Street Justice (4 page)

Adrian swiveled, laughed and feigned falling backward, grasping his hands toward his chest. “Ahh, you got me.” Adrian sat back up, hopped off his seat and walked toward Steve.

“You know if I had been a bad guy, I could have shot you,” Steve stated.

“Any bad guys left?” Adrian asked.

“Nope,” Steve replied.

“I knew, so I knew I wasn’t in any danger,” Adrian reached out his hand. Steve shook it, both men smiled. “Good to see you again Steve, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah, too long, watcha you been up to?” Steve asked.

“You know, sitting at a desk, tracking cyber crime, the same ‘ol.”

“And getting in over your head,” Steve threw his thumb over his shoulder.

“Yeah, that too. I guess we’d better call this in.”

“Let’s do that, then we can head back in for a beer and a shot,” Steve started walking back toward the door leading to the kitchen.

“You know, this is now a crime scene, we aren’t supposed to touch anything, let alone drink the beer,” Adrian offered.

“I’ll piss it back out for them later, they can dust for prints then.”

              Russ wiped his brow. It felt warm and slimy. The hot sun baked him in his full combat fatigues causing him to sweat. Then the swirling dust particles stuck to the sweat, creating a thin layer of mud on any exposed skin, and often on unexposed skin. The tiny particles found their way everywhere. The mud layer created a layer of slick film that didn’t seem natural, especially to a boy from Seattle. It was something he’d never get used to.

              Russ, and his squad of three Hummers and twelve men, were in the deserts of Afghanistan surrounded by a sea of nothing. When most folks thought of Afghanistan, they thought of the rocky outcroppings originally made famous by news photos of Russian tanks being ambushed from above. But Afghanistan also had a desert region, to the south west, near the Iranian border called the Sistan Basin. The temperature was well over a hundred degrees and would be for many more weeks.

              Russ was a large man who barely fit through the opening in the roof of the Hummer he commanded. It wasn’t that he was fat, but at six foot five he was also solid muscle. Combined with the combat gear he wore, he would have completely filled a standard phone booth. For most men, the combing on the side of the roof-mounted turret came to nearly chest high. Russ could bend at the waist without obstruction.

              As the commander of the Hummer, Russ had the chain of command authority for the four men in it. But they would have followed him anyway, no matter his rank or title. Russ’ father had been lifelong military. His mother was a local politician. The combined skills of discipline and building consensus were ingrained in Russ and he wielded them without even thinking about it. Add to that his size and athletic ability, he’d been popular and a leader through high school, whether he’d wanted to be or not.

              Once through high school he had tried college but decided it was just not for him. It wasn’t that he wasn’t smart enough, it was that college wasn’t hands-on enough for him. He liked building things, doing things, working with others, not sitting alone all night studying what others had done in books. With his parents’ blessing, he’d left college and joined the Army. Six months into his first tour, four years ago, his parents had been killed by a gas leak in their own home. The pilot light had gone out of the water heater, which was located in a closet right next to the door of his parents room. They’d died in their sleep; he’d been in Afghanistan since.

              He squinted in the bright sun as he took off his polarized Rudy Project sunglasses. He raised his binoculars to his eyes and felt relief as the dark eye cups sealed around his eyes. He scanned the horizon, looking for some break in the vast desert. After a few minutes he took the binoculars down and turned to yell down into his hummer, “I don’t see crap, isn’t the village supposed to be just over there to the north?”

              “Yeah,” Mario yelled from inside. The stout Jamaican-born-turned-US-Citizen sitting behind the steering wheel was not quite as tall as Russ and carried a slight layer of fat over his muscle. But in a bar fight, Mario was the better bet. He had grown up on the rough streets of Panama, far from the commercialized areas most tourists ever saw. At age nine, his family had immigrated to Atlanta. Life did not get any easier for a Spanish speaking, black, outsider. Mario’s muscles had not been forged in a gym, but through repetitive use.

              Through all of this though, Mario had retained a heart of gold. When no one was threatening him he was kind and generous. He had a laugh that filled a room. Mario was also known for trying to find the best in everyone. He and Russ had become fast friends since they met two years before. They would have been close in any conditions but they had a forged their relationship in the fire of combat: their friendship was unbreakable.

              “So, where is it?” Russ asked.

              “You know these goat herders, they move around. Who knows where he is.”

              “Yeah, but you know as well as I do, this guy isn’t a goat herder.”

              “It’s easier for me to stomach, pretending they’re goat herders rather than drug dealers. I can defend and support defending goat herders. Drug dealers is a lot tougher, why is the US government protecting these drug dealers and doing them a favor by killing off their competition?”

              “Because their competition flew two planes into the twin towers,” Russ said, continuing to scan the horizon, only half listening to Mario. It wasn’t a new rant from Mario. Russ knew his part in it, “Drugs are going to happen. If it isn’t al Quida growing it, then it will be these guys, and if not them, the next guy.”

              Mario snorted, “Whatever, I just do as I’m told. Hey what is that, at one o’clock?”

              Russ swung the binoculars toward their one o’clock and saw a small plume of sand rising from over the next dune. The plume grew stronger and finally Russ watched two beat up Toyota pickups crest the ridge. Whatever color these two trucks had been, their paint had long ago been stripped by the blowing winds. The resulting gray-tan bodies actually blended fairly well with the dunes, making a half way decent camouflage. They were both four doors, with large tires. The tires were low in air pressure to help them grip the sand. The two trucks headed right for the Hummers.

              Russ looked back at the two Hummers behind him and said to the gunners, ”These are most likely our contacts, but stay sharp and ready, just in case they aren’t.” The two men in the vehicles behind him nodded and swung their .50 caliber guns in the general direction of the incoming vehicles. Russ swiveled his gun behind him so it wouldn’t get in the way of a conversation. He then pulled his Beretta M9 from its holster on his hip and placed it on the roof in front of him. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

              The Toyotas pulled up in a cloud of swirling dirt and killed their engines. The air filled with the scent of burnt oil. The windows were covered in a fine layer of dust that did a better job of hiding the occupants than any tint would. Russ heard the pace of breathing pick up from the roof gunner closest to him. Russ took his eyes off the trucks for a fraction of a second to fire a glance down at the Beretta then back to the trucks. He clinched then unclenched his right hand.

              Suddenly the passenger door of the trailing vehicle opened and a man dressed in the traditional robes of the local herders, and devout Muslims, stepped out. The man could have been thirty or fifty, his face hidden by a dull beard and weathered by the sun. He took a long glance at the waiting Hummers then, without closing his door, stepped round and opened the rear door to the truck.

              From the rear door, a man dressed in similar white robes stepped from the back but this man was obviously much older. As he put both feet on the sand, he stood, but with a pronounced curve in his spine. Someone unseen in the car handed out a cane which the old man took with trembling hand. Placing the cane firmly on the ground, the old man craned his neck and looked up at Russ towering above him in the roof hatch of the Hummer.

              Russ reached forward and grabbed the Beretta from the roof of the car. The younger man who had stepped out of the trucks produced an AK-47 in a flurry of robes. The two passenger side doors of the leading truck sprung opened two men jumped out, with more AK-47s, taking a knee, aiming up at Russ. The driver of both trucks fired up their engines. Over the idle of the engines, Russ could hear the gunner behind him quicken his breath even more.

              Russ raised his left hand and slowly continued sliding his Beretta into its holster, “Hang on guys, I’m just putting the gun away.” The men aiming a gun at him did not flinch nor lower their weapons. Russ, continuing to work slowly, put his hands on each side of the roof opening and in one smooth motion pulled his legs out of the cab, swung them over the roof and launched himself to the ground. The AK-47s followed his every move.

              “Enough, if he wanted to attack us, he wouldn’t have given up the higher ground or the armored vehicles,” the old man said in a strong voice that belied his frail stature. The younger men shot glances at the older man, then at each other then slowly lowered their rifles. The drivers of the two trucks shut down their engines again. Russ strode forward to meet the older man who did his best to meet Russ half way.

              “I am sorry for my men, they get nervous for me,” the old man said. He did not offer a hand.

              “That’s alright, they should be nervous, this is a tough area. Besides, it’s always good to see well trained men and I have no doubt these are well trained men,” Russ offered.

              “You are too kind.”

              “I have no doubt they would have had you back in your car and on its way in moments if we had hostile intentions.”

              “And I have no doubt it still would not have been enough, your men would have cut us all down.”

              “Most likely. But I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” Russ played his role, offering compliments but never undermining his own position of power nor the abilities of his men. He had become used to--even good at--these preliminary conversations that the locals felt the need to add to the start of every conversation. Since each side knew the other was simply paying hollow compliments, he did not see the need in them but he knew it was easier to play along than fight it.

              “Well, let’s get down to business,” the old man said, “You want to know where Ajmal is.”

              “Yes, we do. Can you help us?” Russ asked.

              “That I can. And it is my pleasure to help you fight such scum,” the old man said. Russ laughed in his own head. Ajmal and the old man were to Russ the same. Neither held any love or loyalty to the US and its mission. Ajmal just happened to be aligned with al Qaeda, so the old man knew that he could leverage the US Army to do his dirty work. “Here is his address, it’s a safe house. Initially it will look like one of a thousand other apartment houses. But no, this is his den,” the old man spit of the ground accentuating his disgust with Ajmal.

              Russ took the crumpled up piece of paper he was offered. He looked down at the rumpled piece of paper, the ink bleeding around the edges of every letter but Russ could still easily make out an address and GPS coordinates. The old man wasn’t taking any chances. That was one thing Russ and the old man agreed upon. Russ folded the paper and tucked into one of the breast pockets of the vest he wore over his flak jacket. “Thank you,” Russ said.

              “Anything to help you fight for freedom,” the old man replied as he backed away, slightly bowing. Russ gave a half nod and started to walk back to his Hummer. Then heard the old man shout behind him, “By the way, my son, he lives in America. In New York City. You should look him up when you get back.”

Russ turned, “Yeah? What’s he doing in New York?”

“Ahh, the family business,” the old man shuffled forward again and produced a crisp business card that looked completely out of place in this place, with these people and in this conversation. Russ read “Eric Crawford, CEO Crawford Imports.”

“Eric Crawford, not the name I would have expected.”

“He also will not look as you expect him, like I look. But you know as well as I do, you adapt to your surroundings, fitting in where you need to and standing out where you need to. His name is not where he needs to stand out.”

“Fair enough.”

“Seriously, you should say hello. No one knows who will need a favor from who, networks are important in all lines of work.” With that the old man drifted back again.

Russ watched for a moment, then turned to head back to his vehicle again. He glanced at the card and thought about dropping it in the sand but thought the old man might see it and be offended, so he stuffed it into his breast pocket. He heard a chorus of doors close then grabbed the handle to the rear of his truck and climbed in. Mario did his best to turn, though with the tight confines and heavy equipment it was difficult.

              “So did we get what we came for?” Mario asked.

              “I think so. I hope so. It’s an address and GPS coordinates in Zaranj, a bit west of here. The old man said the house would look like just another apartment building. That means we need to check it out to make sure the intel is accurate and if we have to fight, it will be urban and close quarters.”

              “Great,” Mario said and shifted back forward, looking out the window with a thousand yard stay, “Just once, I’d like a stand up fight.”

              “Wouldn’t we all,” Russ agreed. Without another word, Mario fired up the Hummer and pointed the nose toward the setting sun. Russ put his glasses back on, closed his eyes and tried to rest. He had a feeling he’d need it.

“So what’s the plan boss?” Mario asked. It had taken them about thirty minutes to get to Zaranj. During that time Russ had been able to doze off in short spells and the few minutes of sleep seemed to make him more tired. He yawned and shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs.

              “Park outside the town for now, we need to figure out our course of action.” Mario pulled the Hummer to a stop about a kilometer out of the town. The other two Hummers pulled in forming a rough triangle. Russ exited to the center, the other vehicle commanders did the same. “Ok, so here is the deal, we have information that says Ajmal is holding up in an apartment building in Zaranj. We don’t know how reliable it is,” Russ looked at the other two commanders, “So usually we’d recon the place, make sure Ajmal is holding up there, then snatch him. The problem is though, we’ll stand out in Zaranj. If Ajmal is there, he’ll know we’re there before we get a hundred yards into the city. At that point he’ll rabbit or hole up and not show his face.”