Rambo III by David Morrell

Author:David Morrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: prisoners of war, rambo, sylvester stallone, first blood, carolco pictures, soviet afghanistan war
Publisher: David Morrell

5

Sporadic shots echoed from the pass, not the rattle of automatic weapons, instead the single cracks of bolt-action Enfield rifles. The rebels were chasing the retreating remnant of the Soviet force over the rubble that blocked the pass. Dust settled. Rebels scurried among the carnage, collecting Soviet weapons and ammunition.

An Afghan slit a wounded Russian’s throat.

Rambo looked away.

It’s not my war!

These people can barely feed themselves, let alone feed prisoners. They’ve got too many wounded of their own to spare medical supplies for wounded Russians. If they let their prisoners go, these Russians will return to kill more rebels. The rebels don’t have a choice. They’ve got to kill their prisoners.

All the same…

It’s not my war!

A commotion made him turn. To the left, quite a distance from the battle zone, the rebels had formed an excited circle and jeered at something in the middle.

Akram ran toward the jabbering crowd. Khalid and Rahim quickly joined him, shoving to reach the center.

Rambo hurried there, also. When he saw what the rebels jeered at, he almost turned away. A Russian soldier—twenty years old at most—lay huddled on the sand, his arms clutched around his head, trying to shield himself from the stones that the Afghans hurled at him.

A moujahideen pulled the Russian’s arms from his head. The young soldier risked a frightened glance upward. He reminded Rambo of a dog that had lost its spirit from too many beatings. Blond, blue-eyed, boyish, he had soft features fresh with the innocence of a victim, not an attacker.

The rebels grabbed the Russian’s shoulders and spun him like a top. The Russian swirled in the sand and was struck with more pebbles. An Afghan drew a knife, grabbed the prisoner’s hair, jerked the victim’s head back to expose his throat, and slashed the knife toward…

Rambo lunged through the crowd and grabbed the Afghan’s wrist an instant before the blade would have severed flesh. The knife’s glinting edge trembled a quarter inch from the Russian’s jugular vein, the Afghan straining against Rambo’s grip, Rambo applying more pressure to pull back the knife.

The Afghan growled. Rambo twisted the knife from his grasp.

The Afghan lurched back and aimed his rifle at Rambo’s chest.

Khalid surged out of the crowd and pushed the barrel toward the ground. He blurted angry objections to the Afghan and spun toward Rambo, speaking even more angrily.

“He say he save your life. He say he make up for you saving his daughter’s life. You should not have interfered,” an out-of-breath voice said with effort.

Rambo turned and saw Mousa, but there wasn’t time to say, Thank God, you’re alive!

The Afghans scowled harder, tension making them rigid.

Rahim spoke with fury.

Mousa translated. “You take this man’s knife. You dishonor him. Insult must be punished.”

“I didn’t mean to insult him.”

“Afghan never attack Afghan.”

“But I’m not one of you. I don’t understand your ways!”

“Keep voice low,” Mousa warned. “Afghan never shout. Use force of words. Shout is insult.”

Rambo struggled to calm his voice. “Tell him I meant no dishonor. I respect his bravery.

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