Black Ops - Heroes of Afghanistan: Box Set (Books 1-6)

By Eric Meyer

Afghanistan is a land of myths, and a land of violence. A former US Navy SEAL, Rafe Stoner makes a living in Jalalabad. His business is buying and selling surplus machinery. His home is above a brothel. His earnings come from a different line of work. Stoner is a gun for hire. In a land where justice is for those strong enough to take it at gunpoint, he finds no shortage of work. Aided by Greg Blum, part Russian and part Afghan, he finds his biggest customer is a gangster nicknamed Ivan the Terrible. Who happens to be an undercover CIA resident. Fighting cruel battles in a cruel land, these men are more than brave. They are the Heroes of Afghanistan.

This complete box set contains the full text of the first six full length novels. That’s right, all six books! Buy the box set today and read them all from start to finish:

Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan
Life is short and justice a rare commodity in the harsh wastelands of Afghanistan. Navy SEAL Lieutenant Rafe Stoner is about to encounter this cruel truth the hard way. An operation goes tragically wrong, and a Taliban sniper team ambushes a UNHCR ambulance. One of the dead is the woman with whom he intended to start a new life.

Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan: Vengeance
Rafe Stoner, a former Navy SEAL, leads a cruel existence as a gun for hire in Afghanistan. After the brutal killing of his fiancée he vowed a brutal revenge. A revenge that littered the landscape with the bodies of those responsible. Now he learns his work is not over. A wealthy, young Afghan woman holds the key to the identity of the Taliban commander who ordered the murder.

Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan: Retribution
Afghanistan is a land ripped apart by unending warfare. Inside this seething cauldron of violence, Rafe Stoner, a former Navy SEAL, maintains a precarious existence. His business, selling surplus machinery, is a cover for his real work. Stoner is a gun for hire, and his services are in constant demand. When a CIA agent offers him a small fortune to take on a contract, he smells trouble.

Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan: Payback
Afghanistan, a nation in perpetual torment. A frightened land where cruelty and casual killing are a part of normal life. Now the violence has worsened. The brutal Independent Islamic State has appeared, founded on a mountain of corpses. To raise funds, the Islamists embark on a campaign of kidnap and ransom.
Black Ops - Heroes of Afghanistan: Spetsnaz Assassin
Rafe Stoner is a gun for hire, a former Navy SEAL whose skills are in constant demand in his adopted home of Afghanistan. His legitimate business is selling surplus machinery, or so his tax return states. His real work is less prosaic, and makes him a good living from a grateful client base. The removal of inconvenient rivals is a way of life in the violent and war-torn nation.

Black Ops - Heroes of Afghanistan: Godfather
Rafe Stoner is a tough, hard fighting, embittered former Navy SEAL. He makes a precarious living inside Afghanistan with a loss-making surplus machinery business. Although he earns his real money by other means. Stoner is a gun for hire, and business is brisk in the lawless country. Yet his life is going nowhere, and most everyone he was ever close to is dead, victims of the insurgent violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Mar 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370020416

Eric Meyer

Eric A. Meyer started working on the web in late 1993. Since then, he's been a college webmaster, one of the original CSS Samurai, a standards evangelist at Netscape, the author of many books and online resources, an occasional code artist, the technical lead at Rebecca's Gift, and a cofounder of An Event Apart. He lives with his family in Cleveland.

Book preview

BLACK OPS - HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN

By Eric Meyer

Copyright © 2015 Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

Foreword

The day had started bleak and wintry, and it was getting worse. It was still too early for snow, but it would come before long. Overhead, the sky was still clear blue, yet in the distance he could see thick, dark clouds growling in like breakers on a California beach. There was harsh, bitter-cold weather on the way, no question. Even beneath his gear, helmet, combat vest with additional ballistic plates, gloves, thick camos and supporting thermal layers, he felt chilled. Yet it was more than just the bitter cold that made him shiver. The landscape itself felt wrong. Different. Different was bad. Different meant the enemy wasn't far away.

Lieutenant Rafe Stoner, U.S. Navy SEALs, ignored the clammy chill under his heavy clothing as he perched on the bone-hard passenger seat of the jolting Humvee. A man could survive the cold, but there were no guarantees to surviving an ambush. They were out there somewhere. He could almost smell their foul stench, although he couldn't see them. Not yet, but soon. They were close. He knew it for sure.

He was slated to go home after so long in country, two long, hard tours. In one month he'd leave this benighted land forever. To go home with the girl he'd fallen for. Madeleine Charpentier, a pretty UNHCR nurse who'd stolen his heart. He'd been lucky. At the time he was coming down after a beautiful Afghan girl gave him the heave-ho, in favor of a man he'd once counted as a friend. This time it was for real, Madeleine's UN tour was up about the same time as his, and they would set up home together. For life.

The States, France, he didn't care, as long as he was with her. They planned to discuss which country to set up home when they met up that evening. Today was her day off, and she was spending time shopping and cooking up a celebratory meal.

Tonight will be special. Tonight will be the start of the rest of our lives.

He smiled to himself as he thought of her, and then abruptly wrenched his thoughts back to the mission. The priority was to get home safe, not woolgather and put them all at risk. They were out here to hit the enemy where they least expected it. He stabbed the transmit button to call Zak Wilson, the SEAL manning the M2 machine gun in the overhead armored cupola. No one liked that duty, and for good reason. Despite additional armor, the man up top was invariably the Taliban sniper's first target. Unless the hit came from an IED, in which case he'd be the last man to feel the blast, although only by microseconds.

They'd started the operation with a UAV drone overhead, a Predator. Feeding images back to an Air Force controller at Creech Air Base, deep in the Nevada Desert. Any sign of an enemy sniper unit or unusual ground activity, and the remote operator would call in a warning. Except they'd recalled the drone due to a technical malfunction. Which meant his fireteam had to manage with what they had, their own eyes and ears. And then get home alive when it was all over. That was what really counted. Get the men home. Alive. Although getting home made him think again of the girl he loved, the girl who right now was waiting for him to return.

Madeleine, honey, I'll be back soon, there's just a bunch of murderous religious crazies to kill first. Keep the food warm, and don't worry if I'm a little late. The traffic may be a little heavy during rush hour.

He realized he was woolgathering again, and the gunner was waiting for him to speak. Zak, what do you see?

Sweet nuthin', Boss.

He knew he'd have to drag it out of him. The top gunner took the big risks. He was entitled to expect a degree of latitude, even have some fun at his Lieutenant's expense. You holding out on me, Zak?

Nope.

He waited, but there was nothing more. He decided to explain his concerns, get the guy on alert. There should be signs of life, at least from that small town three klicks due east. You know the scene, traffic on the road, people herding goats, whatever. Except there's nothing; it's all too quiet.

The gunner didn't reply at first. Then, You think we're driving into a trap. It was a statement, not a question.

It's possible.

Damn. Of all the times to lose our air cover, it had to be now. How about...

He didn't finish. The sound of the bullet was a sharp whipcrack, followed by a shout of pain from Wilson. He didn't need to issue any orders. Diego Rivera, a fiery second generation Mexican, was already swinging the wheel around and stamping on the gas pedal. Chief Petty Officer Jeff Childers, the tough, competent, black number two in his fireteam, climbed up into the cupola to attend to the casualty. Stoner was already scanning the distant hills, binoculars in one hand and his HK-416 in the other. He knew the shot must have come from a high level shooter. The armored cupola of the Humvee negated most other possibilities.

He called out to Childers without taking his eyes of the visual sweep. How is he?

Just bruised, Lt, maybe a fracture. I can't tell. But he's out of action for a time. The bullet took him high on the ballistic plate over his chest. He was lucky. Another few millimeters, and it would have entered his neck. I'll lower him into the rear.

Roger that, take over the M2, Chief, but keep your head down.

Reckon I will, the laconic acknowledgment came back, You see him yet?

Not yet, I, no, wait, up there, two o'clock. There's a cairn of rocks on the edge of the hills. I saw a flash. Driver...

On the way, Rivera cut him off as he swung the wheel over again. Their mission brief was to seek out and destroy enemy snipers and IED teams. Small hit and run units who would be emplaced on the heights overlooking the Kandahar to Kabul Highway. Early that morning they'd received a report of Taliban IED activity, and they took this road parallel to the main highway. The theory was to use the Predator as their eye in the sky, locate and surprise the hostiles in their rear. So much for theory, an hour into the operation they told him the drone was returning to base, a problem with the telemetry systems. Now the men with beards had turned the tables on them. Almost.

Another sniper round pinged off the armored shield of the cupola, and Childers triggered the M2, punching out a long stream of heavy rounds. The big .50 cal was accurate to eighteen hundred meters, and firing from the long belt at a rate of up to eight hundred rounds a minute, it was enough to give the enemy cause to worry. But they weren't worried. A light machine gun opened, and a hail of bullets peppered the ground around their vehicle, although none scored any hits.

Rivera was gunning the Humvee along at over fifty mph, bumping and lurching over rough ground as they ascended the slope of the hill. Stoner was searching for a target when the second gun fired again. He marked it as a couple of hundred meters to the west, and this time several rounds hit the bodywork of the charging Humvee. Instinctively, he shouted to Rivera, Keep heading for the sniper, as he took quick aim and started to return fire at the second machine gun.

He wanted the sniper first. He would be the expert. The man who could shoot at and kill Americans, then disappear into the rocks and scrub to reappear days later to start killing again. Sniping was a skill, and the only counter to the threat was to take down the man. Childers kept up a rapid rate of fire with the M2, and the sniper hadn't reappeared. They were climbing the steep slope fast, only a hundred meters away, when the barrel of a rifle appeared over the rocks, a barrel with a scope fitted.

He's still there, good.

Rivera...

I see him.

The shooter snapped off a shot, a good one. It starred the windshield, and then he ducked down out of sight again. Diego steered around the side of the cairn, bouncing over rock and deep gouges in the ground, and then they were on top of the hill. The sniper had started to run, and Childers aimed a long burst with the M2 that almost cut him in half. There was no time for congratulations. Another man, his spotter, was trying to snake away, and this time the burst from the M2 went over his head as he vanished into a deep furrow in the ground. There was only one way to deal with him. He addressed the fourth member of the fireteam, Petty Officer Al Edlund.

Al, we're going after him. Chief, you and Rivera take out the other machine gun. Let's go.

Diego slowed the Humvee, and they rolled out onto the dirt and small stones that made up the surface of the hilltop. He put his head up first to sweep for the spotter. Nothing, no sign of him, but he had to be close. He ducked his head as a renewed burst of firing spat toward them from the distant machine gun, but then he shifted his aim, to target the Humvee bearing down on him like a snarling wolf. He left them to it; Chief Childers wasn't the kind of guy to tangle with. Not when you'd just nailed one of his men, armor or no armor. He heard the roar of the .50 cal and knew they were doing their work.

Ahead of them, a tiny piece of cloth showed, just above a small niche in the rocks. He'd gone to ground. He signed for Edlund to go north of his position, and he slithered to the south, to take him from both sides. He had his finger on the trigger as they closed in on the target.

Shit!

A torn piece of cloth was all, and then the man rose about fifty meters ahead of them. In his hands he held an RPG rocket launcher, and Stoner could even see the crooked smile, as he knew he'd bested the SEAL fireteam. Except he couldn't hit both of them, and he fired off the rest of his clip to draw his attention, and dived for the cover of a few rocks, only centimeters off the ground.

The explosion came at the same instant as Edlund's burst tore into him. He felt the blast wave suck him into the air and slam him to the hard, rocky ground like he was an unwanted FedEx parcel. He saw stars as the breath whooshed out of his body. The next thing he knew, Edlund was leaning over him with an anxious expression.

You okay, Lt? That rocket was real close.

Too damn close. Yeah, I think so. Ask me in a couple of minutes when I've checked out my skin for leaks. How about the machine gunner?

They got him, two of them, and the loader. It shouldn't have happened, though. We should have had a drone overhead to warn us. Or they could have given us something heavier like a Stryker.

Yeah, well, the Navy gives us what the Navy gives us. We have to make it work.

He dragged himself to his feet as their Humvee drew near, and Chief Childers jumped down. His expression was grim. We were too late, Lt. They ambushed a target down on the Highway.

He grimaced. Dammit. Highway One, the Kandahar Kabul road the brass said they'd keep clear of hostiles.

Like most promises in this shithole of a country, it didn't mean a damn, Childers spat out, It looks like they hit a medical convoy this time. I can see the white vehicle from here.

Do we know who they are?

Looks like UNHCR, Boss. He gave the Lieutenant a worried look.

Stoner smiled as he patted him on the arm. You're thinking of Madeleine, but she's not on duty today. She's safe. We'd better go down and take a look at the wreck. There may be survivors.

Roger that.

Rivera climbed out of their Humvee and regarded the bodies. A clean sweep, Lt.

You sure you got the machine gun crew, no leakers?

Not unless they were invisible. They're all dead.

Okay. The bastards hit a UNHCR ambulance down on the main highway. We need to get down there and check for survivors.

They swung aboard the vehicle and bumped down the opposite hillside. A white Mercedes SUV, converted to an ambulance, was still smoking in the center of the road. A man covered in blood was propped up at the side of the road, weeping. Rivera pulled up nearby, and he and Stoner climbed out. Childers stayed in the cupola, and Edlund kept them covered from the rear. There was always the chance it was a staged ambush. The Lieutenant knelt down next to the casualty.

Where are you hurt? We're here to help you. Where's the blood coming from?

The man shook his head. You don't understand; it's not my blood. The IED exploded right under those nurses in back. They didn't stand a chance. I was lucky. It tossed me around and knocked me unconscious for a few seconds when the vehicle jumped a couple of meters in the air. When I came to, I tried to help them. You have to believe me, but I couldn't do any more. Jesus Christ, I wish I could have done more. I came out here to try and flag down some help. It's so unreal. I just don't know...

Sure, sure, Stoner soothed him as he did a quick check. There were no obvious wounds, but if the IED detonation had knocked him unconscious, there could be trouble on the way later in the day, How many inside, two?

Yeah, two nurses, two girls. One of them's Greta. She's German. She was dead when I got to her. Madeleine was still alive, but I don't know about now. It's not fair, she only came because another nurse failed to show. This is her blood all over me. I did my best to...

No! It can't be. She's not working today! She's at home, preparing our celebratory meal. Please, dear God, no, let it be someone else. There must be another Madeleine. Yeah, that's it.

He was already forcing his way into the ambulance. The upholstery was still smoking from the explosion, and the air was acrid with the stench of burned polyester and roasting flesh. He had to twist his body to crawl into the back where two bodies lay in unnatural angles. One was clearly the German girl, Greta, dead with a massive wound in her chest where the scrap metal the Taliban packed around their bomb had torn her upper body into bloody ruin. Her clothes were still smoking along with the upholstery, and parts of her flesh had started to cook.

The other girl was face down, and he could see blood pumping out of her body, which meant she was still alive. He turned her over slowly, gently, knowing it had to be another girl, not his Madeleine. Then he gave out a small sob.

He was wrong. She wasn't at home. Wasn't preparing for their special evening. She was here, broken and bleeding in a wrecked ambulance at the side of a dusty road in the center of Nowheresville, Afghanistan.

Her eyes flicked open for a second, and her lips tried to form a smile, but then her eyes closed again. He put his ear to her mouth and was shocked to hear her breathing coming in shallow, hoarse rasps. Her wound was low in her groin, and it had hit an artery. He could see where the guy outside had tried to apply a dressing, but it was like trying to repair a leak in the Hoover Dam with a Band-Aid.

He lifted the dressing and almost passed out. The shrapnel had torn her lower body into a bloody mush, and it would have taken a miracle to fix it out here in the middle of the countryside. She needed an emergency room, and fast. He gently placed her down and squeezed out of the ambulance. Rivera waited for him, his face grim, like a man with bad news.

It's Madeline, he shouted, Help me get her out of there, Diego. We have to get her to a hospital! She's dying!

He didn't reply at first, and then he shook his head. No can do, Lt. We have a problem. One of those bursts from the machine gun punched holes in our fuel tank. We have enough gas to get us about five klicks, and that's only if we're lucky.

He felt an overwhelming sense of helpless despair. Use the radio. Tell them we need a medevac helo out here pronto. Whatever it takes, we have to get help.

Rivera gave him a sympathetic glance. I'll do it now, Lt. They'll get right on it. Don't worry.

He nodded. I'm going back in there to stay with her. Tell them it's life and death.

I'll do that.

He stayed with her for the forty minutes it took before they heard the sound of rotor blades in the distance. Too late, she was already gone. He'd stayed with her as she bled out, and she opened her eyes once more and said one word, his name. Rafe.

They closed for the last time, and he held her as he felt the life go out of her. The helo took her body back to Kabul, and he went with her. The medics tried to revive her with a defib, they tried adrenaline, they tried heart massage, they tried everything. But it was only going through the motions.

Three days later, he attended the funeral service and accompanied the casket to Bagram. The UN C-130 flew her back to her native France, and he watched it take off, choking back the tears. Four weeks later, he was signing the papers that would end his Naval career.

You're sure you don't want to take a Navy flight back to the States?

He shook his head to the anxious looking Naval captain. No, Sir. I'm staying here.

You sure that's the right thing to do, Lieutenant Stoner? You've had a terrible shock with the death of that girl. You should go home and take time out to think about your future.

I'm staying.

He looked puzzled. What for? What is it you're after, Stoner? Revenge, payback, something like that?

Something like that, yes.

You should try and pick up the threads of your life Stateside, before you make a final decision.

He'd given the man a long, hard look. Captain, I don't have a life. Not anymore.

Don't you have anyone you care for?

He shook his head. Anyone I cared for is gone. I care for no person, and no person cares for me.

So you're staying in Afghanistan.

I'm staying.

He sighed. You got somewhere to live?

Jalalabad, someone I know has a place there.

He shrugged. Okay, if that's what you want.

He didn't answer.

It's not what I want. I just don't care. My life is over. I want nothing. Only oblivion.

Chapter One

It was harder this year. Bitter snow tore through the mountain passes, bringing a light covering of snow to the barren fields. Afghanistan was a land scarred by endless wars, now enduring a winter of fragile peace. A strange calm that brought hunger and cold in its wake.

Ahmed Durani’s father, Ghulam, bore the suffering of his children with stoicism, although not without cost. There was never enough produce from the hardscrabble fields, and this year it was worse. As a result, his days were a waking nightmare, haunted by the faces of his starving children.

His farm had suffered the full brunt of the winter’s icy fury. The rotting stubble of his crop poked out through the thin blanket of snow. There would be insufficient produce to feed them when the spring thaw arrived. Then the engine of their old tractor, an ancient, battleship gray Fordson Model F, refused to start. A neighbor came to look, and the prognosis was dire. His father had no choice but to ask if there was enough money in their dwindling funds to pay for a repair. Ahmed checked through the figures. Unlike the rest of his family, he could read and write, and he made the daily entries in his father’s worn out account book. He knew the cupboard was bare. They were broke. Yet he managed to find the money, knowing they would be even hungrier as a result.

He watched his father working on the rusting, dented tractor. The elder Durani was short and emaciated after a lifetime of thankless toil. He was bald and his bearing stooped from overwork. His clothes did little for his appearance. A patched robe, and underneath, surplus combat pants, probably bought from an Afghan Army deserter. On his feet, homemade sandals did little to protect him from the biting cold or the rough terrain.

He looked what he was, a sick old man bent by the weight of too many burdens, although he had yet to reach forty. His tractor was ancient, bought by his great grandfather, a man who died defending the homeland against the invasion of the communist infidels.

They called in a skilled mechanic who pronounced the old engine beyond repair. Instead, he fitted another, more powerful unit. The old engine was a twenty horsepower, which gave the decrepit Fordson a top speed of six miles an hour. The man assured them the new motor was thirty horsepower. The dealer removed it from a wrecked Russian vehicle. He claimed it would enable the Fordson to reach an unheard of ten miles an hour, enough to plow the fields faster and make the farm more efficient. Yet after he left, the wondrous engine refused to start. His father had to search for a spare carburetor, which their neighbor said would make all the difference. The carburetor had arrived, and now they had to put it to the test.

Ahmed contemplated their gloomy future, as he looked down at his worn clothing. It was better than his father's was; the older Durani always gave his children the best he could afford. His robe betrayed only a couple of repairs, and he wore Western jeans on his legs. Patched, to be sure, but they were jeans. His father had given him the secondhand denim pants on his thirteenth birthday, saying, You're a teenager now, Ahmed. It's time you wore something modern, like some of the boys wear in Jalalabad and Kabul. On his feet, he wore leather boots. Once owned by a foreign soldier, he didn't know which nationality, there'd been so many. At least they still had some wear in them.

He knew why they and so many of the local people had so little. A long succession of wars had left land ruined and wasted. First, the Soviet invasion, then the bloody interregnum of the warlords, followed by the brutal medieval rule of the Taliban. The Americans then came with their NATO allies. At first, they’d assumed Afghanistan would at last enjoy a period of peace. Families would have food and shelter, and women would no longer suffer torture and imprisonment. Before, the Taliban were apt to slaughter them should they commit the slightest infraction of Sharia law.

Now the foreign troops were going home. Those who replaced them, the army and police of the Afghan government, had so far given people little grounds for optimism. Ahmed inspected the bullet holes in the fenders and engine cover of the ancient vehicle. The Fordson had seen more than its fair share of warfare. Once, an RPG had narrowly missed the engine block and exploded in the ground, spraying shards of metal over the fields while they sheltered behind the tractor. It was a miracle the Fordson had survived so many near misses. It would be an even greater miracle if his father could coax the new thirty horsepower engine into life.

Ahmed, pass me the two-inch ring spanner.

Yes, Father. He handed him the rusted tool. They measured every tool in old-fashioned inches for use with the old Fordson. He knew they called the system of measurement Imperial. He thought it was something to do with the old British Empire even though they'd made the Fordson in the U.S.A. Tools were often hard to come by, parts next to impossible, until now. The dealer who sold them the engine had discovered a workshop in Peshawar, across the border in Pakistan. They used to manufacture assault rifles for the various factions fighting inside Afghanistan.

Lately, business had slowed with the arrival of the uneasy peace. They resorted to constructing spare parts for out of date agricultural machinery, tractors, and harvesters, to enable the population to harvest their crops. These old vehicles were life and death, the sole bulwark against starvation in the wrecked infrastructure after the foreign soldiers had gone home. With the replacement carburetor, they hoped the engine would start. Then they could make the farm profitable. After they'd paid the bill for the new carburetor.

They looked up as a ramshackle, ungainly jeep painted dark military green came toward them. A Soviet built GAZ 69, another relic of that bloody fighting. The driver was Grigory Blum, who everybody knew as Greg. Ahmed looked forward to spending some time talking with him. He was always interesting, always brought the latest news from around the country, and on occasion a small gift, chocolate or a bag of candy. At one time, Ahmed thought candy tasted so good, only Allah could have made it.

The Russian didn't look like a farmer. Everyone called him the Russian, although he was born in Afghanistan. His clothes were always too good, too stylish for the humble peasant lifestyle. He sported a long, brown leather coat, winter or summer. When he'd asked about the magnificent garment, Greg told him it was what the senior Soviet officers used to wear a long time ago. His feet were always resplendent in high, brown leather jump boots, with his denim jeans tucked into them. When he went inside the house and removed the coat, his shirts were always smart and clean. Never patched, never repaired.

Even his face was smooth, handsome, and unlined in a country that exacted such a toll on its citizens. He had ice blue eyes, yet they were humorous, not cold. He always had a smile on his face when he called around. Ahmed often wondered how he managed to look so good, and why he was so happy. Whatever he did to have so much, it certainly didn't come from farming. Perhaps he could talk to Greg one day and ask him if he could do the same.

The Russian owned a few fields nearby. His father had been a Spetsnaz soldier, captured by the Taliban after they'd ambushed his unit. Offered the alternatives of conversion to Islam or death, he embraced the Koran. Shortly after, he married a local girl and she gave birth to a son. After their deaths, Greg stopped attending the local mosque. Some suspected he’d become an apostate. They also said he spent too little time harvesting his crops, for his fields were a disgrace. They didn’t ask how he earned his living. Afghanistan was a land riven by feuds and disputes, so why start another by asking awkward questions? Even so, he was a good neighbor, always willing to offer his help.

* * *

Blum slowed the GAZ and heard the engine coughing and misfiring, as he eased off the pedal.

Even though it was a piece of junk, he'd come to like its quirks and insisted they were part of the jeep's character. He'd never admit to another soul that the Russian made GAZ was anything less than perfect. It was pride, a kind of nod to the land of his ancestors. Even so, it was no wonder the Soviets never got anywhere in this godforsaken country. Nor in their own country, come to that.

Would I ever travel to the land of my father? No way. Afghanistan is a shithole, true, but why swap one shithole for another?

His neighbors, the Duranis, were still trying to fix that old museum piece of a tractor. He knew they’d have done better to sell it for scrap and buy a couple of bullocks to pull their plow. A pity, they were good, hardworking folk, and despite their extreme poverty, he’d eaten many meals under their roof. He stopped next to the silent tractor.

Hi, Ghulam. Hello, Ahmed. I see that heap of bolts is giving you trouble. Anything I can do to help. I could take you in tow if you want.

The answer was what he'd expected. Old man Durani was proud, an Afghan of the old school.

We can manage, my son and me. Nevertheless, thank you, Greg. You must call around for dinner tonight, you and your wife Faria.

He shook his head. I can’t. I have a job to do, and I’ll be away for several nights. I’ll call and see you when I get back. If the engine still won't start, maybe you’ll take me up on that tow.

Durani smiled. Maybe you’ll take me up on that dinner.

Both men smiled, and he gave them a friendly wave as he drove away. He liked the family, as did his wife Faria. A meal in their house was always entertaining, particularly talking with the kid, Ahmed. He was sharp and clever, and read books constantly so he’d know what was going on in the world. Not a boy you could fool easily. Yet he was never boastful about his learning, quite the opposite.

As he drove away, he thought about the coming job. His father had trained him to be quick and expert in all aspects of fighting. Fists, boots, knives, guns, you name it, and he knew how to use it. He’d need his expertise on this job. The son of a drug warlord who’d raped and murdered the daughter of a local judge. The judge was weary of the corrupt Afghan cops, and he knew the perpetrator would never see the inside of a courtroom. The warlord was rich and powerful, and he’d either bribe or murder any witnesses who came forward.

The judge knew Greg Blum from when he'd appeared in his court, falsely accused of theft. The accuser was a dopehead, trying to persuade the judge to make him pay restitution so he could feed his habit. The judge took less than five minutes to dismiss the case. However, while giving evidence, the junkie let slip Greg's ‘other’ activities. He denied it all, naturally. Although it was too late, the judge stored it away in his keen brain. He contacted Greg to deal with the matter of his daughter’s murderer.

Greg Blum wasn't his first choice. Another expat lived in the nearby city of Jalalabad, another fixer, a man named Rafe Stoner. A former Navy SEAL, Stoner left the service and settled in Afghanistan. People described him as someone who'd lost his way and couldn't go home. He was a man who people said had 'gone native.' A man who saw something in the country; maybe it was the wide-open spaces, or the thrill of living on a knife-edge. Perhaps Stoner was one of those men who couldn't hang up his guns; there were plenty like him in Afghanistan. A born adventurer, in a country where there was never any shortage of adventure.

Like Greg, he hired out his services to those who needed his expertise. Unlike Greg, who settled local disputes for people he knew, Stoner had a reputation as a gunslinger. His reputation was also as a man who guaranteed a result, no matter who the target. He was very expensive, available to the highest bidder, a bounty hunter and a killer, so they said. No one ever knew for sure the extent of his activities. Greg knew him from years back, when their interests coincided and he helped him track down a wanted killer. For a short time, they became friends. Until both men dated the same girl. In the end, the beautiful and gamine Faria chose and married Blum, much to Stoner's bitter anger. They never spoke again.

The judge found dealing with Stoner too difficult and expensive. He made a deal with Greg, and money had changed hands. Half in advance, half when he'd completed the job. They shook, and he began to seek out the target. He found him the day before, and today, he’d head into bandit country and either bring him back or kill him. Justice could be brutally direct in Afghanistan. With luck, he’d finish the job and be home by the evening.

He returned to the small house he shared with his pretty wife Faria. She was waiting outside to greet him, her pretty Afghan face creased with a worried frown. His dog, Archer, was sitting beside her. He was large even for a German Shepherd, with a glossy black coat highlighted by a golden blaze beneath each ear, and golden socks. As he switched off the GAZ and ran up to her, the dog's tail wagged and he barked for joy. The German Shepherd turned up at Greg's door one day, looking for scraps. He'd given him a meal, and the dog never left. He liked the thought of Archer watching over his wife while he was away, and besides, he'd grown very fond of him.

He discovered the dog's name by chance when a passing American patrol recognized him as a military dog and stopped outside the house. They were wary, assuming he'd stolen the animal, and cocked their weapons before they started to ask questions.

Where'd you get the German Shepherd, buddy?

He'd explained it was a stray. They used a portable scanner to read his chip, and called it in. When the reply came through, they relaxed. The owner, a Marine Master Sergeant, had gone home and the dog had strayed, so there was no one to claim him. They told him his name was Archer.

Why Archer? he asked the officer.

The man smiled. Yeah, I wondered that, too, so I asked them the same question. They said if you gave him a scent, he'd go straight to the target, just like an arrow or a guided missile. Doesn't matter how far the distance, fifty meters or fifty kilometers. That dog always gets his man. You're a lucky guy. For some reason, he chose you for his new owner. I can see he's happy, so I guess there's no way he'll go with anyone else.

He chose me? Why?

Archer had stayed. He patted the dog’s head and kissed his wife. Her face was somber. What is it, Faria? What’s the problem? You don't look happy.

As he spoke, he embraced her. She was still young, in her mid-twenties, dark haired, with coffee colored skin, slim and pretty. As beautiful as the day they’d married in the local mosque, four years before. She'd refused to wear the burqa, despite pressure from the Imams. Instead, she wore a flimsy scarf over her hair, just enough to satisfy the lunatic religious fringe. They were still childless, a fact that caused her endless concern. Afghan mothers raised their daughters to regard childbearing as their most important function, after absolute obedience to their husband.

It’s the Sheikh. He came round again. I think he suspects.

Greg felt his anger grow, and the dog growled, sensing his emotion. Are you sure? We haven’t given him any reason to suspect anything.

He came this morning and asked questions. Why I haven’t born any children, and why we haven’t been to the mosque? I told him we’d been busy with the farm, and we're concerned to put by enough food and fuel to last the winter. I don’t think he believed me, and he said we should visit the mosque.

Was that all?

No. He asked me about the purpose of our visits to Jalalabad.

Greg looked at the huge pile of logs ready to warm the house through the cold months. He'd bought them from a merchant. There was enough to warm three houses, probably. They walked inside, and there were sacks of grain leaning against the wall, piled high to the rafters. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the polished wood furniture was an obvious sign they possessed more money than the average small farmer did, enough to provoke envy.

Fuck him.

Their possessions were not Sheikh Daud’s business. Neither were their stores of food and fuel. Their visits to Jalalabad were something else, something he could make his business if he found out the truth. Unbeknown to anyone, he and Faria made a decision shortly after their marriage, a decision that would put them in mortal danger for as long as they lived in Afghanistan. Sickened by the casual, everyday cruelties they encountered, cruelties inflicted by Muslims, husband and wife decided enough was enough. The religion of Islam was the root cause of the worst of the brutality, particularly against women. One day, they watched yet another woman beaten almost to death for talking back to her husband. On that day, they quietly ceased to regard themselves as Muslims.

Even more serious, and much more dangerous, Greg felt the need to return to the religion of his father. Aleksey Blum was a Christian when he arrived in Afghanistan, a lieutenant in command of a Spetsnaz squad. As a convert, he brought Greg up as a Muslim, and he’d stayed a Muslim. His wife, Faria, was a Muslim, until they had enough of the medieval barbarity. Their next step was the most dangerous.

His wife agreed with him it was time to pledge allegiance to a more forgiving God. They traveled to Kabul and entered the diplomatic enclave. It was the site of the only legally recognized Christian church in Afghanistan. In a joyous ceremony, the priest baptized them into their new faith. Twice a year, for the major religious festivals of Christmas and Easter, they journeyed in secret to Kabul to celebrate Mass. On other occasions, they traveled to Jalalabad, where an illegal Christian church existed in a room over a storefront. It was anonymous, the windows nailed shut, and the glass painted black to prevent prying eyes from seeing inside. They had no illusions about the terrible fate that awaited them if Sheikh Daud discovered the truth. Nonetheless, they had managed to keep their secret, until now.

What if he finds out?

He pondered that thought for a moment. If Sheikh Daud ever confirmed the truth about their apostasy, and their subsequent conversion to Christianity, his response would be immediate. He'd call for a death sentence on both of them, and Afghan law would allow him to execute them. He held her in his hands and looked into her eyes. She'd tilted her head back to stared back at him, for she was six inches shorter than he was. He could see her dark, moist eyes filled with trust. A trust he wouldn't break.

I don't believe he will find out. It's highly unlikely anyone in the Christian community would open their mouth. It would mean certain death for them as well as us.

She wasn't satisfied. But, what if it did happen?

She’s right. It could happen.

He made up his mind; there was only one place to go. One man he could trust, the American, Rafe Stoner. Even though they disliked each other, after the falling out over Faria. He wondered if he'd agree to help in the event Sheikh Daud unleashed his hounds of hell on him and Faria.

Yes, for her sake, he probably would. At least, I hope so.

Whether he'd be able to stem the tide of religious fanaticism was another matter. His reputation with a gun was fearsome, but he was only one man. The only way to find out was to go and talk to him. He was under no illusions about the kind of trouble they'd face if Daud uncovered the truth. Armed Islamist fanatics would come to the farm and drag them away to the execution ground. Their only defense would be to meet guns with guns, violence with violence. They'd need Stoner. Greg was handy with a gun and used his skills to keep him and Faria in some comfort. Rafe Stoner was something different; an elemental force, a stone killer, so they said.

The American was still unmarried and ran a small business trading used and surplus machinery. It almost certainly ran at a loss, but it was enough to persuade the authorities he was a legitimate businessman. He lived over a brothel, a whorehouse, and some said he was the part owner. There was little doubt he earned more from the part share in a whorehouse than he did selling rusty old machinery and spare parts.

It was his other business that Greg was convinced earned him the most money. The rumors were he took on contracts for powerful men in Kabul. Stoner would bring in high profile runaway felons. Kill them if required. The assassination of certain opium barons was reputed to pay his biggest salary check. His activities enabled Kabul to profess to be working to defeat the drug problem. As a result, they could claim increasing sums of money from the West to finance their supposed war on drugs.

The American conducted his business affairs behind a shadowy curtain of legend and rumor. On occasion, he'd bring back a high profile wanted man to face justice, when the politicians wanted to make a point. The murder of a policeman or a public official was serious enough to require public punishment. It was always the death sentence. Afghanistan was like the Old West, in terms of the justice system, except the Old West never suffered the extent of violence, bigotry, and brutality that blighted the country.

He realized she was waiting for his reply. I'll call Stoner.

He felt her shudder beneath his hands. Do you think he could help us?

He thought about Stoner. He'd been a Navy SEAL during the war between the NATO alliance and the Taliban. Even in an elite outfit like the SEALS, his reputation was legendary. Outwardly a scrawny man, a little over five feet nine inches tall, he looked anything but special, other than his clothes. He always wore black pants, shirts, boots, coats, and even an old black fatigue cap.

Black, the color of the Angel of Death, or is it the Grim Reaper? Does it make any difference?

Years ago when they were out drinking with Faria, he'd seen him react to a threat with incredible speed. An Afghan had tried to massage her breasts, and inside of a couple of seconds, he was nursing two broken arms. It would be a long time before he abused a girl like that again. Yet the man came after him the following day seeking revenge, bringing along his brother armed with an AK-47 and a gut full of hate. They found the bodies several days later, shot full of holes, with much of the flesh picked clean by predators. If anyone thought to question Stoner, they wisely kept it to themselves.

Stoner was much in demand in a country where the ability to kill a man, or several men, and get away undetected was much admired. He was still single, so probably he'd never gotten over Faria. Greg frowned; the old rivalry still smarted, even though he'd won.

How will the man who lost feel about it? I'd prefer to stay away from the American, but I have no choice.

I'll go talk to him tomorrow. Yes, I think he could help us, but I'm not sure if he'll want to. I'll do my best.

He thought again about the mysterious Rafe Stoner. He'd heard people describe him as a likeable rogue. He wasn't too sure about that description. He was a rogue, no question. Problem was, he didn't like the man, not one bit. Besides, he knew the feeling was mutual.

* * *

Ahmed’s father worked underneath the engine for several minutes more, and then emerged to sit in the driver’s seat. He pressed the starter, and Ahmed jerked in astonishment as the engine roared into life. Clouds of smoke engulfed them, and soot from the exhaust blackened their faces. After a few minutes, the engine warmed and began to run evenly. They whooped and danced for joy, doing a jig arm in arm around the machine.

Calm down, my son, we must take it for a test drive to make sure, his father said at last. His voice rang filled with happiness, and tears of relief rolled down his face. The ancient Fordson was running at last. The new engine had the potential to transform their lives. Ahmed climbed aboard and positioned himself next to his father, wedged into the space between the seat and the huge fender. He clung on as the ancient vehicle bumped and lurched across the frozen fields.

While his father drove, he looked around and studied their land. It was a good farm, with the potential to feed them. With luck, it may even provide a surplus to sell at the local market. One day it would all be his, if he lived long enough. Life in Afghanistan often hung on a tiny thread. The random decision of an Imam or Mullah, or the accuracy of a Talib shooter, and a life ended. A strong possibility was that a perceived insult could cause a man to take revenge, or hire someone else to do it for him. Even the reliability of the ancient Fordson was a factor in whether they survived or otherwise.

Their speed increased, and Ahmed clung on as they drove over the rutted track. The creaking, rumbling machine swayed like a fairground ride.

Look! Ten miles an hour, his father shouted happily. Ahmed glanced at the cracked speedometer, ripped from a Russian aircraft destroyed by a Mujahedeen rocket. They'd removed the Cyrillic disk on the dial and made one out from an old cardboard box they'd cut into shape. They'd written the numbers in felt tip pen. It was true; the needle was almost touching ten miles an hour, an unheard-of speed.

This will make all the difference, his father chuckled, We can pay off our debts, and perhaps even save some money in the bank. He sounded more joyful than Ahmed had heard him for many years. The long years of backbreaking toil just to maintain their miserable existence could be about to end.

It's wonderful, he replied, Father, might I drive the tractor?

He smiled. You are thirteen years old, Ahmed. On your fourteenth birthday, perhaps I will show you how it works.

That's in ten months! Besides, I know how it works. I have read the manual many times.

Ten months is a short time. Patience, my son, it will come soon enough.

Ahmed nodded. But inside, he had a different thought. I don't want patience. I want it now.

The tractor swerved to avoid the markers where the Taliban had sown antipersonnel mines to destroy the NATO patrols that used to use this route. It was too dangerous to remove them, so they were marked with cairns of rocks, and everyone knew to steer clear. Almost everyone. His father had once employed a laborer who boasted that he wasn’t afraid. No Taliban landmine would stop him from doing his day’s work. Sometimes, they unearthed fragments of bone when they plowed the soil.

Tomorrow I will travel to Jalalabad to see Mr. Stoner, the machinery dealer. I must pay him what we owe him for the carburetor. Our fortunes are changing, my son.

Ahmed had met Rafe Stoner once before and knew he'd been in the military during the NATO Alliance war against the Taliban. Someone said he was U.S. Navy, but Ahmed didn't understand how that could be, for they were so far inland.

What was the need for ships and sailors inside Afghanistan?

He'd left the military as the war wound down, and for some reason decided to stay in the ramshackle, violent country. Stoner had built up a small business, selling surplus and used machinery. If you needed a new pump for a well, an axle for an old motorcar, or even a carburetor for an obsolete tractor, people would go to him. They knew he dealt fairly with them, and he had a reputation as an honest man. He never seemed very busy, and potential customers often found his yard closed. However, the way he dressed in fine clothes, and drove a new Jeep Wrangler SUV, suggested he was doing well.

He claimed he was often away purchasing lots of machinery at auctions around the country, although no one had seen him at any of these sales. Then again, Afghanistan was a big country, so perhaps the sales were in the north. A wild, lawless region, in a country where lawlessness was the norm, it never troubled him.

The American carried two huge pistols under his coat, strapped either side of his wide leather belt. Yet despite his flamboyance, the black clothes, the Wrangler, the pistols, the apartment reputed to be luxurious, he never smiled. Stoner's fiancée, a beautiful French UNHCR worker, died when a Taliban IED exploded under the truck she was driving to bring food to hungry kids in a rural area hard hit by drought. Afterward, he descended into a miasma of serious drinking.

Ahmed visited Jalalabad with his father to discuss the purchase of the carburetor. Stoner had a tiny office next to a dilapidated junkyard filled with heaps of rusting machinery. Ahmed's eyes had almost popped out of his head when he noticed the huge pistols, and he asked to look at them. The American pulled out the guns and showed them to him. They looked like small cannons to the boy.

They’re called Desert Eagles, son, made in Israel, he'd explained, pleased that Ahmed spoke the fluent English he’d learned from his books, Fifty caliber handguns.

Are they powerful, Sir?

Stoner's face twitched a fraction of an inch. I could punch a hole through the door of the Presidential limousine with these babies.

Ahmed nodded wisely. Everyone knew about the Presidential limousine, always sagging on the springs with its burden of heavy armor plating. It would be better not to tell the President.

The American nodded. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.

That conversation took place several weeks ago, and he wished he could visit the colorful American again. Although he knew he'd have to stay at the farm and look after his younger sisters. He smiled at his father.

Things will change now the tractor is running. We all know how difficult it has been for you since Mother died.

Durani nodded.

Since she was murdered. I’ll never forget, never. One day I may even be able to take time out from feeding my family to take revenge. Not yet, the children must come first.

Everything will improve, you can believe me. Look at this fine tractor, is that not evidence of change?

Before he could reply, his father went on, I will leave in the morning for Jalalabad. He saw the longing in his son’s eyes, No, you must stay here to look after your sisters. Kaawa is still only eleven years old, and Rahima is nine. They are too young to be left alone.

Yes, Father.

Ahmed, do we have enough money to pay Mr. Stoner? I need seventy-eight dollars.

The currency of Afghanistan was Afghanis. However, due to its market fluctuations, and the widespread distrust of government, cautious people still insisted on U.S. dollars for their transactions. Ghulam Durani was one such cautious person. He waited while his son worked out the calculations. After he'd learned to read and write, Ahmed put his skills to work, dealing with the endless corrupt officials who visited the farm almost on a weekly basis to try to extort money. He and his father had endless arguments and even stand-up rows. One of the worst was with the local Imam, Sheikh Habib Daud.

Daud had a cousin, Sardar Khan, who wanted to marry Kaawa. The Sheikh had offered Durani a substantial sum to buy her for his cousin, but he'd refused, saying she was too young. Besides, although he accepted Sheikh Daud was an honorable man, he found Sardar Khan to be anything but. The last time they’d discussed it, Ghulam Durani sent Khan packing from the farm, firing a warning shot from his ancient AK-47 to underline the point. Khan waved his fist and shouted threats, and they all knew it wasn’t over.

So far, Ahmed had managed to ward off the other problems. Moneylenders, thieves, conmen, and worse, the government tax collectors. With Ahmed's literary and numeracy skills, and his father's assault rifle, they’d so far proved too much for the avarice and dishonesty of these greedy men. The boy also looked after the family money. He stored the cash in a battered aluminum box, which had once held 9mm pistol ammunition. It still had the logo ‘U.S. Army’ emblazoned on the side. He thought about the loss of seventy-eight dollars, the last of their money, and intended to help them through the winter. Durani saw his son’s hesitation.

My son, the increased productivity from the new tractor engine will enable us to double our usual crop. We'll be fine.

Ahmed grimaced. If there were any more breakdowns, there'd be fewer crops, not more. Yet he was fond of the ancient Fordson. It had been in the family for three generations. It was his ambition to drive it, a coming of age rite for his entry into manhood. Every male Durani had driven that tractor for almost a hundred years. Perhaps it would not break down. The new engine and carburetor would surely keep it running for a long time to come.

Yes, of course. We have enough money to pay Mr. Stoner. I will give you the cash before you leave.

Ghulam nodded. If we do well and earn enough money, we could perhaps buy a newer model.

I want to keep this tractor.

His father's eyebrows rose, and he glanced at him. Very well. One day it shall be yours. First, Jalalabad, and when I return, we shall go to work. Everything will be different, you’ll see.

Yes, Father.

When we get home, I will call Stoner and tell him I am on the way to pay him the money I owe.

* * *

Rafe Stoner looked around the saloon bar when he entered through the back door of Ma Kelly's in Jalalabad. Ostensibly a guesthouse, it was a little known secret that the place was a brothel. He moved in after the insurgents murdered Madeleine Charpentier, the girl he'd planned to grow old with. The girl he met soon after the break up with Faria, when she chose to go off with the other guy.

A fucking Russian of all people; Greg Blum, Jesus, what did she see in him!

He'd wanted to take Blum apart at the time, but he eventually calmed down enough to see sense. Then he met Madeleine and once again fell in love. He felt the twinge of pain as he always did when he thought of her. He'd moved into the whorehouse because it felt like putting two fingers up to a crazy, cruel world. A symbolic 'fuck you' to anyone who criticized his dubious choice.

In spite of everything, he'd grown to enjoy living in this place. Some of the girls were even nice, although they weren't Maddie. Once again he thought of the vivacious and beautiful French girl. He pictured her in his mind. Slim, lithe, always a smile on her lips, and a UNHCR id badge pinned to her blouse. She had dark hair cropped in a neat bob. The way French girls knew how to make it look pert and sexy. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, and she possessed a curvy body a man could die for. He would have died for her, but they'd killed her first.

After the death of Maddie, he had little left to live for, an apartment in a brothel, and a crappy surplus machinery business that barely broke even, although it served as a front. His main income came from his connections to certain high-ranking people in Kabul. They used his Special Forces expertise when they needed to take care of a problem. Permanently. The pay was good, and there was a bonus. The possibility the other guy would shoot first and put an end to his pain. He often wondered when some gun happy nutjob was waiting around the next corner to pop a bullet into his hide. He thought about death often. Welcomed it always.

One day, it'll happen. Finish.

Stoner kept a suite of rooms on the top floor of the brothel. He owned half of the place. Yet was content to allow the feisty redheaded Irish-American, Fiona Kelly, to run the place. She also owned the other half.

He felt weary as he walked into his apartment. He'd just finished a contract for a Kabul finance minister. It'd been hard, much harder than usual. The reason why wasn't difficult to work out. Instead of carrying out a discreet surveillance of the target as he'd intended, the principal had insisted he rush the job.

As a result, he ran into serious trouble. The target was a man who'd assassinated a government tax collector in a restaurant in Jalalabad. The victim was a relative of the minister, trying to collect money owed to the government coffers, or more specifically, to the personal coffers of the finance minister. His relatives, especially the minister, were sufficiently pissed to put up a big cash reward to persuade him to take on the job. Not for justice. Afghanistan was a land of revenge. They wanted revenge, not justice. They'd already pronounced sentence of death on the murderer, so it was just a question of killing him or bringing him in to face the rope. They weren't too particular about the way he met his death.

It started to go wrong when he was sitting in a bar, quietly drinking coffee opposite the home of his target. He watched through the dirt-streaked windows, knowing the layers of grime were so thick they hid him from view. The house across the street was opulent, with high steel gates and even an armed guard standing watch just inside.

The man he'd come for, as well as a killer, was a wealthy opium trafficker. He preferred to keep all of his profits rather than hand a proportion to the government. Like everyone, he would have known it would never reach the government coffers. But it would pay for the lavish villas and armored limousines of the politicians, already wealthy after years of skimming the foreign aid budgets as well as their own people. Personally, he