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“I enjoyed floor show. Much better than belly dancers. Even better than taking money from these losers.”
Two Italian airmen who sat bereft of chips gave the big man a sour look but wisely kept their thoughts to themselves. Bolan had the man pegged for a Pole. “GROM?”
“Good!” The man grinned. “Very good!”
GROM was the acronym for Poland’s Grupa Reagowania Operacyjno-Manewrowego, or Operational Mobile Reaction Group. The acronym also formed the word thunder in Polish. Poland had been one of the first Eastern European nations to sign up for operations in both Afghanistan and Iraq, and their special forces had been the first people they sent. GROM was their best, and while somewhat inexperienced, their best had the reputation of not being bad, and they were busy soaking up operational lessons the hard way in the fiery crucibles of the Middle East and Asia.
The Pole turned to the Italians. “Why do you still sit here? What do you intend to wager with? Your pants?” He jerked his head toward the door. “Go!”
The two airmen stopped just short of running. The big man shook his head as they left and returned to business. “The lieutenant, we know something of. You—” the big Pole shrugged at Bolan “—I do not know, but if you are with Dirk, this speaks well of you.”
“Thanks. GROM spells badass anyplace I’ve ever been.”
The Pole smiled modestly. “You are too kind.” He pulled a business card out of his vest. “My name is Dobrus, Dobrus Stanislawski. Why do not you and the lieutenant come by the office tomorrow?”
Bolan took the card. It read Dobrus Stanislawski, Security Consultant, Shield Security Services and gave a phone number, e-mail and address in Kabul. He handed it to Dirk.
The former Delta Force commando nodded. “We gonna get lunch out of this? I been in the stockade eatin’ MREs for a week, and I didn’t get my kebabs tonight.”
Stanislawski waved a hand around the premises. “Take-out from here?”
“You got a date, sex machine.”
3
“Dick Diggler, agent of Shield.” Dirk clearly enjoyed the sound of it. “Think we’ll get our own business cards?”
“We don’t have the job yet.”
“Dude, we’re shoo-ins.”
Bolan and Dirk climbed out of the cab with their hands never far from their concealed Berettas. Shield’s Kabul office was part of the new construction going on in the capital. Prevailing conditions favored thick concrete walls and few windows. The walls were pockmarked with bullet strikes and the occasional deeper crater of an RPG hit. Shield provided private security for businessmen, politicians and foreign dignitaries in war-torn Afghanistan, and that made the office itself something of a target. Strategically placed concrete pylons on the surrounding sidewalk prevented anyone driving a car bomb from getting up a head of steam at the building. The few windows were all upstairs and were more like the firing slits of a medieval castle than ornamentation or sources of natural light.
Bolan pressed the button on the steel security door and stared up into a camera lens. The intercom crackled and a woman’s voice spoke. “Mr. Dirk and Mr. Cooper?”
“That’s us.”
The intercom buzzed and the door unlocked. They had to pass through a switchback series of three Kevlar panels before reaching the foyer. A beautiful young Afghan woman in a gray business suit and skirt sat behind a teak desk with the Shield logo behind her. “Would you gentlemen care for coffee?”
Stanislawski came through a door behind her. “They have beer and take-out waiting for them upstairs. Follow me, boys.”
Bolan and Dirk followed the big Pole through a hall. It opened into a fairly spacious gym area with treadmills and weight machines. Dirk muttered appreciatively under his breath. “Goddamn…”
Dirk had a good eye. A woman in gray sweats was walking sideways on a stair-stepper machine. Wavy brown hair fell around a glowing face sheened with a healthy sweat. Savage work in the gym had turned her hourglass figure into sculpture, but not so much that she had lost any of her curves. She had big blue eyes, and her lips, nose and chin were sensuously sculpted.
Stanislawski called out jovially. “Connie! How long have you been on that machine?”
The woman’s eyes never wavered from some middle-distance point of concentration. “Forty-five minutes.”
“You are sick, little girl.”
A smile spread across her face. “I still have to do the other side. This old ass just turned forty-two.”
Bolan was sure many a woman in her twenties would have killed to have Connie’s rock-hard behind, but he kept that to himself for the moment. Stanislawski led them down another hall. The second they turned the corner, Dirk burst out eagerly. “Man! What’s her story?”
“Connie is our pilot. She flew Black Hawk helicopters for United States Army. She passed U.S. Army Ranger training, but of course was not allowed in ground combat. However, she flew combat missions in Desert Storm. Won Silver Star for bravery. Besides pilot, sometimes woman is useful in security missions. She can put on burka and blend with population or pose as Western nanny or tutor in ‘babysitting’ situations when armed man would be awkward.” Stanislawski raised a knowing eyebrow. “Very useful girl.”
“Oh, I got some uses for her.” Dirk grinned.
“Like others—” the Pole grinned back “—you will try.” He took them to the elevator, and they went to the third floor. The office at the end of the hall had “executive suite” written all over it. Stanislawski opened the door, and Bolan came face-to-face with a legend.
“Hello, men!”
Former Marine sniper David Dinatale had earned the moniker “Deadshot Dave” doing some very black operations work in Central America during the 1980s. During the 1990s, a mercenary soldiers’ magazine had done a story on him, giving him and his rifle the cover photo with the headline The Most Dangerous Man In Desert Storm. A framed copy of the cover shot hung on the wall behind him, as well as the United States Congressional Medal of Honor, pictures of him shaking hands with two presidents and a copy of his bestselling, semiautobiographical novel. Above all, in the place of honor, hung the battered Remington 700 sniper rifle with which he had done his damage and earned his accolades.
Like a lot of the world’s most dangerous men, Dinatale didn’t particularly look the part. He was a short, wiry man with sandy hair that was swiftly turning gray. He had a glowing tan and a generous smile that could sell toothpaste. Sitting in his shirtsleeves, he looked like a highly successful car salesman. However, there were certain signs of the operator about him. He sat in his leather chair with the lazy ease of a predator at rest and looked as if he could crank off a hundred push-ups without breaking a sweat. There was something very sniperlike around the eyes. He shot to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Thanks for coming around.”
“Morning, Mr. Dinatale.” Dirk stuck out his hand. “I must say this is an honor. I loved your book. It’s required reading over at Delta.”
“You keep up that kind of talk, and you’re gonna get yourself a date to the prom.”
He held out his hand to Bolan. “Cooper, is it?”
“Yes, sir, and it is an honor. You don’t get to meet a legend every day.”
“Jesus, you boys are butt-kissers!” Dinatale waggled his eyebrows. “But I like that in an employee! You taking notes there, Toe-jam, you Polack son of a bitch?”
Dobrus Stanislawski snorted.
Bolan smiled despite himself. Most snipers were quiet, introspective men. Dinatale was the exception that proved the rule, and he exuded the frat-boy charm of a lovable rogue. Bolan reminded himself that Deadshot Dave had forty confirmed kills, and those were just the ones that weren’t classified. Dinatale waved a hand at the cardboard boxes of take-out kebabs and roasted rice. A bucket of Moosehead beers on ice sat next to them. “Well, let’s tuck in and talk a little business.”
Everyone took a seat and began tearing into the cubed lamb and rice. Stanislawski took beers out of the bucket, twisted off the caps and passed them around.
“Well, now, gentlemen, I’ll tell you I’ve got a line of applicants stretched from here to Baghdad. I got Alaskan National Guardsmen who’ve never done anything but paint snow in Nome sending me love letters. The good news is this. Dirk? Delta Force says it all. I’d be a fool not to hire you. Short of Navy SEAL, you just don’t get a better résumé in this line of business.”
Dirk grabbed a fresh box of kebab. “SEALs are pussies.”
Beer nearly spewed out of Dinatale’s nose. “Well…like I said, Dirk. I’ve checked your bona fides, and save for a certain incident with a British brigadier, you’re rock solid.”
Dirk stiffened, but Dinatale dismissed the incident with a wave of his beer. “Hell, my one regret is that I’m going to go to my grave without ever having punched out a superior officer. That’s one you’ve got on me. Man! How’d that feel?”
“Well, at the expense of shooting myself in the foot?” Dirk smiled and shook his head. “Fantastic.”
Dinatale sighed in envy. “The good news is if you take the job I’m not your superior officer. I’m your boss. You don’t have to kick my ass. You can quit any time you want.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Dinatale. I like your style.”
“Thanks. So let me ask you a question.”
“What’s that, Mr. Dinatale?”
“Call me Dino—everyone does.”
“Okay, Dino, shoot.”
Dinatale’s eyes went hard as he looked at Bolan. “Who’s this civilian son of a bitch?”
Dirk didn’t bat an eye. “He’s the baddest asshole you’re likely to meet today, and you already met me, so that’s sayin’ somethin’.”
“Well, that is sweet,” Dinatale admitted, but he kept his eyes unblinkingly on Bolan. Few human beings could do the hard-stare harder than a veteran sniper. “But who are you, cowboy?”
Bolan was a veteran sniper himself, and he didn’t blink. “Short version, I’m a spook without a contract.”
Dinatale broke the staring contest with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “You got a single reference I can check?”
“Well…I done dastardly deeds with the Diggler,” Bolan suggested hopefully.
Dinatale rolled his eyes in defeat. “I’ve heard a couple people say that recently, and I must admit it does give me something of a chubby.” The CEO of Shield turned to Dirk. “So you’re willing to vouch for this spook son of a bitch?”
“He’s the only white man I currently like, present company included, of course.”
“I’ll buy that, but for the moment. On your good word, Dirk. But he’s your responsibility. It’s like he’s on parole. Got it?”
“Trust must be earned,” Dirk agreed.
“Truer words were never spoken.” The former sniper measured the two of them. “I dig you, Diggler, and I want to dig him. I really want to.”
“Give him time.” Dirk cracked himself open another beer. “He grows on you.”
Dinatale laughed. “Well, I’ll look forward to it, then.”
Dirk put on his poker face. “Forgive my impertinence, Dino, but we don’t look forward to nothin’ till we talk cash money.”
“Fair enough. You’re ex-Delta, Dirk. ’Nough said. I’ll start you at a thousand dollars a day.”
“God…damn.”
“And since you’re holding Cooper’s parole, I’ll start him at the same and give you both a thousand up front. Deal?”
“Oh, hell, yes.”
Dinatale’s eyes were on Bolan. “Coop?”
Bolan put a little eagerness in his voice. “Oh, I’m in.”
“Good enough. We’re negotiating a job right now. You may be getting your feet wet as early as tomorrow night. Meanwhile, what are you boys carrying?”
Dirk pulled out his Model 92. “Cooper got his hands on a couple of Army Berettas, but they ain’t my first choice.”
“Well, here at Shield we have a weapons-standardization policy.”
Dirk’s face soured. Delta Force personnel were used to being allowed to carry whatever they thought they required. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“No, I’m not.” Dinatale grinned. “But it isn’t to please any bean counters back in the States or for the sake of uniformity.”
“Then what are you talking about, Dino?”
Dinatale held up a happy finger. “Did you know Shield is the first private security group to have corporate sponsorship?”
Even Bolan hadn’t heard that. “Really.”
“Show ’em, Dob.”
Stanislawski went to a painted steel panel in the wall and punched in a key code. The door slid open to reveal a walk-in arms closet. The Pole pulled out an automatic carbine with a grin. “Polish Mini-Beryl short assault weapon.”
Dinatale smiled happily. “Dob’s our resident gun bunny and armorer here in the Kabul office. He used to be GROM, and with Shield’s reputation, he got the Zaklady Metalowe company of Poland to provide us with all the small arms and ammo we can use as long as every time the U.S. merc magazines, that French rag or the evening news runs a story on Shield our boys are festooned with Polish steel. Zaklady Metalowe manufactures almost all the small arms the Polish military uses and exports widely. They give us everything from pocket pistols to antitank rockets. It’s really not a bad deal. It’s good kit, and it’s done well by us here in Afghanistan and in our sister operation in Iraq.”
Bolan had used Polish weapons, as well as been on the wrong end of them. Zaklady Metalowe weapons were nothing if not reliable, and the Polish designers had brought their version of the venerable AK into the twenty-first century with all the latest electronic sights and modifications.
“Dob’ll get you checked out on all our current issue equipment tomorrow. Speaking of which, where’re you boys staying?”
Dirk scowled. “Well, I spent the last week in the stockade, and I’m still picking lice from the inn we stayed at last night.”
“We actually have a suite of room downstairs and hold down a floor in an apartment block two buildings down. We like to keep our people together in case of emergencies, and quite frankly, once it’s known around town you’re Shield, you’re as much of a target as the people we’re paid to protect. We’ll put you up here tonight.”
“Thanks, Dino.”
“No problem. Dob will draw two grand from petty cash to give you some walking-around money.”
Bolan nodded. “Not a problem, and thanks.”
“Good, all settled, then.” Dinatale nodded to Stanislawski, who rose to show Bolan and Dirk out of the office.
4
The assault rifle racked open on a smoking empty chamber, and the last spent brass casing tinkled to the concrete floor of the Shield shooting range. Dirk unshouldered the weapon and blew on the smoke oozing from the action. The silhouette target downrange had been torn to shreds by his series of 5-round bursts. “Ain’t bad. Ain’t bad.”
Bolan lowered his own smoking weapon and turned to Stanislawski. “We’ll take them.”
“Ha!” The Pole clenched a meaty fist. “Polish steel, the best!”
Bolan and Dirk had raided the Shield armory. Each man now had a .223-caliber Mini-Beryl automatic carbine to call his own. The carbines came equipped with EO Tech holographic optical sights. The stubby carbines were too short to mount grenade launchers, but both weapons had launching rings for Polish Dezamet rifle grenades machined onto their barrels. Grenades, whether hand, rifle, rocket propelled or otherwise, were issued on an as-needed basis at Shield. Everything else was available at a kid-in-the-candy-store level of need.
Dirk had selected a polymer framed WIST-94 automatic pistol. Bolan had gone for an all-steel MAG-95. He’d also picked up a little P-64 pocket automatic. The pistol was just about the size and shape of James Bond’s famous Walther PPK, only chambered for the far more powerful 9 mm Makarov round. The little gun kicked like a mule and was inaccurate beyond spitting distance, but it was a lethal little surprise to pull from deep cover, and Bolan had learned long ago that drawing a second gun was faster than reloading.
Bolan laid his rifle down on the shooting bench. Stanislawski did good work. Both the optical and iron sights were dead-on. The basement level beneath the Shield offices was split between an underground parking lot and an indoor fifty-meter shooting range.
The Pole was eyeing Bolan shrewdly. “You are excellent shot.”
