Assassin's Code Page 6

  Bolan took the dagger from Ous’s palsied hand and picked up the pistol. He pushed off the safety and squatted beside the vomiting warrior. “Well, I’m thinking you either got religion or someone got to you.”

  Ous looked up at Bolan through tearing eyes. “I…have never…seen…such a thing.”

  In Asian martial arts the move was usually called some variation of the name “catching the lightning.” Few styles still taught it. At best, most considered it a desperation move and a relic left over from the days when people carried swords, and in any event a very good way to lose a hand. Bolan was adept at many fighting techniques, and he was always willing to add any new move.

  “What did they threaten you with, Omar? Your family?”

  “My wife…my children,” Ous said. “They have them.”

  “Who’s they?”

  Ous ground his brow into the dust. “Those who put the dagger into my hand.”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “I believe they are still in my home. They will die if your death is not proved within forty-eight hours, or if any police or military force attempt a rescue.”

  Ous’s eyes widened in shock as his pistol and dagger clattered to the gravel in front of his face. Bolan held out his bloody right hand to help him up. “Let’s go get your family.”

  Kunduz Province, 20,000 feet

  THE C-12 HURON ROARED across the sky. It had crossed the length of Afghanistan from south to north. Omar Ous had never jumped out of plane before. As it turned out, he had never been in a plane before and he was throwing up again. Bolan and Ous shared the cabin with a highly bemused Keller and an equally bemused jumpmaster. Neither Keller nor Farkas were jump qualified, and Bolan could only tandem jump with one amateur. By necessity it had to be Ous.

  The copilot’s voice came across the intercom from the cabin. “Five minutes, jumpers. Descending to jump altitude.” They would be jumping high enough that no one on the ground would hear the plane or see it without night-vision and magnification but not so high they would need oxygen. Keller looked askance at Bolan and finally aired the question that had been bothering her the entire day. “So…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Didn’t this guy try to kill you this morning?”

  “That he did.”

  Bolan and Keller watched as the jumpmaster solicitously gave Ous a fresh bag. He had stopped vomiting and now he was hyperventilating. Ous was wide-eyed as he worked the barf bag like a bellows.

  The jumpmaster gave Bolan a sidelong look. “You jumping into a hot LZ with this guy?”

  “He’ll be fine once he has dust beneath his boots,” Bolan replied, “and with luck the LZ won’t be hot until we light it up.” Bolan checked the pair of Navy MP-5 SD-N sound-suppressed submachine guns a final time and then attached the weapon and his pouch of six magazines to his web gear. Ous’s gaze flew around the cabin in mounting panic as Bolan clipped his weapon to his harness. He gasped as Bolan pulled night-vision goggles over the man’s eyes.

  “Listen, you’re going to be fine,” Bolan said. “Just remember what I showed you. Arch hard when we go out the door. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  The jumpmaster assisted Bolan in buckling in Ous. The soldier could smell the fear oozing off the man. So could the jumpmaster, and he gave Bolan another look as he gave the straps and buckles a second going over. The intercom crackled. “One minute! Going dark!”

  The interior cabin lights went off, and the red emergency lights came on. Bolan pulled his goggles over his eyes and adjusted the gain slightly. The jumpmaster opened the door and the wind roared into the cabin.

  Keller put a hand on Bolan’s armored shoulder. “Luck!”

  “Thanks!”

  “One minute!”

  Bolan nudged Ous, and the two of them did the awkward tandem-man shuffle to the door. Ous made a terrible noise in the back of his throat.

  “Remember,” Bolan said. “A hard arch!”

  “Get ready!” the jumpmaster shouted.

  The intercom crackled for the final time. “We are on target! Jumpers away!”

  “Go! Go! Go!” the jumpmaster called.

  Ous’s hands slammed into the door frame in mortal terror.

  “Go!” the jumpmaster called.

  Bolan spoke above the roar of the wind in the door and tried to take a step forward. “Ous! We gotta go!”

  Ous’s body went rigid.

  “Go!” the jumpmaster bellowed.

  Ous shuddered with horror in the door frame.

  “Ous!” Bolan snarled in Ous’s ear. “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “What…”

  “Your wife! Her name!” Bolan demanded.

  “Yamina, my wife’s name is—”

  “Your children! Their names!”

  “My son, his name is Esfandyar,” Ous replied.

  “And your daughter?”

  “Afshan.”

  “For them, Ous! Yamina! Esfandyar! Afshan! You’ve gotto do this! For them! I’m with you.” Bolan spoke with deadly seriousness. “God is great, Ous, and by God our cause is righteous!”

  Ous squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth and released the door frame. “Allahu akbar,” he whispered.

  The jumpmaster gave Bolan a helpful slam between the shoulder blades with both hands. “See ya!”

  Bolan and Ous flew out into the jet stream. Ous failed to give Bolan a hard arch and they tumbled wildly in the shrieking, streaming darkness with Ous screaming in the Tajik of his youth and flailing his limbs. Bolan idly considered choking him out. He still owed the Afghani for the six surgical stitches in his arm. Bolan let him flail a few moments more. Despite what one saw in the movies, it was almost impossible to have a conversation during free fall. The soldier waited for a few more moments as they fell like stones to the dark Earth below. When Ous momentarily ran out of breath. Bolan slapped him hard on the side of his helmet. Ous stopped his flailing. Bolan slapped the helmet once, twice, three times more.

  Ous suddenly got it and managed his arch.

  It was enough. Bolan extended his arms and legs to make ailerons of his limbs. It was awkward with a large man strapped to him, but the big American managed to gracefully turn the two of them over into a belly-down position. He pulled the rip cord and the big tandem chute deployed. Ous clenched like a spider about to get stepped on as their straps cinched against them with the sudden pull. The roar of free fall disappeared. The strain was gone and their legs dangled like a carnival ride as Bolan took the toggles. He began a slow, comfortable spiraling descent over Ous’s village. Ous lifted his head slightly and began peering around, taking in the world below him through the greens and grays of night-vision equipment.

  “It is not an unpleasant sensation,” he stated.

  “No, it’s not,” Bolan agreed. “Which house is yours?”

  Ous examined the village beneath them and pointed. “Slightly away from the main village, to the west, among the orchards, there.”

  It appeared a life of war hadn’t treated Omar Ous too badly. His house was bigger than most. Not bad for a wanted man. Bolan took in what looked like perhaps four or five hectares of orderly, terraced rows of fruit trees and a corral and stable for horses. It appeared Ous owned a Toyota Landcruiser and an ex-Soviet era GAZ-69 utility vehicle. Bolan picked a lane in the trees about a hundred yards from the house. They were the best source of cover on the valley floor. “Get ready, lift your legs…now!”

  The earth swung up beneath Bolan’s boots and he flared his chute. A few cherry branches broke as the shrouds enveloped them, and the trees took the two warriors’ combined weight. The crackings and snappings seemed as loud as gunshots, but no gunfire or shouts of alarm ensued. Ous became a deadweight as they lost all lift. Bolan bent his knees and they both hit the ground in a fairly professional manner. It was cherry-picking season, and a small hail of fruit fell upon them from above. Bolan instantly got him and Ous separated and out of their harnesses. Both men unclipp
ed and checked their weapons. Bolan flicked his selector to full-auto. “On my six.”

  “My family—”

  “I’m on point, Ous.” Bolan moved through the heavily laden trees. He dropped to a crouch behind the bole of a tree by the edge of the orchard, and Ous knelt next to him. There was a nicker from the stables and a goat ambled past, drawn by the smell of the fallen cherries. “You notice anything?”

  Ous stared at his house for long moments, nearly vibrating with the need to burst in with guns blazing. “Yes, my dogs should have already greeted me or attacked you.”

  That was enough for Bolan. He clicked his link. “Bear, I’m calling the domicile taken. High probability of hostiles and hostages inside.”

  “Copy that, Striker,” Kurtzman came back.

  Bolan turned to Ous. “You have stairs that lead to the roof inside?”

  “I do.”

  Bolan took out a padded grapnel and coil of rope from his pack. “Cover me. Come quickly when I give you the signal.”

  “Indeed.”

  The house was the usual Central Asian structure, a hollow cube with a courtyard inside. In Ous’s case it was a cube with smaller cubes attached as outbuildings. Bolan ran across the dead ground waiting for the weapons in hiding to open up, but made it to the side of the house unscathed. Bolan tossed the foam-covered grapnel up and over the roof. The rasp of the rope on the side of the house was louder than its landing. Bolan slowly pulled up the slack and the rope went taut. The grapnel stood horizontal with two tines firmly hooped over the ceiling ledge. Bolan moved up the rope with an alacrity and precision that U.S. Army Rangers, Navy SEALs and Spider-Man would have admired. He motioned Ous to come ahead and the guerrilla fighter moved with impressive silence across the open ground. Bolan peered down into the inner courtyard. Below were the usual fountain, some potted trees and benches. On the other side of the roof Ous had a satellite dish. The tinkling of the fountain competed with the wind in the orchard for the only sounds.

  The silence broke as the trapdoor to the roof opened. The intruder wore a turban wound to conceal his face like a desert wanderer. The stock of his AK was folded, and the weapon was slung as he clambered up the roof ladder.

  The hatch opened to look upon the road from town rather than toward the orchards behind. Bolan took up the grapnel in one hand and the rope in the other as the sentry stepped onto the roof and peered west. Bolan gave the rope a single gyration like a man tossing a lasso and hurled the grapnel. The rope bent around the man’s neck, and the soldier heaved back with all of his strength. The tine croquette hooked the sentry’s throat. The veiled man gagged and clutched at the unyielding steel as Bolan reeled him in. The Executioner drove a knee into the sentry’s kidney to still his struggles and tossed him off the roof by the iron around his throat.

  The sentry made a low thudding noise as he hit the ground two stories below. Bolan heard a single chuff and click as Ous’s sound-suppressed weapon fired once and the action cycled. A moment later the grapnel sailed up again. Bolan caught it and secured it to the roof. Ous scrambled up and the two warriors crouched by the open roof hatch, listening. From within the house a woman sobbed.

  Bolan’s slammed his hand down on Ous’s shoulder. “Wait.”

  A blow cut off the sob. Ous went rigid beneath Bolan’s hand. A sneering voice called out from below and then laughed.

  “What did he say?” Bolan asked.

  Ous’s voice was tightly controlled. “From what I can gather, the man you hurled from the roof is named Mehtar. The man below taunts Mehtar, telling him he is a prude, and that he hopes Mehtar enjoys masturbating upon my roof alone while he himself avails himself of the pleasures of my virgin daughter.”

  “You want to take point?”

  “I do.”

  They pushed up their night-vision goggles, and Bolan took Ous’s six as he descended into his home and beelined down a hallway. Their boots made no sound on the Persian carpet. The two men stopped at an open door. Ous’s daughter, Afshan, cringed in a corner with one of her cheeks swollen. One of the veiled men crouched next to her. The teenager cried and flinched as the man ran his fingers through her lustrous dark hair. His other hand held a knife to the girl’s throat as he whispered ugly, cooing endearments in a guttural voice. He had but one moment to widen his eyes in horror as Omar Ous filled the door to his daughter’s bedroom.

  Ous burned his entire magazine into the offender.

  At that range the sound of the bullets striking flesh and clothing was louder than the coughing and clicking of the silenced weapon. The silenced MP-5 cycled like a sewing machine knitting living flesh. Spent brass fell to the thick carpet. The veiled man shuddered and shook as he took twenty-nine rounds in the chest. Ous’s weapon clicked open on empty, and smoke oozed from the muzzle of the suppressor as he reloaded. He arched one eyebrow at his daughter in a question and she shook her head. Ous nodded once. His daughter nodded back and took the dead man’s pistol from his sash.

  Ous spoke very quietly. “This man with me is a friend. We will speak English for his benefit.”

  Afshan nodded.

  “Where is your mother?” Ous asked.

  “Downstairs.”

  “Where is your little brother?”

  “Downstairs. They beat him and tied him up when he resisted,” Afshan replied.

  “Where is your grandmother?”

  Afshan’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “She stabbed one of the bad men. They shot her.”

  “Where are the servants?”

  “They shot them and put their bodies in the stable.”

  “Where are my hounds?”

  “They shot them, too, Father.”

  A mighty scowl passed across Ous’s face. “I see.”

  Bolan knelt beside the girl. “How many are they?”

  “Twelve or so took the house, I think. Then perhaps half of them left.”

  “Are they local?” Bolan asked.

  Afshan blinked.

  “Ah.” Ous nodded and put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Were they men of Kunduz? Did they speak Tajik? Pashto or Dari Persian?”

  “They spoke Arabic among themselves. I believe the men who stayed are southerners. The men who left were foreigners. Forgive me, but from where, I do not know.”

  “At least six were left upon the premises,” Ous surmised.

  “And between us we’ve taken two.”

  Ous rose. “Stay here, little rose.”

  Afshan clutched at her father and shook her head. Bolan caught her gaze and held it. “Your father and I are going to fetch your mother and your little brother. I want you to go up on the roof. Take the pistol. If we fail, shoot anyone who comes up the hatch. No matter what happens, in half an hour American soldiers will come, but do not let anyone up unless they say ‘Rambo.’ Do you understand?”

  The barest hint of a smile tried to quirk one corner of Afshan’s mouth. “The password is Rambo.”

  “Good, now obey your father. Go.”

  The Russian-made Gyruza pistol was huge in the girl’s tiny hands as she ran in a whirl of skirts for the roof ladder. Ous’s eyes glimmered. “She is a good girl.”

  “An honor to her family,” Bolan agreed.

  “What is the plan?”

  “We rescue your wife and son,” the soldier replied.

  “Do you wish prisoners?”

  “Not at your family’s expense.”

  “Very good.”

  “Half of the raid team left and they haven’t posted any sentries,” Bolan said. “I think they’re waiting for the phone call that I’m dead and you’re dead or captured. If they do have any sentries, they’re down in the village watching the road.”

  “An intelligent assessment, I agree.”

  “Where would they most likely be in the house on a low state of alert?” Bolan asked.

  “If they are like this one—” Ous gestured at the riddled corpse “—and seek diversions? Most likely in my parlor. It has a television and open
s into the kitchen.”

  “By all means, Ous, show me to your parlor.”

  Bolan followed the man downstairs and into the darkened courtyard. They walked across it and glanced through the window into the kitchen. The light was on, and in the summer night the kitchen window was open. Bolan could see where Ous’s daughter got her good looks. Mrs. Ous was stirring something on the stove with a very unhappy look on her face. One of the veiled man sat at the kitchen table. He had uncovered his mouth and busily shoved down yellow rice with raisins and peas with his fingers. From somewhere out of sight Bolan could hear Bollywood-style music playing.

  The soldier put a single silenced bullet through the eye slit of the eater’s veil.

  Mrs. Ous didn’t notice. She only turned at the sound of the man slumping with his face in his bowl. In an incredible show of calm she walked over to the slumped man, lifted his head by his turban and noted the copious blood flooding into his food. She lowered his head back down and walked to the kitchen window. Ous spoke in English. “Wife, where is our son?”

  “Husband, our son is in the parlor with the intruders, to make sure I do not attempt anything with a kitchen knife as my mother did.” Her fists clenched. “Two men are upstairs with our daughter.”

  “Our daughter is safe. We have killed the two men upstairs. How many remain here below?”

  “Three.”

  “They are all in the parlor?”

  “Watching television.”

  “Let us in.”

  Mrs. Ous disappeared and a door to the patio opened. Bolan followed Ous through a laundry room and into the kitchen, which opened into a Western style dining room. The dining room led to a capacious parlor. A series of sofas formed a U shape facing a large-screen TV. Three of the veiled men sat around the sofas watching a Bollywood song-and-dance number on the television with great interest. Ous’s son lay on the floor hog-tied and gagged. One of the intruders was using him for an ottoman.

  “Leave the one in the middle,” Bolan whispered.

  The Executioner and Ous gunned down the two men on the flanking couches. The last intruder stared up their smoking suppressor tubes and made a small unhappy sound.

  “Take your feet off my son before I cut them off.”