Altered State. Don Pendleton

      “We would know if they were seeing someone from the National Police or the Special Narcotics Force,” Humerya said.

      Both agencies were riddled with corruption from top to bottom. They leaked information as if it was water poured into a sieve.

      “Most likely,” Scanlon granted. “But we need to find out if it’s someone new.”

      They sat watching their targets from a Toyota Prius, with two armed men in the backseat. Two other cars containing four men each—a Camry and a Volkswagen Passat—had the target zone boxed.

      Despite their manufacture in Japan and Germany, the Toyotas and the VW were all emblazoned with maple leaf flags, marking them as “Canadian cars.” Imports from Canada were highly prized in Kabul, regardless of their original source or the fact that some had been refurbished after homeland accidents before finding their way to Afghanistan.

      If their cars were mock-Canadian, the weapons carried in those cars were strictly Russian. Each man had an AKSU-74 assault rifle with folding metal stock and shortened 8.3-inch barrel, otherwise identical to the standard Kalashnikov assault rifle. The twelve of them together could fire 360 rounds without reloading, all within ten seconds.

      And wouldn’t that cause bloody chaos in the Sharh-e-Khone?

      “What shall we do if they are meeting someone?” Humerya inquired.

      “See who it is, first,” Scanlon answered, none too patiently. “Identify them, if we can. Then make our move.”

      “To capture them?”

      “To do whatever’s necessary. Are you getting squeamish on me now?” the American asked.

      “Of course not.”

      It was an insulting question. Farid Humerya was certain he had slain more men than the American had ever dreamed of killing.

      Then again, he might be wrong.

      These grim-faced mercenaries were a breed apart. Like Humerya himself, they killed for money, but this lot also seemed to possess—or be possessed by—an evangelistic zeal. It seemed almost as if they thought their acts were sanctified he some exalted power beyond cash or earthly politics.

      “Whatever happens,” Scanlon said, “we’ll have the edge.”

      “I simply thought that with the soldiers all around, perhaps we ought to follow them and find a place less public.”

      “It’s a thought,” Scanlon agreed. “But either way, we nip it in the bud. This bitch has caused too much trouble already.”

      “Will eliminating her cause further problems for your people in the States?”

      “That’s not my worry,” Scanlon answered. “And it’s sure as hell not yours.”

      Humerya bore the rudeness, understanding that the arrogant American was simply following the dictates of his character. Coming from a culture fueled by sex and greed, he knew no better.

      Which would not prevent Humerya from exacting sweet revenge, if the opportunity presented itself.

      They were allies of convenience, which should never be confused with friends. Humerya had his orders to collaborate with Scanlon and the others while it served the purpose of Humerya’s masters. When the day came—and it would come—that the mercenaries served no further purpose in Afghanistan, the soil would drink their blood.

      But in the meantime, he would watch and wait.

      B OLAN KNEW THAT HE WAS getting close. His briefing on the ancient city had included detailed maps, plus satellite and ground-level photos of Kabul’s crowded streets. He recognized landmarks in passing, even if he couldn’t read their signs or tell exactly what trade they pursued.

      The Sharh-e-Khone was a riot of colors and smells, the latter ranging from enticing aromas of food that made Bolan’s mouth water, to auto exhaust, raw sewage and a general musty odor of decay.

      He could imagine the Crusaders marching—riding—through the very streets where he now walked, meeting the same looks of curiosity, suspicion or hostility that faced him now. The native clothing would have changed, at least a little, and the weapons that they used against him if their mood turned would be more advanced, but otherwise….

      Bolan was well aware that many Muslims, in Afghanistan and elsewhere, still recalled the ancient conflict of religions during the Crusades, the same way many U.S. Southerners still brooded over stories of the Civil War. Throughout the Near East, though, grim memories of the Crusades were aggravated by a Western military presence—in Afghanistan, Iraq, Saudi Arabia—and by the saber-rattling on both sides that was too often cast in terms of Muslims versus Christians.

      Bolan wasn’t a religious man, by any standard definition of the term, but he knew well enough how faith could bleed into fanaticism with a little push from pastors or imams who had agendas of their own and didn’t mind using their “flocks” as cannon fodder.

      Not my problem, Bolan thought, as he drew closer to the designated meeting place.

      Despite the setting, his primary targets on the present mission were Americans and self-styled Christians, not Afghani Muslims. Still, it was naive to think that he could pull it off without certain natives who collaborated in the traffic that was poisoning the West.

      Come one, come all, he thought. And half smiled as he added to himself, But don’t come all at once.

      More soldiers passed, in vehicles painted to match their desert cammo uniforms. They all wore sunglasses, and if they noticed Bolan, none gave any sign of it. Some of the natives watched them pass, scowling or showing poker faces, but the great majority ignored the military vehicle and men in uniform as if they had no substance.

      In the long-term scheme of things, Bolan supposed, that was the truth.

      He marked a pharmacy ahead and on his left, which meant that he had two more blocks to go. Aside from checking to make sure he wasn’t followed, Bolan now began to watch for indications of a trap.

      The problem was, he wasn’t overly familiar with Kabul or its Old City, couldn’t tell whether its normal rhythm was disturbed or right on track. Cars raced and swerved along the narrow streets, parked anywhere they liked, apparently without regard to anything resembling traffic laws, and many of them bore anomalous decals that seemed to mark them as Canadian.

      Another mystery.

      Nearing the rendezvous, Bolan first checked the obvious. He saw no snipers on the nearby rooftops, no one leaning from an upstairs window with a rifle or an RPG launcher in hand. No one at street level displayed a weapon, and there was none of the war-torn country’s “secret” gun shops within view, where anyone could snatch an AK-47 off the rack.

      So far, so good.

      Bolan carried no photos of his contacts, but he’d memorized their faces prior to takeoff on his transatlantic flight. The native, his interpreter, was Edris Barialy, twenty-seven, an ex-soldier working undercover with the DEA.

      The Yank, and Barialy’s boss—at least, in theory—Deirdre Falk, age thirty-five, with twelve years on the federal payroll. Bolan didn’t know where-all she’d served, but rookies who had never stained their hands with dirty work wouldn’t be posted to Afghanistan.

      Well, not unless the brass in Washington was hoping they’d be killed or simply disappear.

      Another dozen strides and Bolan had them spotted. They were standing just where he’d been told they’d be, outside a theater whose faded posters showed a wiry old man with a dragon. Bolan couldn’t tell if the old man was feeding the dragon or threatening it with a spear, and he couldn’t care less.

      Showtime, he thought, and stepped into the street.

      “T HIS COULD BE HIM ,” Deirdre Falk said. “I think it must be.”

      Edris Barialy turned to face the