Bad conduct didn’t go on your employment record. While a bad conduct discharge also implied that a person had screwed up—screwed up royally, no doubt of that—at least the person hadn’t dishonored the country. But one look at Dirk’s face told Bolan the big chicken dinner did not taste good. Dirk had devoted his life to serving his fellow citizens, and he had just been handed his walking papers. He was no longer a Delta Force lieutenant. He was now citizen Richard Lincoln Dirk.
Dirk gave Bolan one last, long, hard look. “Full presidential pardon?”
“Full pardon, reinstatement and promotion to captain. Guaranteed.”
“I don’t suppose you can you get that for me in writing?”
“The President has expressed his willingness to do it in his office and invite your mother.” Bolan handed Dirk a second piece of paper with the presidential seal on it. “But yeah, you can have it in writing.”
“Damn…” Dirk looked at the signature on the presidential stationery. “You really can make the magic happen. I’ve seen a few sealed orders in the past two years, and that is the Man’s John Hancock.”
“Check the small print. Pardon, reinstatement and promotion posthumously should you die during the course of this mission. I insisted on that.”
“That’s mighty considerate of you.”
Bolan shrugged. “You ready to get out of here?”
“Damn straight. I know a kebab place two blocks from here that treats soldiers right, and the girls upstairs treat ’em even better. The owner imports them from Germany, and if you want to meet mercs, that’s where they hang out to get hired.”
“It’s on me.”
“Goddamn right it is,” Dirk agreed. “And get me a gun. I’m feelin’ kind of naked here.”
Bolan drew a 9 mm Beretta Model 92 from the back of his belt. “Hold on to this. It was the first thing I could lay my hands on. Give me twenty-four hours, and I can get you anything else you want on special order.”
“You sweet man.” Dirk took the pistol and checked the loads. “Let’s party.”
Lars Shishlik Haus
KEBABS AND BLONDES weren’t the only advantages of the Shishlik Haus. A half German, half Afghan named Lars Obiada ran the establishment, and he could only be described as a war profiteer. Soldiers at war always had their paychecks in their pockets and very little to spend them on. They were always looking for women and liquor. Both were hard to come by in post-Taliban Afghanistan. Obiada provided both, as well as some of the best hashish available. He had lived in Germany for the first twenty years of his life and served in the Bundeswehr, so any German coalition soldier in Afghanistan got his first drink on the house. The Shishlik was always dripping with German soldiers on leave, as well as soldiers from other coalition countries.
The blondes and hash were upstairs, black-market goods and gambling were in the back and the opium den was in the basement. The smell of the best kebabs in Kabul hit you the second you walked through the front door, and the bar was only ten steps away.
Bolan and Dirk gave their handguns to the coat-check thug at the door and took a seat at the crowded bar. Angry German rap music vibrated the walls. The proprietor was a huge man, and his Teutonic Afghan ancestry made for an interesting mix of blond hair, black eyes and a biker’s black mustache and beard. He threw his arms wide as he became aware of Dirk. “The Diggler!”
“My man, Lars!” Dirk grinned.
Obiada poured two shots of whiskey into a glass without being asked. “And for your friend?”
Bolan peered at the row of bottles behind the bar. All were German imports. “I’ll take a liter of the Paulaner hefeweizen.”
The proprietor filled a massive mug full of cloudy yellow beer, dropped in two lemon slices and slid it Bolan’s way. “We have not seen Lieutenant Diggler in some time.”
“That’s citizen Diggler to you, Lars. Hell, I ain’t even the Diggler no more. I’m just…Dick.” Dirk sighed and took a massive swallow of whiskey. “That’s who I am and what I got right now. Dick.”
“How could such thing happen? You are good soldier.”
“I ate the big chicken dinner.” Dirk downed the rest of his drink with a grimace and slid the glass forward for another. “Can you believe that shit?”
“I had heard this, and could not believe.” Obiada leaned his bulk in conspiratorially as he poured brandy. “Is it true you struck British major?”
“No, oh hell, no.” Dirk grinned and spoke a little too loud. “I bitch-slapped a goddamn brigadier!”
Bolan noticed a pair of heads turn their way down the bar.
“You do everything in style.” Obiada laughed and turned an eye on Bolan. “And who is friend?”
Bolan stuck out his hand. “Cooper.”
The bartender pumped Bolan’s hand with pleasure. “Cooper. You, too, were involved in the…altercation?”
Bolan played a card. “Let’s just say it influenced me to not renew my contract.”
Wheels moved behind Lars Obiada’s eyes at the word contract. “I am sorry to hear. First round is on me.”
“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” Dirk pronounced.
“I am scholar of life. As for gentleman…” Obiada suddenly frowned. “I think you have attracted attention of gentlemen at end of bar.”
A voice with a Welsh accent snarled over the music. “’Ey, you.”
Dirk and Bolan ignored him.
“’Ey you! Blackie!”
Just about the entire bar turned. Dirk let out a long sigh and brought his hands to his chest. “Who? Me?”
“Yeah, you.” A lanky man leaned forward and thrust out his jaw. He and his companion wore the green beret of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. “Was that you I ’eard bragging about sucker punching our beloved brigadier, then?”
Dirk raised his hands and gestured at his bruised and battered face. “Listen, man, I already took my lumps from the RMPs and got busted out of the service. I’m a civilian now. You already won. Let it go. I’ll buy your next round.”
The other marine was a skinny little rat-faced man, but he had a mean look about him. “Colour Sergeant, I believe the word he used was ‘bitch-slap,’ and he smiled when he said it, didn’t he, then?”
“Mmm.” The colour sergeant rose, and his head nearly brushed the ceiling. “You know, Jonesy? I don’t believe he’s repentant, not in the least.”
Bolan lowered his liter of beer. “Listen, fellas, we don’t want any trouble.”
“You don’t want trouble, Yank? You’d better stay out of it, then, shouldn’t you?”
“I’m afraid the man’s with me.”
“Really?” The skinny one smiled unpleasantly. “Who’s pitchin’ and who’s catchin’, then?”
Bolan smiled back. “I hear the queen does both.”
The colour sergeant took a moment to do the math, and a beatific smile spread across his face. So far it had just been an exchange of pleasantries. Now? The stomping was on.
“Aw, now. Who’s a clever dick?” The sergeant pointed a finger at Bolan. “It’s ’im, isn’t it, Jonesy? ’Ee’s—”
Bolan shot-putted his beer. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but it was a thick, cut-glass liter mug full to the brim, and the Executioner fired it forward, mouth first. The sergeant took the stein across the bridge of the nose,