Don Pendleton - Assassin's Code

“Okay, you got me, but it’s still kinda odd. The Taliban hardly ever uses women for anything except punching bags.” She cocked her head at Bolan. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking about suicide bombers in Moscow.”

Keller blinked. “The Black Widows?”

“Right, women whose husbands were killed fighting the Russians in Chechnya, Dagestan and the Caucasus region republics. They get widowed, they get radicalized, and they go to Moscow and blow themselves up to rejoin their husbands as holy martyrs.”

“I know who they are, but it’s just not Taliban MO.”

“I know. This whole thing stinks of something a whole lot more than the local Taliban.”

“Like a whole lot more what?”

“Like either the local Taliban has had some kind of sea change, or there’s a new player involved.”

“Oh Jesus.” Keller shook her head. “A new player? Like who?”

“I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen terrorists coopted by an outside party, either knowingly or unknowingly.”

“Thanks. I’m going to sleep a lot better tonight.”

“Where’s Ous?” Bolan asked.

“He pulled a fade. He doesn’t like spending the night on U.S. or coalition bases unless he absolutely has to. He’s got his own safehouses and his own web of informants.” Keller’s eyes narrowed slightly in irritation. “None of which he’s ever shown any inclination to share.”

Bolan could understand. Alliances often shifted and changed in Afghanistan, and those who fought beside the Western Coalition were all too aware of the fact that they were on a timetable to leave. They were lucky Ous was playing ball at all.

Keller shrugged. “He said he’d be back at dawn.”

“All right.” Bolan stretched out his arms and felt his shoulders creak. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yo, mystery man.”

Bolan turned. “Yes?”

“You got a snuggle buddy for the night?” Keller asked.

The left corner of Bolan’s mouth quirked. “Snuggle buddy?”

“I’m a lone female NCIS agent on a base full of horny United States Marines.”

“There’s always Farkas.”

“Farkas already made his move, and he’s married, and I don’t mess around with partners.”

Bolan laid his hands on his chest guilelessly. “We’re not partners?”

“You’re my liaison with every branch of government, with godlike powers.” Keller looked at Bolan seriously. “And Convertino fragged the infirmary. He may not be the only compromised Marine in this camp, and maybe I’d feel better with a tall dark stranger with a machine pistol watching over me tonight.”

“Well, I’m sharing a tent with a couple of lieutenants.”

“And I have an air-conditioned container unit to myself, and the two sergeants who shared it left their DVD collection behind when they were evicted in the name of NCIS.”

“Well…I don’t know.”

Keller’s eyes began to widen in bemused outrage. “I’ve had over a hundred Marines hit on me per day, I choose you, and you’re gonna make me beg?”

“Beg, it’s such an ugly word.”

Keller’s face went flat. “I have popcorn.”

Bolan nodded. “I’ll bring beer.”

Keller clapped her hands. “Yay!”

Ous’s safehouse

COLD SWEAT BROKE OUT across Omar Ous’s body. He stood over his bed bare-chested. His Browning Hi-Power pistol had filled his hand without thought as he had lunged up from slumber. Ous had been a guerrilla fighter since the age of twelve. He knew he could be ambushed, and he knew he could be tricked, for much to his shame such things had happened before. Even in righteous jihad, such were the fortunes of war. He bore many scars both great and small upon his body for every mistake he had made and lived to learn from. However, without unseemly pride, Ous believed it was nearly impossible for someone to sneak up upon him, even in slumber. Like many veterans who had fought hard and lived long enough, he was attuned to that which didn’t belong. The odd smell, the almost subliminal sound, or the lack of those that did belong, all spoke to him consciously and unconsciously. Wherever Ous laid his head he took precautions.

In the case of this night, in this room he had taken over a weaver’s shop, Ous’s precautions were as simple as a chair jammed beneath the doorknob and a length of wire sealing the window. A determined opponent could quickly breach such defenses, but not without waking the warrior slumbering within. His precautions were still in place. Apparently untampered with. Apparently a ghost had entered his room this night.

A ghost, or worse.

Ous looked down upon his pillow and what he saw strained credibility. What it represented had been reduced to old wives’ tales and myth since time out of mind. Nonetheless, Ous knew that he wasn’t mad. He also knew that he wasn’t dreaming.

The blade that lay glittering upon his pillow was very real.

The dagger would be strange to Western eyes. It looked like the dorsal fin of some delicate, exotic fish. The blade started wide at the base and then tapered very quickly through a shallow S curve to a needlepoint. Despite its eight-inch length, the blade almost looked dainty. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The thick T-shaped spine along its back and its acute wedge shape made it utterly rigid. In ancient times it had been designed to exploit the weak points in metal armor and burst chain-mail links. East or west, the ancient, Persian Pesh Kabz was arguably the best armor-piercing dagger design ever to emerge from medieval times, and the Moghul Empire had spread them across South and Central Asia. Ous knew from personal experience that such a blade, driven with enough enthusiasm could plunge through 1980s-vintage Soviet spun fiberglass and titanium body armor to find the life beneath it. He had little doubt that it could pierce the more modern Kevlar armor if required.

Ous looked at the photograph of his wife and his two children lying beneath the blade, and he knew what was required of him.

Bolan’s machine pistol was instantly in his hand as he sat up. Keller murmured and snuggled closer. Beer was forbidden to U.S. troops in Afghanistan, but it flowed like a river to the German coalition contingent, to the tune of 260,000 gallons a year. Like cigarettes, beer was an excellent bribe and Bolan had made sure a case or two of Bundeswehr beer was available to him to cement the love of the United States Marines. The soldier had allowed himself two bottles and allowed NCIS Agent Kathryn Keller to work her wiles on him. The woman had allowed herself four bottles and had worked her wiles on him with a vengeance. Marine Corps cots were definitely not built for two, so they had made a nest of blankets on the floor and made it exactly halfway through Casablanca. Bolan pushed the 93-R’s selector switch to 3-round burst mode in answer to the quiet knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

“Omar Ous! Are you decent, or shall I come back?”

Bolan flicked his selector to safe. “Give me a minute.”

“Of course.”

Bolan pulled on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, and tossed his Beretta onto the bare cot. Keller made a tiny noise and took the opportunity to cocoon herself in all of the covers. The container-shelter unit was literally an upgraded cargo container unit with power, AC, and because it was an officer’s unit, its own portable toilet. Bolan found Ous at the door, smiling in the pearly dawn light and holding a steaming mug of coffee.

“Good morning, my friend,” Ous said.

“Good morning, did you—”

Ous struck like a snake.

A snap of his wrist sent hot coffee sleeting for Bolan’s eyes. Most men would have recoiled from the attack. The Executioner dived into it. He closed his eyes as the coffee scalded across his face and hit Ous in a flying tackle down the unit’s three steps. The ground was unyielding dust and gravel, but both men had taken hard falls before and it appeared Ous’s revered father had taught him how to wrestle as well as shoot. As they rolled, Ous took the opportunity to drive two hard right palm heels into his target’s sternum. Bolan took the shots and the opportunity to yank his adversary’s pistol out of his sash. Ous’s hand closed on Bolan’s wrist like a vise as he attempted to drive his knee up between the American’s legs. Bolan had two decades and a good twenty pounds on his opponent but Ous was as hard as nails and grimly determined as they wrestled for the pistol. Ous struggled with all of his strength to keep the muzzle away from his face. Even though he was on top, Bolan’s strength and experience began to tell.