"It seems the only loss we suffered was the unfortunate Alja, a noble man whose soul now knows a better place," Tarik Khan told Bolan. "My men and I thank you, kuvii Bolan, for the quick retribution you bestowed upon the infidel who took Alja's life. We shall move out at once to begin our march."

Bolan glanced over the malik's shoulder.

The village jukiabkr strode toward them, flanked by two of his men who gripped their weapons, old Lee-Enfields, with fingers on the triggers and tense eyes closely watching Bolan, Tarik Khan and the others.

The jukiabkr halted half a dozen paces from Bolan, as did his men, arrogantly, his belligerence nastier from the excitement of seeing bodies shredded and blood flowing.

The same as those cannibals who were about to torture Lansdale and enjoy it last night in Kabul, thought Bolan.

The jukiabkr snarled in Pashto, aiming his rifle at the ground. He did not have quite enough guts to raise it on Bolan. Yet. But recklessness shone in Hash Breath's glazed eyes.

Tarik Khan sensed Bolan tensing for a kill. The mujahedeen chief placed a hand upon Bolan's shoulder so as not to interfere with Bolan's response but to give the big guy reason to pause.

"Please, brother," he half-whispered to Bolan, his voice taut. "This is but one village, yes, but for you or one of my men to slay this man would result in a tribal feud that would do nothing but harm the cause of all mujahedeen."

Hash Breath snarled something with a vigorous nod in Bolan's direction. The men with the jukiabkr inched out to each side until Bolan's glance stopped them.

Tarik Khan translated.

"He knows who you are, my friend. He knows you are wanted by the Soviets and your own people. He demands that I assist him in killing you and turning in your head to the Russians for a reward. He can then blame you for tonight's attack and claim the reward offered for you."

The jukiabkr did not like Tarik Khan speaking in English to the American. He snarled again and made a gesture with his rifle, though he still did not pull the weapon up anywhere near a firing position.

Bolan kept his eyes on Hash Breath.

"And what is your decision this time, kuvii Tarik Khan?"

"You should not have to ask, my friend. Some things are worth a blood feud, such as friendship between men like ourselves. We disagreed about tonight's action; this does not mean I no longer consider you my brother. These are not my brothers; their own tribe would be disgraced by them."

The jukiabkr growled one more time, a single harsh grunt to build up his own courage and that of his two gunmen.

The confrontation crackled with tension.

"Tell this scumbag," Bolan said in precise, even tones, "that unless he shows me his back right now, he and his two boys are dead meat. They've got five seconds."

Tarik Khan's eyes smiled. He stepped away from Bolan but faced the other tribesmen to stand with his own rifle at the ready. He translated.

The jukiabkr's mouth tightened, his eyes shot anger at Tarik Khan for having tipped his hand to the American when the jukiabkr thought he had the malik in line and expected cooperation.

Four seconds dragged by like an eternity to Tarik Khan. He caught a, peripheral impression of the big American in blacksuit, like a statue, firm, unmoving, unstoppable, slit blue eyes like cold bits of ice, no fear of death.

The jukiabkr read those eyes, too.

The village leader turned abruptly and stalked off without a word, his men following him without hesitation.

The Executioner watched the jukiabkr's retreat, not lowering his Ingram.

"You are wise not to have killed him since you did not have to," Tarik Khan said. "You are wise in most things, it would seem, kuvii Bolan. But enough talk. My men are ready. We begin the march."

"Enough talk," Bolan agreed. "Let's move out."

None of the locals attempted to stop Tarik Khan or the icy-eyed American and their men as the malik's silent mujahedeen fell into a double file behind their leaders. They headed toward the village where the Russian woman was waiting, leaving the jukiabkr's men to paw over dead Soviet soldiers. Tarik Khan felt loathing from the jukiabkr and could sense his eyes burning holes into the malik's back. Tarik Khan knew the village leader would not take lightly the disgrace he suffered in the showdown with Bolan. The jukiabkr would not order his men to open fire, for these were a cowardly lot. But Tarik Khan had a slithering premonition that in some ways it would have been better for this mission if Bolan had killed the man he called Hash Breath, regardless of the strife among mountain tribes such an act would have caused. Tarik Khan's force could not afford another delay if they hoped to stop the Devil's Rain in time.

Before the war, Tarik Khan had lived in Mazar-iSharif, near the Soviet border. He had long ago reconciled himself to the fact that he would never see his hometown again. He no longer wanted to, knowing it could never be as he remembered it before infidels from the north came to pillage, plunder and rape, attacking the countryside in order to isolate any resistance movement, setting fire to crops and storage shelters. Settlements near the border had been the first to feel the wrath of the Soviet invaders.

The fools, Tarik Khan thought once again; they know nothing of the people they hoped to conquer or of the power of Islam. The area had been evacuated, true, but all survivors had united with other victims of Soviet aggression to wage a jihad, a holy war to the death, against these Russian pigs.

Tarik Khan had become their most powerful leader. He prayed to Allah, even as his mujahedeen commenced their withdrawal from this scene of slaughter, that they would reach Parachinar in time to attack the fort there. He hoped they could abort a holocaust that would surpass the atrocities of the Nazis or even the mass devastation these Russian invaders had already wrought upon Tarik Khan's beloved Afghanistan.

The mujahedeen leader knew that any faith at all he had in the success of this operation could only be placed in the hands of Allah, in the toughness and spirit of his men... and in the savage presence of an incredible human fighting machine, the American, Mack Bolan. The Executioner. But time was running out.

They could already be too late.

12

Bolan and Tarik Khan's force pushed on relentlessly across hostile, cruel terrain.

The Executioner realized again what superb condition these men were in, the ceaseless march forward to reach Parachinar testing even his own stamina. This made him appreciate all the more the fact that Katrina Mozzhechkov kept pace at Bolan's side, never once lagging during the trek.

The nighttime journey was broken only at one point when a friendly tribe of mujahedeen assisted them with motorized transportation in an odd assortment of ancient vehicles over a stretch of mountains unpatrolled by the Russians.

This generous aid cut off what would have been several days of marching time; then another province began and the stealthy force continued on foot again, looking as if they would make it with perhaps an hour of darkness to spare.

Bolan could think of no recommendations to Tarik Khan regarding their security. The resistance leader commanded a damn tight ship: scouts with walkie-talkies were posted on each flank, several miles ahead and to the rear of the main group.

Conversation was kept to a bare minimum the whole time even when they were being assisted by the friendlies.

At the end of that stretch of the trek, as Tarik Khan's men had debarked from the ragtag convoy to regroup and resume the march, Katrina had a few stolen moments with Bolan out of earshot of the others.

The Russian woman and Bolan had not spoken since the group briefly stopped at the village after the action near Charikar to pick her up and commence their march.