Assassin's Code. Don Pendleton

table. The soldier caught sight of a woman five yards away cocking a stubby submachine gun.

      “Ous!” Bolan called.

      The Afghan strode up from behind and clouted her with his pistol.

      Another woman struggled slightly to get her Russian submachine gun out of the folds of her burka. Another woman hit her from behind in a flying tackle that sent both of them sliding a good six feet through the mud. Keller rose to one knee and secured her suspect. Bolan scanned for more targets. He waited for whomever Zurisaday was meeting to declare themselves. Cries of outrage and alarm were rippling outward across the bazaar. The remaining enemy had no need to attack just yet. It would be only a matter of moments before the good citizens of Sangin, a good portion of whom owned Kalashnikov rifles, took restoring order into their own hands, and the bad guys could take that opportunity to blend in and launch their attack.

      “Control! I need air! Now!”

      Farkas’s voice came back over the thudding sound of rotor noise. “Copy that! ETA thirty seconds!”

      Bolan tore rope from an awning and bound two of the suspects. “Keller! Get the truck!”

      Agent Keller ran for it. Instantly she was one more running figure in the mob wearing a burka. The woman Bolan had thrown rose groggily and he hip-tossed her next to Zurisaday for her trouble. Ous strode forward and threw his captive on the growing pile of women. He scooped a fallen submachine gun and glanced around anxiously.

      “In but moments our position will become untenable!”

      Bolan knelt and put Corporal Convertino’s head back in the basket.

      Salvation came in the form of a USMC UH-1Y Venom helicopter dropping out of the sky like a stone. The chopper hovered over the bazaar like an angry leviathan, its door guns tracking for targets. The rotor wash of its twin General Electric turboshaft engines sent awnings flying like ghosts, and grain and light goods swirling from their baskets. The locals ran crouching and clutching their hats and burkas in the vortex. Unfortunately there was no good place for the chopper to land.

      The truck’s horn blared over the roar. Melons exploded into shrapnel rinds as Keller clipped a stall. The lanes between stalls and stands were too narrow for the pickup, and she sent goods of all descriptions flying. Mud sprayed as she slid to a halt. Bolan and Ous tossed the bound women into the bed of the truck and jumped in. Bolan slapped the top of the cab. “Go!”

      “Which way!”

      There was no way to turn around. “Straight!”

      The spinning tires buzz-sawed mud in all directions, and then the truck suddenly lunged forward like a racehorse out of the starting gate. Tables and tents fell in disarray, leaving a wake of commerce carnage. A bullet whined off the top of the cab, but it could have come from anywhere. Keller kept hitting the horn, and shoppers and shopkeepers leaped out of the path of the plunging pickup. Keller found the edge of the bazaar and drove under an ancient arch. The truck burst onto the streets of Sangin with the helicopter above orbiting like a guardian angel.

      “Bear, you got eyes on?” Bolan queried.

      “Oh copy that, Batman. It was one hell of a show. The Sangin bazaar is officially a riot area.”

      “What’s our quickest route out of the city?”

      “Head straight for the river.”

      “Control, you copy that?” Bolan asked.

      “Copy that, Batman.”

      “We’re going to abandon the truck in the first open area outside of town. Request evac.”

      “Copy that.”

      Bolan and Ous both dropped down among the bound, squirming women and relaxed as Keller tore through town. He looked at Zurisaday’s unconscious form and the basket containing Convertino’s head. The corporal was a traitor to his beloved Corps and the United States he had sworn to serve, but he had fallen going forward.

      Someone was going to pay for that.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      The massive, tapered clubs were half the height of a man. Gholam Daei’s mighty frame was stripped to the waist as he swung the sixty-five-pound clubs rhythmically around his head. A local woodworker had turned the clubs from a pair of sapling trunks to the man’s specifications. Daei noticed his servant, Karim, enter the chamber, but he finished his five hundred swings before he acknowledged him. “Yes?”

      Karim ushered in two men. Azimi and Khahari were brothers, and local Taliban. They goggled at the bearded, bare-chested giant who stood in front of them radiating power. Gholam gave them a benevolent smile. “What news, brothers?”

      “The news is bad, brother,” Azimi said.

      “Oh?”

      “Zurisaday has been captured.”

      “And what became of the women who were supposed to guard her?”

      Azimi lowered his head. “Captured.”

      “Captured? They are living martyrs, sworn to die in their duty, sailing to paradise on an ocean of infidel blood. I find such a thing very hard to believe.”

      Khahari cleared his throat. “There was an American.”

      Gholam nodded sagely. “There usually is.” His smile slowly faded. “So, this American single-handedly took Zurisaday and her escort, while you, your brother and your men watched helplessly?”

      “There was an infidel whore, shamefully hidden beneath a burka like a pious woman!” Azimi objected.

      Daei raised one bushy brow in displeased question.

      “And there was a gunship!” Khahari added.

      Daei privately admitted to himself that in his own experience gunships could qualify as mitigating circumstances.

      “And Omar Ous!” Khahari cried.

      “Omar Ous, indeed?” Gholam grunted at this news. “Indeed, brother!”

      “You and your brother are aware that a fatwa has been issued against Omar Ous?”

      The brothers looked down at the ground. “Yes, brother.”

      “And that it is your holy obligation to kill him?”

      “Yes, brother.”

      Daei looked for the silver lining. “And what were the civilian casualties of this assault?”

      “A few broken bones, as some were trampled fleeing or injured throwing themselves out of harm’s way.”

      Daei felt his anger beginning to rise. “Tell me at least this amorous Marine is dead.”

      “Yes, Zurisaday herself took his head from his body.”

      “Well, at least that is something. Tell me the other bad news.”

      “The teashop owner, Abdullah, and his son Razi were both arrested. The tunnel between the tea shop and the bazaar has been compromised.”

      “So, during the, abduction, I gather you held back and observed?”

      “Yes, brother, we held back, waiting for the crowd to attack them so that our own attack would blend in,” Azimi stated.

      It wasn’t the worst of plans. “And then the gunship descended and drove the crowd away?”

      “Yes, brother, so we observed.”

      “What did you observe?” Daei queried.

      Azimi and Khahari both took out their cell phones. Daei took them and examined the video files. He watched the jerky film several times without comment. There were several decent shots of the American except that all Daei could make out was that the man was from the West, wearing a ball cap pulled low and sunglasses that hid his eyes. Daei switched to Khahari’s