Ambush Force. Don Pendleton

went to a painted steel panel in the wall and punched in a key code. The door slid open to reveal a walk-in arms closet. The Pole pulled out an automatic carbine with a grin. “Polish Mini-Beryl short assault weapon.”

      Dinatale smiled happily. “Dob’s our resident gun bunny and armorer here in the Kabul office. He used to be GROM, and with Shield’s reputation, he got the Zaklady Metalowe company of Poland to provide us with all the small arms and ammo we can use as long as every time the U.S. merc magazines, that French rag or the evening news runs a story on Shield our boys are festooned with Polish steel. Zaklady Metalowe manufactures almost all the small arms the Polish military uses and exports widely. They give us everything from pocket pistols to antitank rockets. It’s really not a bad deal. It’s good kit, and it’s done well by us here in Afghanistan and in our sister operation in Iraq.”

      Bolan had used Polish weapons, as well as been on the wrong end of them. Zaklady Metalowe weapons were nothing if not reliable, and the Polish designers had brought their version of the venerable AK into the twenty-first century with all the latest electronic sights and modifications.

      “Dob’ll get you checked out on all our current issue equipment tomorrow. Speaking of which, where’re you boys staying?”

      Dirk scowled. “Well, I spent the last week in the stockade, and I’m still picking lice from the inn we stayed at last night.”

      “We actually have a suite of room downstairs and hold down a floor in an apartment block two buildings down. We like to keep our people together in case of emergencies, and quite frankly, once it’s known around town you’re Shield, you’re as much of a target as the people we’re paid to protect. We’ll put you up here tonight.”

      “Thanks, Dino.”

      “No problem. Dob will draw two grand from petty cash to give you some walking-around money.”

      Bolan nodded. “Not a problem, and thanks.”

      “Good, all settled, then.” Dinatale nodded to Stanislawski, who rose to show Bolan and Dirk out of the office.

      4

      The assault rifle racked open on a smoking empty chamber, and the last spent brass casing tinkled to the concrete floor of the Shield shooting range. Dirk unshouldered the weapon and blew on the smoke oozing from the action. The silhouette target downrange had been torn to shreds by his series of 5-round bursts. “Ain’t bad. Ain’t bad.”

      Bolan lowered his own smoking weapon and turned to Stanislawski. “We’ll take them.”

      “Ha!” The Pole clenched a meaty fist. “Polish steel, the best!”

      Bolan and Dirk had raided the Shield armory. Each man now had a .223-caliber Mini-Beryl automatic carbine to call his own. The carbines came equipped with EO Tech holographic optical sights. The stubby carbines were too short to mount grenade launchers, but both weapons had launching rings for Polish Dezamet rifle grenades machined onto their barrels. Grenades, whether hand, rifle, rocket propelled or otherwise, were issued on an as-needed basis at Shield. Everything else was available at a kid-in-the-candy-store level of need.

      Dirk had selected a polymer framed WIST-94 automatic pistol. Bolan had gone for an all-steel MAG-95. He’d also picked up a little P-64 pocket automatic. The pistol was just about the size and shape of James Bond’s famous Walther PPK, only chambered for the far more powerful 9 mm Makarov round. The little gun kicked like a mule and was inaccurate beyond spitting distance, but it was a lethal little surprise to pull from deep cover, and Bolan had learned long ago that drawing a second gun was faster than reloading.

      Bolan laid his rifle down on the shooting bench. Stanislawski did good work. Both the optical and iron sights were dead-on. The basement level beneath the Shield offices was split between an underground parking lot and an indoor fifty-meter shooting range.

      The Pole was eyeing Bolan shrewdly. “You are excellent shot.”

      “Fifty meters, a carbine with an optical sight.” Bolan shrugged. “It isn’t hard.”

      “No, but your every move upon range betrays you as marksman.”

      “Well, I’m no Deadshot Dave, but I try to keep my hand in.”

      Stanislawski laughed. “Who is?”

      A woman’s voice rang out across the range. “I’ll give the son of a bitch a run for his money if he’s man enough to bring a six-gun.” Connie Zanotto walked up to the shooting bench, unzipped her range bag and pulled out a pair of revolvers.

      Bolan peered at them. At first glance they looked like Smith & Wesson .38s but the grip angles were slightly wrong, as were the fixed sights.

      Zanotto looked at Bolan challengingly. “You know, I told them I didn’t want some Polish jamamatic. I told them I’d been using a four-inch Smith since I made pilot back in the eighties. So what does fat boy do?” She looked ruefully at Stanislawski.

      “Zaklady Metalowe?” Bolan suggested.

      “Yup, Gward .38.” Zanotto twirled the Polish revolvers around her fingers like a gunfighter. “They work just fine. I swear, you work for Shield long enough and you end up with a hard-on for Polish steel.”

      “I already have a hard-on,” Dirk admitted.

      Zanotto favored the commando with a very appraising look. “Oh, I’m sure you do. I hear they call you the Diggler.”

      Dirk flinched at the nickname. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

      “I was kinda hoping what I heard was true.”

      Stanislawski shook his head. “The .38. Old-fashioned. Underpowered.”

      “You know, big man? I shot exactly two Iraqis back in the day, and they didn’t complain. As a matter of fact, all they did was fall down. And revolvers? They don’t jam.”

      Stanislawski shook his head derisively. “This is why women should not be in combat.”

      “This is why you never get laid.”

      The big Pole sighed heavily. “She always wins these conversations.”

      “Back to business. I had a talk with Dino this morning.” Connie Zanotto took out a speed loader and slid six shells into one of her revolvers. “We got a job.”

      Bolan broke down his MAG and began cleaning it. “What kind of job?”

      “Babysitting. Local political VIP. Her name is Zahari Ziaee. Her husband was a secular reformist in the Afghan parliament. The Taliban blew his head off. So Mrs. Ziaee decided to run for his seat.”

      Dirk frowned. “The Taliban must love that.”

      “Word is they have a real hard-on for her. She stands no chance of being elected, but by their code her temerity has to be punished, and she has to be made an example of to other women who might likewise be tempted. They’ve put out the word they want her and her daughters gang-raped and beheaded, but they’ll settle for the whole family perishing in flames.”

      Stanislawski spit out onto the range. “Taliban. Animals.”

      “She has three kids,” Zanotto continued. “Camila is sixteen, Daywa is ten and the little boy, Gul Mir, is five. Since she’s a single woman with a teenage daughter, I’m going to be the one who stays close to the family. Cooper, you, Dirk, Boner and Frame will be doing roof and perimeter duty on the ranch.”

      Dirk perked an eyebrow. “Boner?”

      “Bonaventura. Ex-Marine. He’s a newbie with Shield, but he’s solid.”

      “Where’s the ranch?” Bolan asked.

      “Actually, it’s more of a camel farm. The Ziaee family does a pretty decent trade in livestock when they’re not getting themselves killed in the name of democracy. It’s about twenty klicks outside the city.”