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.”
Fareed lumbered forward.
“I would like to cooperate!” gulped the man.
“Splendid. Splendid fellow.” Doom rained United States currency down on floor by the proprietor’s knees. Makhdoom took the man by the arm and raised him to his feet before he could begin to scoop up the money. “Come, my friend. Let us take tea together.”
BOLAN’S STOMACH DROPPED as the helicopters fell like stones out of the sky. The fortress loomed ahead like a forbidding mountain sentinel. The crumbling brown walls of the fortress were ancient, and over the centuries they had been patched and shored up with a hodgepodge of brickwork, boulders, heavy timbers and rammed earth. The foundations of the fortress had been laid down by Genghis Khan.
The Russian-made Dshk-38 heavy machine guns emplaced in the battlements were recent additions. Yusef Zagari, the Kazakstani gangster Bolan had captured, had led them to the city of Shoghot and the opium den. Makhdoom had made the proprietor and several other drug kingpins in Shoghot offers they could not refuse.
That information had led them to the heights of Tirich Mir and the fortress of Ali Ul-Haq. In Northern Pakistan the crime did not matter—drugs, guns, prostitutes, slaves, anything that passed illegally across the borders with Afghanistan, Tajikstan, China or India—Ali Ul-Haq had his hand in it. Anyone operating on their own gave Ul-Haq his cut out of respect and fear. Ali was well connected in the highest reaches of the Pakistani government, both locally and in the Capitol. The Pakistani police left him alone. During the 1980s he had used Afghan refugees from the war with the Soviets as muscle. He continued feeding their families and developing a fanatically loyal army of his own. He now gave that same refuge to Taliban refugees who had fled before the US Military might during Operation Enduring Freedom. He was well connected with the mafiyas of the surrounding former Soviet Republics. Ul-Haq ran his little corner of the Hindu Kush range like his own private hunting reserve.
Bolan smiled. Ali Ul-Haq’s hunting license had been revoked. General Iskander Hussain continued to surprise. When Makhdoom had radioed the General the news of who their quarry was, both he and Bolan had fully expected to be told Ul-Haq was a hands-off situation.
General Hussain had declared open season on Ul-Haq. The General appeared to be taking his role as savior of the Pakistani Republic with great