of moonlight off the surface of the river. There were only a few feet between the truck and edge of the road. The Taliban had stopped them at a perfect choke point.
Deckard rounded the side of the truck, sticking to the shadows cast by the moonlight. There were three of them. Wearing dishdashas and black head wraps, the three men at the checkpoint each had long Wahhabi beards, the type that blow up under your armpit when you are running from AC-130 gunships at top speed. One reached over and pulled open the driver's side door while another was saying something to their Afghan driver.
Three bad guys, three AK-47's. He would have to act fast.
Deckard crept forward, his heart in his throat. They were distracted as they tried to shake down the driver for some kind of Taliban Value-Added Tax. They needed extra money to buy acid to splash in schoolgirl's faces or something. Deckard just hoped he wasn't spotted until he was on top of them. Inching forward, he saw the driver becoming more distraught. He began flashing money, but glancing back over his shoulder, Deckard could see several dark silhouettes back at the rear of the truck. Some of the Liquid Sky men had hopped out to watch him work.
Grabbing the nearest terrorist, Deckard flung him right off the edge of the road. The terrorist's arms were pinwheeling as he stumbled and went over the edge. Deckard didn't have time to listen to his screams. The other two checkpoint guards turned to face Deckard, the driver's jaw was hung open as he could only watch in horror.
The closest of the two tried to bring his AK into play. Deckard pivoted away from barrel to clear the line of fire while simultaneously reaching out and grabbing the barrel with his hand. Using his other hand, he swatted away the terrorist's support hand on the foregrip of the rifle. In one final blur of motion, Deckard swung the rifle barrel straight up where it smacked into the terrorist's face. Temporarily stunned, Deckard relieved him of the AK and slammed the buttstock into the face of the remaining terrorist.
With the wooden AK buttstock blasting into the side of his face, the terrorist rocked backwards and ran into the side of the truck. Deckard gave him another buttstroke for good measure and the terrorists knees began to turn to jelly before he headed for a faceplant in the dusty road. Transitioning the AK into one hand, Deckard grabbed the terrorist by the collar and flung him down the cliff to take a magic carpet ride with his buddy.
The remaining terrorist recovered enough by this point to charge at Deckard. The American grabbed him by the wrist and elbow, then shifted and dumped the terrorist over his hip in a simple judo throw. The terrorist coughed and tried to get back to his feet. Deckard placed a shoe on his forehead and pushed him down the cliff.
He could hear the terrorist scream impacted the nearly vertical slope below and began somersaulting the rest of the way down to the river below.
Deckard was hardly breathing heavy, but truth be told, his leg burned like hell from an injury he had received on his previous mission to Mexico. He went from one job to the next and hadn't had enough time to heal.
That was when someone initiated a slow clap. There was one at every party. Deckard looked back. It was Bill.
The entire team was gathered at the back of the truck. Rick stood with his arms crossed. Zach and Paul, both with their Taliban starter beards had taken advantage of the pit stop to smoke cigarettes. Bill finished clapping and scratched his goatee.
“Not bad Deckard, but I gotta know. Why didn't you just kill those fuckheads outright?”
“I did. None of these dumbasses even knows how to swim. If they manage to survive the fall, they will sink right to the bottom of that river down there.”
Bill frowned. His face looked like worn leather, his biceps and shoulders threatening to tear the man dress he wore open at the seams.
“Next time use a bullet. A bullet is always the right
Deckard rounded the side of the truck, sticking to the shadows cast by the moonlight. There were three of them. Wearing dishdashas and black head wraps, the three men at the checkpoint each had long Wahhabi beards, the type that blow up under your armpit when you are running from AC-130 gunships at top speed. One reached over and pulled open the driver's side door while another was saying something to their Afghan driver.
Three bad guys, three AK-47's. He would have to act fast.
Deckard crept forward, his heart in his throat. They were distracted as they tried to shake down the driver for some kind of Taliban Value-Added Tax. They needed extra money to buy acid to splash in schoolgirl's faces or something. Deckard just hoped he wasn't spotted until he was on top of them. Inching forward, he saw the driver becoming more distraught. He began flashing money, but glancing back over his shoulder, Deckard could see several dark silhouettes back at the rear of the truck. Some of the Liquid Sky men had hopped out to watch him work.
Grabbing the nearest terrorist, Deckard flung him right off the edge of the road. The terrorist's arms were pinwheeling as he stumbled and went over the edge. Deckard didn't have time to listen to his screams. The other two checkpoint guards turned to face Deckard, the driver's jaw was hung open as he could only watch in horror.
The closest of the two tried to bring his AK into play. Deckard pivoted away from barrel to clear the line of fire while simultaneously reaching out and grabbing the barrel with his hand. Using his other hand, he swatted away the terrorist's support hand on the foregrip of the rifle. In one final blur of motion, Deckard swung the rifle barrel straight up where it smacked into the terrorist's face. Temporarily stunned, Deckard relieved him of the AK and slammed the buttstock into the face of the remaining terrorist.
With the wooden AK buttstock blasting into the side of his face, the terrorist rocked backwards and ran into the side of the truck. Deckard gave him another buttstroke for good measure and the terrorists knees began to turn to jelly before he headed for a faceplant in the dusty road. Transitioning the AK into one hand, Deckard grabbed the terrorist by the collar and flung him down the cliff to take a magic carpet ride with his buddy.
The remaining terrorist recovered enough by this point to charge at Deckard. The American grabbed him by the wrist and elbow, then shifted and dumped the terrorist over his hip in a simple judo throw. The terrorist coughed and tried to get back to his feet. Deckard placed a shoe on his forehead and pushed him down the cliff.
He could hear the terrorist scream impacted the nearly vertical slope below and began somersaulting the rest of the way down to the river below.
Deckard was hardly breathing heavy, but truth be told, his leg burned like hell from an injury he had received on his previous mission to Mexico. He went from one job to the next and hadn't had enough time to heal.
That was when someone initiated a slow clap. There was one at every party. Deckard looked back. It was Bill.
The entire team was gathered at the back of the truck. Rick stood with his arms crossed. Zach and Paul, both with their Taliban starter beards had taken advantage of the pit stop to smoke cigarettes. Bill finished clapping and scratched his goatee.
“Not bad Deckard, but I gotta know. Why didn't you just kill those fuckheads outright?”
“I did. None of these dumbasses even knows how to swim. If they manage to survive the fall, they will sink right to the bottom of that river down there.”
Bill frowned. His face looked like worn leather, his biceps and shoulders threatening to tear the man dress he wore open at the seams.
“Next time use a bullet. A bullet is always the right
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