Assassin's Code

“Bourbon,” Yoshida suggested. “And the assholes who did this.”

“You’ll have the bourbon before Taps. You have my word on it.” Bolan smiled. “The assholes will have to be after Reveille tomorrow.”

Yoshida’s eyes glazed over with the combination of wounds, drugs and exhaustion, and slowly closed. “Just get them…?.”

Bolan nodded at the wounded, sleeping Marine. “You got my word on that, too, Captain.”

The Executioner strode from the regular infirmary tent into the storm and walked across the lane to another hospital tent. It was much smaller and guarded by armed Marines. Bolan nodded at the two sentries and walked in the tent. The wind flapped and shuddered the walls. There was only one patient inside. He lay on a bed with tubes sticking out of him and was heavily swathed in bandages, but he was conscious and clearly very agitated. A short, similarly agitated Marine doctor stood between the prisoner and Ous. The Hippocratic oath and naked intimidation fought for the doctor’s soul, but he was a Marine and stood his ground. The doctor’s head snapped around at the new intrusion. When he saw Bolan’s uniform, he looked at him imploringly.

“Can you please get this man out of here?”

“Why?” Bolan asked.

“He wants to interrogate my patient!”

“I want to interrogate your patient.”

The doctor waved his hands at the man on the bed and then toward heaven in mounting outrage. “You think this man is in any kind of condition for interrogation?”

Ous gazed unblinkingly at the prisoner with his disturbingly wolflike eyes. “I believe the prisoner is in an ideal condition for interrogation.”

The man on the bed flinched.

The doctor was appalled. “Oh for God’s sake!”

“I also believe this man speaks English,” Ous added.

The prisoner flinched again. Bolan kept the smile off his face. Ous was good.

“Taliban?” Bolan asked.

The prisoner assumed a stone-faced stare at the roof of the tent.

“It was so much easier when they marched through the streets, proudly wearing their black turbans,” Ous said. “But we killed so many of them they bared their heads so that they might hide in gutters like skulking dogs.”

The prisoner’s cheek flexed.

“Such a shocking lack of faith,” Ous concluded.

Ous was literally inducing a facial tic on the prisoner.

“Taliban?” Bolan asked again.

The doctor was clearly upset. “Listen! I—”

“Dr…?.?” Bolan inquired.

“What? Oh, Early. Listen, I—”

“Dr. Early, I understand the Hippocratic oath and I know this man is your patient, but I need a no-bullshit assessment. When will this man be well enough to be sent to the capital?”

Dr. Early made a visible effort to control himself. “He’s torn up pretty badly. I saved his left leg, but I couldn’t save his left testicle. He was very lucky about the shrapnel in his abdomen. It was a miracle it didn’t tear up anything vital, but a lot of his real estate is being held together by stitches. If you put him on the road to Kabul, you’re going to bounce them open. Even if his stitches hold, his brains will most likely be applesauce by the time you get there. I want—hell, I demand that he not be moved for the next twenty-four hours while I monitor his concussion.”

“I agree. He should only be moved by helicopter.” Bolan glanced at the tent walls as they vibrated. The storm was in its third day and showed no signs letting up. “We both know that isn’t going to happen today. But when you release him to me, I will absolutely guarantee his safety.”

Dr. Early walked around to the other side of the bed and stared down at his patient. “More than the son of a bitch deserves, but I believe you when you say he’ll get it.”

“Dr. Early, if it makes you feel any better I can get—” Bolan’s eyes flared as the wall of the tent lifted a few feet away from the doctor and the spherical, olive-drab shape of a U.S. M-67 hand grenade rolled to a stop at Early’s feet. “Grenade!”

Dr. Early echoed the sentiment and promptly threw himself on top of it. Bolan seized the bed-frame. “Ous!”

Ous grabbed the frame at the foot of the bed and together they heaved the bed toward them and dropped prone. The prisoner screamed as his IVs tore and he toppled to the floor. The grenade detonated with a muffled whip-crack and 6.5 ounces of Composition B tried to send its lethal cloud of steel splinters through Dr. Early’s body and fill the tent. It was partially successful. Medical equipment shattered and sparked. In the confines of the tent, the blast effect was like a blow to the head. The mattress bottom rippled and tufted as some splinters made it through.

Bolan was up instantly. His ears rang, but his Beretta was in hand. Dr. Early was nothing but rags. The soldier snarled over his shoulder at Ous. “Guard the patient!”

The Executioner rolled under the tent wall. The fact that it could be lifted told him it had been doctored for the fragging. He lunged up into the storm. Fifty yards ahead the dust swallowed a running figure.

The big American broke into a dead sprint through the base’s back alleys, leaping tent ropes like an Olympic hurdler. Up ahead the man became visible again. He had stopped and was leaning on a tent rope to steady himself. Apparently he thought he was safe. He lifted his goggled head and saw Bolan bearing down on him like an avenging angel. The assassin whirled and promptly tripped over the rope. He lurched back up and took three stumbling steps. He shouted despairingly over the howling of the wind. “No! Wait! You don’t understand, man! No! I—” Part of Bolan’s brain noted the man was speaking with a Puerto Rican accent.

The man suddenly seemed to remember the .45-caliber MEU pistol strapped to his leg.

The pistol was half out of its holster when Bolan’s boot slammed up between the guy’s legs. The assassin screamed like a rabbit being killed and collapsed into Bolan’s embrace. The Executioner’s right arm snaked under the man’s chin and heaved upward as the man sagged from the testicular trauma. The big American locked his hands together and squeezed as well as lifted. The carotid artery shut off, and the more brutal trachea compression cut of his air.

Marines charged out of the dust from all directions shouting contradictory orders and waving rifles. “Freeze! Let him go! Don’t move! I said drop him!” Bolan dropped the man as he went limp with unconsciousness.

“On your knees!” a Marine screamed. His bayonet was fixed. “I said, on your knees!”

Agent Keller appeared out of the dust and flashed her badge. “NCIS! Agent Keller! He’s with me!”

Bolan glanced down at the motionless man at his feet. “He’s the one who fragged the infirmary.”

The belligerent Marine lowered his weapon. Even with the wind and dust battering him his face went slack. “Oh…my…God…”

Bolan felt the young Marine’s pain. The U.S. military had seen its share of atrocities: fraggings, crimes and massacres. Rightly or wrongly, the modern United States Marine Corps considered itself above such things. The motto of the Corps was Semper fidelis, Always Faithful.

What this man had done was unthinkable.

The man on the ground gasped as he roused back into consciousness. “Hook him and book him,” Bolan suggested.

“Right.” An MP produced zip restraints. Ous appeared at Bolan’s elbow.

“How’s the prisoner?” Bolan asked.

“He is currently leaking clear fluids out of his eyes and ears, and his pupils are two different sizes. I fear the blast from the grenade was too much for his already beleaguered brain.” Ous sighed. “You are all right?”

“I could use a cup of coffee,” Bolan admitted.

Ous looked at Bolan with great seriousness. “You are a man of the West. I am sure what you require is beer.”

Sangin Bazaar

BOLAN AND OUS drank beer. Islam forbade the drinking of alcohol, however across the Muslim world the laws of hospitality were some of the most powerful on Earth. A large number of Muslim men Bolan had met had come to the happy, contorted conclusion that it would be unforgivable to not offer a Westerner his dissipation, and an even worse breach of honor to make him feel uncomfortable by frowning upon his misguided ways and not partaking.

Ous did everything he could to make Bolan comfortable by keeping the bottles of beer flowing from the battered plastic cooler between them. They sat on stools in a tiny alcove curtained with a pair of rugs. Outside two enormously fat men who appeared to be twins blocked the entrance to the alcove. Their stall was piled high with oranges. Each man had an AK propped by his leg. The storm had died down, but it was still hot, windy, dusty, overcast and miserable outside. The orange trade was slow and the bazaar almost deserted.

“So,” Bolan began, “you were Muj?”

Ous cracked two fresh beers and waited until Bolan had sipped from his. “I answered the call to jihad against the Soviet invaders when I was twelve. My aged father, who resides in heaven, pressed his Lee-Enfield rifle and a bandolier of fifty rounds into my hands and implored me to martyr myself in God’s name. With the bayonet fixed, the rifle was taller than I was at the time. I failed to become a Holy Martyr, but I killed many, many Russians. At one point there was a ten-thousand-ruble reward out for my head.”

“I understand the Taliban has a million on you at the moment,” Bolan observed.

Ous shrugged modestly. “So I am told.”

Bolan gave Ous a knowing look. “You were Northern Alliance?”

“For a time,” Ous conceded. “I truly believed in jihad against the Soviets. God required them to be struck down. However, after liberation, I found that I had no use for the Taliban at all.”

“They’re—”

“They are foreign interlopers, and Wahhabist interlopers at that.” Ous spit. “Destroyers of shrines.”

“You’re Sufi,” Bolan surmised.

“Ismaili,” Ous allowed.

Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab had been an eighteenth-century scholar from Arabia. He considered anything but the strictest adherence to Sunni Islam and Sharia Law to be “innovations” that needed ruthless and violent crushing. The Taliban took much of their doctrine from Abd al-Wahhab’s teachings and had applied it with fanatic zeal during their five-year reign of religious terror as the governing body of Afghanistan.

“The attack in the village yesterday wasn’t exactly what I would call Taliban standard tactical procedure,” Bolan ventured.

“Both the attack against us and the slaying of your envoy were very unorthodox.” Ous puffed his pipe for a contemplative moment. “I have operated with the United States Marine Corps in the past. I found this morning’s incident profoundly disturbing.”

Soldiers refusing to take prisoners during the war on terror wasn’t unknown. Some prisoners had been mistreated. A U.S. Marine fragging an infirmary with U.S. personnel inside was positively anomalous. Ous took another sip of beer. “What have you learned?”

There wasn’t much. “Corporal Saulito Convertino, from New York City, a strict Catholic. The chaplain says he attended services every Sunday. No known radical, terrorist or criminal affiliations. Was recommended for the Bronze Star in action during the surge into Helmand.”

“And his disposition now?”

“In custody, not talking to his appointed lawyer, not talking to anyone.”

Ous eyes narrowed. “You said he was weeping when you apprehended him?”

“Yeah.” Bolan nodded very slowly. “Yeah, he was.”

“You fear he was coerced,” Ous surmised.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. But he didn’t owe anybody money, wasn’t on drugs, the preliminary FBI investigation back in New York states his family is fine and has no idea how this could have happened.”

“You believe the coercion had to be local,” Ous suggested.

“We brought in the prisoner last night and he got fragged this morning. Corporal Convertino hadn’t been planning this, he was activated.”

“Sleeper cells,” Ous said incredulously, “in the United States Marine Corps?”

“More like a mole.”

“So how was he recruited, locally, as it were?”

“I can think of only one thing, Convertino was an exemplary Marine except for one thing,” Bolan said. “Oh?”

“On three separate occasions he was found AWOL, but each time the statement of charges was dropped.”

“And why should this be?” Ous asked.

“Because Convertino was a scrounger.”

“I am not aware of this term.”

“He was good at getting things,” Bolan explained. “I spoke with a few of the men on his squad. If you wanted beer or liquor in Afghanistan, he’d find a way. If you couldn’t find any Marlboro, he’d get you Tajiki Kahons at half the price. U.S. and European pornography is almost impossible to sneak into Afghanistan, but if you wanted some, he could find you the Russian stuff that flows down through the northern border by the bushel basket. Every unit has a scrounger, and by all accounts Convertino was a scrounger par excellence. He was born in Puerto Rico, and they’re the last bastion of bartering culture in the United States. From what I hear he had the gift of gab, everybody liked him, and he had been to the language school and spoke some Arabic.”

“So why would the statement of charges be dropped if he was dealing in contraband?”

“Because he acquired contraband for his superiors,” Bolan said.

“Ah, yes, I see. Truly the world is the same all over. So, you believe it was in the midst of this scrounging that he was seduced?”

“I’m thinking seduced is exactly the right word. When he was in Iraq, Convertino had the reputation of being one hell of a charming horn dog. Female soldiers and Iraqi women liked him, a lot. Here in Afghanistan the female soldiers are a lot fewer, the Afghanis are far more violent about protecting their women. What little prostitution there is takes place in the big cities, and those are few and far between. A woman in Afghanistan who has been reduced to prostitution has seen a lot of hard miles, and that’s not Convertino’s type. The real brothels are run by Russians and Turks, are stocked with Eastern European and Russian women and cater to rich Afghans and foreign visitors with money. Out of Convertino’s league. After being transferred to Afghanistan I’m thinking Convertino was jonesing pretty hard.”

“Jonesing.” Ous nodded as he pondered this bit of American slang. “I believe I understand what you are saying.” His eyes suddenly went wolflike. “You are saying we must find Corporal Convertino’s sexy girlfriend.”

“Something like that.”

CHAPTER THREE

Sangin Base stockade

“Where the hell have you been?” Agent Kathryn Keller struggled to keep up with Bolan and Ous without breaking into a trot in the hallway.

“Drinking beer,” Bolan replied.

“Hey!” Keller snarled.

Bolan stopped and turned. “What?”

“Well…” Keller suddenly grinned. “How come you didn’t invite me?”

Bolan considered his answer and jerked his head at Ous. “He doesn’t drink beer with women.”

“What in God’s name leads you to conclude that I do not drink beer with women?” Ous asked.

“My mistake,” Bolan admitted. “Can you give me a sitrep, Keller?”

“Convertino talked.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just that he admits to the murder of Dr. Early, the John Doe suspect, and the attempted murder of you and Mr. Ous.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s dismissed his appointed council, says he will plead guilty to all charges and requested the death penalty.”

“He seems dedicated,” Ous said.

“Down right self-sacrificing,” Bolan agreed.

Keller looked back and forth between the two men. “What can I do to help?”

Bolan’s cobalt gaze burned into Keller’s eyes. “NCIS is still in charge of this case?”

“Not for much longer,” Keller said. The MPs outside the cell snapped to attention and saluted the woman as she and her party approached. “And then God only knows who is going to take over. When this goes public, it’s going to turn into a real dog-and-pony show.”

“Then I want you to flash that NCIS badge, say ‘agent in charge’ and give me five minutes with the suspect,” Bolan said.

Keller squeezed her eyes shut as if she had just developed a headache. She opened her eyes and grimly flashed her badge. “Keller! NCIS! Agent in charge! This man is a liaison from the Justice Department to see the prisoner!”

The ranking guard looked upon Keller with grave uncertainty. “Um…yes, ma’am?” The other unlocked the door. “Uh, sir? Just so you know, the prisoner is not currently under restraint but we are on suicide watch.”

“Thank you, Private,” Bolan said.

“And what shall I do?” Ous inquired.

“No one comes in or out, and I mean no one,” Bolan said.

The MPs looked on in alarm as Ous took one of their folding chairs beside the door, pulled a huge Khyber knife and began cleaning his fingernails. Keller just rolled her eyes. “That’s it. I’m dead.”

Bolan stalked into the holding cell and slammed the door shut behind him. There was nothing inside other than a single bunk and chair. Corporal Saulito Convertino jerked erect in his chair. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of Bolan. “Oh God! No!”

Bolan’s open hand cracked across Convertino’s face in textbook bitch-slap perfection.

“You—”

Bolan’s hand cracked across Convertino’s face once, twice, three times. The Executioner didn’t believe in pliers and blowtorch torture. He had been tortured himself, and all it had ever engendered within him was hatred. But crime and terror were slippery slopes that men could find themselves in against their will, sometimes finding themselves ensnared before they knew it, and Bolan could recognize a repentant sinner. Corporal Saulito Convertino’s salvation was between him and his Maker, but Bolan was perfectly willing to take him behind the woodshed and hear his confession. Minor pain and intimidation worked wonders.

Bolan’s blue eyes burned down on the traitor like the embodied anger of an Old Testament God of the desert with no sense of humor. Convertino was a good-looking man. His slightly hooked nose, high cheekbones, curvy lips and Kirk Douglas chin were all set in toffee-tinted skin that bespoke his Spanish, African and Taino Indian blood. His copper-colored hair was cropped into USMC regulation skull-hugging curls, and he was built like an NFL defensive end.

Tears streamed down his face as he pushed himself up to his knees.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Bolan asked.

Convertino went slack-jawed in horror.

“Your girlfriend? You know, the one who put you up to this?”

“I can’t! They’ll kill h—”

Bolan bodily heaved Convertino to his feet and slammed him against the wall of the cell. “What’s her name?”

“Reema! Her name is Reema!”

The first admission in a situation like this usually opened the floodgates. “Tell me the whole story, Corporal.”

Convertino looked up in despair. “I love her…?.”

“And they’ll kill her if you talk?”

The Marine looked down miserably. Bolan’s eyes went cold. “Did you know I was in that tent?”

“No!”

“Mr. Ous?”

Convertino blinked through his tears. “Who?”

“You know there were Marine Corps medical personnel in that tent when you fragged it?”

Convertino sagged again. “I was hoping not.”

Bolan’s voice was merciless. “Dr. Early threw himself on that grenade to save everyone in that tent, including myself and your target. He’s going to get the Congressional Medal of Honor, presented to his widow. What do you think you deserve, Corporal?”

Convertino’s voice dropped to a dead whisper. “Court martial and death by lethal injection.”

“You deserve a lot worse than that. There’s a special place in hell for Marines who kill their own.” Convertino held his head in his hands and sobbed. “Now where’s the girl and who has her?” Bolan continued.

“They’ll kill her, they—”

“They already killed her!” Bolan’s voice thundered in the cell. “She’s the only link! The only chance she has is that a hot piece of tail is a valuable commodity and they might have sold her. That is, if she’s not in on it!”

A flicker of anger kindled in Convertino’s agonized eyes. “What?”

“Don’t you get it? She’s a whore!”

“What did you say?”

“You pussy-whipped son of a bitch! Afghan girls don’t put out! And if they do, they sure as hell don’t risk it for loser corporals like you! She’s Taliban!” Bolan spit, turning the provocation dial all the way up to high.

“No, she loves me! She said yes. She was going to be my wife.” Fresh sobs racked the conflicted young soldier. “She’s pregnant with my kid.”

Bolan relented, just slightly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to you, Corporal. It’s been a long time since the U.S. Military put anyone to death, but you’re a prime candidate.

“But I’ll tell you this. If you’re the one who’s right, and she’s innocent like you say, I’ll save her, if I can. I’m the only chance either one of you has.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Three things,” Bolan said. “One, NCIS is going to get a sketch artist on a live feed and you’re going to describe Reema. Two, you are going to tell me everything, and I mean everything that happened right up to the point you pulled that pin.”

Convertino nodded. “And three?”

“Three? You’re busting out of here.”

NCIS temporary office, Sangin Base

“NO, NO, NO, and no.” Keller looked about to explode. Farkas stared out the window at the rain with a very unhappy “Don’t know, don’t have an opinion” look on his face. At that time of year Helmand Province averaged about two inches of rain. Right now they were getting three and on the tail of the dust storm it turned the world from a Martian landscape to gray floods and muck.

“Oh, come on, Keller,” Bolan cajoled, “What could happen?”

Agent Keller’s eyes flew wide in outrage. “He fragged a goddamn Marine Corps medical station! He killed a Navy doctor, and my suspect, and I’m personally going to see to it that the Navy reinstitutes death by firing squad! And if they don’t, I’m going to shoot Corporal Convertino myself!”

Bolan shrugged. “Give him to me.”

“No!”

“You can shoot him later.”

“What if he escapes?” Keller asked. Bolan smiled.

“Okay,” Keller acknowledged. “Maybe he can’t escape you, but what if you get your head blown off?”

“Where’ll he go? A Puerto Rican Marine in Afghanistan? He’s dead meat wherever he runs.”

“Yeah, and our boy is borderline suicidal.”

“And he wants redemption. Let him fall going forward,” Bolan said.

“Damn it! You know my orders were to extend you every courtesy! Every courtesy! This? This is pushing it!”

“Give him to me.”

“No!” Keller replied.

“What? You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know! And stop smiling at me!”

“Give him to me,” Bolan pressed.

“God have mercy on us all…”

“Good.” Bolan nodded. “I’m glad we have that settled.”

“What!”

Bolan switched gears. “What did the sketch artist in D.C. come up with?”

Farkas opened a laptop and clicked an icon. Bolan could almost sympathize with the corporal. “Reema” was something right out of an old Arabian Nights movie: huge dark eyes, sensuous lips, perfect cheekbones and chin. All she was missing was a see-through pink veil and a ruby in her belly button. Bolan flicked through the multiple sketches he had ordered. Reema in Western-style clothes, Reema in the traditional long pants and tunic, Reema naked, Reema with just her eyes and the bridge of her nose peering out of a veil. Bolan downloaded the sketches into his highly modified tablet computer.

“Assuming I agree to go along with this,” Keller said, “which I haven’t, how do you want to play it?”

“Close to the vest. Convertino is on suicide watch. He makes an attempt, and busts out on the way to the infirmary. He steals a Humvee, crashes the gate and tries to contact his woman or whoever has her.”