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“Fifty meters, a carbine with an optical sight.” Bolan shrugged. “It isn’t hard.”
“No, but your every move upon range betrays you as marksman.”
“Well, I’m no Deadshot Dave, but I try to keep my hand in.”
Stanislawski laughed. “Who is?”
A woman’s voice rang out across the range. “I’ll give the son of a bitch a run for his money if he’s man enough to bring a six-gun.” Connie Zanotto walked up to the shooting bench, unzipped her range bag and pulled out a pair of revolvers.
Bolan peered at them. At first glance they looked like Smith & Wesson .38s but the grip angles were slightly wrong, as were the fixed sights.
Zanotto looked at Bolan challengingly. “You know, I told them I didn’t want some Polish jamamatic. I told them I’d been using a four-inch Smith since I made pilot back in the eighties. So what does fat boy do?” She looked ruefully at Stanislawski.
“Zaklady Metalowe?” Bolan suggested.
“Yup, Gward .38.” Zanotto twirled the Polish revolvers around her fingers like a gunfighter. “They work just fine. I swear, you work for Shield long enough and you end up with a hard-on for Polish steel.”
“I already have a hard-on,” Dirk admitted.
Zanotto favored the commando with a very appraising look. “Oh, I’m sure you do. I hear they call you the Diggler.”
Dirk flinched at the nickname. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I was kinda hoping what I heard was true.”
Stanislawski shook his head. “The .38. Old-fashioned. Underpowered.”
“You know, big man? I shot exactly two Iraqis back in the day, and they didn’t complain. As a matter of fact, all they did was fall down. And revolvers? They don’t jam.”
Stanislawski shook his head derisively. “This is why women should not be in combat.”
“This is why you never get laid.”
The big Pole sighed heavily. “She always wins these conversations.”
“Back to business. I had a talk with Dino this morning.” Connie Zanotto took out a speed loader and slid six shells into one of her revolvers. “We got a job.”
Bolan broke down his MAG and began cleaning it. “What kind of job?”
“Babysitting. Local political VIP. Her name is Zahari Ziaee. Her husband was a secular reformist in the Afghan parliament. The Taliban blew his head off. So Mrs. Ziaee decided to run for his seat.”
Dirk frowned. “The Taliban must love that.”
“Word is they have a real hard-on for her. She stands no chance of being elected, but by their code her temerity has to be punished, and she has to be made an example of to other women who might likewise be tempted. They’ve put out the word they want her and her daughters gang-raped and beheaded, but they’ll settle for the whole family perishing in flames.”
Stanislawski spit out onto the range. “Taliban. Animals.”
“She has three kids,” Zanotto continued. “Camila is sixteen, Daywa is ten and the little boy, Gul Mir, is five. Since she’s a single woman with a teenage daughter, I’m going to be the one who stays close to the family. Cooper, you, Dirk, Boner and Frame will be doing roof and perimeter duty on the ranch.”
Dirk perked an eyebrow. “Boner?”
“Bonaventura. Ex-Marine. He’s a newbie with Shield, but he’s solid.”
“Where’s the ranch?” Bolan asked.
“Actually, it’s more of a camel farm. The Ziaee family does a pretty decent trade in livestock when they’re not getting themselves killed in the name of democracy. It’s about twenty klicks outside the city.”
“Anything else we need to know?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Ziaee has some local muscle on location. Supposedly former Northern Alliance vets. Supposed to be real trigger-happy badasses. We have no read on how reliable they may be. I’ll have a file on the entire situation worked up for you by noon. Meantime, I’d grab a nap if I were you. We expect to roll out of here by six.”
Dirk slid his carbine into a leather gun case with the Shield logo on it. “Actually, now that Coop and I are fat with cash, I thought we might buy some threads.”
“Well, most of the contractors around here buy over the Internet or through catalogs, but there’s a decent men’s store downtown.” Zanotto scrawled an address on the corner of a bull’s-eye target and tore it off. “Here, give this to the cabdriver, and come straight back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Zanotto put on her hearing protectors and a pair of shooting glasses and began methodically punching holes in the black at fifty meters.
Dirk waved his little scrap of paper. “Let’s go shopping!”
“WHAT HAVE YOU GOT for me, Bear?” Bolan typed. He sat in an Internet café in downtown Kabul. He’d taken a workstation with his back to the wall, and Dirk stood guard. Information scrolled down the chat window.
“Dobrus Stanislawski achieved the rank of sergeant and then was accepted into GROM. He achieved the rank of chorazy, which is like a warrant officer but different. Sort of more than a sergeant but less than a lieutenant. He served in Iraq. GROM wanted him to reenlist but he went private, went to Afghanistan and Shield snapped him up. He was also on the Polish army’s Olympic weight-lifting team.”
So far Dob was living up to his profile. “What about the Zanotto woman?” Bolan typed.
“Constantina Zanotto achieved the rank of second lieutenant in the U.S. Army. One of the first women to pass the Ranger training school. Also one of the first women rated to fly a Black Hawk helicopter. She flew some pretty hairy missions in Iraq delivering and retrieving Rangers. She also won a few Miss Fitness competitions. Her shtick was to wear a camouflage bikini and combat boots. About ten years ago, she left the Army. She went to Hollywood, did some stunt work and got a few bit parts in some TV action shows. Then she got into celebrity bodyguard work. About five years ago, Shield decided they needed some qualified women on the payroll. I guess she missed the action and flying. She signed up. The other rumor I dug up is that she and Dinatale were an item for the first year or two.”
Bolan filed that one away. “What about Mrs. Ziaee?”
“She’s a marked woman, Striker. The Taliban hated her husband, but her? They consider her a personal affront to God. They want her head, literally. And another thing you should know. I’ve been researching Shield operations over the past two years. There’s a reason every guy who ever served wants to sign up with them. They’re the highest paying and most professional outfit of their type. They go to the worst trouble spots of the world and see a lot of action, but despite their reputation they’ve lost some high-profile clients in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
Bolan frowned. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying there’s a pattern here. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t like it. And when Shield has lost men, it’s always the newbies who get killed. I’m saying you better be careful.”
Bolan checked his watch. “Dirk and I have to roll. I’ll check back in when I can.”
“Copy that.”
Bolan rose. “Dirk, you ready to roll?”
“Yeah.” Dirk finished his coffee. “So what’s the good news?”
“There’s a good chance me, you and Mrs. Ziaee are gonna get fed to the lions tonight.”
Shorkot village
“CAMELS…” Dirk wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Bolan had been around the beasts on more than one occasion, and they were nothing if not fragrant. “You get used to it.”
“What if I don’t want to get used to it?”
The Ziaee summerhouse was typical old-world Afghan clay cube construction, though on a grander scale than most of the other homes dotting the hillsides. Roughly a hundred camels lowed and groaned behind a ramshackle enclosure that looked as if it had been made out of rope and driftwood. Goats and chickens ranged freely. Dusk was falling. Bolan powered up his night-vision monocular and scanned the hillsides. Camels grunted. Goats bleated. The chickens were roosting for the night. A few children still ran and played as the sky turned purple.
Dirk checked his own night-vision equipment. “Coop?”
“Yeah.”
“I got a bad feeling.”
When a former Delta Force commando got a bad feeling, it was a good idea to listen, and Bolan himself had been having bad feelings for the past hour. “Me, too.”
“Remember what you said about us getting fed to the lions?”
“Yeah.”
“In my experience, when the lions come they bring RPGs.”
“Yeah, that’s my experience, too.”
Dirk reached behind a hay bale and pulled out a pair of Dezamet rifle grenades. “Here, have some lion insurance.”
Bolan took the dual-purpose 40 mm weapon. “How’d you get a hold of these?”
“Stole ’em from Dob’s stash.”
“How’d you sneak them past him?” Bolan considered himself a past master at scrounging, but he was impressed. “Dob was with us the whole time.”
“I shoved them down my pants.” Dirk grinned from ear to ear. “And who’s going to suspect they weren’t just more of me?”
Bolan jerked his head toward the back door. “Stand tall. We got company.”
Camila Ziaee came out bearing a silver tea service. Zahari Ziaee was a handsome woman. Her daughter Camila was nothing short of stunning. She was the kohl-eyed tawny beauty of every merchant sailor’s fevered dream. She spoke in halting English. “The…gentlemen? Will take tea?”
“Oh, hell, yeah,” Dirk replied eagerly.
“Dirk…”
“I mean, yes, please, Miss Ziaee.” Dirk smiled angelically. “That would be lovely.”
Camila blushed charmingly, placed the tray on the hay bale and poured steaming tea into tiny silver cups. Bolan nodded. “Thank you, Camila.”
Camila Ziaee blushed brighter. “Welcome.”
“Camila!” Mrs. Ziaee called out from the back door. “Miss Connie wishes you in the house!”
Bolan knew she was speaking English for his and Dirk’s benefit.
Camila shot Bolan a tentative smile. “You defend us. Thank you.” She left the tray and ran back to the house. Mrs. Ziaee waited until her daughter was ensconced and walked out.
Bolan scanned the perimeter. “Mrs. Ziaee, neither you or your daughter should be outside after dark.”
“This is my home. I will not be a prisoner in it.”
“I’m not saying you’re a prisoner. You’re a target.” Bolan glanced around the rocky hills. “And any Taliban with a telescopic sight can reach out and touch you. Mr. Dirk and I will kill him, guaranteed, but unless we’re very lucky the Taliban will get the first shot. Do you understand?”
Mrs. Ziaee had seen forty years of war and been widowed at gunpoint. Hard lines of suffering had been etched onto her face. She looked into Bolan’s eyes openly. “You are kind to my family. You are kind to our servants. You are a good man, Cooper. I was right to go to Shield.”
Mrs. Ziaee refused to wear the burka, but part of her political strategy was to wear the full robe and apron ensemble of a respectable Afghan housewife when she wasn’t wearing a Western women’s business suit. Beneath the apron Bolan could see the bulge of a pistol. Bolan reached down to his ankle holster and drew his P-64 pocket pistol. “Give this to your daughter. It’s loaded with a round in the chamber. The safety is off. All she has to do is squeeze the trigger. Tell her if they get past us to shoot any man who comes for her in the face.”
Mrs. Ziaee’s jaw set. “You think the Taliban will come tonight.”
“Mr. Dirk has a bad feeling.” Bolan glanced around the little valley. There were a million places to hide. “And I think they are already here. Stay with Connie.”
Mrs. Ziaee took the pistol and drew her own Tokarev pistol from beneath her apron. “As you say, so shall it be done.” Mrs. Ziaee went back into the house with a pistol in each hand.
“Don’t look around or anything, but—” Dirk flicked off the safety of his carbine “—you’re right. They’re here.”
Bolan clicked the tactical radio on his vest. “Boner, I think we got company.”
Arcelio Bonaventura was concealed up on the roof. The former Marine marksman had a full-length Beryl rifle rather than a carbine, and it was equipped with a PCS-6 passive night-vision scope. “Coop, I don’t see nada.”
“Frame?”
Jimmy Frame was out front watching the dirt road that led to the house. Frame was formerly 101st Army Airborne. “Nothing on the road, Coop.”
Connie Zanotto appeared at the door cradling a Glauberyt submachine gun with a laser designator mounted beneath the barrel. “What’s going on, Cooper?”
“I think we’re about to get hit.”
“Anyone see anything?”
“Nope.”
“So…” Zanotto considered this. “What? ‘By the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes’?”
Bolan smiled slightly. It seemed everyone in Afghanistan was quoting MacBeth these days. “Yeah, something like that.”
Zanotto glanced around the ring of hills. Darkness was falling across the little valley like a blanket. “It’s over a thousand yards for a sniper shot. Even Dino would have a problem with this one. What’re you thinking, mortars?”
“No, they’re not outside looking down. They’re inside already.”
“How?”
Bolan gazed at the lights of the village winking on a few hundred yards away. “This valley was owned by the Taliban until the boys from the Tenth Mountain Division kicked them out. I think some of them never left. They just melted back into the population. I’m thinking there’s a Taliban cell here, and they’ve been reactivated.”
