Assassin's Code. Don Pendleton

that U.S. Army Rangers, Navy SEALs and Spider-Man would have admired. He motioned Ous to come ahead and the guerrilla fighter moved with impressive silence across the open ground. Bolan peered down into the inner courtyard. Below were the usual fountain, some potted trees and benches. On the other side of the roof Ous had a satellite dish. The tinkling of the fountain competed with the wind in the orchard for the only sounds.

      The silence broke as the trapdoor to the roof opened. The intruder wore a turban wound to conceal his face like a desert wanderer. The stock of his AK was folded, and the weapon was slung as he clambered up the roof ladder.

      The hatch opened to look upon the road from town rather than toward the orchards behind. Bolan took up the grapnel in one hand and the rope in the other as the sentry stepped onto the roof and peered west. Bolan gave the rope a single gyration like a man tossing a lasso and hurled the grapnel. The rope bent around the man’s neck, and the soldier heaved back with all of his strength. The tine croquette hooked the sentry’s throat. The veiled man gagged and clutched at the unyielding steel as Bolan reeled him in. The Executioner drove a knee into the sentry’s kidney to still his struggles and tossed him off the roof by the iron around his throat.

      The sentry made a low thudding noise as he hit the ground two stories below. Bolan heard a single chuff and click as Ous’s sound-suppressed weapon fired once and the action cycled. A moment later the grapnel sailed up again. Bolan caught it and secured it to the roof. Ous scrambled up and the two warriors crouched by the open roof hatch, listening. From within the house a woman sobbed.

      Bolan’s slammed his hand down on Ous’s shoulder. “Wait.”

      A blow cut off the sob. Ous went rigid beneath Bolan’s hand. A sneering voice called out from below and then laughed.

      “What did he say?” Bolan asked.

      Ous’s voice was tightly controlled. “From what I can gather, the man you hurled from the roof is named Mehtar. The man below taunts Mehtar, telling him he is a prude, and that he hopes Mehtar enjoys masturbating upon my roof alone while he himself avails himself of the pleasures of my virgin daughter.”

      “You want to take point?”

      “I do.”

      They pushed up their night-vision goggles, and Bolan took Ous’s six as he descended into his home and beelined down a hallway. Their boots made no sound on the Persian carpet. The two men stopped at an open door. Ous’s daughter, Afshan, cringed in a corner with one of her cheeks swollen. One of the veiled men crouched next to her. The teenager cried and flinched as the man ran his fingers through her lustrous dark hair. His other hand held a knife to the girl’s throat as he whispered ugly, cooing endearments in a guttural voice. He had but one moment to widen his eyes in horror as Omar Ous filled the door to his daughter’s bedroom.

      Ous burned his entire magazine into the offender.

      At that range the sound of the bullets striking flesh and clothing was louder than the coughing and clicking of the silenced weapon. The silenced MP-5 cycled like a sewing machine knitting living flesh. Spent brass fell to the thick carpet. The veiled man shuddered and shook as he took twenty-nine rounds in the chest. Ous’s weapon clicked open on empty, and smoke oozed from the muzzle of the suppressor as he reloaded. He arched one eyebrow at his daughter in a question and she shook her head. Ous nodded once. His daughter nodded back and took the dead man’s pistol from his sash.

      Ous spoke very quietly. “This man with me is a friend. We will speak English for his benefit.”

      Afshan nodded.

      “Where is your mother?” Ous asked.

      “Downstairs.”

      “Where is your little brother?”

      “Downstairs. They beat him and tied him up when he resisted,” Afshan replied.

      “Where is your grandmother?”

      Afshan’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “She stabbed one of the bad men. They shot her.”

      “Where are the servants?”

      “They shot them and put their bodies in the stable.”

      “Where are my hounds?”

      “They shot them, too, Father.”

      A mighty scowl passed across Ous’s face. “I see.”

      Bolan knelt beside the girl. “How many are they?”

      “Twelve or so took the house, I think. Then perhaps half of them left.”

      “Are they local?” Bolan asked.

      Afshan blinked.

      “Ah.” Ous nodded and put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Were they men of Kunduz? Did they speak Tajik? Pashto or Dari Persian?”

      “They spoke Arabic among themselves. I believe the men who stayed are southerners. The men who left were foreigners. Forgive me, but from where, I do not know.”

      “At least six were left upon the premises,” Ous surmised.

      “And between us we’ve taken two.”

      Ous rose. “Stay here, little rose.”

      Afshan clutched at her father and shook her head. Bolan caught her gaze and held it. “Your father and I are going to fetch your mother and your little brother. I want you to go up on the roof. Take the pistol. If we fail, shoot anyone who comes up the hatch. No matter what happens, in half an hour American soldiers will come, but do not let anyone up unless they say ‘Rambo.’ Do you understand?”

      The barest hint of a smile tried to quirk one corner of Afshan’s mouth. “The password is Rambo.”

      “Good, now obey your father. Go.”

      The Russian-made Gyruza pistol was huge in the girl’s tiny hands as she ran in a whirl of skirts for the roof ladder. Ous’s eyes glimmered. “She is a good girl.”

      “An honor to her family,” Bolan agreed.

      “What is the plan?”

      “We rescue your wife and son,” the soldier replied.

      “Do you wish prisoners?”

      “Not at your family’s expense.”

      “Very good.”

      “Half of the raid team left and they haven’t posted any sentries,” Bolan said. “I think they’re waiting for the phone call that I’m dead and you’re dead or captured. If they do have any sentries, they’re down in the village watching the road.”

      “An intelligent assessment, I agree.”

      “Where would they most likely be in the house on a low state of alert?” Bolan asked.

      “If they are like this one—” Ous gestured at the riddled corpse “—and seek diversions? Most likely in my parlor. It has a television and opens into the kitchen.”

      “By all means, Ous, show me to your parlor.”

      Bolan followed the man downstairs and into the darkened courtyard. They walked across it and glanced through the window into the kitchen. The light was on, and in the summer night the kitchen window was open. Bolan could see where Ous’s daughter got her good looks. Mrs. Ous was stirring something on the stove with a very unhappy look on her face. One of the veiled man sat at the kitchen table. He had uncovered his mouth and busily shoved down yellow rice with raisins and peas with his fingers. From somewhere out of sight Bolan could hear Bollywood-style music playing.

      The soldier put a single silenced bullet through the eye slit of the eater’s veil.

      Mrs. Ous didn’t notice. She only turned at the sound of the man slumping with his face in his bowl. In an incredible show of calm she walked over to the slumped man, lifted his head by his turban and noted the copious blood flooding into his food. She lowered his head back down and walked