stoner away from his chosen path of destruction. Action. He hated Ivan’s guts, but sometimes it takes a friend to know best what someone needs.

  I’ll be betraying him, sure, but with luck he’ll never find out. What alternative do I have? Our farm, the home we love, becoming the front line in a shooting war? I don’t have a choice.

  He made up his mind, made certain no one was within earshot, took out his cellphone, and dialed.

  * * *

  Sergeant Ali Hosseini stood before his men. Six uniformed officers he’d personally selected, his toughest and most brutal men. They would accompany him to the farm at Mehtar Lam, and bring back the girl he’d decided to marry. His interest in the girl had blossomed, ever since they’d done everything to prevent their betrothal, and he’d spent time underlining to them what was at stake.

  “Is anyone in doubt about what we’re doing here?” he said in a low and dangerous voice, “If you are, tell me now.”

  “We’ve got it,” Officer Darya shouted, his voice filled with enthusiasm. The man was a sociopath, never happier than when he was breaking heads, “We go in, kill them all, and take the girl. Easy.”

  Hosseini stomped up to him and slapped his face. “You damn fool. That’s what I don’t want to happen. When we reach the farm, we’ll give them a choice. Give us the girl, or we’ll kill one of them to show them what happens when they refuse. I don’t want indiscriminate killing. And, Corporal Nawa, you’ll set up the machine gun to cover us. If they try anything stupid, fire a burst over their heads. That should show we mean business.”

  “Just one burst?” he said slyly, “Will that be enough?”

  “I don’t want the fucking girl killed!” he hissed.

  Darya nodded enthusiastically. “Of course not, Sergeant. Keep the girl safe at all costs. The rest of them aren’t important.”

  He sighed at the savage gleam in his eyes. “Just follow your orders. Nothing more.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good, get aboard the truck. We move out in five minutes. Stop five hundred meters from the farm, and Corporal Nawa can get out and choose a good spot for his machine gun. Then we drive in and give them the biggest shock of their lives.”

  He watched them climb aboard the battered Toyota truck, and then stepped into the SUV he used for his personal transport. A Nissan Patrol, old but well maintained, and Darya was behind the wheel, waiting to leave. He may be a brute, but he was Hosseini’s br
ute, a useful man to have around. They drove away, and he wound down the window and waved to his men to follow. They left the Mehtar Lam police barracks behind them and headed for the farm, little more than two kilometers distant.

  * * *

  He looked at his wristwatch, and it was 15.10. They’d arrive soon, of that he had no doubt. He wasn’t entirely confident. The most likely scenario was they’d face a truckload of cops, every man armed with an assault rifle. What he had in mind for the C4 would give them a shock without killing them, but they were still cops. If they killed any of them, they’d be marked men, unless they could cover it up. If they didn’t kill them, they’d keep coming back. The equation was giving him a headache. Kill a cop and lose, don’t kill a cop and lose.

  The noise of engines was a low hum in the distance. They were coming. He shouted to Greg, who was chatting to Ahmed on the stoop.

  “Stand by, they’re here.”

  Greg waved an acknowledgement and took Ahmed inside to prepare for what was about to happen. Stoner retreated to the front of the house and waited outside, alone. The first vehicle, a Nissan Patrol, drove up the track and stopped fifty meters from where he waited. Right where he’d expected them to stop. Right over the package they'd buried earlier. A second vehicle, a Toyota truck, bumped and rattled up the track and stopped two meters from the SUV. Four cops piled out from the truck and waited in a ragged line, their assault rifles held at the port. Ready to aim and shoot at a moment’s notice. The driver’s door of the SUV opened, and the driver stepped out to open the rear door.

  Stoner got his first glimpse of Sergeant Ali Hosseini, a man of above average height, with narrow, squinty eyes in his pouchy face. Uniform tunic stretched over a big belly, and above his upper lip a thin, neatly trimmed mustache. He wore no beard. The cop strolled toward him, and he carried nothing more than a short, whippy cane. As if disdaining the need for a weapon, his uniform and rank were enough. He strolled up to the house and planted his feet astride, three meters from where Stoner waited. A big cop was with him, standing slightly to the rear and fidgeting with his rifle.

  “Who are you?” The cop’s voice was a hoarse rasp, mean, bullying.

  He took his time giving an answer. “My name’s Stoner.”

  The cop looked uneasy “From Jalalabad?”

  “That’s me, bub. What do you want?”

  “Send Mr. Blum out here. I wish to speak to him.”

  He nodded and turned. “Greg, guy here wants a word.”

  The door opened. He stepped out and faced Hosseini. “What is it?”

  “You know why I have come. The girl comes with me, and I will make her my bride.”

  “No.”

  His eyes flashed with anger. “No? You realize what you’re up against! My men are authorized to use force if necessary. If they start shooting, what you have built up here will be destroyed, and you will be dead. Your wife left a widow, and your children without a father. I warn you to hand her over.”

  “You plan to kidnap my daughter? That’ll look good in Kabul.”

  He sneered. “I plan to arrest a young girl.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Prostitution, immorality, insulting the Koran,” he waved his hand airily, “I can press plenty of charges. All of them would justify me in taking her in. Bring her outside, and let us be done with this nonsense.”

  “No.” This time Stoner growled the negative. Hosseini’s eyes narrowed. “This is not your business, so stay out of it.”

  “I’ve made it my business.”

  “Then hand her over while you are still alive. If I order my men to shoot, you will die with your friend. Perhaps the girl as well.”

  Stoner smiled and parted his coat. To show the webbing with the two holsters, and the gleaming steel of the big Desert Eagles. “The answer’s still no.”

  The cop flushed red with anger, turned, and shouted an order to his men. They came forward with caution. When they were less than ten meters away, and forty meters from their vehicles, Stoner took out a cellphone. “I have to make a call.”

  The Sergeant’s face registered surprise, and then he sneered. “Who are you going to call, the police? Unless you’re blind, you can see we are the police. Hand over the girl.”

  He met Hosseini’s eyes. “How would you transport her back to town?”

  He smiled and waved a hand at the vehicles. “I have an SUV and a truck.”

  Stoner hit the speed dial. The roar of the explosion shattered the peace of the afternoon, and the C4 detonated within meters of the vehicles. The blast flung the SUV on its side. The truck bounced into the air, fell back, and hit the earth with a rending, grinding noise of tortured metal. It landed on all four wheels, but no longer the roadworthy transport it had once been. The chassis was bent at either end and would need several days in the shop to fix it.

  The cops had thrown themselves to the ground, holding their arms over their heads to protect them from blast and debris. IEDs were not unusual in Afghanistan, and people reacted fast. The area swirled with dust, and when it began to clear, the cops got back to their feet and began to dust themselves off. So far, not one of them looked like they were about to use their weapon.

  Stoner raked Hosseini with his eyes, and his expression was neutral. “I guess you won’t be giving her a ride back to town. Now you don’t have any transport, I mean.”

  Hosseini glared at Stoner. “Those are police vehicles, and I will hold you liable for their destruction.”

  He spread his arms wide in a gesture of innocence. “What do you mean? The owner of this property has had a lot of trouble, people trying to muscle in on him. I imagine whoever they were planted explosives to try to kill him. Tough luck you parked in the wrong place. When I made the call just now, the signal must have triggered the blast. Not my fault, pal. You shouldn’t allow insurgents to operate so freely in your area. Robbing, stealing…” he paused, “kidnapping. Disgusting behavior.”

  The cop stared back at him with hate-filled eyes. “You’ll regret this.”

  He held the gaze for a few seconds more and swiveled on his heel. Stalked toward the gate, and his men fell in behind him. When they were a hundred meters away, he raised his hand into the air and dropped it abruptly. A signal of some kind, and a machine gun began to chatter. Churning up the earth as it tracked toward the farmhouse where Faria and the kids sheltered. Two more seconds, and it would be punching holes in the walls.

  Chapter Three

  Stoner raced into the house, swerving to avoid the machine gun bullets. His intention was to ensure Greg’s family was safe, no matter what happened. Greg was already at the front door, and both men went through together, a whisker ahead of the next burst of lead. Faria looked out through the kitchen door.

  “What’s going on?”

  They both shouted in unison. “Get down into the basement with the kids. Now!”

  She ducked back into the kitchen just as a third burst ripped through the interior of the house. They hugged the floor and heard her footsteps as she raced away into the basement.

  Greg got to his feet when the burst ended and stared through the scope fixed to the Dragunov. He grimaced. “I can’t locate the machine gun. He could be anywhere. It’s just a matter of time before he hits one of us.”

  Stoner had the same idea, but they were pinned down inside the house. A second later two assault rifles began to fire, single shots that pinged off the stonework, and a few whined inside the room. He looked at Greg.

  “We have to get past those cops to get to the gunner, but he’d see us coming. Only one thing to do, I’ll have to go back outside, and make a run for his position while you cover me.”

  “You don’t know where he is yet. Besides, he’ll kill you the moment you step out of the house.”

  He grinned. “Then I’ll have to run faster, and I’ll find him. Load a fresh magazine, and I’ll get going.”

  “Stoner…”

  "Christ, Greg, don’t argue. Those bastards won
’t give up until we’re all dead.”

  “Stoner, the gun. It’s stopped firing.”

  He was right. For some reason, a jam maybe, the gun had fallen silent. He nodded. “You’re right. Start shooting. I’m going back out there to shake them up.”

  He opened fire, and the ‘crack’ of single shots from the Dragunov was sharp, as Greg’s bullets punched close to the cops. He wasn’t aiming to kill. Dead cops weren’t the best way to a secure future. They were in the open, and the savagery had left their faces. Now they looked fearful, without the machine gun in support. He left the house and ran toward them, and still they did nothing. Gun barrels pointed at the ground in defeat, and he skidded to a stop ten meters before he reached them, eying Hosseini with suspicion. He aimed his assault rifle at the cop.

  “Drop the guns.”

  He obeyed and signaled to his men to do the same. Stoner relaxed, but he was more than puzzled. “What gives, Hosseini? Why did you stop shooting? What happened to your machine gun?”

  He turned and pointed. A vehicle was driving toward them, a white Toyota Land Cruiser. The rare ‘top of the range’ luxury model, with every conceivable extra, including sumptuous all-leather interior. He’d seen one before, the property of his nemesis Ivan ‘The Terrible’ Vasilyevich.

  The SUV halted a few meters away, and a man stepped out with a Thompson gun slung from his shoulder. He was holding a PKM general-purpose machine gun. Two men climbed out behind him, Akram Latif and Gorgy Bukharin. They waited, their faces set in grim lines. The machine gun fell at his feet, and the man who’d thrown it grinned.

  “I thought you might want this as a souvenir.”

  “Ivan.”

  The grin widened. “The same. It looks like I got here just in time. You guys were in deep shit. Stoner, what is it with you? Do you have a death wish or something?”

  “We didn’t invite these cops. What’s the story with the machine gun?”

  A shrug. “I thought you’d prefer it if we removed it from the equation. We didn’t want to drag along the dead body as well.”