As if to emphasize the point, they ducked as a salvo of artillery shells whistled overhead to land several blocks away. Dust and fine stone chips trickled down from the sky. In an adjacent street, an armored personnel carrier rumbled past, the autocannon mounted in the turret chattering a booming message of death. "See what I mean?"

  He nodded. "I think we get the picture." He held out his hand, "Major, thanks for everything."

  She smiled. “You’re welcome. Just one thing, Mr, Tyler, Forget surgery, and don't give up the day job."

  "I'll bear it in mind, Major. So long."

  He turned and nodded. "Let's go."

  Ducking away from the next crescendo of artillery shells, they followed the Major's advice and darted into a nearby building. It had once been a large, private house, although now the war taken its toll, first the Soviet invasion, then the Taliban takeover, and now the Coalition fightback. The first floor was empty of furnishings, and he ran straight to the wall that adjoined the next house. He found what Major Bryant had described. A crude, gaping hole about a meter in diameter, which would allow defenders to cross to the next building without coming under fire from gun battles in the streets. He scrambled through, and they followed him into the next building. Everywhere, houses were deserted, and they encountered no one as they worked their way closer to the center of the city. When they were halfway there, and he ducked down to climb through the next hole, he came face-to-face with a Talib coming toward him, about to do the same thing. The man’s expression changed to astonishment, and Tyler fired first. He fell back, but there were more hostiles behind him, maybe as many as ten. Rushing through the buildings to get into the fight.

  He shouted, “Fallback, fallback!"

  They retreated to the house they’d come from. He was just in time; diving through the hole after them, pursued by raking gunfire. He signaled for them to flatten against the wall either side of the hole. The first fighter emerged, then another and another. The fourth man looked to the side and saw them. He shouted a warning, and the shooting started. They cut down the first four men, and Tyler shot a fifth who'd been trying to get through. The rest pulled back in disarray, but he wasn't about to leave a loose group of Taliban blocking their way. He dove back through the hole, rolled over, and came up shooting. He took down another two Talibs, and the surviving three were circling, trying to get a shot. He pulled the trigger, but once again he was out of ammo. He was on his own, and he stood up slowly, with his hands in the air.

  One man stepped forward smiling, and raised his gun. Tyler saw the finger squeeze the trigger, and he didn't give him a chance to follow through. He still had his empty rifle in his hands, and he swung, knocking the AK-47 aside. At the same time, he closed with the other two men. He was desperate, and the power of his attack took them by surprise. He punched the first man hard in the face, and blood sprayed from his ruined nose. A quick step back, but the second man had recovered from the shock of the unexpected attack and was bringing up his AK to the aim.

  Tyler pivoted on one foot in a move he'd learned long ago during Special Forces training. He brought the other leg scything around and knocked the weapon to one side. The first man he'd hit was coming at him again, and he closed inside the reach of his rifle. He hit him hard, a vicious left jab, followed up with a hard right hook, and two more jabs.

  But the man was a hardened veteran, no stranger to the tricks and blows of asymmetric warfare. The punches didn't stop him, and he came at Tyler again. This time his eyes were reddened, mad with fury, and he'd forgotten all thoughts of killing him with a rifle.

  It had become a grudge match, man-to-man. Some ancient, primordial instinct that made the Afghan want to move in close and use his hands to tear the American into little pieces. They fought like crazy, swapping punches. His opponent was big and strong, so Tyler had to be careful to stay clear of those powerful arms. If the hands went around his neck, it would be the end of the fight.

  The hands reached for his neck, and he dropped to his knees, so they closed on empty air. In front of him, the man's groin was close, and he hammered a hard punch into the soft area. A yelp of pain echoed around the room, and the guy was reeling away, whimpering in agony. But he wasn't finished, although the urge to use his hands to kill had waned as the agony in his groin ripped through him. His hand dove to the pistol tucked into the belt at his waist. He dragged it out, and Tyler knew he was finished.

  The guy was two paces away, with a Russian Makarov 9mm pointed at his chest. He watched the eyes, waiting for the flicker in them before he fired. Ready to try a last desperate dodge to the side to avoid the fatal bullet. The man’s eyes flickered, and he leapt to the right. The crash of the bullet was loud. Yet he was still alive, and when he looked up, Javed was standing inside the room. He looked almost absurd in the overly large uniform, and the Kevlar helmet that almost covered his eyes, although he wore it with considerably more pride than the white United Nations nurse’s dress.

  After a short silence, he nodded his thanks.

  "That was good shooting." He looked at the body. Javed’s single bullet had punched through the man's forehead, almost dead center; "I never knew you were that accurate with a rifle."

  "I was aiming at his chest."

  "Right."

  “I’m glad he’s dead. He was one of the men on the roadblock when we came in, and he said I was one of the ugliest girls he'd ever seen."

  "Is that right?"

  "Yes, it was an insult to my manhood, and he had to die."

  He inclined his head and worked hard to keep a serious look on his face. "Of course, you're right Javed."

  Although I can't argue with the sentiment, the disguise had been good, but it sure didn't make him look pretty.

  Hammett came through the gap in the wall, followed by Sarah and the other two men. They looked worried, but he waved away their concerns. “I didn’t get a scratch, but we need to go on. Keep your eyes peeled for hostiles. We were lucky to get away that time."

  They made it through the next half-dozen houses, until they reached a gap leading onto a wide street. He looked out, and the air was buzzing with slivers of steel and lead from shells and automatic fire. They had little choice. The battle was intense, and soon, the Taliban would be forced to flee or be wiped out completely. And if that happened, either they'd kill the children, or they’d take them with them. They could be lost forever. He looked outside, and the firing had slackened.

  "We'll move on. Straight across the street, and on the other side there’s another hole in the wall of the building. That's where we're headed."

  He climbed into the street and crouched down low, like a sprinter on the starting blocks. With a last look around, he set off, running as fast as his legs would pump, chest sucking in air; all the time conscious of the hail of metal lashing all around the open space. They almost made it. Three quarters of the way across he heard a shout pain. When he looked back, Diaz was down, but Hammett urged him on. "Go, go, we’ll bring him. Don't stop running."

  Sarah and Javed were close behind, and they dove into the building. Seconds later, Hammett and Murphy pulled Diaz through the hole and laid him on the floor. They huddled around him, pulling his combat jacket aside to inspect the wound. Tony looked up and shook his head. “Julio Diaz was a damn good soldier, and there was nothing he wouldn't do. No chance he wouldn't take to complete his mission. But now he’s gone.”

  He stood up, and he and Murphy stiffened to the salute. Sarah shook her head in sorrow.

  "I’m so sorry."

  * * *

  Mahmud Pazira was sitting in the driving seat of the Lexus SUV. He had the engine running the air con adjusted to full. He was listening to Kabul radio, enjoying the discordant strains of Arabic music coming from the distant station. His boss, Mullah Habib Ahmadi, had instructed him to stand by to leave at a moment’s notice, and he intended to make himself comfortable while he waited.

  The vehicle was parked beneath an aqueduct that ran over the road. He was reasonably safe from air attack, and from being targeted by shells. The battle was for the west side of the city was coming nearer, but so far the east of Mazari Sharif was still in Taliban hands. He figured it would stay that way for some time. He looked up as his boss emerged from the doorway of a nearby house and beckoned him over. He switched off the engine, locked the vehicle, and ran to him. "Mullah, what is it?”

  "A change of plan, Mahmud."

  "We're not leaving?"

  He snorted. "Of course we're leaving. Can't you see the battle is already lost? They attacked with unimaginable numbers of troops, aircraft, and armor, and we can't hold them."

  Pazira recalled his boss’ words, that they’d turn the city into a fortress, splash American blood against the walls if they dared to attack. Wisely, he didn’t remind him of what he’d stated so recently.

  "What would you have me do, Sir?"

  "The children are inside this building, the young boy and the two remaining martyrs. I require you to take the martyrs across town, close to the front line. You will direct them to walk toward the enemy headquarters, and carry out their mission ordained by God."

  "You still intend for them to blow themselves up?"

  "They are both volunteers for Allah. I am merely his messenger."

  Of course you are. A pity your messages seem to be more fantasy than truth.

  “Absolutely, I understand, Sir.”

  He missed the sardonic tone. " When you return, we will leave the city immediately. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, Sir. And the boy, the one they brought in from the ranch.”

  He grimaced. “A waste of time. I thought he would be useful as a hostage, but I was wrong. Just another useless infidel, cut his throat."

  He felt a moment of horror. “Sir?"

  "I said cut his throat." Ahmadi gave him an intense stare, "Will obeying my order cause you a problem, Mahmud?"

  He sensed the danger and responded immediately. “Of course not, Sir. I will do it at once, just as you say."

  "Very well, get on with it. Remember, Akram can be trusted, but not the girl. I no longer have a remote detonator, but at the right moment, he will detonate the bombs and strike a mighty blow for Allah. But first, deal with the child. It’ll only take you a moment.”

  "Yes, Sir.”

  Ahmadi strutted away, and Pazira entered the house. He walked past two fighters standing guard, and entered the back room that was squalid and stinking. Akram was as angry and fanatical as ever. Maryam’s face was almost ghostly, and both of their young bodies were padded out by the bulk of the explosive vests. She was comforting the young boy. He'd spoken earlier in a childish lisp to inform them his name was Junior.

  He stared at him for several seconds, and felt a twisted knot of anxiety in his guts. Akram sensed the tension in him.

  "Mahmud, what is it?"

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Take the girl outside, and wait for me next to the Lexus. Guard her well.”

  “Yes, Mahmud.”

  He dragged Maryam from the room, and her eyes were dry of tears. She’d wept so much there were none left. The noise of battle was loud inside the room, and she knew her time was close. Pazira still stared down at the child. He was so young, and somehow, in the midst of this hell, they’d found food and drink for him. He looked up and smiled at Mahmud with his chubby, contented face. He murmured words, but they were incomprehensible to him.

  Pazira swallowed a gulp and took out his dagger. He wiped the blade across his robe, to make sure the edge was clean. Then he smiled at himself for such a pointless gesture.

  “Goodbye, Junior. I’m sorry, I don’t have a choice.”

  He touched the soft flesh of his neck with the blade and fought down his revulsion.

  I have to carry out the order. Don’t I?

  Chapter Twelve

  They stood in silence, but not for long. The battle was drawing closer, and if they didn't hurry, they'd be caught on the front line between the Taliban and the Coalition. At a nod from Hammett, Tyler went on. Racing from room to room, house to house, apartment building to apartment building. They emerged through a gap in the wall next to a wide square. There was no movement, just burned out and bombed vehicles. And corpses.

  Everywhere, a field of corpses, as if planted by some maniac grim reaper. All dead, and then he realized he was wrong. There was a movement, a robed man hurrying out of the house. He glanced around nervously before he continued along the street and disappeared around a corner.

  Sarah came through next, and then Javed, Hammett, and Murphy. He pointed to the building where he’d seen the movement. "There’s something going on over there. Most of the hostiles appear to have retreated, so I'm guessing if there's anything to find, that's our best hope."

  "It’s a stretch. There may be nothing," Hammett grimaced.

  “There’s only one way to find out."

  They ran across the square at breakneck speed. Although most of the enemy appeared to have pulled back, there could be snipers positioned at any of the windows. He was too slow. Ten meters from his destination, and the whipcrack report of a high-powered rifle echoed around the vast, empty space. He felt the bullet tear across his chest, close to the earlier wound, and the stab of sharp, vicious pain was indescribable. He didn't break stride and kept running. They reached the building, and he dove through the doorway. Sarah came next, and Javed was holding her hand. He wasn't certain whether she was shepherding him along, or vice versa. But it was a light moment, and through the intense pain he gritted his teeth and managed to smile. Then she saw the wound, blood pumping out through his fingers, and she was all over him.

  "Joe, you’re hit."

  "It's nothing."

  "Bullshit, let me look." She made a rapid examination and pursed her lips.

  "The good news is the bullet seems to have missed the vital organs and exited the other side. With any luck, you should live."

  "And the bad news?"

  "The bad news is the previous bullet didn’t go all the way through your body. I can see it. It’s pressing against the skin, but sooner or later it’ll have to come out. It ought to be soon, before it does a lot more damage. Or it kills you.”

  "I’ll keep it in mind. But not until we’ve found the kids."

  "As long as it's not too long. I don’t want you dying on me.”

  Hammett and Murphy were prowling around the room. There were two doorways. One led to a flight of stairs, the other to a dark and narrow corridor.

  "We’re going to check down here. Stay there, Joe, and rest that wound for a bit. Get Sarah to put a bandage on it. You’re leaking blood like a stuck pig. We'll let you know what we find."

  He didn't argue; content to have a brief respite. A chance for the shock and pain to ease, and then a couple of minutes later, Chris Murphy shouted from the back, "Well lookee here! Joe, you must see this. Come and take a look."

  He got to his feet, wincing with the stabbing pain, and followed them down the dark passage. The room at the end was small and lit by a single oil lamp. In the corner, a man was sitting with his head bowed in abject misery, his arms wrapped around his legs. Close to him, a child was sitting on the floor, and he was smiling at Sarah.

  "Mamma."

  She ran to him and scooped him up. "Junior, baby. You’re safe."

  Joe went to them and winced as he raised his arms to give them both a hug. Junior was now safe in his mother's arms. He felt an overwhelming sense of joy, and then when he looks down at the Afghan cowering in the corner, the joy changed to intense anger.

  He went to him, and using his good arm, dragged him to his feet.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  The man mumbled something, and Javed translated. "He says his name is Mahmud Pazira."

  “You’re the man who kidnapped my son and held him prisoner?"

  Another torrent of Pashtu followed, and once again Javed explained. "He says no. He works for Mullah Ahmadi, but he wasn't a party to the kidnap. It is true that since they arrived in Mazari Sharif, he has been given charge of the boy, but when Ahmadi ordered him to kill him, he refused. He said killing children is evil, and he now realizes how evil his boss is."

  Javed spoke to the man again in Pashtu, and it was a kind of question and answer session. Until the boy looked round and his eyes were bright with hope. "They’re here."

  “Who?"

  "The Mullah, and the martyrs. This man, Mahmud Pazira, has been instructed to take him away from the city. On the way, he intends to leave the two martyrs close to the target so they can walk the last stretch and explode their devices."

  “The last two martyrs? You mean Maryam and Akram?"

  He grinned. "Yes, we may be able to get them back. They are waiting in a Lexus SUV parked at the other side of the building. As soon as the Mullah has finished meeting with the local Taliban commander, they will carry the martyrs to their jump-off point. Then Ahmadi will leave the city and find somewhere secure."

  Joe felt his anger begin to subside. Yes, the man was Taliban, and yes, he'd held Junior a prisoner. But the boy didn't appear to be unharmed, and it was quite clear from his demeanor he'd made a firm decision not to carry out the execution order.

  "Javed, translate this. Tell him he’ll lead us to the Lexus, and help us get the martyrs out. Do they still have the bomb vests fitted?"

  Javed conveyed the message and nodded. “He says yes, they do. And he will do anything he can to help."

  "How about detonation? How does it work?"

  "Akram is responsible for the detonation, and Maryam's vest will explode sympathetically.

  "Ask him what is the range?"

  The answer came back a few seconds later. “If she is inside a two-hundred-meter range, the shockwave of Akram’s vest will set off her bomb."

  He nodded. "I get it. It’s time to put a stop to this stupidity."

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22