Don Pendleton: Ambush Force

The blondes and hash were upstairs, black-market goods and gambling were in the back and the opium den was in the basement. The smell of the best kebabs in Kabul hit you the second you walked through the front door, and the bar was only ten steps away.

Bolan and Dirk gave their handguns to the coat-check thug at the door and took a seat at the crowded bar. Angry German rap music vibrated the walls. The proprietor was a huge man, and his Teutonic Afghan ancestry made for an interesting mix of blond hair, black eyes and a biker’s black mustache and beard. He threw his arms wide as he became aware of Dirk. “The Diggler!”

“My man, Lars!” Dirk grinned.

Obiada poured two shots of whiskey into a glass without being asked. “And for your friend?”

Bolan peered at the row of bottles behind the bar. All were German imports. “I’ll take a liter of the Paulaner hefeweizen.”

The proprietor filled a massive mug full of cloudy yellow beer, dropped in two lemon slices and slid it Bolan’s way. “We have not seen Lieutenant Diggler in some time.”

“That’s citizen Diggler to you, Lars. Hell, I ain’t even the Diggler no more. I’m just…Dick.” Dirk sighed and took a massive swallow of whiskey. “That’s who I am and what I got right now. Dick.”

“How could such thing happen? You are good soldier.”

“I ate the big chicken dinner.” Dirk downed the rest of his drink with a grimace and slid the glass forward for another. “Can you believe that shit?”

“I had heard this, and could not believe.” Obiada leaned his bulk in conspiratorially as he poured brandy. “Is it true you struck British major?”

“No, oh hell, no.” Dirk grinned and spoke a little too loud. “I bitch-slapped a goddamn brigadier!”

Bolan noticed a pair of heads turn their way down the bar.

“You do everything in style.” Obiada laughed and turned an eye on Bolan. “And who is friend?”

Bolan stuck out his hand. “Cooper.”

The bartender pumped Bolan’s hand with pleasure. “Cooper. You, too, were involved in the…altercation?”

Bolan played a card. “Let’s just say it influenced me to not renew my contract.”

Wheels moved behind Lars Obiada’s eyes at the word contract. “I am sorry to hear. First round is on me.”

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” Dirk pronounced.

“I am scholar of life. As for gentleman…” Obiada suddenly frowned. “I think you have attracted attention of gentlemen at end of bar.”

A voice with a Welsh accent snarled over the music. “’Ey, you.”

Dirk and Bolan ignored him.

“’Ey you! Blackie!”

Just about the entire bar turned. Dirk let out a long sigh and brought his hands to his chest. “Who? Me?”

“Yeah, you.” A lanky man leaned forward and thrust out his jaw. He and his companion wore the green beret of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. “Was that you I ’eard bragging about sucker punching our beloved brigadier, then?”

Dirk raised his hands and gestured at his bruised and battered face. “Listen, man, I already took my lumps from the RMPs and got busted out of the service. I’m a civilian now. You already won. Let it go. I’ll buy your next round.”

The other marine was a skinny little rat-faced man, but he had a mean look about him. “Colour Sergeant, I believe the word he used was ‘bitch-slap,’ and he smiled when he said it, didn’t he, then?”

“Mmm.” The colour sergeant rose, and his head nearly brushed the ceiling. “You know, Jonesy? I don’t believe he’s repentant, not in the least.”

Bolan lowered his liter of beer. “Listen, fellas, we don’t want any trouble.”

“You don’t want trouble, Yank? You’d better stay out of it, then, shouldn’t you?”

“I’m afraid the man’s with me.”

“Really?” The skinny one smiled unpleasantly. “Who’s pitchin’ and who’s catchin’, then?”

Bolan smiled back. “I hear the queen does both.”

The colour sergeant took a moment to do the math, and a beatific smile spread across his face. So far it had just been an exchange of pleasantries. Now? The stomping was on.

“Aw, now. Who’s a clever dick?” The sergeant pointed a finger at Bolan. “It’s ’im, isn’t it, Jonesy? ’Ee’s—”

Bolan shot-putted his beer. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it was a thick, cut-glass liter mug full to the brim, and the Executioner fired it forward, mouth first. The sergeant took the stein across the bridge of the nose, and beer and lemon juice filled his eyes. Dirk spun on his stool and snap-kicked him in the groin, which dropped him to his knees clutching his crotch in beer-blinded agony. Dirk stepped up onto the sergeant’s shoulder to gain some altitude, and rat-face Jones took Dirk’s heel through his teeth.

“I swear to God!” Dirk boomed. “If one more English asshole so much as—damn it!”

Four English sailors in full white middy shirts, trousers and hats came roaring forward.

Bolan stood and scooped up his bar stool. He raised it high and then pitched it low into the leading man’s legs, sending him tumbling to the tiles. The man behind him tripped and fell over his fellow sailor. The third sailor did a credible hurdle over the mass of Englishmen littering the floor, but the second he touched down, he took Dirk’s fist to the jaw and joined them. The fourth sailor took a step back and yelled for assistance to the room at large. “Tommy! Queue up!”

The UK was the second-largest supplier of coalition troops to the Afghanistan situation. There were a lot of Tommys at the Shishlik Haus at any given time. British soldiers, sailors and airmen rose from their tables.

Bolan upped the ante. “I need every dogface in this shit hole to stand tall!”

American soldiers came crawling out of the woodwork.

This brawl was going to clear the benches. The only thing missing was the piano player diving out the window. Everyone froze as Lars Obiada emptied half a magazine from a Stechkin machine pistol into the roof. “Sit down!”

The potential gladiators sat back down to their liquor and kebabs. The remaining English sailor pointed a finger at Bolan. “This ain’t over, mate.”

Bolan ignored the sailor and took his seat as the bouncers arrived to clear the carnage.

“Not you two. You know my rule about brawls.”

Dirk shrugged. “Wasn’t a brawl, Lars. More like a friendly beat down between allies.”

“No fighting.”

“All right, we’ll go.”

“No, not out front. Go through back. This way.”

Bolan and Dirk exchanged looks and followed Obiada through a door behind the bar. A narrow passageway led them past the kitchen, and a turbaned goon stood in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. He gave Obiada a bow and opened it. The room was small and low, and several games of poker were in progress. A big man pulled in a pile of chips and looked up with a grin. His salt-and-pepper hair was buzzed short on the sides and slightly long on the top like a lot of Eastern European soldiers. It was clear he hadn’t done any PT in a while, but he was built like a refrigerator and radiated strength. He wore the almost universal khaki load-bearing vest of a private contractor, but the pockets were empty at the moment save for the bulge of a cell phone. The big man pointed a thick finger at a row of flat screen TVs on the wall. One was showing FOX news, another an adult film and a third showed security camera feed where Shishlik Haus employees were carrying out British servicemen in various states of disrepair. The man spoke with a Slavic accent.

“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?”