Lethal Tribute

General Hussain had a firm grasp of the obvious, but Bolan kept that to himself. “Excellent.”

“There is more. We have learned of Yusef’s contacts here in Pakistan, as well as their lair near the border.” Hussain smiled again. “But first, I feel somewhat remiss about the incident that occurred in your home, Captain.”

Makhdoom stared. It was the closest thing to an admission of error out of General Hussain in ten years of interservice conflict. Doom shook his head diplomatically. “It is nothing, General. Who could have known the enemy would strike so swiftly?”

“Nonetheless, we must be prepared for any eventuality.” The General spoke with utmost seriousness. “Let me assure you that you shall not be caught outnumbered nor unprepared again.” Hussain knocked on the top of his desk twice and gestured behind them. “Behold, your men.”

The door to the General’s office opened, and Pakistani men in plain clothes began filing into the room.

Bolan suppressed a smile. General Iskander Hussain may have picked his bodyguards for their loyalty and unimpeachable records, but it appeared the General also picked his bodyguards on the basis of body mass. Not one of the twelve men jamming themselves into the room was less than six feet tall or running less than two hundred and fifty pounds.

They were a brute squad. Pure and simple.

Hussain lifted a hand toward their leader. “This is Captain Ghulam Fareed. My most trusted man. You shall find him invaluable, as I have.”

Ghulam was six foot five and tipping the three hundred-pound mark. His eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose forming a single coal black wing that dominated his Neanderthal brow. Startling green eyes peered out from the shadow beneath it. He measured Makhdoom and saluted sharply. The Captain’s stars, jump wings and Special Forces badges he wore demanded respect even out of a pampered General’s head goon.

Captain Ghulam Fareed regarded Bolan with open suspicion.

Bolan smiled. “Do any of them speak English?”

Hussain blinked. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I speak English,” rumbled Fareed. “So do Hossam, Farrukh, Iqbal and Asad.”

Hussain nodded benevolently at his Captain and gestured at Bolan and Doom. “This is Captain Makhdoom. He is in command of this mission. You will follow his orders explicitly. You are authorized to requisition any weapons or equipment the Captain deems necessary. This is our American guest. You will render onto him any assistance he requires.”

“Yes, General.”

Hussain’s smile widened. “And you will report all actions taken directly to me.

“Yes, General.”

“Captain, I have also stationed some of my men in your home. Your family and residence will be guarded at all times.”

“Thank you, General.”

Bolan kept his sigh to himself. He and Makhdoom were now being officially babysat, and they would be watched at all times. He ran his eye over the massive examples of humanity filling the room.

Any kind of undercover operation was going to be extremely interesting.

Shoghot, North Pakistan

“WHERE ARE THE HEROIN DEALERS!” The suspect flew across the cramped tearoom, borne by the momentum of Fareed’s fist. Cups and saucers shattered as he fell into a table and the patrons sitting around it shouted and screamed and ran in all directions. The Captain stalked across the room like some unstoppable bearded juggernaut and seized up the bleeding, half-conscious man.

Bolan rolled his eyes.

The undercover operation was proving to be extremely interesting. Interesting to the point that there was no undercover operation. Ghulam and his men had fanned out through the streets of Shoghot like a pack of rabid wolverines, and every minute more and more of the population was running for the trees.

The city of Shoghot was one of the northernmost cities in Pakistan. It was close to the border of Afghanistan, and many Afghan refugees had fled there and settled during the Soviet war in Afghanistan. It was also very close to the border of the disputed region of Kashmir. It was a transition point for heroin coming out of Afghanistan and running guns into India. Shoghot perched among mountains and glaciers of the Hindu Kush. The surrounding countryside was absolutely inhospitable. The heights were owned by warlords and the valleys infested with bandits. As the world went, it was a very rough neighborhood.

Captain Ghulam Fareed fit right in.

In fact, he acted like he owned the place. He was like some terrible scourge from the Book of Revelations that had been edited out the Bible for being too violent.

They had roared up to the outskirts of Shoghot in Pakistani Army Mi-8 transport helicopters loaded with weapons. The stub wings of the aircraft were festooned with rockets, missiles and gunpods. The only nod toward this being an undercover probe was that Fareed and his men had jammed their massive forms into some of the most poorly tailored business suits Bolan had ever seen. Pakistan was famous for its cotton and wool.

Ghulam Fareed and his men were sheathed in garish polyester.

“Where!” roared Fareed as he projected the man across the room. The Captain stopped a moment to adjust his horrifically ugly tie and then stalked after his prey once more. Already broken porcelain and furniture crunched beneath his size seventeen shoes.

The proprietor knelt weeping near Makhdoom, shaking his hands and intermittently pleading mercy and innocence. The teashop owner’s innocence was highly debatable. There was a second shop below the regular tearoom. The patrons there smoked waterpipes, and the air reeked with the sweet stench of opium. The filthy back hallway lined with closet-size niches was a shooting gallery, strewn with the used needles of those who required their opiates stronger and introduced into their bloodstream by more direct methods.

The storage room in back contained bails of opium.

The proprietor whimpered and cringed as his best supplier was systematically demolished. Bolan had to give the Sergeant credit. The man was a force unto himself. When drug-dealer had drawn his pistol, Fareed had slapped it out of his hands and then slapped the teeth right out of his head. The drug dealer had then made the mistake of drawing an immense Khyber-style knife and invoking God. Fareed had broken the drug runner’s wrist and then broken the sixteen-inch blade across his knee before resuming work.

Bolan and Makhdoom stood like stones and watched the ham-fisted hurricane that was Ghulam Fareed’s work. The last patrons fled flinching beneath the gaze of Fareed’s men as more crockery crashed. Apparently the proprietor understood English. Makhdoom spoke it for Bolan’s benefit as he finally deigned to notice the man pleading at his feet.

“You, my friend, have drawn the attention of unreasonable men.”

The proprietor flinched and threw a sickly stare in Fareed’s direction. “…Yes.”

“I, however, am a reasonable man.” Makhdoom opened his billfold. The proprietor’s eyes bugged as the Captain began fanning out American one thousand dollar bills. “Tell me that which I wish to know, and I shall recompense your inconvenience in any way you require within reason.”

The proprietor’s gaze darted back and forth between Makhdoom and Fareed like ping-pong balls.

He was clearly conflicted.

Doom shrugged. “However, should you not wish to cooperate…”

He sighed and glanced over at Fareed. The Captain held the hapless subject of his attention up by the lapels of his coat. The man’s feet did not touch the ground. His head ricocheted against the wall repeatedly as the Captain shook him. Fareed seemed only a hairsbreadth away from sinking his teeth into the suspect and savaging him like a beagle with a bedroom slipper.

“That unreasonable man shall beat you until you die,” Makhdoom stated.

The proprietor turned a sickly pallor as Fareed dropped his suspect and turned. The Captain’s single massive eyebrow bunched as his green eyes glowed hatred at the teashop owner.

The owner went slack-jawed with fear.

“Tell me,” queried Makhdoom. He glanced at the man lying unconscious on the floor. “If that man were conscious, would he able to tell me about the heroin trade within this city?”

The proprietor couldn’t look away from Fareed, but neither could he meet Makhdoom’s baleful gaze. He settled for gazing in fixed horror at Fareed’s massive, hairy, bloodstained hands as they flexed into fists. “…I believe yes.”

Makhdoom cocked his head inquiringly. “Could you?”

“I…don’t…”

“Think very carefully before you answer. How you answer will be very important.”