Wesley shook his head. “Fucked up way to fight a war.”
“Then the Dagger came down on a refugee camp. Maybe it was soldiers on active duty, maybe it wasn’t. They went through and slaughtered a hundred men, women and children, and wounded almost a thousand more. A few UN workers spotted them, but they were transferred out as fast as possible,” Geren said. “The UN denied that their people saw anything, but Abraham’s Dagger didn’t buy it. People started dying. Two automobile accidents. One poor guy drowned in his bathtub after someone piled three cinder blocks on his chest.”
“And now they come to Afghanistan?” Laith asked.
“Sofia DeLarroque was a witness to the massacre that happened in a refugee camp called Shafeeq. When she came over here, it was an effort to make her unreachable,” Geren explained. “Trouble is, Mossad knows, Abraham’s Dagger knows. So guess which redheaded stepchild gets sent to take these guys on?”
“Witnesses reported there were Afghan soldiers,” Wesley said. “Former Taliban enforcers, sorry.”
Laith nodded. “Verbal shorthand. Those dogs aren’t worthy to be described by my country’s name, but then, my country was slothlike in throwing off their yoke. Enough of that. The ex-Taliban types can be explained easily. They’re hard up for money. They came here hired by rich and fanatical Saudi and Yemeni citizens. Sons of princes and oil magnates, looking to make the perfect Islamic state. Now, with the bosses dead or in hiding, they’re hiring themselves out to whoever wants to give them some cash. So we have fanatics who got bit by the pragmatism bug,” Laith said. “No great causes they can die for, so they might as well get paid to kill for something.”
“Terrorists have been that way across history,” Bolan spoke up. “They start with a devotion to a cause, but if they don’t die off or end up in jail, they learn there’s a profit to be made. There might be old believers still out there, still true blue to their ideology, but they’re either in organizations too poor to engage in real operations, or they’re fangless in what actions they do take.”
“This is all well and good, but we started talking about a car watching you, Tera,” Wesley interrupted.
“If he was watching me and took off when things got nasty, then that means we have Palestinians on the scene too,” she stated. “And while we really can’t call them friends, they aren’t going to be interested in attacking me because I’m doing the footwork in locating the people they really want to hit.”
“Abraham’s Dagger,” Bolan said. “It’s going to be a cross fire. The Dagger’s going to be hunting the UN workers currently in country. And we have Palestinians racing with us to hunt down the Dagger members. Throw in the United States Special Forces watching to see that everyone behaves, and we’ll be having a four-way dance.”
“Well, I can help smooth things over with Blake, if possible,” Wesley offered. “And maybe we can form a temporary truce with the Palestinians. Maybe.”
Bolan nodded. “I’d prefer that. Trouble is, if we come to their doorstep, there’s no guarantee that they won’t try kicking us off.”
“And they’d do the kicking to the tune of an AK,” Geren muttered.
“Bingo,” Bolan said. “So we’re going to have to make a decision on how we’re going to deal with them.”
The woman shrugged. “I’m all for extra muscle on our side for once. If we go hunting for the Palestinian team, we’ll probably force a shootout. In the field, we might be able to form a truce.”
“The enemy of my enemy,” Laith said.
“I just want you to make sure you’re all certain who your targets are. We can avoid an extra force gunning for us if we act smart,” Bolan stated. “If not, stay close to cover and keep in communication with the rest of us. We’ll pull you out. Am I clear?”
The other three nodded in unison. “Crystal clear.”
Bolan didn’t feel a wave of sweeping inspiration from his “army,” but at least they seemed to have their heads all together. They had a common goal, and at least gave lip service to working together. “Now let’s get some guns,” he said.
THE STASH WAS HIDDEN in the remains of an old Soviet-occupation-era garage. While the shell of the building had been chewed away by battle and erosion, the inside was in good enough condition that the stairwell to the basement was undamaged. The center of the basement was taken up by the smashed remains of a hydraulic lift. The only sign that the garage was anything but ruins was a door that was solid. It was weathered, but the locks were stainless steel, the hinges were new and shielded behind more steel, and the whole thing was painted slapdash with splotches of black and brown to simulate rust and fire damage. Inside, hidden behind empty cardboard boxes, were crates of equipment.
Crates that had already been opened.
“Abraham’s Dagger was here,” Bolan said.
“They would know the best spots to go shopping. There are other arsenals we can use,” Geren replied.
“We’d be wasting time running across Afghanistan,” Bolan answered. “We’ll take what we need here.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Bolan looked over the choices he had. He was pleased to note that there were radios with earphones and throat mikes. That would make a lot of difference in a combat situation. Communication was vital, and when he worked with others, he was always glad to have the best possible electronics on hand. He took eight, four spares in case the radios got damaged.
The Executioner was pleased to come across a cache of .44 Magnum Desert Eagles. Though the guns were Israeli designed, the stockpile of Magnum autoloaders were actually the Minnesota-built Magnum Research designs. Bolan loaded a pair into his war bag along with six 50-round boxes of 240-grain hollowpoint bullets.
“Check out the micro-Uzis,” Geren said.
“You don’t have any stores of Uzi magazines here,” Bolan protested.
“These are the Mark 2s. They take regular and extended Glock pistol magazines. The most popular 9 mm pistol in the world,” she explained.
Bolan picked up the Uzi pistol. He flipped back the folding stock, then folded it forward, checking to see how it handled single-handedly. “Good. We’ll take eight, and all the Glock mags and 9 mm ammo we can carry.”
“The home office isn’t going to appreciate all their inventory walking off in someone else’s war bags,” Geren said as she watched Bolan feed a magazine into the butt of the Uzi.
“Then the home office should keep its so-called patriots from slaughtering refugees and relief workers,” Bolan answered. He found a box of shoulder harnesses for the Uzi pistols. “Sorry, Tera.”
“You don’t have to get on my case,” she answered. Rage flashed in her emerald eyes before she managed to pull it together as well. “I’m chasing those bastards, same as you are. They stepped over a line we didn’t want them to, either.”
“So how come they’re still on the loose?”
“Eight of them are in jail. Another three are dead, resisting arrest,” Geren replied. “But they were handled on Israeli soil, and they were handled quietly.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That was the point of handling it on our soil. That’s the point of sending me, by myself, to take these animals down on my own. We don’t want it advertised that our people are overreacting and are behind murdering children for the sake of bloodthirsty revenge.”
Bolan nodded. “I’m not going to leak anything. Like you hinted before, I’m as much a loose cannon, a cat that walks by himself as you are. I do my duty and that’s protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty.”
Geren’s face softened, and Bolan could see an apology already forming. He shook his head and put a finger to his lips.
“Let’s chalk the tension up to incomplete intel,” he said. “I don’t allow myself to get upset, usually.”
“That warrior monk bullshit only goes so far. You are just a man, remember?” Geren said. “Unless you really are bulletproof.”
“Nope,” Bolan answered. “I’ve
just been smart enough to avoid bad luck, and lucky enough when I was caught flat-footed, and quick enough to handle things before I even had to recognize I was in trouble.”
“So it’s not all in the reflexes,” Geren stated.
Bolan turned away and tried on the Uzi harness, pistol locked in place, stock folded.
“What are you trying to dance away from?” the Israeli agent asked.
Bolan looked up, then sighed. “I just don’t think that going into the metaphysics of my survival is important. I’d rather concentrate on what I have to do, and how to do it well.”
“Just keep putting one boot in front of the other and don’t think about how far the walk is,” Geren said.
“One way to put it,” Bolan answered. “I’m glad I have someone I know and is a proved quantity on my side. It makes things easier.”
“Even if you do worry about me?” Geren asked, smiling.
Bolan looked down at her, shook his head and stepped away, slipping a jacket over the Uzi harness. “We’ve got work to do, Tera.”
He didn’t allow himself a glance back at her.
6
“Damnation,” Rhodin growled, giving the tent post a kick.
“Relax,” Steiner said in his soft, Zen master voice. He was sitting still, and as Rhodin paced, he seemed to be the center of a drain of nervous energy. With each pass, it was harder and harder for the Abraham’s Dagger commando to keep up his frustration.
“How do you do that?” Rhodin asked.
Steiner looked up and managed a smile that didn’t reach his sad eyes. Nothing ever reached those haunted orbs. “Clean living I guess.”
Rhodin wrinkled his nose. “We got one target, but you didn’t give us much of a chance to interrogate her about the others, did you?”
“She was halfway out the window and ready to bolt,” Steiner answered as if Rhodin had asked him why he’d put too much sugar in their coffee. “I had to stop her.”
“So you killed her,” Rhodin answered.
Steiner shrugged. “We have Soze and the others tracking the other women down.”
Rhodin shook his head.
The tent opened and Rhodin spun, half expecting to see one of their Taliban allies poking his head through. Instead, it was Soze himself.
“Speak of the devil, and he shall come,” Steiner said, almost singsong.
Soze’s swarthy, tanned face twisted into a sneer at the calm assassin, then he turned back to Rhodin. “We tried to take care of the Geren woman.”
“She’s still alive,” Rhodin stated. He gave the tent’s centerpost another kick of frustration. “Bad enough the Mossad is turning us into criminals for doing what they’re too puny to do, now they’re sending a woman after us!”
“Not a woman. Geren,” Steiner whispered.
Rhodin snarled and paced to one corner of the tent, grabbing a cigarette. “Bad enough it’s a woman, but the granddaughter of a fucking Nazi.”
“Who better to hunt Jews than a Nazi?” Soze asked. “Naughty Jews chased after by a squeaky clean little goose-stepping dyke.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate her,” Steiner said. He stood up, and the swirling vortex of calm disappeared. “What happened?”
“We had our friends watching the American base camp, watching for her return. When she arrived, she had two newcomers with her,” Soze answered. “Our Taliban rejects described them as one local and one American.”
Steiner turned his thick, boltlike head toward Soze.
“One recognized the local as one of the Khan brothers,” Soze said.
“The other. Tall American? Black hair?”
“Yes,” Soze said.
Steiner’s jaw set.
“What’s wrong?” Rhodin asked. Steiner’s normally impassive face suddenly went as hard as stone, even the eyes narrowed, as if focusing his incredible mental power into a laser beam.
“Let me guess. They opened up on the American stranger, and he was instrumental in breaking the ambush. You suffered nearly complete losses too,” Steiner said.
Soze’s jaw dropped. “How—”
“I know the pattern.”
“The good news is, one of our men kept under cover. He didn’t join in the fight and watched as the three of them, and an American Green Beret, were sent off. The American didn’t have a weapon anymore,” Soze concluded.
Steiner shook his head and glanced across to Rhodin. “We should put a team on the weapons cache.”
Rhodin looked at him. “Why?”
“A good soldier never passes up a chance to rearm, and Geren knows about the cache. He’ll be looking for quality gear, and that’s what we have. Chances are, they’ll also be looking for any clues we left behind.”
Rhodin snorted. “We didn’t leave any traces behind.”
“Everyone leaves clues behind,” Steiner replied. “Just by the fact that we took stuff from a Mossad forward cache—”
Rhodin slapped his forehead and took another step toward kicking the tent post when Steiner raised one big, callused hand and pressed it to his chest.
“Please don’t do that again,” Steiner growled.
“Why?” Rhodin asked.
“I don’t want the tent falling on me,” Steiner answered. “I’ll lead the team against Geren and the American.”
“I can’t risk that,” Rhodin said.
“You can’t risk Geren’s new ally causing us trouble,” Steiner grumbled. “Surely you’ve heard the stories.”
“Rumors! Fantasies!” Rhodin snapped back.
“About who?” Soze asked.
“Some people call him Al-Askari,” Steiner answered. “Others just call him the Soldier. He’s responsible for destroying countless terrorist groups.”
“So then he’d be on our side?” Soze asked.
“We’re operating as a terrorist group,” Rhodin retorted. “There’s not a shred of proof that he exists.”
“Except dead terrorists from pole to pole,” Steiner countered. “Terrorists who ended up dead for no other reason than their actions brought down the vengeance of the Soldier.”
“Oh no…” Soze’s voice trailed off.
“You believe this crap too?” Rhodin asked.
Steiner frowned. “Better safe than sorry. We’ll stage an ambush at the cache.”
“Even if it isn’t this supersoldier, he’s still someone who’s going to be another threat at our backs, sir,” Soze spoke up.
Rhodin couldn’t argue with that logic. “All right. Saddle up and give them a warm welcome.”
Steiner nodded. “A very warm welcome.”
LIKE A SNAKE COILED in the shadows to avoid being addled by the sunlight, Greb Steiner nestled behind the scope of his Zastava M76, an 8 mm Mauser round under the hammer, ready to spit across the four hundred yards between him and the cache.
Rhodin wanted him on hand for the hit against Tera Geren and her mysterious allies, but he didn’t want the sad-eyed assassin anywhere near the action. Beside him, manning an RPK machine gun, was Soze. Both were relegated to watching and coordinating the action from afar, keeping under cover and out of sight. Throat microphones and earpieces conveyed messages between the Israelis and their Taliban dupes.
Steiner had less respect for the men closing in on the four people at the cache than he held for the bacteria that helped him digest food in his lower intestine. The militiamen hadn’t questioned why six strangers came to their lands and spoke perfect Arabic, even if it was in an Egyptian dialect. They merely accepted the money, the guns, the support and leadership of trained warriors to continue their jihad against the invading Westerners who sought to wipe away the decades of a perfect Islamic paradise.
Their idealism had been flushed away in the hard rain of American rage post-9/11, their government destroyed, their organization disrupted by a cleansing storm. Now, they were living, bullying who they could in order to have money and food and a roof over their heads. They were no longer gods sitting upon a backward people, vampires who su
cked the blood of a people too tired from a Soviet invasion and too frightened of an organized, fanatical intrusion. They were ticks, fleas. Parasites who burrowed into the skin and scurried away from scratching fingers, drinking dollops of vital life from people here and there, leaving behind the disease of fear and distrust.
But they made good cannon fodder.
Steiner and his team were fluent in Arab dialects, and chose Egyptian as that was who they had tanned themselves to most resemble. Back when they still bore the stink of legitimacy in the Israeli government, they were undercover agents, trained to sound and look like native Palestinians, Syrians, Lebanese, anyone who could be an enemy. The Taliban thought the weapons cache was an Egyptian holdout. A safeguard against possible trouble from nearby Iran or Pakistan.
A safe enough lie that was close to the truth. Only the national ownership was off, and that was only by one geographic step to the left.
The ex-militiamen didn’t care. Cash was coming to them. Their hands were wrapped around guns. They instilled terror.
And riding along in their shadow, silent and invisible, were the warriors of Abraham’s Dagger, cutting away any who would betray the true identities of those who brought justice to the murdered children of Israel by murdering the children of their enemies. Steiner felt a cold calm, as always. Avoiding the cooking sun in the shadows, his heart was still and easy, hands steady as stone, eyes locked like lasers on his enemies as they left two outside to guard them and give warning.
Steiner was not afraid of getting in close, of going nose to nose in combat with his enemies, no matter how strong, how armored, how tough they were, but his orders were clear.
Observe only.
The sniper rifle was only a precaution—in case they came under fire from below. Or if the enemy managed to capture one of their Taliban cohorts alive.
An 8 mm round between the shoulder blades would slice off any attempts at interrogation.
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