Vanguard International Branch Office, Kabul
“L ET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. You ran away?”
Clay Carlisle’s voice carried no hint of animosity, despite the seething anger that he felt inside, the acid churning in his stomach.
“I withdrew,” Red Scanlon said, “and broke off contact with the enemy in order to report, so you would know what’s happened, sir.”
“I’d know when the police called me to view your body at the morgue,” Carlisle replied.
“That wouldn’t help you, sir. A corpse can’t give you any information.”
“Right, then. Enlighten me, by all means. Share the information that entitles you to leave your men behind.”
“My men were dead before I left. I saw them drop.”
“Dead, but identifiable,” Carlisle replied. “You’ve put me in an awkward spot with Eddie Franks. I have to disavow him now, and still pay off his family to keep their damned mouths shut.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I’m waiting,” Carlisle said.
Scanlon swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then pressed on. “I saw who Falk was meeting, sir. In fact, he set the whole thing off.”
“Explain.”
“Two of our men stepped up to brace him, and he shot them both, then popped two others in the car before they could defend themselves.”
“He’s no procrastinator, then.”
“Some kind of pro, no question,” Scanlon said. “He took a couple AKs from the first two that he dropped. Without that extra firepower, we would’ve had him, sir.”
“I wonder.” Carlisle studied Scanlon’s face and said, “I understand that one of those this man of mystery gunned down in Shahr-e-Khone is still alive. Not talking, I presume?”
“He can’t talk, sir. Shot in the face. I’m taking care of it.”
“And this bitch from the DEA. We’ve found her car?”
“Abandoned, sir. The GPS tracker was still in place, but by the time I called up reinforcements—”
“She and her playmates had disappeared.”
“Yes, sir. They got another Fed mobile then dropped that one after a couple miles. They’re getting wise.”
“I’d say they were already wise enough to run rings around you,” Carlisle observed. “The question now is, whether you’re entitled to a second chance, or if I ought to cut my losses. Starting with your throat.”
Carlisle had no fear of the younger man seated across from him, with nothing but a teakwood desk between them. Scanlon was unarmed, defeated, a spent force. He also had to have known that any move against his boss would bring an armed security detachment charging into Carlisle’s office through the door immediately to his left.
“I saw the shooter, sir. I can identify him, and you know I’m motivated.”
“Motivation’s good,” Carlisle replied. “But he’s already kicked your ass. You lost eleven men and barely got away alive. That kind of failure is expensive and embarrassing.”
“Yes, sir,” Scanlon replied through clenched teeth. “Let me make it up to you.”
Carlisle considered it, then said, “Call me a sentimental fool. I’ll give you one chance to clean up your mess, but use it well. And do it quickly. If you fail a second time, you would be well advised to die trying.”
“Yes, sir!”
Scanlon rose from his chair, snapped to attention and saluted before leaving Carlisle’s office. Carlisle watched him go and wondered if he’d made a critical mistake by letting Scanlon live.
No sweat.
That kind of error, if it was an error, could be easily corrected any time he had the urge. A simple order, and Scanlon would never see it coming.
More important at the moment was the task of covering his tracks and Vanguard’s on the mess that Scanlon had created.
Carlisle would explain that he’d fired Eddie Franks for insubordination and produce back-dated paperwork to prove it, if push came to shove. As for the local talent, Eddie could have found them anywhere. There were no Vanguard payroll records for them, certainly no canceled checks or any other kind of paper trail.
His word would be accepted where it mattered. That was where the bribes Carlisle had paid to various Afghan officials—and his contacts at the U.S. embassy in Kabul—served their purpose. He was an established man of substance, with connections all the way from Afghanistan’s Republican Palace to Pennsylvania Avenue, and adversaries who forgot that did so at their peril.
There was nothing for Carlisle to worry about.
Not just yet.
Shahr-e-Khone, Kabul
T HE RENTAL CAR with Bolan’s hardware stashed inside was lost to him. He knew it when he reached the parking lot where he had left it, in the Old City, and found police milling about like ants on spilled sugar. He waited long enough to see one of them exit with a heavy duffel bag he recognized, then put the Avalon in gear and drove away, not looking back.
“I guess you’re short on gear now,” Falk suggested.
“Not for long,” Bolan replied.
He couldn’t use the same dealer again, in case the cops had traced his hardware or were on their way to doing so, but Brognola and Stony Man had given him directions to four weapons merchants in Kabul, trusting Bolan to find alternatives if all of those went sour.
And as Hal had told him, there was never any hardware shortage in Afghanistan.
He skipped the second armorer on Brognola’s list, no clear reason other than gut instinct, and went on to number three. The dealer’s cover was a pawnshop in the Shar-e-Naw district, near the intersection of streets called Shararah and Shar Ali Khan. It meant driving back across town, to the northwest quarter, but the trip gave Bolan time to question Deirdre Falk in more detail.
He learned that she’d been tracking Vanguard’s operation for a year and change, collecting evidence that no one in authority would take time to review. Her boss in Kabul was a thirty-year man with the DEA who faced compulsory retirement in the fall, and he encouraged her to forge ahead, while warning Falk that he could not protect her, short of sending her back to the States.
So much for the omnipotence of Uncle Sam.
She still seemed ill at ease with Bolan’s plan of action, not that he’d provided any details, but he thought she’d keep her word and go along.
If not…well, she could pull the pin and split at any time, unless the heavies took her down.
He found the dealer’s shop and made a drive-by, trusting Falk and Barialy to help him spot anything odd, out of synch. They told him that the busy street looked normal, so he found a parking place and all three of them walked back to the shop.
Inside, a man who looked like Gandhi with a port wine birthmark on the left side of his face greeted them enthusiastically. He introduced himself as Izat Khan and listened carefully as Barialy translated for Bolan, spelling out his needs and specifying that the payment would be made in cash.
If dealing with a group of total strangers bothered Khan, he didn’t let it show. Smiling, he locked the front door to his shop, reversed a dangling sign—presumably changing Open to Closed—and led them through a screen of softly clacking plastic beads to reach a storeroom at the back.
Bolan saw no weapons in evidence, and had already braced himself to shoot his