Afghan Storm (Nick Woods Book 3) (34 page)

Chapter 102

Nick and Red
spent just a few minutes planning while troops broke out more ammo and loaded
it into MRAPs. One of the squad members used a bucket and splashed out as much
blood as was possible in the MRAPs that were soaked in it.

They’d be
taking three MRAPs and only nineteen shooters. The snipers would again be
operating as riflemen, using M4s, and everyone would stay in police uniforms to
prevent any friendly fire. Not that there were any cops probably still doing
their job.

A few
lightly wounded S3 members and a couple others who had concerns about
disobeying orders stayed behind to keep the warehouse secure. Nick, in no way,
held these men in any lower regard. Maybe he even envied them for their sound
sanity.

Nick was a
zealot of his own making. He promised himself he’d never force anyone to join
his self-destructive cause, and he wouldn’t hold it against those who decided
to stay.

And with
that, he oversaw the loading of the three MRAPs. The convoy departed the
compound and took a right, heading back toward the presidential palace. They
advanced cautiously, about five miles per hour.

“You tell me
where to go,” Truck said to Nick.

Their plans
were vague, and their MRAP led the convoy again.

“We’re
looking for some morons with weapons who don’t run at the sight of us,” Nick
said. “That’ll confirm in my mind that they’re Taliban and not residents just
out on the street.”

“Well, there
are certainly no residents on the street,” Truck said, looking around.

They had
driven three blocks and not seen a single person. Buildings were locked up, and
smoke floated into the sky from the direction of the Arg.

It took
another five minutes of cruising until they heard firing. It was scattered, and
not heavy. It sounded as if the battle was over.

“Think we’re
too late?” Truck asked.

“Always a
possibility, but if that’s the case, we can turn, pick everyone up at the
warehouse, and get the hell back to Bagram.”

“That’d be
hell on you having to have the State Department bail our asses out after all,
wouldn’t it?”

Nick glanced
at Truck. “I thought I already showed you I’m not too old to whoop your ass.”

Truck
laughed.

“Roger that,
sir.”

They turned
another corner where suddenly a Toyota 4x4 blocked the street. A black Taliban
flag flew from its truck bed.

The truck
had a machine gun on a pintle mount and four fighters standing around the
vehicle. The older, bearded men looked absolutely terrifying, especially if you
were an unarmed (or lightly armed) civilian.

But if you
were riding in an armored, 50,000-pound MRAP, they didn’t seem quite so
frightening. They were fifty yards away, and they had that cocky look victors
wore.

Truck
laughed. “These guys are about to learn the hard way it’s not over yet.”

“Yep,” Nick
said. “Red?”

Red, up on
the .50, ripped a burst at the truck. The fragile vehicle disintegrated from
the bullets shredding through it with barely a pause.

“Hit it,”
Nick said.

Truck
floored the MRAP, and the diesel bellowed. The MRAP picked up speed, and the
uninjured fighters scattered. The beastly nightmare of a vehicle plowed through
the Toyota without registering an impact, shoving it back forty feet before its
tires caught pavement and flipped it over and over.

The MRAP
shuddered as Truck hammered down on the brakes. Before it had fully stopped,
Nick opened the door and stepped down from it. The remaining Primary Strike
Team members emptied from the back.

They came
out, weapons up, searching for targets. The surviving fighters had dispersed,
running inside the buildings around them.

“Be
careful,” Nick said.

He didn’t
want them entering any rooms unless they had to. Behind them, the two other
MRAPs pulled up to help cover them with their heavy weapons. Their shooters
deployed out the back, as well, setting up 360-degree security.

“This needs
to be quick,” Nick said, stating the obvious.

The last
thing he wanted to do was deal with a couple hundred Taliban responding to the
gunfire.

Chapter 103

“Contact
front!” yelled Preacher.

Nick turned
to see two Taliban trucks rounding the corner.
Like the Toyota they’d kick-tossed earlier,
the two approaching trucks had pintle-mounted machine guns.

But unlike the first truck
-- which had looked like a like a “Greetings from the Taliban” postcard with
their proud flag flying and a group of the most quintessential-looking Taliban
fighters posing valiantly-- these trucks were piled high with heavily enraged
and armed Taliban men.

Red’s .50
roared to life from the front MRAP, and a string full of S3 shooters from the
two rear vehicles pushed forward and lit in on the approaching fighters with
their M4s. Before Nick could kneel and raise his rifle, he discovered it was
already over for their opponents.

But the next
set of Taliban wouldn’t brazenly parade out into the open like the first two.

“Contact
rear!” he heard someone yell.

Bullets
snapped by Nick’s head from down the street, causing Nick to duck behind the
MRAP. He knelt, staying low.

Shit, he
thought, this is going to be a replay of earlier. We’ll defend ourselves, more
Taliban will respond, and they’ll encircle us and rain down RPGs.

Or those
damn tanks will arrive.

Shit. Why had he ever
thought this plan would work?

Well, it would work,
dumbass, he answered himself in a scolding manner, if you would focus on the
task at hand instead of worrying about the damned tanks.

As soon as Nick popped
back up, hoping to scan the battlefield and prepare the next strategic move,
more bullets fell upon the MRAP and forced Nick to duck back down. Fuck.

The barrage of fire
increased on his location, and Nick pushed lower down until he laid completely
prone on the concrete.

Come on, Nick. Don’t lose
focus. You’ve got to grab what you came for and get your team out of here.

But being on the ground
severely limited Nick’s ability to see the area like he needed. He became
frustrated, as he was effectively pinned down, unable to gain a decent vantage
point. He was just about to give up and make the call to haul ass back to the
warehouse when he saw a spreading pool of blood on the concrete. His eyes
traced the blood trail back and found that it was coming from the other side of
the flipped Toyota. Bingo.

“Lana!” Nick
yelled over the firing.

She
immediately responded, zigging and zagging toward him as he motioned for her to
follow. They darted and dashed their way forward to the mangled Toyota. Nick
figured the engine could light the gas at any moment, but it was too late to
worry about that as they crouched behind it for cover from the incoming
bullets.

Nick spotted
the source of the blood. A Taliban fighter lay pinned beneath the truck. His
right arm was crushed beneath the weight of it, and his right ankle was nearly
cut off, the foot inside the space where the window had been and the top of the
cab slicing right through the lower leg bone.

As if that
wasn’t enough, his left shoulder had been clipped by a bullet, and it drained
blood slowly into a good-sized pool around his body.

“He still
alive?” Lana asked.

“Not sure,”
Nick said.

The body was
pale and covered in a cold sweat. Nick used his boot to nudge the body.

The man
whimpered and tried to move, then was painfully reminded of his pinned
position.

“Ask him
where Deraz is,” Nick said.

Lana
translated, but the man refused to look her in the eyes.

She finished,
and he ignored her. “Ask him again,” Nick said.

She did, and
again, no response.

Maybe it was
the man’s male pride that had him refusing to speak to an armed, uncovered
woman -- a serious affront to a male fundamentalist. Or, he was going for
bravery, which in his present situation meant stupidity.

More bullets
cut down the street, and Nick ducked lower. As he checked his surroundings, a
thought occurred to him.

Deraz was
notorious for being secretive in hiding his location. It’s why he had never
been captured or hit by a drone’s Hellfire missile. It was also why Nick and
his boys had gone trekking into Pakistan for intel.

Maybe the
guy legitimately didn’t know where Deraz waited. That would actually make
perfect sense, as well, for why the man ignored the question. Plus, there were
very few faithful followers, willing to dime out their beloved leader. But that
didn’t mean they’d go down for the sake of Deraz’s guard dog.

“Ask him
where Mushahid Zubaida is,” Nick said.

Lana Haider
threw the words out in the unique and harsh Afghan language though sadly Nick
had no idea if she was speaking Pashto or Dari.

This time,
the man
snapped his eyes to her as she spoke Mushahid’s name.

“He knows,”
Nick said.

“Looks that
way,” Lana confirmed.

The man then
averted his gaze from her and Nick, an insult in Afghan culture.

“Ask him
again.”

Lana did,
but he ignored her and Nick.

“Again,”
Nick said.

She did, but
he continued to ignore them both.

Nick didn’t
need this. Or have time for it. Bullets relentlessly ricocheted off the truck
and snapped up and down the street from both his men and the Taliban fighters
firing.

Nick moved
his M4’s barrel toward the man and allowed the point of the barrel to press
down just a bit into the man’s wounded left shoulder near the bullet-entry
point.

The fighter
screamed and bucked as much as he could, yanking and flinging his one free arm.
Nick put his knee down on the flailing appendage, and the man cursed and yelled
in desperation. Nick couldn’t understand him, but the meaning was clear.

Nick pulled
the barrel from the man’s shoulder and glanced at Lana.

“I’m
assuming that wasn’t directions to Mushahid’s location?”

“He called
you a goat whore,” she said, “and you don’t want to know what he said about
me.”

“It’s okay,
Lana. Show him what you think of him and his smart mouth,” Nick said with a
wink.

And with the go-ahead,
Lana mercilessly backhanded the smart mouth across the face, causing blood and
spittle to fling more than a yard forward. The man's head whipped viciously to
the side, and he rebounded from the blow looking a little dizzy.

Shit, Nick, thought,
raising his eyebrows. Can’t let her have at him again, or we’ll have to pack
him up and take him to go. Nick had forgotten the woman had a heavy background
in martial arts.

When the man recovered
from the dazed look, a stunned expression came over his face. A dirty woman
striking a man? Oh, the ironic and completely deserved horror, Nick thought.
The betrayed, whimpering look on Smart Mouth’s face was simply too priceless.
In fact, Nick felt that he would be remembering that look for a long time.

Then Nick
got back to business and drove the barrel of the M4 about an inch into the
wound.

The man
screamed and kicked with his only free limb -- his leg -- which Lana quickly
sat on. His screams were maniacal. Nick figured it must have hurt like a bitch,
but there was an entire country’s fate on the line. And that meant a lot of
good Afghan men and women would die if these guys took over the country. He
pulled the weapon out of the wound and leaned back, withdrawing his twelve-inch
long Ka-Bar knife.

“Tell him if
he doesn’t tell us where Mushahid is, I’ll use the knife this next time,” Nick
said, bluffing.

Lana spat
the words out at him, her voice hard and threatening. Nick moved the knife
toward the wound, and the man watched it with complete horror. He was utterly
trapped. The truck on his right leg and arm, Lana on his left leg, and Nick
kneeling down on his left arm.

The knife
wasn’t even within six inches before he started yammering to Lana, and it was
clear this time, he wasn’t cursing.

“We’ve got
it,” Lana said. “What do we do with him?”

Nick cursed.
“Glad he fell for it. I’m getting too damned soft.”

He spoke
into his radio, ordering some men to move up to their position. Together, the
men lifted the truck enough so the man could be pulled out from under it. Then,
they quickly patched him up.

Nick helped
as they did this, informing everyone, “We’re not taking him prisoner. Just take
his weapon, and let’s allow his buddies to get him some better treatment. Looks
like he’ll make it if they get here fast.”

The man had
come out of shock as he’d had the truck lifted off him and been patched up. All
he’d really needed was reassurance that he could survive and someone to stop
the bleeding.

And with the
man taken care of, Nick ordered the shooters to cover each other and load up
into their MRAPs. It was time to pay Mushahid -- and hopefully -- Deraz a
visit.