Don Pendleton - Ambush Force

“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.”

“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.”