Dirk slid his carbine into a leather gun case with the Shield logo on it. “Actually, now that Coop and I are fat with cash, I thought we might buy some threads.”
“Well, most of the contractors around here buy over the Internet or through catalogs, but there’s a decent men’s store downtown.” Zanotto scrawled an address on the corner of a bull’s-eye target and tore it off. “Here, give this to the cabdriver, and come straight back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Zanotto put on her hearing protectors and a pair of shooting glasses and began methodically punching holes in the black at fifty meters.
Dirk waved his little scrap of paper. “Let’s go shopping!”
“WHAT HAVE YOU GOT for me, Bear?” Bolan typed. He sat in an Internet café in downtown Kabul. He’d taken a workstation with his back to the wall, and Dirk stood guard. Information scrolled down the chat window.
“Dobrus Stanislawski achieved the rank of sergeant and then was accepted into GROM. He achieved the rank of chorazy, which is like a warrant officer but different. Sort of more than a sergeant but less than a lieutenant. He served in Iraq. GROM wanted him to reenlist but he went private, went to Afghanistan and Shield snapped him up. He was also on the Polish army’s Olympic weight-lifting team.”
So far Dob was living up to his profile. “What about the Zanotto woman?” Bolan typed.
“Constantina Zanotto achieved the rank of second lieutenant in the U.S. Army. One of the first women to pass the Ranger training school. Also one of the first women rated to fly a Black Hawk helicopter. She flew some pretty hairy missions in Iraq delivering and retrieving Rangers. She also won a few Miss Fitness competitions. Her shtick was to wear a camouflage bikini and combat boots. About ten years ago, she left the Army. She went to Hollywood, did some stunt work and got a few bit parts in some TV action shows. Then she got into celebrity bodyguard work. About five years ago, Shield decided they needed some qualified women on the payroll. I guess she missed the action and flying. She signed up. The other rumor I dug up is that she and Dinatale were an item for the first year or two.”
Bolan filed that one away. “What about Mrs. Ziaee?”
“She’s a marked woman, Striker. The Taliban hated her husband, but her? They consider her a personal affront to God. They want her head, literally. And another thing you should know. I’ve been researching Shield operations over the past two years. There’s a reason every guy who ever served wants to sign up with them. They’re the highest paying and most professional outfit of their type. They go to the worst trouble spots of the world and see a lot of action, but despite their reputation they’ve lost some high-profile clients in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
Bolan frowned. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying there’s a pattern here. I can’t put my finger on it, but I don’t like it. And when Shield has lost men, it’s always the newbies who get killed. I’m saying you better be careful.”
Bolan checked his watch. “Dirk and I have to roll. I’ll check back in when I can.”
“Copy that.”
Bolan rose. “Dirk, you ready to roll?”
“Yeah.” Dirk finished his coffee. “So what’s the good news?”
“There’s a good chance me, you and Mrs. Ziaee are gonna get fed to the lions tonight.”
Shorkot village
“CAMELS…” Dirk wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Bolan had been around the beasts on more than one occasion, and they were nothing if not fragrant. “You get used to it.”
“What if I don’t want to get used to it?”
The Ziaee summerhouse was typical old-world Afghan clay cube construction, though on a grander scale than most of the other homes dotting the hillsides. Roughly a hundred camels lowed and groaned behind a ramshackle enclosure that looked as if it had been made out of rope and driftwood. Goats and chickens ranged freely. Dusk was falling. Bolan powered up his night-vision monocular and scanned the hillsides. Camels grunted. Goats bleated. The chickens were roosting for the night. A few children still ran and played as the sky turned purple.
Dirk checked his own night-vision equipment. “Coop?”
“Yeah.”
“I got a bad feeling.”
When a former Delta Force commando got a bad feeling, it was a good idea to listen, and Bolan himself had been having bad feelings for the past hour. “Me, too.”
“Remember what you said about us getting fed to the lions?”
“Yeah.”
“In my experience, when the lions come they bring RPGs.”
“Yeah, that’s my experience, too.”
Dirk reached behind a hay bale and pulled out a pair of Dezamet rifle grenades. “Here, have some lion insurance.”
Bolan took the dual-purpose 40 mm weapon. “How’d you get a hold of these?”
“Stole ’em from Dob’s stash.”
“How’d you sneak them past him?” Bolan considered himself a past master at scrounging, but he was impressed. “Dob was with us the whole time.”
“I shoved them down my pants.” Dirk grinned from ear to ear. “And who’s going to suspect they weren’t just more of me?”
Bolan jerked his head toward the back door. “Stand tall. We got company.”
Camila Ziaee came out bearing a silver tea service. Zahari Ziaee was a handsome woman. Her daughter Camila was nothing short of stunning. She was the kohl-eyed tawny beauty of every merchant sailor’s fevered dream. She spoke in halting English. “The…gentlemen? Will take tea?”
“Oh, hell, yeah,” Dirk replied eagerly.
“Dirk…”
“I mean, yes, please, Miss Ziaee.” Dirk smiled angelically. “That would be lovely.”
Camila blushed charmingly, placed the tray on the hay bale and poured steaming tea into tiny silver cups. Bolan nodded. “Thank you, Camila.”
Camila Ziaee blushed brighter. “Welcome.”
“Camila!” Mrs. Ziaee called out from the back door. “Miss Connie wishes you in the house!”
Bolan knew she was speaking English for his and Dirk’s benefit.
Camila shot Bolan a tentative smile. “You defend us. Thank you.” She left the tray and ran back to the house. Mrs. Ziaee waited until her daughter was ensconced and walked out.
Bolan scanned the perimeter. “Mrs. Ziaee, neither you or your daughter should be outside after dark.”
“This is my home. I will not be a prisoner in it.”
“I’m not saying you’re a prisoner. You’re a target.” Bolan glanced around the rocky hills. “And any Taliban with a telescopic sight can reach out and touch you. Mr. Dirk and I will kill him, guaranteed, but unless we’re very lucky the Taliban will get the first shot. Do you understand?”
Mrs. Ziaee had seen forty years of war and been widowed at gunpoint. Hard lines of suffering had been etched onto her face. She looked into Bolan’s eyes openly. “You are kind to my family. You are kind to our servants. You are a good man, Cooper. I was right to go to Shield.”
Mrs. Ziaee refused to wear the burka, but part of her political strategy was to wear the full robe and apron ensemble of a respectable Afghan housewife when she wasn’t wearing a Western