Altered State. Don Pendleton

Чтение книги онлайн.

      “I’ M GETTING BORED ,” Farid Humerya said. “They don’t do anything.”

      “They brought us here,” Red Scanlon told him. “And they didn’t do it for the tourist thing. Keep watching.”

      If the circumstances had been different, Farid Humerya might have told the rude American to do the job himself but Humerya had his orders.

      Not from Scanlon and the pigs he served, although their interests coincided with the wishes of Humerya’s master. And Farid Humerya knew enough of life—and sudden death—to follow orders from the man he served.

      He did not wish to think of the alternative.

      “You think that they are meeting someone?” he asked Scanlon.

      “Why else come down here, together?”

      “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.