up to Bolan’s nostrils from below.
Bolan let Khan go first, followed by Barialy, then himself, with Deirdre Falk watching their backs. He no longer suspected that police or Vanguard mercs had found the shop ahead of him, but there was still a chance that Khan might plan to double-cross these strangers who had showed up without warning on his doorstep.
In the dealer’s spotless basement, guns were mounted on the walls and racked in standing rows across the floor, with crates of ammunition, magazines, grenades, and other such accessories positioned like the specials in a supermarket. Bolan took his time, examining Khan’s wares, and told Falk she could pick out something for herself, to supplement the Glock.
At length, bearing in mind that he couldn’t predict what situations might still lay ahead of them, Bolan chose a range of weapons suitable for all occasions.
They already had the captured AKSU automatic rifles, but he took a third one, plus spare magazines, and stocked up on the 5.45 mm ammunition they devoured. With distance work in mind, he also chose a 7.62 mm Dragunov SVD sniping rifle, fitted with a Russian PSO-1 scope whose features included an elevation adjustment knob for bullet-drop compensation, an illuminated range-finder grid, a reticle that permitted target acquisition in low-light conditions, and an infrared charging screen that served as a passive detection system. He found spare 10-round magazines for the Dragunov, and picked up more 9 mm Parabellum ammo for his pistol. While he was at it, he added hand grenades for balance.
Bolan reckoned that he was done, then changed his mind and selected a 40 mm MGL grenade launcher, the South African spring-driven, double-action weapon that resembled an inflated 1920s Tommy gun. The launcher measured twenty-eight inches with its folding stock collapsed and weighed thirteen pounds empty. Its revolving 6-round cylinder could launch two rounds per second in rapid-fire, with an effective range of four hundred yards. To cover all eventualities, Bolan picked out a mix of HE, thermite, smoke and triple-aught buckshot rounds for the launcher.
Falk was prepared to settle for the second AKSU rifle, then decided Barialy might need it to supplement his vintage wheelgun, so she chose a mini-Uzi for herself, with a suppressor and a stack of 32-round magazines, plus more 9 mm Parabellum rounds.
Pleased with his payday, Khan furnished the duffel bags required to carry their new acquisitions at no extra charge. He counted Bolan’s money, smiling all the while, then led them back upstairs and showed them to a rear exit that let them walk most of the distance back to the Toyota Avalon along an alley hidden from the street.
When they had stowed the gear and Bolan had the car in motion, Falk said, “That was strange, you know?”
He smiled at her and said, “You ain’t seen nothing, yet.”
Vanguard International Branch Office, Kabul
“Y OU LET R ED HAVE a pass?” Dale Ingram asked.
“He’s on a leash,” Clay Carlisle said. “He isn’t going anywhere, except to clean up his own mess.”
“And then?”
“Then, nothing. If he does the job, he’ll have redeemed himself. If not, he pays the price.”
“Which doesn’t help us, either way,” Ingram replied.
“It settles his account,” Carlisle said.
“But we’re still out eleven men, three cars, the lost hardware.”
“The locals are a dime a dozen, Dale. Their paychecks stopped when they quit breathing, so they cost us nothing. Eddie Franks had no dependents, just a barfly brother in Kentucky. If we can’t find him, we scrub the life insurance payment. I regret the cars, of course, but we have others. Most important, we’ve preserved deniability.”
“Which helps us how, with the DEA problem?” Ingram asked.
“I’m on it,” Carlisle said. “I’ve got a call in to Russ Latimer at the embassy.”
“And you think he can yank the reins on this narc and her boss? He hasn’t done us any good, so far.”
“Let’s say that I’ve enhanced his motivation,” Carlisle said.
Ingram knew what that meant. The damned spook had his hand out for more money, promising the world and paying off in peanuts.
“We could deal with him, you know,” he told Carlisle.
“Don’t start on that again.”
“I’m serious,” Ingram said. “Why don’t we take advantage of the situation while we can? Civilian casualties are higher in Afghanistan than in Iraq these days. They headlined it on CNN. Who’d be surprised if insurgents took out the CIA’s head of station in Kabul or greased the DEA’s front man? I’m surprised they haven’t done it already.”
Carlisle stared him down and let the silence stretch between them, making Ingram nervous in the knowledge that he’d overstepped his bounds.
“You know we have a firm, long-term relationship with Langley,” he replied at last. “We get thirty percent of our gross from the jobs they can’t handle, everything from diplomatic coverage to wet work. I don’t plan to foul our nest with an impulsive and unnecessary action, nor do I plan waging war against the U.S.A. I hope we’re crystal clear on that.”
“I hear you,” Ingram answered.
“And to hear…”
“Is to obey,” Vanguard’s vice president replied, feeling the angry color rising in his cheeks.
Carlisle put on a smile. Ingram wished he could reach across the desk and slap it from his boss’s face, but that would be the next best thing to suicide.
“Dale, you’re a valued member of the team,” Carlisle pressed. “You know I cherish your connections to the FBI, but sometimes I think you inherited old Hoover’s pathological aversion to cooperating with the other agencies of government. Langley is not our enemy. We’re in this thing together, for the long haul. Terrorism and the heathen hordes of Islam will be crushed in our lifetime. And if we turn a profit on the deal, so much the better. No one loses but our enemies.”
“You’re right, of course, Clay.”
“Thanks for that. Humility becomes you,” Carlisle said. “Now, if you only had a closer personal relationship with our eternal savior…”
“I’ve been working on it,” Ingram said, “but when you’ve been out in the wilderness as long as I have, it’s a problem.”
“He forgives us everything,” Carlisle said. “All you have to do is ask, but you must be sincere.”
“I ask Him every night,” Ingram said, lying through his teeth.
“Then your place in the kingdom is assured,” Carlisle replied. “Now, if you’ll just excuse me, Dale, I have to touch base with our friends and see about kicking some heathen ass.”
“I N THERE ,” F ALK SAID as Bolan drove along a street of office buildings on Jadayi Sulh.
He looked in the direction she was pointing and beheld one structure that stood out among the rest. It had been walled off from the street with concrete barricades along the curb to frustrate car bombers. The wall itself was eight feet high and topped with shiny coils of razor wire. Behind the black steel gate, an armed guard watched pedestrians and traffic pass.
“Looks like a bunker,” he remarked.
“It is,” Falk said. “Clay Carlisle may be a religious crackpot—or, at least come off like one in public—but he’s grounded well enough to know that thousands of Afghanis would be thrilled to take him out. His apartment’s inside there, along with Dale Ingram’s.”
Bolan glanced briefly at the other nearby buildings, then scratched Vanguard HQ off his mental list of targets. Infiltrating one of Carlisle’s neighbors for a shot over the walls of his command post seemed too risky to be worth