Savage Deadlock

by Don Pendleton

  Teeth bared in a snarl, his eyes glittering with a blend of fear and fury, the Taliban fighter hefted his knife and sped up, preparing to strike. Seeing that the man’s body had opened up despite remaining partially hidden beneath the swirling robes, Jinnah lashed out with his own knife. His blade ripped at folds of cloth but missed flesh and bone. The corporal winced as his opponent desperately brought the grip down on his back, clubbing at him.

  Twisting away from the blows so that they glanced rather then struck heavily, he thrust upward once more, twisting the blade and feeling it penetrate flesh and then jar as it hit bone before skidding off and biting deeper. He felt his opponent gasp, felt the warm blood from the man’s mouth splash on his neck and then the deadweight pitch onto him, pushing him back.

  Jinnah rolled as he fell, his opponent’s corpse flopping away from him. Leaving the knife in place—there was no time to retrieve it—he looked around and swore.

  In the time it had taken him to engage in combat, the women and the other two warriors had retreated almost out of sight.

  But one more figure had appeared as he fought, and he was now passing beyond view.

  Maybe there was still hope....

  * * *

  ZIA TOOK COVER and watched the Taliban fighter come toward him. Two men had been coming his way, but one had veered off slightly and the other had fallen behind. Now, Zia had the second man in his sights. He had a notion that Jinnah was already in hand-to-hand with the third opponent, but they were lost to view.

  Zia had a clear shot at the man. He could take him out cleanly and quickly, but the noise could create a whole lot of trouble—that must be why he hadn’t heard any fire from Jinnah’s direction. Reluctantly, Zia put down his AK and drew his knife. Ahead of him, the Taliban warrior was moving swiftly, trying to catch up to the other man. His focus on his compatriot made him careless, and he didn’t see Zia in hiding. Hunkering down below the scrub, Zia waited.

  The fighter drew level and was almost past Zia before he noticed the Pakistani soldier out of the corner of his eye. He tried to stop and address the sudden threat, but his own momentum carried him on a few steps, off balance now as he tried to turn and ready himself for attack.

  Zia sprang out at the man before he had a chance to steady himself. The young soldier leaped across the meter and a half that separated them, landing on his man and driving him onto the ground, the air driven from his opponent’s lungs. As they fell, Zia shoved his knife under the man’s ribs and deep into his vital organs. The man fought for breath and for his life, struggling to free himself from the blade. He yelped as the pain of scored flesh gave him the adrenaline rush to fight back.

  As the two men scrabbled for a better hold, rocking back and forth, the Taliban fighter managed to flip Zia, bringing his knee up into the soldier’s groin with as much force as he could muster.

  Zia lost his grip as he flailed on his back, and his knife skittered away from him. Searing pain in his groin made the world turn red for a second, and when it subsided, he found that he was on the receiving end of a blade as his assailant unsheathed his own and tried to jab it into Zia’s throat.

  The private blocked the blow with his forearm, although the edge of the blade cut through his fatigues and skin. His opponent’s forward thrust carried him down so that he almost head-butted Zia, and the soldier took advantage of this by using the only weapon available to him. He bit the man on the nose, clamping down hard and feeling the gristle and cartilage between his teeth, blood flowing over his face. The pain and surprise made the man loosen his grip, and gave Zia the opportunity he needed. He heaved hard and brought his knee into the man’s crotch, giving him a taste of what he’d inflicted earlier. The man rolled awkwardly off the soldier, groping around on his hands and knees as the pain and blood blinded him.

  Zia jumped on the man’s back, pinning him down. He reached under his chin with both hands, grunting with the effort of twisting hard and sharp. As soon as he heard the click of his enemy’s neck breaking, he sat back on his heels, breathing heavily.

  He stood up and vomited as the pain in his groin was finally allowed precedence over the adrenaline rush that had saved him. Shaking his head to clear it, he took in his surroundings.

  Yasmin, Davis and the other Taliban fighter were distant blurs in the mist. Gasping to get his breath back, Zia picked up the discarded AK and tried to run after them, pain slowing him.

  There was a figure between himself and the group ahead. Was it Jinnah?

  * * *

  BOLAN JOGGED THROUGH the rain, heading toward the gunfire he’d heard earlier. The plateau had fallen silent. What the hell was going on? He held the AK across his chest as he ran, ready to shoulder it instantly. He didn’t bother with concealment—it was too late to worry about that now.

  He stopped when he heard a yell echo across the plain. He was sure it was Davis—certainly it was female. He listened closely for a moment, and frowned as he heard someone approaching. Taking stock of his position, he spotted a flat rock tilted up at a slight angle, which would provide cover if he lay flat. Quickly, he moved behind it and waited for any oncoming traffic, be it friend or foe.

  * * *

  DAVIS YELLED AT Yasmin to stop. She tried to gain ground, but the young scientist was fast—likely spurred on and strengthened by the panic and adrenaline coursing through her system.

  But as long as Yasmin was still in view, Davis felt she still had a chance of reaching her. She hadn’t been looking to either side or to her rear, and was oblivious to the combat that had taken place in her wake. And she was oblivious to the Taliban warrior until he stepped out from behind a rock in front of her, water dripping down his face and off his beard. Given her speed and momentum, Davis was painfully aware that she was about to run into him before she had an opportunity to react.

  The last thing she saw was a fist the size of a ham as it slammed into her face, splitting her nose. She staggered back, and a second blow caught her in the jaw. She hit the ground like a sack of potatoes and the world went black.

  * * *

  BEFORE THE AMERICAN had even landed in the mud, Khan had already turned on his heel to chase after the girl. He had fought his way to many a bare-knuckle purse in Lahore, Quetta and Kabul in his younger days, and he knew the female soldier was no longer a threat. He hadn’t noticed if he’d killed her, and he didn’t much care. If she was dead, end of problem; if she wasn’t, then by the time she came around he would be long gone.

  He ran freely now. If the young woman ahead of him turned and screamed, then so what? What could she do? She was unarmed, having dropped her weapon in fear. She may be clever, but she wasn’t brave. Unlike him...

  Khan closed on her, and she stopped suddenly and turned toward him, like a little child. She opened her mouth to scream but had no chance. He was on her before she could utter a sound. He felt her writhe against him, then he pushed her back and slapped her across the face, knocking her to the ground.

  Grabbing her in one vast paw, he yanked her to her feet. “Shut up and do what I say, or there’s more of that. You have the stuff?”

  “What stuff?” She was crying, and her voice trembled.

  “Don’t try to show me how clever you are,” Khan snarled. “You know what I mean.”

  The woman stared at him, fear and defiance doing battle in her expression before resignation crept in. She nodded. “I’ve got it here,” she said, indicating her backpack.

  He laughed harshly. “Come on.”

  They set off marching at a pace that she had difficulty keeping up with. He wasn’t worried about any more opponents out here, but he wanted to get her back to camp as soon as possible. The sooner he delivered the target, the sooner he’d get his prize.

  Out of nowhere, a figure holding an AK stood up from cover less than a hundred meters ahead of them. But Khan was ready. Pushing th
e girl forward, he shoved the muzzle of his rifle into her spine.

  * * *

  BOLAN WATCHED TWO distinct figures emerge from the mist. One was a tall, heavily built man in dark robes. He held an AK in one hand, and with the other he gripped a much smaller, slighter figure.

  Shazana Yasmin.

  Somehow the bastard had separated the scientist from the convoy.

  He wasn’t going to get any farther. As they came nearer, the rain ceased and Bolan was able to see them clearly. A clean shot—that was all he needed. He rose from cover, shouldering the AK so that he had the Taliban fighter clearly in his sights. Before he could fire, though, the man thrust Yasmin in front of him. She only reached his shoulders, which meant his head was a clear shot, but the twisted grin on his face told Bolan that it wouldn’t be that simple.

  “Let her go,” Bolan called. “Let her go. I can still take you down.”

  “I think not,” the man said. Roughly, he moved her sideways so Bolan could see the rifle pressed into her backpack. “You know what she’s carrying, right?”

  “I do,” Bolan replied calmly. “You fire and you kill her, sure. You kill yourself, too. You let that radiation spread across the land and you’ll poison your own. You think the prophet wants that?”

  The robed man spat. “How dare you speak like that? What do you know of such things?”

  “Enough to know that no leader can continue to lead without living followers,” Bolan replied coolly. He kept the AK level. “Now tell me why I shouldn’t just take you down now.”

  “Because I am watching you, American—as soon as your finger tightens on the trigger, I’ll fire first, and all of your efforts will be in vain. You are not so stupid as to do that.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Bolan replied. “You think we’re just dumb Yanks, right? So why shouldn’t I act like one? Watch my fingers...you think I’m going to shoot? Feel lucky?”

  Bolan could see the confusion on Yasmin’s face—she couldn’t work out why he was taunting her captor in this way. Of course she couldn’t. Bolan knew the man would likely be as good as his word, and he had no real intention of testing it. But he wanted to command the man’s full attention. The only issue was whether he would be able to keep it long enough to get the job done.

  “Then you are a stupid—”

  Bolan would never find out what. A single shot rang out across the plateau, and a look of astonishment crossed his opponent’s face before his head exploded and he fell to the ground.

  Yasmin blinked in disbelief, opened her mouth and then fell to her knees.

  Behind her, Zia and Jinnah were approaching, and between them and the corpse stood a lone figure, her AK at her shoulder, her gaze still fixed on the target she had taken down. Slowly, Lasi let the AK drop, then looked Bolan squarely in the eye. The briefest ghost of a grin crossed her grim visage.

  Bolan breathed a sigh of relief. He had seen her creep out into the open, and had tried to keep the Taliban fighter’s attention away from her until she could take aim and fire. It seemed to take an eternity for her to squeeze the trigger.

  Not that he blamed her. There was only the one chance, and it had to be a clean kill.

  It had been worth the wait. “Good shot,” Bolan called, nodding in respect and gratitude.

  Now it was time to finally put this mission to bed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wearily, Bolan, Lasi, Yasmin and the two Pakistani soldiers trudged back toward the PWLA convoy. After consulting the others, Bolan was confident they’d cleared the area of enemy threats, at least for now.

  Along the way, they came across Davis. She was sprawled on the ground, and Bolan brought her around slowly, figuring from the state of her face that she could be another concussion victim. It certainly looked as though her nose had been broken. Even so, her pride hurt worse when she woke up and realized what had happened. She berated herself briefly and bitterly, rejecting offers of help as she got to her feet.

  When they reached the PWLA, they found that Indira had rallied her people, and the women were thankful to have Lasi and Yasmin back in their ranks.

  Bolan and Jinnah checked Faiz. The medic was bent over him, and when she glanced up, concern was etched on her face.

  “We must move, and we must have no further interruption,” she said sharply, as though the two soldiers had been solely responsible for the recent firefight. “I fear there may be infection.”

  “I don’t think we could handle another interruption. Not right now,” Bolan replied drily, casting an eye over himself and the other three military personnel. “Get him ready to move.”

  With one assault force successfully turned away, and no other signs of additional enemies encroaching, Bolan felt it was reasonable to assume that the severe weather had made it difficult for any forces wishing to follow in the wake of the recently defeated to track their prey successfully. They now had a head start on any other factions, which they needed considering how exhausted they were after the recent battle.

  Quetta was a day’s march away if they stopped to rest when darkness fell, but it was obvious that the PWLA women had no wish to halt. Stop, and they may never want to move again. Stop, and they allowed any enemy in their wake to close in on them. So they continued, even though their muscles and bones ached for rest.

  When they reached the road leading to the city, they still weren’t in the clear. The geography of the region made communication difficult, with only shortwave radio working with any degree of reliability, which was, at an understatement, erratic.

  They walked along the road to Quetta until they encountered the first traffic the soldiers had seen since disembarking from the transport a few days before—longer, for the women. An ancient truck trundled by, transporting fruit and vegetables that looked the worse for their journey. The driver was reluctant to stop when they hailed him from a distance, and if anything seemed to speed up as he approached.

  In this territory, he could hardly be blamed. But when Jinnah and Zia stepped into the road and leveled their rifles at him, the combination of their hardware and their uniforms forced him to a halt. Reluctantly, he let them climb into the truck bed, settling themselves among the pungent crates. Bolan guessed that the soldiers’ presence was what stayed the driver from complaint as he carried them into Quetta and dropped them at the barracks.

  Their arrival was greeted with shock. Bolan, Davis and the military personnel had been written off as casualties as soon as they had left, and their return—with their objective, at that—was a cause of bemusement rather than satisfaction. It was as though their presence was an embarrassment for a military that would prefer Yasmin had perished out on the plateau with the rest of the PWLA rather than deal with the consequences of her return.

  * * *

  “WHERE IS THE MAJOR?” Bolan asked at the end of his report to General Sandila. He was in Lahore the day after their arrival in Quetta.

  Sandila grinned. “The major is currently trying to convince Dr. Yasmin that she should return to work for the NCA. Possibly, I suspect, through a combination of wheedling and clumsy bullying.”

  Bolan looked at him quizzically. “You say that like you already know what her answer will be.”

  Sandila shrugged. “I had a few words with the doctor and Captain Davis prior to this meeting. Major Malik was concerned, of course, with debriefing his own men first. Idiocy.”

  “I’m not sure you should dismiss them so easily,” Bolan said. He was irked at the general’s manner toward men who had earned Bolan’s respect and a whole lot more on the frontline. It seemed all the more insulting considering that Faiz’s leg had become infected and the soldier now faced amputation and dismissal from the forces on medical grounds. Bolan wondered if the general had ever experienced combat, and was about to ask when Sandila spoke again.

  “Col
onel Stone, you do me an injustice. I merely mean that men of that caliber can retain necessary information until debriefing, and frankly, they deserve a day without having to face Malik. I was referring to his idiocy. The major made a mess of this mission and the aftermath. The end of a long line of errors and relying on what the British called the ‘old boys’ network’ to keep him afloat. I will be replacing him and heading up his unit, and things will be different. Under my command, men of quality are a necessity. In fact, my first order of business will be to promote Corporal Jinnah and Private Zia.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Bolan said. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. In any case, I’m thinking that the NCA won’t be desperate to pin Dr. Yasmin down. After all, she has dual citizenship, we have excellent facilities in the U.S.A., and I’m sure a mutually beneficial arrangement could be made.”

  “Not officially, of course,” Sandila agreed. “The official line will be that Dr. Yasmin will be a great loss, but we cannot stop her leaving because of her dual citizenship, the incompatibility of her political views and so forth. Naturally, our relationship with the U.S.A. is, at times, strained, but in the interest of preventing further strain, we hope any new research Yasmin conducts will be shared, if only tacitly, with our own physicists.” “I hope you work something out. I’m afraid that’s not my department, though,” Bolan said. “I’m more of a field researcher, myself.”

  The general blinked at Bolan. There was a pause, and then Sandila began to laugh.

  * * *

  BOLAN LOOKED IN on Faiz before he left, and found both Jinnah and Zia attendant. They were in somber moods because of their comrade’s health, but were glad for the opportunity to bid farewell to the man they had fought alongside.