Black King Terror

By Frank Marion

Mace Harper kills men; deadly, powerful men. In Iraq, the Marines reserved his elite sniper skills for the war’s grittiest missions. When he led his team off-reservation with an unsanctioned kill, the Corps sacrificed him to the CIA. Now this American pariah survives as an Infidel hunter of men in Pakistan’s savage Northwest Frontier.
Years into this hard-bitten existence, his handler offers to trade permanent duty in the States for wet-work on elusive foreign terrorists. Harper leaps headlong into the Faustian gamble. He kills three Black Kings, his call-sign for enemy targets, only to be trapped in a fearsome double cross. He survives by the slimmest margin, disappearing into the invisible underbelly of Paris with a half million Euros, festering wounds and a trove of captured Intel.
Then terrorists detonate twin cooling towers of a U.S. atomic energy plant and the captured Intel contains clues to the attack, along with possible home-grown involvement. Guilt and rage transform this discarded Marine sniper into a stone-sober predator hot on the trail of a hidden menace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Marion
• Release date: Jul 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370744121

Book preview

Chapter 2

Have to do it the old fashioned way, Harper told a shadowy figure, standing beneath the dim Mansehra street lamp.

That is your specialty, Macedonia. Here are Rashman’s vitals, Izzat Khazim replied, handing him a computer flash drive. My sources tell me this place will look . . . familiar. Don’t become spooked. Take nothing for granted. The job must be done correctly this time.

Khazim’s hooded eyes cut to a spot beyond the hazy pool of light. I travel upcountry tomorrow. What do you need from Darra?

Harper eyed his handler, both savior and personal demon wrapped inside a single Arab skin, as he listed numerous weapons.

Such heavy firepower for a location unknown to you, Khazim noted while slipping him a thin paper sack.

Harper checked inside before twisting the rough paper around the slender lip of a bottle. Do the Paks want this job done or not?

The Pakistani military does. Some in the government blanch at the risks. The assets you encountered in Balakot worked both sides.

Not anymore, Harper replied and stuffed the bag under his coat. Besides, it’s harder to find this hooch than weapons at the Darra Arms Bazaars: all but the Claymores. And your CIA buddies come by those easy enough.

Khazim nodded again. Costs come from your end.

I don’t care about the money. And you know why, Harper rasped.

If that is truly so, send this cockroach home in a box. Another kill gets you that much closer to home. The Arab’s dark eyes flashed on Harper. However, if this particular insect skitters back into Kashmir, you will most certainly be one very dead, Favored Son."

Harper’s jaw flexed hard. That’s Favorite Son. He forced a long breath. This supposed to be some kind of pep talk?

What is pep talk?

Never mind, he replied. It wouldn’t make sense in these parts. Same drop point here in Mansehra. Nothing happens until you deliver.

Khazim took a short step and looked back. Weapons arrive tomorrow, usual spot. The mission clock ends seventy-two hours later. Beyond that, I cannot guarantee your safety. Now move off.

Harper slipped from the light into the pitch-dark mouth of an alley behind them. From there he watched the tall man’s robe and turbaned head glide towards a parked Mercedes.

He backed further into the high slum-walled alley. His mini night-vision scope navigated around mounds of garbage and tenement sluice spattering glazed puddles along both sides. A hundred meters down the squalid corridor, another street lamp glowed bright green in his scope.

Cat-sized rats skittered off as he squeezed behind one fragrant garbage pile.

A short wait and his scope registered a shadowy figure slinking into view. Harper scanned higher to watch rooftop movement outlined in starlight: Standard high/low urban surveillance.

His hand brushed over the holstered gun butt, then released.

Can’t kill these flunkies. But tracking me isn’t part of the deal. Less Khazim knows, the better.

Harper leaned further into the gut-wrenching mound as low-man stalked past. Dripping sluice masked every sound. But his breath still caught as the ferret passed within arm’s length.

A few meters beyond, low-man stepped sideways to jiggle a door handle and pressed further down the alley.

Harper suffered the stench until low-man stood silhouetted under the next street lamp. High-man’s head leaned out from the roof

Hey boys; looking for me? he called. Urdu words bounced wall to wall until both men turned. By then, it was too late. He strolled back onto the street and, just to make a point, waved at Khazim’s black Mercedes.

The shadows were his comfort. He moved through them with practiced ease. But before slipping into the dark Pakistani night, he focused his scope on the surveillance team, head’s slung low as they slid into the Mercedes back doors.

Boys, I foresee a pep talk in your future.

The car accelerated away.

Forgiveness is divine according to the Good Book. But not in these parts.

He headed down dark streets. Then it was over the rooftops and a hanging descent through a skylight before he dropped silently into a lighted tenement hallway.

Electricity still on! Will wonders never cease?

This time of night, the paint-peeled corridor stood empty. Before twisting his key in a flimsy door lock, he found the concealed hair strand still in place below the knob. He pushed through the door to flip a switch. One naked light bulb glared back, centered in a room barely larger than a closet.

Home, sweet home.

Unadorned decay greeted him. A battered table and chair framed rags piled on the dusty floor: his wardrobe. A chipped, porcelain sink and brown-stained toilet skirted a narrow window at wall’s end. Flyspecked newsprint covered the glass. A stained sleeping mat, his only comfort; coiled against the toilet.

Harper locked the door and studied floor dust for signs of uninvited guests. Then he checked for pinhole breaches along the dirty plaster walls.

Surveillance geeks used spy-ware developed after the Marine Corps had dumped his sorry ass in disgrace. The only defenses left to him now were his wits, his training and the depressing fact he had nothing left to lose but this miserable third-world existence.

The chair doubled as a step-stool below the naked light bulb as he reached up into the fixture, flipped a hidden switch and pulled on the bare electric cord. A jagged section of ceiling descended. Two dusty boxes lowered above the shelf. He moved them to the table beside the brown paper bag. From the smaller box he pulled a glass tumbler.

It seemed a quaint ritual to dirty the one glass he owned. Most nights, the bottle served the same purpose. But this, this was a special occasion. Khazim had stuffed his sack with an old friend. The elegant black label advertised its high-class American pedigree; an extravagant carrot for the mission ahead.

Harper splashed golden pleasure into the glass and sniffed fine scotch whiskey. This would do nicely. The first satisfying gulp pulsed a slow burn deep in his throat. He took another hefty slug, lifted a laptop computer from the larger box and stripped down to boxer shorts, ready for another long night.

His lean body was a study in contrasts. Taut, leathery hide exposed the few places where blazing sun tattooed his skin to a nut-brown veneer: backs of hands and face between the curly, black beard and long shiny hair. The rest of him blanched milk-white across a muscular frame.

With Khazim’s flash drive inserted, the computer buzzed to life. He topped off the glass and lifted it to his lips. The screen brightened onto an overhead satellite photo.

What the hell!

His glass clunked to the table. Scotch surged over the rim. Harper leaned closer. The Sat Com screen zeroed in over a replica of Special Ops Camp #3 from his Marine sniper training. It all clicked into place right down to the designated minefields.

Khazim‘s warning flashed back. Familiar didn’t begin to describe this elite mountain post. The stateside camp had been a copy. Now the real McCoy blazed in topographical glory across the screen.

His hunter-killer team had attacked this place at least fifty times. Back then, the Black Ops boys relied on his gift for strategic assault planning. Those same chess tactics percolated bone deep, filtered through the sniper’s mantra: mission, enemy, time and terrain. An old confidence returned. The scotch didn’t hurt.

Halfway through the bottle, shame ambled up a well-trod path. Focus on terminating a prime-time Kashmiri target melted away; and in its stead, the self-indulgent replay of an execution that got him booted from his beloved Marine Corps.

His whiskey-soaked brain sputtered like an old celluloid projector as the sinister face of Mullah Al-Khaziri: shadowy cult icon, high-profile Iranian cleric and Marine killer extraordinaire, crystallized in his sniper scope.

The Mullah exuded confidence, cocooned in a tight formation of Jihadi bodyguards. His black suited troop marched through the Baghdad neighborhood, looking to all as if they owned that street, that city and that pus-filled wart of a country. In those days of sectarian tit-for-tat, they did.

The Mullah’s white turban glowed like a beacon exactly 242 meters from Harper’s rooftop window as his training kicked in. With windage and elevation calculated, he calmed his breathing, focused his mind and at full exhale, squeezed.

The Mullah dropped. Harper could still remember the tell-tale blood spout from the turban.

In the next second, the Jihadi formation seethed into a furious wasp’s nest as the Mullah’s death registered. Automatic rifle fire thundered through the street while Harper broke down his weapon.

Who cared if this Mullah was CIA protected? Who cared about the shit-storm to follow? That devious son-of-a-bitch would never again orchestrate another Marine beheading. That one thing counted more than life itself.

Harper’s defiant jaw clenched rock-hard as the mental newsreel clicked empty in his dirty Mansehra tenement room.

That was then. This, this is. . . The thought floated into mist as his head thumped against the tabletop.

Chapter 3

Dirty sunlight filtered through the newsprint window shade. Harper rubbed his pounding temples and squinted into dim light. A few seconds of this and his aching head slumped back to the table top. His elbow settled on something rough, the laptop. When he pushed it aside, his burning eyeballs leveled onto the scotch bottle. It held maybe one good swallow. He groaned, grabbed the stubby neck and tipped it to swig; hair of the dog.

But as it reached his trembling lips, the smell cramped his throat. He stumbled over the sink to gag out another night’s self-violation. The stench of raw liquor fogged the air.

Harper wiped his lips and cupped his hands under the running faucet. He swished his mouth out a couple of times and swallowed a small sip. It held. He took another.

Wonder who dies first, me or this Black King?

His body begged for sleep. Harper ignored it. If he wanted to stay alive, there were things to do.

After a dicey few minutes swaying against the porcelain, he washed the slimy swill down the drain and splashed water on his face. The dregs of scotch followed the swill with the capped bottle packed inside his bag. Liquor consumed in these parts attracted the same enlightened attention as beguiling the passion-flower of unwed virgins. Likely as not, a lethal shower of stone.

He powered up the computer. The screen distilled into a satellite landscape overlaid in topographical squiggles. A crude training camp materialized, impregnable to all but a highly trained few. The HQ compound crested on a steep plateau, high ground to a rugged thousand-acre training base. What’s more, a three-meter, stone barricade isolated this compound on three sides, something like a miniature Wall of China.

The rear section spiked in barely separated topo lines, fifty meters up a sheer rock cliff. A large residential structure and two flat HQ buildings tucked neatly inside the jutting shadow. This cliff presented a natural staging point. But beyond its narrow crest, the mountain plunged two hundred meters into a gorge and then another hundred onto a valley floor. The Sat Com view showed open-bed troop carriers parked between buildings and machine gun emplacements guarding the only road through the stone wall.

Harper nestled his throbbing forehead between calloused hands.

Tonight, men would die. An intelligent gambler wouldn’t hesitate to bet on the Black King with his numerous troops, home field advantage and overwhelming firepower. Attack from a hung-over, lone assassin seemed more suicidal than anything else. But that was the mission. The slim odds of survival hinged on surprise, solid preparation and shaking off this drunken stupor. He played through the attack scenario step by step, checking for buzzards in the ointment.

None came to mind, other than the obvious. Sometimes a solitary attacker meant success. Not so likely in this case. But if flirting with death on the far side of the world moved him one step closer to home, the risk was a bargain.

He dressed from the rag heap under the table, put everything in order and wafted dust into the air. Lastly, he locked up, pasted a single hair strand below the doorknob and headed out for another deadly mission.

After three years, Pakistan’s Northwest Territories seemed more familiar than any of his numerous boyhood homes. Constant movement between this location and covert setups in other Frontier provinces had kept him alive. But Mansehra was Khazim’s home base. And he found himself holed up there more and more.

Harper walked streets crowded with cart peddlers and pedestrians. From a rickety stall he bought fruit and nuts, but wasn’t able to stomach food just yet.

Thirty minutes after setting out, he slipped the lock off a corroded garage door. A quick scan of the deserted street reassured him. He hoisted the rusty door waist high, ducked inside and let it slide closed. By touch, he switched off a ticking security detonator and started an electric generator hidden in an old, wood-burning stove. A string of lights clicked on as he squeezed around a dented, 4-wheel drive pickup crowded in the narrow entrance. A windowless room waited beyond. The musty space widened into a grimy hodgepodge of tarp-covered lumps.

Harper shook the cover off a trail motorcycle, pockmarked in rust. Dust motes swirled around him. He grabbed a wrench and pounded more dents in the frame. Authenticity meant everything in this business. The bike wouldn’t stand out anywhere in these territories.

Then he mounted the seat and jump-kicked the starter. The motor purred to life, quiet and steady. He twisted the accelerator handle. The bike trembled imperceptibly, but its revving engine remained subtly quiet until he turned it off.

Old trusty, Harper thought. He grabbed a petrol can, drained fuel from the gas tank and pulled dusty tarps from several machines. The grungy garage transformed into a homegrown fabrication shop.

He scanned the mission checklist; then opened a paint-peeled metal cabinet. From that he pulled small aluminum blocks, steel rods and modern climbing equipment. He spent several hours working raw materials through the machines. Exotic handiwork of rope and steel clipped precisely into his gear bag.

The last metal door opened onto a crammed ammunition locker. Harper spent ninety minutes reloading 9mm cartridges to his own, precise specifications. Fools trusted local stock. He didn’t.

He was finally hungry and ate a piece of fruit. Another thirty minutes of packing left only the dirt bike to load. Block and tackle lifted the pockmarked motorcycle onto its side in the truck bed. To camouflage its contour, he removed the handle bar and cinched a thick, foil-lined tarp around it. With a dirty piece of canvas over top, the whole load blended perfectly with half the trucks on the Pakistani Frontier.

The final step involved getting his head right for combat. A practiced meditation focused him on each step of the battle plan, much like a Samurai warrior preparing to kill or be killed. That finished, he headed out to the rendezvous.

The drop site appeared deserted in shadows of early dusk. For good measure, he walked the abandoned street. Half hour; forty-five minutes; an hour and nothing showed. Someone surely watched from a distance. Harper slipped next to a naked doorway and snap-peaked his night vision scope inside. Sure enough, four wooden crates stacked inside the gutted room. No visible booby traps. He retrieved the truck, gunned it close and made hasty work of loading.

His evasion plan led through the silent earthquake-rubble of Mansehra. Under cover of darkness, he jacked open wooden crates loaded with grenades, a Kalashnikov Assault Rifle, extra ammo, assorted handguns and the all-important Claymores.

Each weapon required thorough inspection. True to form, Khazim had one tracking marker located under the butt plate of the Kalashnikov.

There was always at least one. The trick; neutralize increasingly sophisticated tracing devices without giving anything away. Khazim knew this would be an easy find. But the token attempt confirmed the priority his handler placed on this particular kill.

With weapons stashed, his truck crawled out of the earthquake zone and parked on a side street next to the Karakorum Highway. He chewed dried fruit and nuts as buses and trucks caravanned out of town on the only road through these mountains.

Khazim wouldn’t expect the mission to go down this soon. That was a mistake.

Living this life hinged on the unexpected. Dying only required the obvious.

He crowded his truck into the squawking line of vehicles. Tonight, a nascent Black King from Kashmir and his men would suffer the wrath of a lone white pawn.

Chapter 4

Harper doused the headlights and swerved off the Karakorum Highway five kilometers before Balakot. His tires rattled over the hardscrabble road shoulder before sliding to a dusty halt behind a stand of pine trees. Highway traffic flew past the turnoff without pause. With each passing vehicle, reflected light panned over a rutted dirt bush-road ahead. He rolled forward at a snail's pace until the receding glow of headlights dissappeared completely.

In the inky darkness, he stripped off the Shalwar Khamiz outer layer of a Pakistani peasant. Only form fitting, black combat gear sheathed his lean, battle hardened body. With night-vision binoculars tightened over a black headband, he tricked out the truck for silent running.

The thick tarp covering his motorcycle cinched tightly over the truck hood and front fenders for dual heat/noise suppression. He slid under the truck to work tools on a chambered exhaust silencer. Those modifications made it almost impossible to detect this particular vehicle in the dark.

He revved the engine a bit and leaned out the window. Nothing sounded beyond the buzz of night insects. Tire noise would prove the only hazard. Harper’s truck crawled into the night in virtual silence, guided by fate and twinkling starlight.

Two kilometers took forty-five minutes. Every few hundred meters, Harper got out to listen for threats through sound amplifying earphones. He finally pulled off the rutted trail into a pine grove. It provided enough cover to unhook the dirt bike, drag it off the truck bed, reposition the handle bar and fuel up the tank. Harper strapped a full pack on the rear gear cage and engaged the GPS transponder before rolling onto a barely visible game trail.

Night creatures skittered through brush as he passed. But no human signs appeared until he approached a pair of rutted tire tracks.

Once a bustling Al Qaeda training camp, guard patrols on this outer boundary now seemed unlikely. But mistakes beyond this point would get real serious, real fast. He dismounted to walk the bike across the trail. For good measure, he did a fast swipe of his tracks before heading into the interior.

The terrain felt increasingly familiar as he picked his way over rocky flatlands. The bike performed well and ninety-minutes later, he ditched it fifteen-hundred meters below the mountaintop command post. He hefted the combat pack and climbed for the first contact point on his hit list. The silent approach took time. He finally eased to ground twenty meters from a gaping entrance in the stone-wall and scoped out the defensive setup. One sandbagged bunker secured the road on each side of a chunky steel security gate.

At 0345 the gate slid to one side, exactly on schedule. Time for change of the guards according to Khazim’s timetable. Four men talked at the gate before two disappeared inside. The other two entered their respective bunkers, and the chess board was set.

The King’s India Attack from Fischer’s Night in Tunisia glowed in Harper’s memory, altered slightly for this job. Feint a token jab up the middle. When black forces assemble to repel that ruse, assault the right side. Neutralize the black queen and take your prize.

The difference: chess only requires symbolic elimination of the Black King followed by a nod to your opponent. Real life requires brutality. Real life requires a grim reaper. And real life calls for exit strategies unless you intend to die.

Truth be told, this mission had a better-than-even chance of ending that way. But Harper sure as hell planned on a different outcome if skill, strategy and guts had anything to do with it.

He crawled to the first bunker. Soft scuffling inside signaled that the sentry hadn’t settled in just yet. A musky scent hung in the rear entrance as Harper slipped through. The guard froze an instant before the glinting steel blade slashed his throat. The first Black Pawn went down in silence.

Harper checked outside. Nothing stirred. With thirty-seven minutes left on the mission clock, he wired a trip grenade under the .50 cal machine gun and primed his Claymores at the steel gate. The only sound of note from the other bunker was soft snoring. So much the better.

Now the real work began. He slid along the wall of mortared sandstone until the narrow trail ended abruptly on a cliff ledge. Harper stared into the black abyss as an electric generator groaned awake inside the stone wall. That was his cue. Harper clicked off his sound amplifier and pulled out a short pry-bar and rubber mallet. Cloaked in generator noise, he chiseled rock at the wall base. Five minutes of stone work and he wormed through this ingress point. With any luck, it would also be his egress after the covert kill.

Nothing else moved as he crawled towards the enigma of modern technology droning a mechanical song in this uncivilized wasteland. Warm air enveloped the car-sized generator as he rigged a small detonator to the transmission line. The house would be situated further up the hill beyond his line of sight. Evidently terrorist commanders couldn’t allow electric generators to disrupt dreams of future martyrs.

He low-crawled up a worn rock trail. Within a minute, he viewed an imposing two-story stone building. It rested in dark star shadow under a jutting granite ridge. Dim light glowed from two first floor windows: drowsy eyeballs for a house on watch.

The Black King lay castled somewhere inside.

Harper skirted low cover until he reached the vertical wall of craggy rock at the rear. It jutted straight up to a narrow peak twenty meters above the roof line. The training mock-up of this rock face had been different, much less hospitable for a climber. He took a minute in the dark to plan his route. Then it was a free-climb up shear rock. Hand over hand, footholds levered in the dark; until at last, his shadowy form balanced beside an antenna array anchored above the sprawling clay roof.

Harper scrutinized the Black King’s lair below before he clipped a ringed-claw to the drooping antenna line. He fished the line down until the hook grazed the rooftop antenna base. A deft tug pulled the claw tight and a thicker climbing rope followed the flimsy lead wire all the way down and back. A special release knot finished off his end.

Precariously balanced on the narrow rock ledge, he clipped two silenced handguns into hip holsters and cinched the assault rifle under shoulder straps, hoping it would go unused.

With detonators, extra ammo clips and grenades crammed into the slim tactical vest, the rest went over the cliff with his pack. His earplug amplifiers tracked increasingly faint scrapes as it skittered far down the back cliff side.

Final groundwork included micro-charges on every antenna line. Links to the outside world: terminal.

Preliminaries done. Commence Endgame!

He scrambled hand over hand down the rope, to alight silently on the rooftop. Advantage White Pawn.

A sideways jerk unhinged the release knot. He lashed one rope end to the rooftop antenna base and fashioned a body harness with the other. Then he slipped over the roof gable, two stories up, to rappel down the sidewall. In seconds, his outstretched legs straddled a second story window. He tied himself off and worked a tool over the glass.

There was no hiding the scrape of a diamond-edged cutter, even though he spent precious moments to do the job quietly. He tapped once and pulled the glass disk aside. The twenty-five minute-mark ticked off his mission clock as he slid the unlocked sash open and slithered inside.

He pressed one of the detonators. Faint clicks tapped in his earphones before lights blinked out across the compound. Antenna cables: also dead.

The empty hallway inside appeared darkly sinister through his night-vision binoculars. Down the left side, two open doorways stared directly across at two closed doors with an open stairway at hall’s end. Khazim’s diagram listed all four rooms as sleeping quarters.

Harper prowled the inky corridor in slow motion. The first open room sat empty, as did the next. Two closed rooms remained. He edged back to the window.

The childhood story of the lady and the tiger popped unbidden into his head as he guessed at which room concealed the Black King.

He slid the first handle open just a sliver and wormed a handgun silencer through. Sleepers breathed a dainty rhythm in two single beds, young women by the sounds. Elimination right there would be smart. Harper demurred. Killing women still didn’t come easy. One of many failures Khazim noted in his after action reports.

The tiger waits next door.

He left that door cracked open and drifted along the wall to kneel beside the only room left. All his senses focused on the slow motion twist of the knob and a snail-paced slide of the wooden door. He barely breathed. His night-vision dimmed as he scanned into an inner sanctum dark as a corrupted soul.

A faint click sounded to the side just before air evaporated in light and thunder. Pain jolted his left arm. A scream exploded through his ear buds.

He turned to see a ghostly figure etched in starlight against the window at hall’s end. Lightning rumbled again. He ducked and fired. The body slumped to the floor. He ripped the earplugs out with his gun hand and quick fired as another green shape surged into the hall. It tumbled over the first just as tracer rounds shredded the wall above his head. He hugged the floor. A plaster blizzard rained down as the unmistakable thunder of a Kalashnikov pounded the tight corridor. Harper skittered low and fast through the open door to fire on barrel flashes sparking the room.

Thunder silenced to groans in the dark. Then a weapon clattered before a dead weight thump. Echoes of the fight reverberated as Harper rose to stand over the body for the coup de grâce. But before he could fire, a blood-curdling scream shocked him into action. He leaped aside to silence the shrieking woman with the gun butt, cursing his mistake. She too slumped to the floor. Harper pumped his last rounds into the limp body of the Black King.

Checkmate!

He rushed back up the dark hall, ripped a detonator from his chest pocket and pressed. Light flashed outside, followed by an explosive whump that rattled the window. If exposed, the escape plan pivoted on a Claymore blast at the front gate to draw the enemy.

But the sound of heavy boots clattering across the floor below dashed that hope. Without hesitation they echoed up the stairs towards him.

So much for a quiet escape!

He grabbed a grenade and ripped out the clip. The handle pinged away as gun barrels spiked over the top step. Rapid fire explosions, barrel flashes and hot lead thrashed the hallway. Walls shredded. He bowled the grenade and hugged the floor. Machine gun fire halted instantly, replaced by the clattering cadence of boots stomping just ahead of an ominous thunk-thunk.

A blast rattled the house. The floor vibrated under Harper as he banked another grenade. The next explosion rumbled a dust plume into the hall. By then he was up and scrambling for the window. Almost there, his foot brushed against flesh. Two slender bodies intertwined at his feet. The young women would have looked so delicate had it not been for the man-sized weapons lying beside them.

He scanned outside. Noise flooded the yard below. Dark figures skittered everywhere as throaty truck engines roared to life.

Harper’s arm throbbed. The feel of warm blood pooled in his glove.

Decision time!

Chapter 5

With the Kalashnikov strapped over the throbbing arm, Harper grabbed the rope in his good right hand as a troop carrier screeched around the corner directly below. Two figures leaped from the slowing cab to disappear toward the front. Dust billowed onto a mass of shadowy lumps rumbling from the truck bed.

Harper struggled onto the rope with slow, deliberate moves. Quick motion meant death or capture. His boots in equally disciplined speed tried to clamp the rope. Harsh commands in Marathi tongue blanketed the air a few meters below. The foot-clamp slipped until his right hand clawed as the only hold-point. It slipped a millimeter. Then some more. He finally lost hold in barely controlled descent on the rope. It ran out and he plunged the final few meters, smashing to the ground on his wounded left arm. The explosive groan should have given him away. But when he frantically scanned between house and truck, this few meters seemed deserted. Pandemonium all around must have covered the fall. Fighting to stay conscious, he righted himself and crawled around behind the truck.

Frantic voices screeched from all sides. Then headlights from another carrier blacked out his night-vision. He ripped the goggles down, slid through the open passenger side and scrambled across the seat like a one-armed frog.

Halfway to the steering wheel, the truck shimmied. Harper froze. Blinding light back-lit a burley figure vaulting into the seat right in front of his nose.

The man plunked down and reached for the starter. But he must have sensed something. His head turned just as a ghostly hand jammed a knife blade into his throat. His distorted grunt triggered the first rigid twitch. His hands shot towards his neck and froze halfway there. The blade point shimmered liquid dark as it pulled out. Blood followed, spurting against the steering wheel.

In that moment, his choking gurgle faded into the screech of whining brakes. Headlights flashed past. Another troop carrier skidded to a stop barely two meters ahead. A thick shroud of dust swirled over Harper as he jerked the twitching torso closer. The quick snap-peek above the dashboard showed troops clamoring from an open carrier bed into the house entrance.

Then a frantic Marathi voice barked from above. Look at this rope! Find them! They must be near!

Harper one armed the limp body aside and grabbed the bloody checkered turban to jerk it onto his head. The instant the last soldier disappeared inside, he bolted upright, yelling, I see them running from the house! Follow me!

He started the truck, and lumbered past the other carrier in first gear. The driver craned his neck to look. Timing couldn’t have been worse. The man had a perfect angle through the open cab door.

That’s him! Get that truck!

Harper gunned the clumsy transport down the drive. Gunfire converged from every direction. His rear view mirror exploded. Then the windshield showered jagged glass around him.

He slumped sideways on the dead man and pulled a detonator from his chest pack. One press and the other Claymore blasted. Gunfire ceased from the road ahead. But tracer shells still powered through the cab from behind. Harper tromped the gas pedal. His truck lurched forward amid a blazing wall of tracers. The speedometer hit 35 KPH just before his bumper plowed through the front gate.

He was beyond the wall as gunfire died away. He swerved down the rutted dirt road with the dead man pounding his side. The game of cat and mouse commenced. But the cat would find this mouse had a bite. He pushed the lumbering truck as hard as a one-armed man could steer and shift through twisting switchback turns.

Then headlights speared the dark night behind. He tromped the gas pedal and swerved through the next tight hairpin curve. Eluding the Kashmiri posse here looked impossible. But the lights faded further with each drifting turn.

Halfway down the mountain road, a faint tone sounded from his dangling ear buds. He popped one in and banked into a rugged hairpin. The signal was strong. Just beyond the curve, he braked into a hard skid. The truck groaned to a halt, twisted sideways across road. Headlights speared over dark mountain terrain before dust shrouded them. He doused them and stumbled behind a massive boulder.

Double high beams swiveled an erratic light show on the road above.

Then a troop carrier banked wildly around the turn. Harper watched the carrier drift just before its headlights centered on his hasty roadblock. It veered side to side, scratching frantically to dodge the truck. In the next instant it wobbled and careened onto its side. Sparks showered the road as human screams joined an ear-splitting shriek.

He winced as the sickening impact smashed soft flesh between tons of unforgiving steel. The crash rammed both vehicles another five meters down the hard-packed road.

One surviving headlight dangled; an eyeball glaring on a grisly trail of moaning bodies. Harper stood to leave just as a second set of headlights pierced the night.

There was no braking from this hard charger. It plowed over human speed bumps and crashed headlong into the smoking wreckage. An ear-splitting fireball mushroomed into the night sky.

The shockwave blasted Harper backwards. Then, nothingness.

Light flickered through his eyelids as he gained consciousness. Something spiked his back. He reached behind and felt Kalashnikov steel. By the time he dragged his aching body upright, the inferno had settled into a crackling blaze. Blackened torsos flared in the upright truck cab. Human lumps littered the road behind. His ears rang. Then one solitary note emerged. His hand brushed the ear bud still in place.On the road, not one living movement caught his eye.

How the hell did I make it out? Even Khazim wouldn’t believe this.

He climbed unsteadily through thick brush, back-lit in towering flame. Fifty meters into the trees, another explosion flashed the night sky and he was gone.

Harper relied on the directional tone and night-vision goggles to pinpoint the back pack. Even then, he had trouble locating the camouflaged staging point. When he did, he checked his throbbing arm. The flashlight beam glistened down a trail of fresh blood on both sides of his bicep. The slug, administered by a delicate young girl, had drilled cleanly through without hitting artery or bone. It wasn’t fatal. But with the adrenaline of combat wearing off, it hurt like hell. He sucked air through gritted teeth as he bound the wound. Then he humped down the mountain, mounted the bike and rode back into Pakistan’s dark landscape.

GPS readings led straight to his hidden pick-up truck. Storing gear one-armed was slow. But soon, everything was loaded except for the bike. He tried. But the injury proved