Altered State

Unlike Barialy himself.

He had served two years in the Afghan National Army, but his firearms training had been limited to practice with Kalashnikov assault rifles. After the basic course, he had been posted to a clerical position in Lashkar Gah, the capital of Helmand Province, and had never fired another shot.

Still, he knew guns as most Afghanis knew them, having grown up in a nation with one of the world’s highest concentrations of firearms per person—one gun for every two of Afghanistan’s twenty-three million citizens, according to estimates from Oxfam and Amnesty International. It had been simple to acquire the Webley and a stash of cartridges.

But as for using them, well, he would have to wait and see what happened next.

“Who is this man, again?” he asked.

“I told you,” Deirdre Falk replied.

“A specialist, I know,” Barialy said. “Could you be more specific?”

“Are you getting cold feet now?” she asked.

“I’m simply curious.”

“I’m told he’s someone who can cut red tape,” she said. “We’re blocked on this end, going nowhere. If he helps us break the jam, more power to him.”

Barialy understood and shared her natural frustration, but the “jam” she spoke of seemed to be, at least in part, a product of the very government that had dispatched her to Afghanistan. Could Barialy trust another agent from that government to set things right? Or would the specialist succeed only in making matters worse, perhaps increasing Barialy’s risk?

Give him a chance, he thought.

And then, the small voice in his head amended, But keep close watch over him.

And then, what, if it seemed that things were getting out of hand? Should he resign, break with the DEA? Or was that even possible?

At least he had the Webley, Barialy thought. And they had taken care not to be followed.

Still, in Kabul’s teeming streets it was impossible to guarantee security. For all he knew, the enemy might be observing them right now.

“I’ M GETTING BORED ,” Farid Humerya said. “They don’t do anything.”

“They brought us here,” Red Scanlon told him. “And they didn’t do it for the tourist thing. Keep watching.”

If the circumstances had been different, Farid Humerya might have told the rude American to do the job himself but Humerya had his orders.

Not from Scanlon and the pigs he served, although their interests coincided with the wishes of Humerya’s master. And Farid Humerya knew enough of life—and sudden death—to follow orders from the man he served.

He did not wish to think of the alternative.

“You think that they are meeting someone?” he asked Scanlon.

“Why else come down here, together?”

“We would know if they were seeing someone from the National Police or the Special Narcotics Force,” Humerya said.

Both agencies were riddled with corruption from top to bottom. They leaked information as if it was water poured into a sieve.

“Most likely,” Scanlon granted. “But we need to find out if it’s someone new.”

They sat watching their targets from a Toyota Prius, with two armed men in the backseat. Two other cars containing four men each—a Camry and a Volkswagen Passat—had the target zone boxed.

Despite their manufacture in Japan and Germany, the Toyotas and the VW were all emblazoned with maple leaf flags, marking them as “Canadian cars.” Imports from Canada were highly prized in Kabul, regardless of their original source or the fact that some had been refurbished after homeland accidents before finding their way to Afghanistan.

If their cars were mock-Canadian, the weapons carried in those cars were strictly Russian. Each man had an AKSU-74 assault rifle with folding metal stock and shortened 8.3-inch barrel, otherwise identical to the standard Kalashnikov assault rifle. The twelve of them together could fire 360 rounds without reloading, all within ten seconds.

And wouldn’t that cause bloody chaos in the Sharh-e-Khone?

“What shall we do if they are meeting someone?” Humerya inquired.

“See who it is, first,” Scanlon answered, none too patiently. “Identify them, if we can. Then make our move.”

“To capture them?”

“To do whatever’s necessary. Are you getting squeamish on me now?” the American asked.

“Of course not.”

It was an insulting question. Farid Humerya was certain he had slain more men than the American had ever dreamed of killing.

Then again, he might be wrong.

These grim-faced mercenaries were a breed apart. Like Humerya himself, they killed for money, but this lot also seemed to possess—or be possessed by—an evangelistic zeal. It seemed almost as if they thought their acts were sanctified he some exalted power beyond cash or earthly politics.

“Whatever happens,” Scanlon said, “we’ll have the edge.”

“I simply thought that with the soldiers all around, perhaps we ought to follow them and find a place less public.”

“It’s a thought,” Scanlon agreed. “But either way, we nip it in the bud. This bitch has caused too much trouble already.”

“Will eliminating her cause further problems for your people in the States?”

“That’s not my worry,” Scanlon answered. “And it’s sure as hell not yours.”

Humerya bore the rudeness, understanding that the arrogant American was simply following the dictates of his character. Coming from a culture fueled by sex and greed, he knew no better.

Which would not prevent Humerya from exacting sweet revenge, if the opportunity presented itself.

They were allies of convenience, which should never be confused with friends. Humerya had his orders to collaborate with Scanlon and the others while it served the purpose of Humerya’s masters. When the day came—and it would come—that the mercenaries served no further purpose in Afghanistan, the soil would drink their blood.

But in the meantime, he would watch and wait.

B OLAN KNEW THAT HE WAS getting close. His briefing on the ancient city had included detailed maps, plus satellite and ground-level photos of Kabul’s crowded streets. He recognized landmarks in passing, even if he couldn’t read their signs or tell exactly what trade they pursued.

The Sharh-e-Khone was a riot of colors and smells, the latter ranging from enticing aromas of food that made Bolan’s mouth water, to auto exhaust, raw sewage and a general musty odor of decay.

He could imagine the Crusaders marching—riding—through the very streets where he now walked, meeting the same looks of curiosity, suspicion or hostility that faced him now. The native clothing would have changed, at least a little, and the weapons that they used against him if their mood turned would be more advanced, but otherwise….