Книга - Armed Response

Armed Response
Don Pendleton


POWER PLAYFunded by an American oil company, a rogue general sets out to stage a coup in the drought-stricken Republic of Djibouti. Once the man's soldiers have forced the region into civil unrest and assassinated the political leaders, he intends to take control and oust America from its only sub-Saharan military base.That's the plan. A plan Mack Bolan must put a stop to. Joined by a burned-out CIA agent and an aid worker, Bolan targets the US financier and the mercenaries they're bringing into the country. Hunted by the police and the army and targeted by assassins, the Executioner won't stop until the general and his collaborators face their retribution.







POWER PLAY

Funded by an American oil company, a rogue general sets out to stage a coup in the drought-stricken Republic of Djibouti. Once the man’s soldiers have forced the region into civil unrest and assassinated the political leaders, he intends to take control and oust America from its only sub-Saharan military base.

That’s the plan. A plan Mack Bolan must put a stop to. Joined by a burned-out CIA agent and an aid worker, Bolan targets the US financier and the mercenaries they’re bringing into the country. Hunted by the police and the army and targeted by assassins, the Executioner won’t stop until the general and his collaborators face their retribution.


A crack rent the air

The unexpected noise came from behind the Executioner. He turned his head quickly to witness the black canopy opening, then checked the altimeter on his right wrist.

The parachute was deploying too early.

An invisible hand grabbed Bolan by his neck and jerked him into an upright position, his head snapping backward. His hands flew automatically to the risers that would enable him to gain some semblance of control in his descent. They weren’t there, and his terminal velocity hadn’t significantly decreased.

Bolan looked up and cursed. The black parachute, all three hundred and seventy square feet of it, had collapsed and become entangled in itself. Bolan plummeted toward the ground.

Completely out of control.


Armed Response

Don Pendleton







Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life; you stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies, and your right hand delivers me.

—Psalms 138:7

Threaten the innocent, and I will threaten you. Take an innocent life, and I will take yours. Steal what is not yours, I will reclaim it. No place is dark enough to hide from my wrath.

—Mack Bolan


Dedicated to members of the Red Cross, who leave their homes and families at a moment’s notice to assist those who have lost everything


Cover (#ucfbfd20e-0d07-5e65-ab07-35f0740f0b95)

Back Cover Text (#uafb00466-3217-5c9f-9a3f-d32af659815a)

Introduction (#ufc4f5df6-a296-5074-a127-a2da25d1ca36)

Title Page (#u5d7f0dde-6b87-5fb9-9afe-f7f88cad514c)

Quotes (#ub26d9d71-8d3b-5cb5-8260-14c1a911bcd1)

Dedication (#ue3e6196e-a86e-5f99-92d7-0201e8e7ed69)

CHAPTER ONE (#u142d2c27-c9e0-5aa0-9707-0ca48424fd2e)

CHAPTER TWO (#uf7b0e8eb-5644-5370-8679-6a745c0c7d01)

CHAPTER THREE (#u19a835a3-66ad-5301-9bbe-c9c561fdd1d2)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u17986cab-abca-5dcb-a8b3-fd456f16348a)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u9b5fa7c9-687f-54b0-b64e-526bc5ea37e1)

CHAPTER SIX (#u845b476c-2457-5130-9634-f6536f9a12ff)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d80c6c09-805d-591a-bd3f-ec5c3622bb38)

Djibouti City, Djibouti,

Horn of Africa

Air-conditioning.

Peter Douglas stood in the foyer of the Waverley Hotel and breathed deeply, ignoring the chaos around him along with the dust and dirt that stuck to his sweat-stained face. The temperature outside was already at an unbearable level, while the foyer was an oasis of comfort.

Douglas listened to his partner coughing next to him, trying to adjust to the temperature difference as quickly as possible. Yes, air-conditioning had to be one of man’s greatest inventions and he briefly wondered how the hotel kept it running during these troubled times. But only briefly, only out of curiosity. In reality he didn’t want to know and vowed to return to the Waverley as often as possible.

This day, however, it was business and information that brought the two CIA agents to the uptown hotel on the edge of the Plateau de Serpent, the more luxurious end of Djibouti City, if one could say that living in a famine- and drought-stricken region could in any way be luxurious. Douglas took another deep breath, removed his sunglasses and surveyed his surroundings, wondering if his newly assigned partner, Peter Davies, was doing the same. What a joke that was. Somebody at Langley had to have been having a laugh at the time. Peter and Peter, the washed-out, veteran has-been and the rookie. Let’s put them together in the hellhole of the Horn of Africa and see what happens. Assholes.

The hotel foyer was a chaotic jumble of humanity and equipment. Sports bags and other paraphernalia were piled up against the wall as aid workers and journalists milled around, waiting for rides out of the city to the refugee camps. People were shouting at one another and at the staff behind the reception desk, demanding to know where they were supposed to go. Didn’t the staff know who they were?

Douglas recognized one of the people, a journalist from CNN who thought that Douglas worked for the US Consulate as an aid adviser. He gave a quick nod to the journalist before moving on to survey the rest of the people. Beside him Davies was still busy brushing the dust out of his loose-fitting white shirt and beige cargo pants, besides running his fingers through his hair, mumbling about the heat and how hot it was and how unfair it was that they had to stand in line and be searched, not once but twice. The first search by the Djiboutian military who manned the checkpoint outside, supposedly to protect the hotel and foreigners and then by the facility’s private security, who didn’t trust the military as far as they could throw them. That had taken more than an hour, an hour standing in the searing sun at ten in the morning. Douglas was grateful for the bottle of water that he had brought with him, a bottle that one of the soldiers had wanted to confiscate, but instead had chosen to accept the dollar bills in Douglas’s hand. Dollars could buy food for the family; a bottle of water would go only so far. So, they had passed through both checkpoints and now stood in the beehive of activity. Douglas figured that many of the aid workers were new on the ground, having arrived maybe yesterday, hence all the baggage scattered around. They would be moving out shortly, into the heat, the desperation, the misery of a dying population.

Many people had moved closer to the city from the outlying country. The large US Marine and naval base at Camp Lemonnier had been locked down so that the masses couldn’t storm the gates in search of the food and water they knew the American military had to have. The adjoining Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport was also closed and guarded by the Marines. Only international aid and military flights were coming in and out, but that didn’t stop the desperate from wanting to stow away and find somewhere safer to live. A memory flashed by of a story he had heard about six refugees who were found dead on a flight after it landed in Germany. The cargo hold hadn’t been pressurized, so the six had perished. Douglas shook the morbid thought from his head and returned to the present. Their contact would be waiting for them in the dining room.

He began to work his way through the people and toward the hotel’s dining room, aware that Davies was following him, still brushing dust off his clothes and seemingly paying little attention to his surroundings. Douglas hoped that the rookie was staying alert, that Langley still arranged to have basic field craft taught back home. So far Douglas hadn’t been impressed with Davies. The kid—Douglas couldn’t help but think that of him; the kid was twenty years younger, athletic and talked about computer games all the time—had moaned about everything since he’d arrived a week earlier.

They were not based at Lemonnier; that would have been too obvious. Instead they had a small safehouse not far from the airport. That way it was hoped that they would “blend in,” as if such a thing were possible in the height of the drought. Americans always looked well fed while everyone around them was emaciated. The idea of blending in baffled Douglas. Instead he maintained his cover and did what he could to assist various aid agencies while keeping his ear to the ground for rumors of potential jihadists that wanted to stir things up and drive the Americans out of Djibouti altogether.

“Shit, it’s already hotter than New Mexico out there,” Davies said to him above the general hubbub.

Douglas stopped, turned to the younger man and prodded him in the chest with his index finger.

“Listen, Peter, a French friend of mine wants to meet with me, and we’re here to find out why. You will sit down, keep quiet and learn something. Whatever you do, do not interrupt.”

“Hey! What did I do?” Davies protested.

“Nothing yet. That’s what worries me. Come on, we’re already late.”

The dining room was as busy as the lobby. Douglas craned his neck to look over the top of the crowd. Yes, there he was, sitting in the corner with his back to the wall, keeping an eye on all the movement, besides watching the military checkpoint that was no more than ten yards from the big bay windows. If he saw Douglas, he gave no sign. The CIA agent, with Davies following, threaded his way through the tables toward his contact.

In his late sixties, with a head full of white hair and dressed in a tan suit, Pierre Saint-Verran was immaculately groomed. The man watched Douglas as he neared the table and gave a slight nod in greeting. Then he focused on Davies.

“Who is this, Peter?” The Frenchman spoke English with a slight French accent.

“Pierre, this is Peter Davies, a colleague. I have to show him the ropes, so to speak.”

Davies leaned past Douglas and held out his hand. The Frenchman looked at it for an instant as if it were something distasteful, then reluctantly grasped it. “I’m Peter Davies,” he gushed, shaking hands vigorously.

Douglas pulled out a chair and sat down. Davies released Saint-Verran’s hand and did the same.

“Pierre Saint-Verran,” the Frenchman announced, then ignored Davies, who was already beckoning to a server, and regarded Douglas. “Peter, I do not have much time. I have a very important meeting with several companies later, so I will keep this short.” He broke off as a smiling but harried server appeared and began taking their orders.

Douglas waited until the server had departed. “What’s wrong? You seemed quite worried when you phoned last night.”

“Not worried, no. More concerned. We have known each other for a while now, and I know what it is that you do for your embassy.”

“Hey.” Davies suddenly felt the need to jump in. “We just work for the ambassador.”

“For pity’s sake, shut up! What did I say to you before we came in?” Douglas kept his voice quiet but was unable to hide the exasperation that he felt.

Saint-Verran raised a hand and smiled faintly. “Of course you do. But I am sure the information that I have will be of interest to the ambassador, as well.”

“Please, Pierre, ignore my young and impertinent friend here. What’s concerning you?” Douglas was already troubled himself. Saint-Verran had lived in Djibouti a long time, working freelance as a security consultant for various companies and aid agencies. As a former counterintelligence agent, Saint-Verran knew almost every important person in the country, including the senior officers of the French Foreign Legion stationed here.

“A few months ago—” Saint-Verran paused as the server returned with their drinks. “A few months ago I was approached by a US oil company wishing to explore the north Obcock region. I advised against it, not only because of the bandit raids but also because of the increased tensions between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Many of the people in Obcock originate from those two countries, and ethnic tension is always present. But the two men of the company insisted, so I reluctantly provided them with guides and saw to it that they had the means to get out of the area in a hurry. Ten days later they returned, paid up and left. My guides claimed that the oilmen seemed quite excited when they were up in the mountains.” Saint-Verran took a sip of his coffee.

“What was this company called, and did they find oil?” Douglas asked.

“They told me they worked for a company called Trenchard Oil Industries. I researched the company, and they do appear to be a legitimate business, if a bit small compared to their rivals. As for finding oil, I do not think so. Total, ExxonMobil, Royal Dutch Shell, they have all scoured the country and never found a single drop.” Saint-Verran smiled into his coffee cup, seemingly lost in thought.

“However,” Saint-Verran continued, “that is not why I asked you here. A few days ago I heard a rumor from a source that gave me two, no, three pieces of information. First it seems some sort of military camp has been set up in the same area. It is possibly Eritrean. Some of their people have been looking for a place to train out of the sight of Ethiopia. My contacts within the Djiboutian army know nothing about it, and with the current tension in the city, they have no interest in investigating it. Second, it seems that there are two groups of white men also in the same area. The first group seems to be the Trenchard men, looking around again. Who knows, perhaps they did find something. However, the second group of men is why I called you here. They seem to be mercenaries, training and teaching in that military camp.”

Douglas sat back in his chair and took a sip of water while he analyzed the information. It could mean almost anything. Africa was full of mercenaries. Maybe they were training Eritreans, or any other group for that matter. They could also be training jihadists or pirates, and that would be a concern. Djibouti was of great strategic importance. The Marine and naval base, Lemonnier, was the only one of its kind in Africa, and its proximity to Yemen and the rest of the Middle East increased its value tenfold.

“Have you any idea as to the nationality of the mercs? Are these oil guys in any danger?” Douglas asked.

Saint-Verran smiled again, this time a little sadly as if to say that his intel wasn’t quite up to scratch. “I am afraid that I have no idea who these mercenaries are. The Trenchard men—if it is them—did not return to me for my services. Nor did they approach my competitors. They have not reapplied for visas to enter the country, unless they changed their nationality to French. It is possible that they are in danger, so my answer is yes. If rebels or jihadists find them, then they would be killed or taken hostage. You know how your television loves it when Americans are taken hostage.”

Douglas groaned, and even Davies looked worried at that thought. If these men were Americans working for Trenchard Oil Industries or any other company, and if they were captured or killed, the fallout would be huge. Then he would come under the scrutiny of the company and the ambassador, both wanting to know why he hadn’t acted sooner. This was just what his career needed, another disaster in the making.

Pierre Saint-Verran rose from his chair. “I am afraid that I can offer you no further information at this time, my friend. I am sure that you will be able to learn something for yourselves. Many of my clients are oil companies, and I am sure they will be very surprised to learn of oil being discovered in Obcock. The drinks are my treat.” He smiled at Douglas, nodded curtly at Davies and walked over to the bar to settle the bill.

“What now?” Davies asked. He had already finished his cola and seemed to be wondering if there was time for another before they trekked back outside into the blistering heat.

“We make a report and have these Trenchard guys checked out. The idiots. They probably think this is a backward hick country, where visas don’t apply. Unless they’re French nationals. Then they wouldn’t need a visa. And we have mercs running around. God only knows who they are or what they’re doing. We’d better get back and see what we can find out. Maybe we can get some of our guys to fly a drone up there. Jesus, what a mess.”

Douglas and Davies waited for a few minutes until Saint-Verran had departed. They didn’t want to be too obvious by leaving with him, although Douglas reflected that meeting in such a busy and public room was hardly unobtrusive. Standing up, they observed a white Mercedes-Benz car, its windows blacked out, pull up to the main doors. They watched as Saint-Verran climbed into the back, the hotel’s doorman closing the car door behind him.

“Can he be trusted?” Davies asked, indicating the car.

“About as much as I would trust anyone around here. He knows a lot of what goes on in Djibouti, so, yeah, I think that we can trust him for now. He can be as slippery as an eel and almost certainly has his own motives for passing this intel on to us. He’s probably hoping that we make a mess of things, get the Trenchard men killed and then he can sell the oil information to somebody else. Come on, let’s go.” Douglas began to work his way toward the dining room door, past the bar, Davies in tow.

Peter Douglas had no true recollection of what happened next.

There was a bright flash, followed by an almighty bang.

The bay windows of the dining room imploded, sending thousands of shards of glass into the hotel on a wave of superheated air.

The shock wave hit him hard, sending him up and over the bar. The mirror above the bar, along with the bottles of alcohol and all the drinking glasses, simply shattered, cascading onto the floor.

Douglas hit the ground facedown with a thump, his head slamming violently against the wooden floor. He wasn’t aware of it hurting. A heavy weight landed on top of him, which knocked the remaining air from his lungs. He was partly aware of being wet, wetter than he should be. He moved his right hand along the floor, instinctively jerking it back as a large sliver of glass cut deeply into his palm. Blood flowed from the wound, mixing with the cocktail of whiskey and vodka.

Douglas tried to move, tried to raise himself up but couldn’t. He couldn’t move. His vision was swimming. Were his legs broken? His back? He moved his head to the left and saw that his third hand wasn’t moving. His third black hand. He tried to make it twitch, to make it respond but it wouldn’t. His inner voice was trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear it. He gritted his teeth and listened. Listened intently. The voice, his common sense told him that it wasn’t his hand. It belonged to someone else.

He began to struggle out from under the deadweight, trying to avoid the broken glass. After moments, minutes, hours, he was free of the load. Still lying on his stomach, he slowly turned his head to see who had been on top of him.

The sightless eyes of the dead bartender stared back.

Douglas gradually moved into a sitting position. The world wobbled. He was soaking wet. There had been a flash. Where was the rain coming from? He raised his head and stared directly into the fire sprinkler on the ceiling. As he watched, it stopped, the flow of water ending. Had there been a fire? Where was he?

He realized that he couldn’t hear anything. There was a lot of smoke and a lot of glass. He was covered in it. He raised his hand and caught the edge of the bar and began to lever himself up. His feet went out from under him, and he landed on his buttocks. Again he tried, this time with two hands. He managed to get to his feet, his legs wobbling under him. Using the bar for support, he looked around, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

He cursed in horror as his memory began to return.

The dining room of the Waverley was gone. The bay windows shattered. Outside the hotel was a smoking crater, where what appeared to be the remains of a white car were burning. Through the smoke he thought he could see what was left of the military checkpoint. Inside the hotel was a scene of carnage and total devastation. Chairs, tables, people had been flung like confetti around the room. Everything was soaked. Nobody was moving.

There was no sound. None.

Douglas raised his cut and bleeding right hand to touch his ear. It was still there; he hadn’t lost it. It dawned on him that he was deaf, hopefully only temporarily. He’d be retired from the CIA if it was permanent. The CIA! Shit! He was with someone. Davies! Douglas heaved himself up and over the scratched and splintered mahogany counter, falling to the other side when his feet failed to keep up with him. Pain returned to his hand in an instant, and he thought he might have yelled from the shock of it. Davies, where was Davies? He had been following right behind him… There! There were his beige cargo pants. Douglas crawled over and found the kid intact. No arms and legs seemed to be missing. The kid was facedown, unmoving. Douglas rolled him over and felt for a pulse. Could he feel one? Were his fingers still working? Then he thought he felt something. As if in confirmation, Davies moved slightly. The kid was still alive.

Douglas coughed and heaved a sigh of relief simultaneously. The kid was still alive. Then he remembered seeing the torn wreckage of a white car burning outside the hotel. Saint-Verran. It had to be Saint-Verran. A car bomb? How had it gotten past the checkpoints? Who had planted it? The mercenaries in the north? Somebody else? It didn’t make sense. Douglas held the kid in his arms and felt rather than heard movement behind him. He craned his neck and saw people entering the room, looks of horror on their faces. He raised his left hand and waved slowly at them.

“Over here,” he yelled. Then all thoughts disappeared as a dark wave overtook him and he fell back onto the drenched floor, unconscious.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_63626455-3282-58ac-a856-eba4919e1cfd)

Above Southern Yemen

Loadmaster Terrence Smith almost tumbled from the ladder as he emerged from the flight deck of the Lockheed Martin C130J Hercules C5. He caught himself in time and slid down the ladder into the main cargo hold of the massive aircraft. The noise of the four turboprop Rolls-Royce Allison engines was overwhelming, and he was thankful for his military-grade ear mufflers. The aircraft was currently at fifteen thousand feet, making three hundred knots. That would be changing very shortly. They were about to make their approach to Aden International Airport.

Smith squeezed past pallets of rice, tents and other humanitarian aid, all destined for the Horn of Africa and parts of Yemen. The drought covered vast areas of Africa. Great Britain, along with many other nations, had flown in extraordinary amounts of emergency supplies using a squadron of semiretired Royal Air Force—RAF—transport planes. Aden was often used as a staging point for the aid, where the pallets would be split up and redistributed to various agencies. It was a routine flight. Everything was normal and on schedule.

Almost everything.

There was one anomaly.

The Hercules had a mysterious passenger, a last-minute addition during the refuel in Naples. The orders were specific. The man didn’t exist. He was never on the aircraft, and Smith was not allowed to remember him. He didn’t know who the passenger was or even what nationality he might be, but Smith knew enough to know what the man represented. Special Forces. His ice-blue eyes made Smith shiver. Even from several yards away, the stranger emitted a presence that spelled danger.

The man looked up, pinning Smith to the spot with his gaze. It was impossible to hear anything over the thunder of the engines, yet the commando had heard Smith approach. In the ten minutes that Smith had been away from him, the unknown soldier had applied combat cosmetics to his hands and face; he had also changed into a pure black jumpsuit. The man removed his gaze from the loadmaster and resumed preparing himself. A parachute was already strapped to his back, and a long black gear bag was lying next to his feet. Smith decided this was one guy he wouldn’t want to encounter in a dark alley, even if he was a friendly.

“Two minutes to the drop zone. You had better get ready.” Smith had to yell in the man’s ear to be heard.

The soldier merely nodded. Smith watched as the man ran his hands over the buckles and straps of his parachute harness, leaving nothing to chance. Together the two men walked over the vibrating deck to the side cargo door. The jump light was still red, but that would change within the next minute. The man secured himself to the aircraft frame to prevent himself from falling out. There was no need to worry about decompression or specialist breathing equipment, as they were not flying high enough. He reached out and pushed a button on a control panel and plunged the cargo hold into darkness.

Smith heard him punch another button. There was a hiss and a thunk as the side door opened. The noise level increased tenfold. The freezing night air rushed in, whipping around them.

Twenty seconds more.

Loadmaster Smith reached out and grabbed a metal strut for extra support. He disliked parachute jumps and being a parachute dispatcher. The height didn’t bother him. The sensation of falling did. But serving in the RAF meant standard parachute training, and he had managed to conquer his fears. The old anxiety, though, was always there.

Ten seconds.

Smith was glad that he was not jumping this night. A nighttime parachute jump was a terrifying experience for those who had never attempted it. A nighttime jump over the desert would only increase the tension. On a moonlit night the sand would appear as water, giving a false illusion as to exactly how high the jumper was, making him misjudge his landing and break limbs on impact. However, for a highly experienced soldier, one equipped with all the latest gadgets, it should be a walk in the park. And he could tell that the stranger was no novice.

Zero seconds.

The jump light changed from red to green.

The stranger exited the aircraft.

In a blink the man was gone, leaving only empty space and howling wind behind him. Smith didn’t bother peering out into the void. There was no point. The soldier would already be lost to sight.

Smith pushed another button that closed the door. He shivered in the cold. The aircraft’s interior lights came back on. He released his safety belt and walked toward the flight deck to report that the passenger had departed. The big man in black, whoever he was, was off to war.

And Smith wished him well.

* * *

PITCH BLACK.

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, plunged through the night on the latest mission of his War Everlasting. The noise from the Hercules was already lost, replaced by the sound of cold air roaring past his head, his suit and gloves keeping his body reasonably warm in the ice-cold air. Bolan didn’t bother trying to locate the aircraft, concentrating instead on his trajectory in what was called military free fall. He lay horizontal to the earth, chest out, back arched, steering with his outstretched hands. His gear bag was tight between his knees. The parachute, a standard MT1-XS fitted with an automatic opening device, had been borrowed from a US Navy SEALs unit that was on exercise in southern Italy. The parachute would automatically open at three thousand feet, giving Bolan plenty of time to glide the canopy to his designated landing zone. The parachute, like everything else on this mission, had been hastily arranged. The target was just too important for Bolan to be allowed to slip away.

The target was one Zaid abu Qutaiba. Bolan’s mind quickly ran through the known facts and conjectures as he plummeted to the ground. Qutaiba had been on

Stony Man’s most-wanted list for some time. At one time the man had been a captain in the Iraqi Republican Guard. Now he claimed responsibility for the destruction of an embassy in Kenya, the attempted shooting down of a US commercial aircraft and several assassinations of liberal politicians in Pakistan, Iraq and Afghanistan. It was also believed that he was behind several car bomb attacks in Israel.

These atrocities were more than enough to bring him to the attention of the antiterrorist unit at Stony Man Farm.

Qutaiba had been spotted before, not only by Stony Man but also by several key law-enforcement agencies around the world. Yet Qutaiba had managed to avoid capture through the use of disguises and false names, despite all the technology and all the human resources brought to bear. The report had come in less than twelve hours earlier from the CIA. An agent had followed Qutaiba and his entourage to an abandoned village that was probably being used as a transit point on the southern shores of Yemen. The window of opportunity was slim. Bolan had been in Italy at the time, accepting a mission to free a hostage, a mission that was scrubbed by the time he arrived, the hostage already freed by the Carabinieri. So he was hastily pressed into a new operation and was now jumping out of an aircraft at ten thousand feet.

The mission was simple.

Locate the terrorist transit camp.

Identify Qutaiba.

Termination with extreme prejudice by drone strike.

Although Mack Bolan carried enough firepower to take on a small army, his task this time was one of pure surveillance: make sure that it really was Qutaiba, then contact the Farm. They in turn would relay the message to the Pentagon, who in turn would contact the pilot of a remote drone that was orbiting high overhead. The White House had made it clear to all parties involved. No mistakes. No civilian casualties. Make sure it really was a terrorist camp. Make sure that Qutaiba was at the location. Then and only then would the order be given to destroy the terrorists. All of this would require boots on the ground, and those boots belonged to the Executioner.

Bolan had to give the terrorists credit. Not a light showed anywhere. The camp was under observation from an orbiting Keyhole KH-12 satellite, which would be using infrared and thermal imaging. It would show the observers back home how many warm bodies there were.

Crack!

The unexpected noise came from behind the soldier. He turned his head quickly to witness the black canopy opening, then checked the altimeter on his right wrist.

The parachute was deploying too early.

The automatic activation device fitted to the chute had to have been faulty. Bolan hadn’t had the time to thoroughly check all of the equipment himself, and when he had preset the required height, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

An invisible hand grabbed Bolan by his neck and jerked him into an upright position, his head snapping backward. His hands flew automatically to the risers, which would enable him to have some semblance of control over his descent. They were not there, and his terminal velocity had not significantly decreased.

Bolan looked up and cursed. The black parachute, all 370 square feet of it, had collapsed and become entangled on itself.

Bolan plummeted toward the ground completely out of control.

He had only seconds to react. The gear bag had slipped from between his knees and was now hanging by its quick-release cord. The weight of the equipment in it was causing him to gyroscope, spinning him to the left in ever-quickening circles. Soon it would be impossible to maneuver. The centrifugal forces would prevent him from moving his arms. He forced his right hand slowly down to his belt, fighting the gravitational force. He fumbled for several seconds, unable to locate the emergency-release cord.

Suddenly it was in his hand and he tugged hard. Immediately the gear bag dropped away, disappearing into the darkness. With the loss of ballast, Bolan began to spin slightly slower. His fingers were throbbing, his head felt as if it were about to pop from the blood being forced into his extremities. Gritting his teeth, he found the emergency release for the parachute with his left hand and depressed it.

There was a snap as the faulty parachute let loose.

Bolan was once again in free fall.

Instinct told him that his time was almost up. He curled in a ball, rolled over and threw his limbs out in a star formation. He pushed aggressively down with his right arm and leg, and the spin quickly was brought to a halt. Reaching down, he tugged on the cord for the reserve chute.

Once again there was a crack, and Bolan was grabbed from behind into an upright position. Above him the black canopy of the reserve chute opened to the familiar rectangular shape, its 270 square feet fully spread. Bolan’s unchecked descent slowed.

He reached for the risers and checked his altimeter.

He was a mere two hundred feet above the ground. Swiftly he pulled them to further slacken his speed and braced for impact. He began running as he landed on the soft sand, which absorbed the shock. His left foot went out from under him, and he fell down the side of a dune, dragging the parachute with him. Bolan rolled several times before coming to a stop. He was now wrapped up in the collapsed parachute.

Could anything else go wrong?

Bolan released the straps and cut through the cords and material with his Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife. Once free he quickly crawled away from the landing site, all the time listening for sounds that somebody had spotted his parachute, that they were coming to investigate.

There was no movement. The desert was silent.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

BARBARA PRICE, mission controller at Stony Man Farm, felt her heart thud as she watched the thermal image of Bolan falling out of control on one of the digital screens in the Computer Room. She and Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the Farm’s cyberteam, quickly surmised that there was a problem when Bolan’s body began to windmill. What exactly was happening was impossible to say. They couldn’t see what the situation was with the parachute or the gear bag. But for several long seconds they watched as Bolan plunged through the sky.

“How high is he?” Price asked Kurtzman, a slight tremor in her voice.

“Not high enough” was the muted reply.

“What went wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

They could only observe the imminent death of the Executioner, a man they had known, admired and supported through the years, a man who was Price’s occasional lover.

It was a huge relief when they saw the falling man resume a normal position in the air, then suddenly slow. They watched as the figure rolled and tumbled on the ground. He was down and very much alive.

Kurtzman turned back to his computer, tapping at the keys. After several seconds he looked up at Price, his expression grave.

“There is a slight problem.”

Price looked away from the screen, shifting her focus to her friend and colleague. “What?”

“Striker is here,” he said, pointing at the main screen, “but his equipment, including the transmission gear, is here.” The image on the main screen zoomed out. “He must have dropped it when he lost control during the free fall. The problem is these two guys.” On the screen they could clearly see two shapes advancing toward the gear bag. The bag contained not only Bolan’s long-range weapons but also the transmission equipment needed to contact base. The two men were believed to be a foot patrol, one of several that monitored the area.

“When they open it and find the guns, they’ll run all the way back home and show their treasure to the boss. If it is Qutaiba, then he’ll disappear, and a hunting party will be looking for Striker.”

“And there’s no way we can contact Striker to have him intercept the patrol.”

“No way at all,” Kurtzman confirmed.

“Inform our contact in Yemen that there’s a problem. See what assistance he can offer,” Price ordered.

Kurtzman nodded and immediately got to work.

Southern Yemen

MACK BOLAN STAYED at the landing site for ten minutes, waiting, watching, ignoring the cold night air. Nobody came. He had quickly regained his breath; he had hundreds of hours of experience with parachute jumps and had been extensively trained in what to do when things went wrong, but even so, an uncontrolled free fall was something to be avoided. It wasn’t his first bad experience during a jump, and most likely it wouldn’t be his last.

His biggest worry now was the loss of his specialist weapons and equipment. The electronics would be smashed, the guns damaged beyond use. He was now only armed with two pistols, a .50-caliber Desert Eagle and a Beretta 93-R, with its custom sound suppressor. Two hand grenades hung from his combat webbing. He also had a garrote, the knife he cut the chute with, a small map and compass, a tiny flashlight and two hundred US dollars along with several spare magazines of ammunition in various pouches and pockets. Everything else was gone.

Bolan considered the situation for a moment. The mission objectives hadn’t really changed. He would be able to find the terrorist camp from the map; he would still be able to locate and identify Qutaiba. The only difference was his inability to communicate with the Farm. They would in all likelihood still have him under observation via the drone. If he could find a way to signal them, then the mission was still a go. And if he was unable to do so, then he would find a way to remove Qutaiba himself. Then get out of Dodge, avoid the Yemeni army should they show up, rendezvous with the contact and leave Yemen as fast as possible.

Yes, the mission was definitely still a go.

A thousand things could yet go wrong. The drone might have been called off. The powers that be might decide to fire the drone’s Hellfire missiles despite Bolan being unable to report in. His main parachute might be discovered, alerting the terrorists. And who knew where his gear bag had landed. The mission could go to hell in an instant, but the soldier had been in tight spots before and knew exactly how to get out of them. This time would be no different.

Bolan buried his reserve parachute in a shallow hole that he dug with his bare hands. The warm jumpsuit joined the chute in its grave, unlikely to be seen ever again. Now dressed in his combat blacksuit, he quickly checked his weaponry for damage and for sand blockage, before withdrawing the map and compass. Using the miniature flashlight, he roughly worked out his position. Returning the navigation equipment to a pouch on his combat webbing, he straightened and started a slow jog across the loose sand in what he believed to be the correct direction.

The Executioner had a date with a terrorist.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_eadcac8e-8453-55ea-b8ce-523b9dd9348d)

The solitary candle flickered in the draft from the tiny open window, its flame creating and erasing shadowy images in an instant. The black cloth that covered the opening billowed slightly, held in place by four nails hammered hard into the surrounding wall. Zaid abu Qutaiba lay on his camp bed, his left arm tucked behind his head, using it as a pillow since there was no real one to be found. The arm had long since gone to sleep, and Qutaiba knew that it would hurt like hell when he did eventually move. For now he ignored it, lost in the imaginary world that the candlelight formed.

The dancing shadows shaped themselves into the face of a devil, before shifting to a flower, before reimaging into a racing cheetah. Qutaiba’s eyes remained unfocused, seeing but not seeing. In his mind’s eye he focused on only one image set against the backdrop of the yellow light—that of an old, long-lost photograph of his wife and young son smiling happily. It worried him that he was unable to recall their expressions, their mannerisms, their real faces. The only recall was of the photograph, which he had lost when Mossad had closed in on him in Tel Aviv, when he had been forced to dress as a woman to escape their clutches. The loss of the keepsake felt like a betrayal to their memory, and as punishment, it had made his memories of them decay.

Qutaiba could feel a wet line running from his eye to his ear, but ignored it. It was the Americans, of course, always the Americans. There were plenty of Shiite versus Sunni killings. Those were bad with their constant car bombings and suicide attacks, but the Americans had killed his beautiful wife and son; they were the ones who’d sprayed indiscriminate bullets around the marketplace in Kirkuk, not even sparing a backward glance when they left behind the torn bodies of the “insurgents,” including a five-year-old boy and his mother.

Qutaiba had not been there. Having survived the American-led invasion as a captain in the Republican Guard, he had thrown away his uniform and joined the newly reformed police force instead. He’d never cared for Saddam or his warped sons and wanted so much to help rebuild Iraq, even if it meant cooperating with the American occupiers. They would leave eventually, he had reassured his wife, Aya. But they didn’t leave soon enough. A new phenomenon appeared in American warfare—private armies. Supposedly hired to guard diplomats and protect foreign workers, some of these men took their duties too far and saw Iraq as a free-for-all. Anything could be done. No repercussions.

When a patrol of these private mercenaries had stones thrown at them in the marketplace by disenchanted youths, they had retaliated with extreme violence. The youths were gunned down, along with many other shoppers. When their magazines were dry, the mercenaries clambered back into their jeep and left. He could remember the call of the dispatcher over the scratched and battered radio, summoning all to the scene of the massacre. When he had arrived, he had been physically held back by colleagues, who had found the torn bodies of his family.

There was a blank after that, a large blank. Qutaiba imagined that he could remember the funerals the next day, but there was no definition, no clarity. There was a vague image of throwing away his police uniform, which he had been so proud of, but again that could also have been a fictional memory. What he did remember, like a searing pain, was that there had been no claim of responsibility from the Americans. Nothing. No mention of it anywhere. It was just gone, denied as if Aya and his son, Ajmi, had never existed. He’d felt his faith die along with his family. Revenge, vengeance, hate, it all became the same.

He’d sought out the company of the rebels; he’d known who they were and where to find them from his police days. At first they’d been skeptical, but Qutaiba had showed them what he was made of, leading a devastating attack on the Iraqi offices of the private soldiers responsible for the deaths of those he most valued. He’d slaughtered the men inside, shooting the corpses in their faces until all identity had been erased.

The insurgents had been impressed, but Qutaiba had wanted more. He was hungry for it. He’d vowed to kill Americans and their allies wherever they were to be found. He began kidnapping Western soldiers and civilians, making bargains with them in front of the rebels: if they could kill him in single combat with a knife, then they could go free. The prisoner was given a choice of fighting knife. One kidnapped diplomat had cut himself before the fight even started, so Qutaiba promptly had helped the fool by cutting his throat. All of the corpses had been dumped in a prominent part of the city where patrolling soldiers could find them.

He’d come to the attention of al Qaeda, who had taken him under its wing, faith or no faith, molding him into what he was today. He’d discovered a talent for leading and planning, one that the Mullahs, the mad, hypocritical Mullahs, encouraged. Qutaiba felt he was using them as much as they used him and didn’t care if they knew it.

Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Israel, Kenya—all had suffered from his wrath. But still he felt empty; nothing filled the void that he dragged around with him. Maybe, just maybe, the emptiness would go within a day or two, for then would come his greatest attack, one so simple that the Americans would have no time to respond, just as Aya and Ajmi had had no time to respond.

Qutaiba shook himself out of his reverie, closing the door on the ghosts. Blinking, he sat up on the camp bed, cursing as the pain of pins and needles surged through his sleeping left arm. Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabbed the half-filled plastic cup of cheap red wine and took a sip. Not being a devout Muslim had its advantages. He grimaced. The wine had warmed. Awful. Scraping his tongue against his teeth to remove the foulness of the warm wine, he replaced the glass next to a notebook, which he knew he should not have. But there were certain details of the operation that he needed to be reminded of and the notebook was invaluable.

The wooden door opened, and the candle almost gutted itself as an imposing figure stepped into the room. The door slammed shut behind him, the figure neither caring about noise or the intrusion. Qutaiba didn’t need to look up from his position to know who it was. Only Hakim Haddad would enter so, only Haddad lacked the manners and the sensibility to knock first. Only Haddad could repulse him more than all the Americans and Israelis put together. The man was a complete animal, and Qutaiba had to wonder if Haddad had finally come to kill him. Qutaiba’s AK-47 was propped against the wall next to the door, now out of reach. He tried and failed to suppress the shudder that ran through him. To hide it, he reached out for the wine, preferring its foulness over the presence of the Afghan visitor. He heard Haddad’s sharp intake of breath and smiled slightly, noting once again how easy it was to rile the fanatic.

“What do you want, Hakim?” The tiredness in his voice came as a surprise.

“The first group has arrived at the destination. They will begin their attack at the correct time. The rest of our group will arrive shortly. The men are eager for battle. They wish to bathe in the blood of infidels.” Haddad’s voice was a growl, and Qutaiba wondered if Haddad wanted to bathe in his blood, as well. The man certainly viewed him as an infidel, and only the orders of the Mullahs had kept the two men apart. Qutaiba finally turned to look up at the towering Taliban dressed in traditional Perahan Tunban clothing. Whereas Qutaiba grieved the loss of his child every moment, Haddad had actively murdered his own daughter in an honor killing, never blinking, never mourning. The very thought revolted Qutaiba. He wanted the monster gone, out of his single mud-brick room.

“Anything else?”

“I sent extra patrols out. Some men saw something fall out of the sky. They went to look.”

“Fall out of the sky? A bird?”

Haddad glowered. The man was a powder keg; the slightest perceived insult would provoke him. Qutaiba tried to keep his mocking tone in check.

“Perhaps. Or it was a spy or a robot drone. I sent them to look.”

“Yes, Hakim, you did well. Keep me informed.”

Haddad’s demeanor didn’t change as he turned and left the hut. The hate stayed in his eyes. Qutaiba closed his own eyes. It was so debilitating to work with these people, but it was a necessary evil. They were nothing more than cannon fodder. They would all be dead and gone within the next few days; maybe even he would be dead. There was an escape plan, one the pawns did not know about, but Qutaiba didn’t know if he wanted to use it. That empty aching void was dragging him down. The plan would kick into action soon, an attack against the hated enemy, one that would not be forgotten. And during that attack, he would make his peace with Aya and Ajmi, begging their forgiveness as he rushed to join them. It would happen soon.

Nothing could stop it.

* * *

MACK BOLAN, LYING on his stomach, observed the comings and goings of the terrorists from his vantage point atop a large sand dune. Even in the predawn gloom he could clearly see that the men were no normal villagers. Armed with AK-47s, they kept up a loose, sloppy guard. These were men not expecting trouble. They seemed more excited about something than keeping an observant lookout. Bolan could occasionally hear their enthusiastic conversation, even from three hundred yards away, the words too indistinct to discern. He had found this outpost an hour earlier and been in position ever since. It was obvious from the ground that this was no true village. Not one of the mud-brick buildings had been finished, there was no main road leading anywhere, and there were no animals of any kind, not even a chicken.

Situated as it was between the hills and sand dunes, Bolan could conclude that the village had been constructed for only one reason: a hiding place for terrorists. They would know that drones regularly flew overhead, so hiding out in the open made perfect sense. But this place wasn’t yet completed, and that ruined the illusion. Plus, the buildings were too uniform, ten in total, five facing five, with a dirt track between them. No, the village wasn’t complete. They should have waited before occupying the buildings. Yet they didn’t wait, which meant to Bolan that an operation was being planned.

He had counted ten men so far, but no doubt there were more. He managed to identify the barracks building. It was the largest at the end away from him, and most of the activity was focused there. Qutaiba would not be there, being too important too mingle with the common troops. The building opposite was equally large, designed to house vehicles. There was a slight glow emanating out of the darkness, the only unnatural light to be seen. The soldier thought that he could make out a fender of one vehicle but was too far away too be sure. The other buildings were much smaller; the smallest was closest to him. It could contain only a single room, and he had just witnessed a large man enter for a few moments before leaving again. An outhouse, maybe?

Dawn was approaching. He needed to quickly scout out the village, a quick in and out before the morning sun truly arrived. The activity down below seemed to be increasing, and Bolan suspected that the enemy would move out soon, assigned missions to kill and destroy. Time to pay them a visit.

Bolan waited for the two-man patrol to return. In the darkness they had passed him, supposedly on duty but in reality discussing a whorehouse in Aden. He had learned rudimentary Arabic some time ago as part of his ongoing war against terror, and while tough local dialects were hard to follow, these two had spoken clearly enough to be understood.

They were fast approaching, eager to return to the barracks, discussing something about boats and trucks and laughing quietly to themselves. Bolan pushed himself back into the sand as he quietly raised his Beretta 93-R. Once again they passed by Bolan, paying him no heed. He couldn’t wait much longer. In seconds they would be in sight of the village.

With the Italian pistol cupped in both hands, he settled himself on his elbows. Using the luminous dots painted onto the iron sights, he pointed and fired, once, twice, a quiet sneezing of the sound-suppressed weapon that would be inaudible in the village. A red hole appeared in the first man’s head, followed by a hole in his partner’s. There was barely time for a look of surprise before both terrorists collapsed onto the sand, dead.

Bolan waited a moment to see if the sound of the dying men had been heard. It hadn’t. He holstered the pistol, crawling over to the two corpses. Both had stopped twitching. He quickly removed the two AK-47s, examined them, checked the corpses for extra magazines. One rifle was scratched, pitted, uncared for, and Bolan discarded it after removing the banana-shaped magazine. The other weapon was better. One corpse gave up a single, half-full magazine. The other had nothing.

Seventy-five rounds. Not enough to kill a terrorist group with.

But enough to make a start.

The second of the two corpses was the larger of the two, and Bolan began to strip the dead man of his clothing, intending to masquerade as an Arab in the predawn gloom. His appearance might survive a glance, but if somebody stared for more than a few seconds, the flimsy cover would be blown. Bolan pulled the long garment over his head, only to find it was too tight in several places.

Using his knife, he cut several large holes along the seams, under the arms and down around his legs. When it came to combat, the robe would have to be quickly discarded. Replacing the knife in its sheath and slinging the AK-47, Bolan slouched as he made his way down to the village, hopefully looking like a sentry who was bored and tired to anyone who happened to glance his way. The sand shifted under his feet as he trudged down the side of the dune. Would they notice his combat boots under the robe? One of the dead terrorists wore running shoes, while the other had on flip-flops.

His plan of action was foolhardy in the extreme, but he wanted to know if Qutaiba was there. The drone’s Hellfire missiles would blow the place to kingdom come, and if there was no body left to identify, then Qutaiba could very well be elsewhere. Besides, Bolan was also more than a little curious about what the terrorists were plotting.

He fully intended to find out. The hard way if necessary.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_15b6df35-47f1-58d4-b1ff-a3baa2c1ea1c)

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

It was ten o’clock in the evening when Barbara Price returned to the Computer Room in the Annex. Other business had taken her to the farmhouse. She found Hal Brognola—liaison between Stony Man and the White House and joint founder of the Farm—sitting next to Aaron Kurtzman, peering bleary-eyed at the cyberwizard’s monitor. The drone’s-eye view showed Bolan’s location in real time.

Brognola looked up and gave Price a weary nod. She handed him a weak, tired smile before sitting. Kurtzman transferred the image to the main wall screen.

“Status?” Price queried.

“While you were away, Striker eliminated a two-man patrol and is now circling the village. My guess is that he’s making his way toward this building.” Kurtzman used a laser pointer to indicate which building it was. “We believe that it’s a vehicle pool. Striker probably intends to disable anything he finds there.”

“How much longer can the Reaper drone stay in the area?”

“It will stay as long as needed,” Brognola stated. “The President has given this op special consideration—the pilots at Cannon are aware of that.” The Reaper’s pilot was operating the drone out of Cannon Air Force Base near Clovis, New Mexico.

“I sense a but,” Price said. “A big one.”

The men looked at each other briefly before looking back at Price. “Striker may be in a lot of trouble within the next few minutes.” Kurtzman sighed. “We’ve been monitoring this patrol hurrying back to the village. We believe that they’ve found the lost bag.”

“So security will be suddenly increased. That will be awkward. And?”

“And two trucks are rapidly approaching the area. One is full of warm bodies. The other less so.”

“More troops and increased awareness. Can we take out the trucks?”

“The drone could do it, but the explosion will alert the camp. Cannon is on hold, waiting for instructions. There is an Air Force colonel itching to take the place out, man on the ground or not.”

Price grimaced. The military was always looking to fire its guns at anything that moved. She eyed the situation, watching as the figure believed to be Bolan slipped into the largest building.

“The Yemeni army?”

“Is on standby, just outside Aden. The government has been protesting being kept in the dark about foreign incursions on their sovereign soil,” Brognola stated.

Price grimaced again. There were elements in the Yemeni army that would love to send a warning to their terrorist friends. So far the Yemenis had been told nothing, only to keep a focus on a certain direction, the opposite from which Bolan now operated.

She watched the large screen as the terrorist patrol entered the village, the sudden gathering of men around them, of Bolan slipping out of the building, working his way around the back to the smallest hut, stopping, moving in, waiting…then a bright flash where the group of terrorists were. Flickers of light, probably muzzle-flashes from Bolan’s position.

Engagement!

“Instruct Cannon to take out the truck with the most terrorists. Hold back on the other Hellfire missile. Striker might need it later.”

Kurtzman hurriedly relayed the orders; hopefully a pilot would be able to engage the truck in time. Then all three watched as the Executioner went to war, fighting overwhelming odds. Again.

Yemen

FIRST LIGHT.

The garage was to be his first destination. Bolan decided to disable all the vehicles, bar one, which he would commandeer for his extraction.

The soldier had surreptitiously worked his way around the village, avoiding the men who would shoot him on sight. None of them were Qutaiba, of that he was almost certain. None of the terrorists showed any deference to a leader. They seemed satisfied with talking among themselves. Bolan was now content that this was a transit camp. There was no litter, no animal dung, nothing to suggest previous habitation. When the drone strike came, no civilians would be injured or killed.

The soldier worked his way around the back of the mud-brick buildings, crouching, head down. He passed through a narrow alley, more of a gap, between the fourth structure and the garage, taking in the main street, two clusters of men, the closest twenty feet away. Bolan slipped into the garage unobserved.

He found three 4x4 vehicles, all identical. One was parked slightly forward of the rest, its fender protruding slightly outside the building. All three were dark green UAZ-3151 all-terrain vehicles, sometimes referred to as GAZ-69, former Soviet Union. Bolan hadn’t seen this type of vehicle for a while. The UAZ, like the AK-47 rifle, was known for its easy maintenance and reliability. With the collapse of the USSR years earlier, many had been sold off. It was the perfect transport for the terrorists: old enough not to be noticed and reliable enough to get them quickly around the desert. All three showed their age, both inside and out, but that did not bother Bolan. What did interest him was the ignition key in the first vehicle’s slot. Bolan smiled grimly. At least something would go right on this mission. The only question was would the vehicle start?

Bolan turned sharply at a sudden noise that emanated from the rear of the building. Somebody was moving around by the third UAZ. Bolan drew the silenced Beretta and crept forward. He could now see a faded light beneath the vehicle, a flashlight whose batteries were all but finished. A man was working his way from under the UAZ, yawning. The Executioner moved fast, stepping over to the terrorist. The man saw him, mistook his identity due to the poor light and opened his mouth to say something. Bolan fired a single Parabellum round. The guy’s head snapped against the concrete, the bullet ricocheting out the exit wound in the back of his head. The terrorist died without making a sound.

Bolan ducked behind the second 4x4, waiting for someone to respond to the noise. Nobody did. He rose slowly, weapon ready, expecting trouble. Nobody was waiting for him to appear, no shouts of alarm. Bolan turned his attention back to the UAZs. He pocketed the keys from the first vehicle before approaching the second two. He worked his way around both 4x4s, removing the ignition keys and flinging them as far as he could into the sand.

To counter the chance that somebody would have a reserve set, he returned to the corpse. Placing his AK-47 on the floor, Bolan removed his knife and began cutting chunks of cloth out of the mechanic’s clothing. Then he rolled the cloth into balls, which he stuffed into the tailpipes of the UAZs, pushing each in hard with the tip of his knife. He repeated the procedure several times for both vehicles, wanting to be sure that the engines would choke out on the built-up gases in the event that somebody did manage to start both 4x4s.

The Executioner glanced up from his work and realized that he was out of time. It was now light enough to see by, the sun having risen fast. He finished sabotaging the two vehicles and stood, quickly cutting away the robe. The garment would only hinder him now. He ducked as two terrorists entered the barracks opposite the garage. They paid no interest to the motor pool. Bolan crouch-walked to the entrance and peeked around the corner. Very little had changed in the time that he’d been busy. There were still two groups of terrorists, and it appeared that neither contained Qutaiba. He exited the garage quickly, silently, back up the way that he had come. The sound of raucous laughter reached his ears. The men were too preoccupied to notice anything amiss; all was working to Bolan’s advantage. He reached the space between the second unfinished building and the outhouse, its door facing the opposite building’s wall.

He was about to move between the two buildings when he heard raised voices, recognizing several words.

American! Intruder!

The silent probe was over. It was all about to get noisy. Bolan raised his AK-47, moved to the corner of the second building, observing what the terrorists were doing.

Two new men had arrived, hurrying into the village, talking excitedly, clasping something large between them. The largest knot of men had stood back, allowing the patrol to present their findings to a large, bearded thug. Bolan recognized the type, a man who used his intimidating presence to bully others, killing those who were not in awe of him. The men moved around, trying to get a better look at the discovery, and for a second Bolan saw it, as well.

It was his gear bag, which he had cut loose during the parachute jump.

Bolan cursed softly to himself. He slipped a hand grenade from his web harness, watching as the bearded thug upended the gear bag, tipping the contents onto the sand. There was consternation from the men, then the Beard began shouting orders, pointing in different directions. Bolan pulled the pin on the grenade and let the bomb fly, aiming for the pile of equipment at the Beard’s feet. Bolan ducked behind the corner of the building, counting off the seconds. There were shouts and screams as the terrorists recognized the grenade.

The bomb detonated, a loud crump among the yells. Bolan spun out of his hiding place, his liberated rifle raised to his shoulder. Several men, including the Beard, were on the ground, dead or getting there fast. More were picking themselves up or standing still in shock. Bolan opened fire, the AK-47 on full-auto. Years of experience helped him keep the bucking rifle under control; the muzzle rising only slightly, Bolan swept it from left to right. Men screamed and died as a storm of metal cut through them, sending them to join the Beard in whatever hell awaited them.

Chips of mud brick exploded above Bolan’s head as a terrorist from farther back along the street attempted to return fire. In his excitement his aim was off by at least a foot. There would be no second chances for the man. Bolan fired a quick burst, on target, the shooter shuddering as the high-velocity ammunition cut through him, throwing him onto his back. The soldier released the magazine from his weapon, unsure of how many rounds were left, slammed another one in, arming the rifle even as a group of terrorists tumbled out of the barracks, weapons at the ready, looking for something to shoot. Bolan supplied them with a target as he opened up, delivering a greeting card of death. The three screamed and shook as they were cut down, not having a chance to respond. A fourth man stood in the doorway, clearly seeing Bolan’s position, then ducked back into the barracks. The soldier fired several shots into the open door, wanting to discourage any resistance. A rifle muzzle poked around the base of the frame, firing in his general direction, no hope of hitting anything. Bolan dodged back, preparing to retreat to the motor pool, where he would be able to lob his final grenade into the building.

The firefight had lasted all of ten seconds so far. Bolan had taken only two steps when a muffled boom brought him up short. Somewhere in the distance there had been an explosion, a large one. He paused for a second, briefly considering what it was before focusing on priorities. Another step. The door of the outbuilding opened. Qutaiba stood there, his AK-47 pointing directly at Bolan’s head.

* * *

THE ACHE RETURNED a few moments after Hakim Haddad had left his room, the constant nagging ache. Qutaiba did his best to ignore it, blinking away the image of the lost photograph. He picked up the notebook, hoping to hide away in the grand plan, wanting to hide anywhere. He flicked through the pages, not really seeing the words or occasional diagram. He should burn the notebook. He would do so in a moment. The trucks would arrive, they would leave in a convoy, reach their destination, take control and use it against the Americans. A thousand things could go wrong, but Qutaiba and the Mullahs had prepared for most eventualities. He considered the class of militants that was supplied to be a liability, but the Mullahs assured him that the men would perform well when the time came, that they would all be welcomed into heaven with open arms. Qutaiba hadn’t believed a word.

And now the time was here. A lasting, painful strike against America. A major target. An act of revenge for those two lives taken from him. He blinked, knowing that he was slipping away again. “Focus,” he snapped out loud. The attempt might fail, he knew, but it would be noted and reported. It would make news around the world. And that would be success enough.

Qutaiba had to have drifted off, because the next thing he heard was excited shouting coming from outside. The thick walls muted what was being said, but it sounded as if the men had found something. Maybe Haddad’s mysterious falling bird. Qutaiba rose to his feet and walked to the door.

Chaos had erupted.

A muffled crump was followed by screams, followed by a lot of shooting.

They had been discovered.

Qutaiba froze for several seconds, unable to believe that the plan was about to fail. Not now. Maybe some of the men were shooting at shadows. No, there was too much chaos. He picked up his AK-47, checked that the safety was off and that the weapon was armed. He opened the door, ready to fire.

A black-clad stranger stood in front of him. Rage engulfed Qutaiba in an instant. The man was the very type of commando who had murdered his family, his dreams. He brought the rifle into play, raising it to his shoulder, pointing it at the intruder’s head, pointing it where the intruder’s head had been a split second before. The commando had dropped to his knees. Qutaiba fired too late, bullets smacking into the wall. He began to adjust his aim, fighting the recoil. Too late. Too slow. He didn’t have time to scream his frustrations. The commando had whipped around his own AK-47, holding it one-handed, firing at Qutaiba’s chest…

* * *

BOLAN FIRED HIS KALASHNIKOV, the first four rounds slamming into Qutaiba’s chest, three more missing altogether. The terrorist flew backward, arms outstretched, his weapon fallen from his hands. Bolan rose to his knees, approached his enemy, his weapon pointing at the terrorist’s head. Qutaiba shuddered as life went out of him. Bolan checked vital signs, making sure he really was dead, then scooped up the fallen AK-47. His own was virtually depleted; Qutaiba’s most likely had a nearly full magazine. He didn’t have time to search the room that Qutaiba had been inhabiting. He could hear an engine in the distance, rapidly approaching. Reinforcements? A small blue notebook on the table caught his eye. Bolan glanced quickly around, making sure that no one was bringing him into target acquisition. He saw nothing, took the chance, darted into the room, snatched up the notebook and stuffed it into one of the side pockets on his combat suit.

Time to go.

He quickly reloaded the AK-47 with his final full magazine; the partially loaded one he tucked back into his combat webbing. Stepping over the corpse, he brought up his gun, ready to fire at anybody standing outside. Nobody was around. He returned to his original position of attack, to see if anyone there was pursuing him, to see if the barracks had disgorged more men. Bodies lay everywhere, none moving. His gear bag lay on the ground, surrounded by the dead, its contents spread around. Bolan would gather it later if he got a chance.

At the top of the village road he observed a truck stopping, braking hard. Three men jumped out of the cab, yelling incoherently, waving their arms in panic. They stopped dead when they spotted the carnage of their fallen friends. Their silence lasted a second, no more. Bolan was bringing his sights to bear when the three split off in different directions. He cursed as he saw one plunge into the garage. He would now have to hunt the three plus the other survivors cowering in the barracks. Bolan ducked back into cover, quickly retracing his steps around the back of the building, passing Qutaiba’s tiny building again. He spun around the corner, rifle ready, only to slam into two terrorists creeping up on his rear.

The two terrorists barreled into him, their mouths open in shock. Bolan reacted without thinking, without allowing surprise to distract him. The Executioner dropped his AK-47, stepped in close, grabbed the left guy by the throat and head butted him full force. The man’s nose collapsed, spraying blood. The guy screamed, hands reaching for his face even as Bolan was swatting away the barrel of the second terrorist’s weapon. With his hand still around the throat of Broken Nose, the soldier brought up his right foot, then slammed the sole of his combat boot down on the knee of the second terrorist. The guy joined his screaming friend as his kneecap shattered. The terrorist fell, all the fight going out of him as he was overwhelmed by pain.

However, Broken Nose wasn’t finished. As he clawed for his holstered handgun, Bolan drew his Desert Eagle. He pushed the barrel into his adversary’s chest, squeezing the trigger, simultaneously releasing his stranglehold on the man’s throat. The gun fired at point-blank range, the muzzle velocity throwing the terrorist through the air, an exit hole the size of an orange in his back. Satisfied that the kneecapped terrorist was no immediate threat, Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and snatched up the dropped AK-47. He had no time to check the dead for ammunition. The thunder of the .50 Desert Eagle would have advertised his position to everyone in the area.

With his AK-47 leading the way, Bolan walked to the end of the village, to the final building, the motor pool. He could hear shouting, panicked voices encouraging one another to seek out the enemy. There were several shots, nothing remotely aimed in Bolan’s direction. They were firing at shadows, hoping to provoke some sort of response from their invisible attackers. Bolan worked his way down to the edge of the edifice, quickly scouting out the situation. The truck was parked in the middle of the street, between the barracks and the garage, blocking his view of the enemy.

Bolan dropped to his belly and peered under the truck. As he suspected, two terrorists were hiding beneath the cab, calling out to the others, one of whom replied from the barracks. When they believed that there was nothing to fear, they would emerge from their hiding places. But Bolan didn’t want to wait that long. The clock was counting down in his head. It was only a matter of time before somebody in America gave the order to destroy the village. Bolan wanted to be long gone before then. He drew the Beretta, holding it two-handed, resting on his elbows, pointing it at the back of one of the terrorists’ heads.


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_43bacedf-ae27-5f82-85a0-3e6f4e037594)

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“Mr. President, that isn’t enough time. Striker is still on the ground...Yes, sir...I understand that, but we need more time. The target still has not been confirmed…A firefight does indicate the presence of militants, yes, but…Yes, sir, I’ll inform them.”

Brognola broke the connection to the White House. He looked up at Price and Kurtzman. “The President has been convinced by the Joint Chiefs and other advisers that they need to strike now. The Hellfire missile is going to be fired. The remaining truck will be the target. Striker has less than five minutes remaining.” The big Fed turned his attention to the large screen. “How many terrorists are left?”

“Five,” Kurtzman said. “Five and a half. We’ve been tracking this guy here.” With a laser pointer, he indicated a figure moving slowly around the rear of the buildings toward Bolan’s position. “I think that he’s severely wounded by the way that he moves. I doubt that he will be much of a threat to Striker.”

“Where is Striker now?”

“Under the truck,” Price replied.

“Oh, God in heaven! Get out of there, Striker, get out now!”

Yemen

HE TWITCHED. HE GROANED.

Pain washed over him in waves. Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. A tiny voice told him that he was injured, that a hand grenade had exploded, that he was dead unless he moved.

Hakim Haddad groaned again and attempted to open his eyes. He was blind! He couldn’t see! He panicked; his hand shot up to his face. His fingers found his left open eye by accident, causing more pain as he poked it too hard. Wincing, he felt for his right eye. There was nothing there. A hollow space. Gone.

Haddad screamed in terror and frustration. Before he realized it, he had rolled onto his front. His mouth filled with sand and dirt. He stopped screaming and started to gag. Choking, fighting the horror, Haddad forced himself to calm down, take deep ragged breaths.

The infidels had taken his eye!

Trying to remember what had happened took an age. The agony was everywhere. He blinked, finally seeing some light through his left eye. He could see his blackened fingers covered in sand. Sanity was returning. There had been a bag, a soldier’s bag. They had emptied it, turning it upside down. Military equipment had spilled out. Weapons. There had been a clatter, which he had heard above the excited chattering of his men. He watched the grenade roll, thinking at first it had fallen from the bag. But he saw that it had no pin and realized that it had been thrown. He pushed the man closest to him toward the grenade, turning…

Haddad praised Allah for placing an unworthy soul next to him, an inconsequential soldier who should have been glad to sacrifice himself to save his leader. The man had taken the full brunt of the explosion, his body shredding in slow motion, the velocity of the steel ball bearings in the grenade vastly decreasing as they passed through his body and then struck Haddad. He knew nothing after that.

He understood that Allah had saved him, had guided his actions. That soldier would now be feasting in paradise. Hakim muttered a quick prayer. It wasn’t his place to understand what Allah wanted, he knew. But he could guess. Vengeance. Destruction of the attacking infidels.

He closed his eyes—his eye—breathing, just breathing. He attempted to rise. The pain flooded back and Haddad fell onto his face. He pushed himself up onto his knees, rocking back and forth, waves of nausea washing over him. Eye closed, he listened. There was shooting, a lot of it, close by. The infidels were still here. His men were brave, resisting. He would join them. Lead them. Set an example.

Qutaiba.

The name popped into his mind. That man was their true leader. And an infidel with his alcohol-drinking ways. He meant to kill Qutaiba. He had been waiting for the right moment—now it had arrived. Kill the man and blame it on the ambushers. The great Mullahs would understand what had happened and expect him to lead. Except he didn’t know the details of the attack. Only Qutaiba did. But he had a book, a little blue book. He had to find it before the enemy did.

Hakim opened his eye. He could now focus. He turned his head slowly, painfully to the left to see the bodies of his men lying on the ground, ripped apart by the grenade. He got to his feet with difficulty. He saw stars, staggered forward and found a warm mud-brick wall to lean against. He gasped. More nausea. He needed a weapon, something to kill Qutaiba with. He didn’t want to bend to pick up a fallen weapon. If he did, he might stumble and fall, never to regain his feet. His right hand moved down his robes, feeling, patting. Somewhere…yes, there. He withdrew an old Russian pistol his father had taken off the body of a Soviet soldier. He stood upright, breathed deeply, then turned and reeled toward Qutaiba’s building.

He tripped several times but didn’t fall, keeping his balance, windmilling his arms. He stopped outside the hut, at first not comprehending what he was seeing. Qutaiba lay there, red holes in his chest. The attackers had already been here. Good. The Mullahs could not blame him for this. Where was the book, the little blue book? Haddad lurched into the room, standing on Qutaiba’s bullet-riddled chest. Blood oozed out, covering his boots. Hakim didn’t notice. The book had been on the table, next to the devil’s drink. It was gone. Rage filled him. He had to find the book! It was important. He didn’t know exactly what Qutaiba had written in there, but it had to have been important. He had to get it back.

Outside he teetered to the back of the buildings, inadvertently following Bolan’s path. There lay two more soldiers, one man’s chest soaked in crimson. The other Hakim recognized but was unable to recall the man’s name. He seemed to be alive, but one leg was covered with blood. They had been a patrol that he had sent out. Was he the only man alive, the only man able to challenge the intruders? There was shooting somewhere, as if to remind him that there were other survivors, waiting for his leadership. He looked up and saw a shadow, a man in black, duck behind the end building. Haddad knew that this was the man that he was destined to kill, the reason why Allah had spared him. He moved forward, one foot in front of the other, the pistol heavy in his right hand, using his left for support against the walls of the buildings.

He finally reached the end of the row. He swung around the corner, pistol raised, fully expecting to find his target cowering and begging for mercy. Nothing. Only empty space. There was more shooting close by, panicked yelling. An explosion. He fell backward two steps. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black-clad commando dart up between the garage and middle building, run back down the way Haddad had just come, then duck into another alleyway. The devil was fast. Haddad staggered after his enemy, feeling more and more light-headed. Pain seared where his right eye had been.

For a second, sanity returned. He was pursuing a single man. A single man had done all this? Had taken down his handpicked soldiers, men who he had trained himself? Impossible. The enemy could not be that good!

Haddad reached the alley between two buildings. There was the enemy commando, kneeling, waiting to fire. Haddad grinned. He would get close, raise his pistol, witness the fear in the demon’s eyes, then pull the trigger, sending the evil into oblivion. He crept, swaying, down the alley. Up ahead he saw one of his men run straight into the enemy’s gun sights. The infidel showed no mercy, gunning the brave soldier down. The man’s weapon locked on empty. Haddad had him; now would be his chance. He raised his pistol, trying to bring the shaking in his arm under control. The commando in black stood, turned to face him. He dropped the rifle and reached for a sidearm. Haddad pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

There was a strong mechanical resistance. He tried again. Then it dawned on him that he had neglected to release the safety. He had failed. Completely.

As Haddad’s enemy raised his own pistol, the terrorist hoped that Allah would still welcome him with open arms.

* * *

MACK BOLAN SQUEEZED the trigger of the Beretta, its muffled shot hidden behind the firing of another terrorist’s AK-47. The target jerked, all life exiting in an instant. His friend didn’t notice, as he was too busy shooting at shadows. Bolan introduced him to real shadows with his second silenced shot. The village went quiet, the silence broken only by the ticking of the cooling truck engine. Bolan wormed his way backward, out from under the truck, regained his feet and his AK-47.

Frenzied calling erupted, coming from the barracks. Another voice joined in. Bolan was certain that there was still another man in the area, the one he had seen jump out of the truck. But which two had he just shot? Had the two in the barracks been joined by a third or was the third man hiding somewhere else? Bolan decided to check out the garage quickly before lobbing a grenade into the barracks. The men in the barracks opened up, their Kalashnikovs spraying bullets in full-auto mode. Several slammed into the truck, glass shattering. Bolan ducked, not believing that they knew his position. Again they were just firing for effect. He crouch-walked into the garage, peering under the vehicles. Nothing, only the body of the mechanic. Bolan nodded, satisfied. Then he worked his way down to the front of the truck, noting that he had enough space to drive the UAZ out of the garage.

Two terrorists poked their rifle barrels out of an open window, looking for something to shoot. Hidden behind the front wheel, Bolan removed his final grenade from his combat webbing. He pulled the pin, waited all of a second, then spun out from hiding, lobbing the grenade in a perfect arc through the open window. He ducked back behind the wheel, hearing the screams of the two terrorists, feeling the loud crump as the bomb detonated. The screaming stopped. Quiet returned.

Bolan poked his head around the truck, eyeing the village. Had he taken them all out? A barrage of bullets gave him his answer, the rounds hammering into the truck just above him, the headlight and light cluster shattering, the front tire detonating from the sudden release of air pressure. The soldier moved, fast. He rocketed away from the truck, down the alley between the garage and the fourth building, autofire tearing chunks out of the walls as he passed. Sprinting, he tore around the corner, then right, up the next alley. He slowed as he approached the end, dropping to his knees, his AK-47 up and searching.

The remaining terrorist was somewhere on the other side of the street. Where? The man stepped out of a building opposite, eyes fixed on Bolan’s last-known position by the truck, then took off down the street, screaming wildly. Bolan opened fire, stitching the man with a burst of fire. The terrorist staggered a few more steps and fell face forward. Bolan’s rifle locked on empty.

He was regaining his feet when he heard shuffling behind him. Dropping his empty AK-47, the Executioner spun, right hand reaching for his Desert Eagle. He was too late. The apparition behind him, covered in blood, an eye missing from its socket, had already raised a Makarov pistol. The barrel was wavering, the guy unable to hold it straight. Bolan briefly recognized him as the big thug who had emptied the gear bag onto the street. Bolan’s Desert Eagle cleared its holster. He brought the weapon into target acquisition and fired, the .50-caliber round all but decapitating the half-blind man. The corpse fell backward, the pistol falling from nerveless fingers.

That had been close. Bolan reloaded the Desert Eagle and waited, crouching, ready to fire. There was no more movement. All resistance had been neutralized. After several moments he rose to his feet and walked slowly into the street. Death was everywhere. The barracks were on fire; soon it would consume the interior of the building. Bolan moved cautiously toward the garage.

How many men had he killed in the last five minutes? He had no idea, and didn’t bother with a count. Killing was something he would never get used to. His only respite from remorse was knowing that for every enemy he killed at least one innocent life had been saved somewhere. He reached the building without incident. Climbing into the UAZ, he adjusted the seat to fit his six-foot-three frame and inserted the ignition key. The engine turned over once, twice, then fired. Bolan shifted into First and slowly accelerated out of the garage and around the truck. He stopped the vehicle by the ruins of his gear bag and climbed out, leaving the engine running, gearshift in Neutral. Bolan stepped around the corpses of the fallen terrorists and began to retrieve the damaged equipment, not wanting to leave it behind for somebody else to find and then accuse the United States of interference. As he heaved the contents into the back of the jeep, the reserve satellite phone began to buzz. Bolan grabbed it, opening the connection.

“Striker…”

“Get out! Get out now! Run!” Kurtzman yelled.

Bolan dropped the phone to the ground, jumped into the vehicle and threw it into gear. He stamped the accelerator, the driver’s door open, flapping as the vehicle shot away from the village. Behind him, in his rearview mirror, the truck at the end of the village turned into a fireball as the Hellfire missile struck, rendering it only twisted metal. The garage, the burning barracks and several neighboring buildings turned to rubble in a blinding flash. The shock wave shook the UAZ. Bolan fought hard to keep it under control.

The soldier stopped to observe the village when he was sufficiently far away. The buildings that hadn’t collapsed were burning fiercely. Thick smoke rose into the sky from the garage and truck wreckage. He knew that the Yemeni army would be on its way, ready to clean up and take credit for his actions.

It was time to make his way to the rendezvous point, to meet his contact and to get out of Yemen before anybody realized that he was there.


CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_bb9d0d30-2632-5cfe-bb15-f8827b352812)

It was destined to be another scorching day in Yemen. The sun was already high, the sky bright blue, not a cloud in sight. Nelson Thompson pushed his shades back up his sweaty nose and took a sip of warm water from the plastic bottle. The contact was late. Thompson would give him a few more minutes before relocating to another position a couple of miles away and waiting there for a short while. If the contact still didn’t show up, then it was time to report in and retreat back to Aden.

Thompson tried to ignore the large column of thick smoke behind him to the east, searching instead to the west where another column of black smoke, this one much thinner, was attracting the attention of several Yemeni army helicopters.

Thompson shifted uncomfortably. He had been born in Phoenix, Arizona, so the desert heat didn’t really bother him. He grimaced as the familiar ache shot through his right leg, a leg he no longer had. He shifted his weight to his left, cursing the phantom pains in his artificial limb.

His official profession was that of freelance journalist, keeping tabs on the political situation in Yemen for several big newspapers back home. Unofficially he was to keep an eye out for terrorist activity and feed the information back to a contact in the Justice Department.

Several years ago he had been a Ranger and loved every minute of it. The training, the assignments, the various wars in foreign countries—it all fulfilled him in a way that life back home in Arizona could not. Then it all changed. He had been at Fort Benning when orders had come in specifically for him. A new assignment, a special job, nobody had known what it was or where he was being sent. The only thing he’d discovered was that an unknown somebody had recommended him.

A week later he’d been standing in a field in the Blue Ridge Mountains, dressed in civilian clothes and armed with a submachine gun and instructed by his new CO, one Buck Greene, to guard a farmhouse with his life. He had been rotated into a team of professional guards known only as blacksuits. Welcome to Stony Man Farm.

He threw himself into his six-month assignment, knowing that the oath he’d sworn would not allow him to discuss the six months with his fellow Rangers back at Benning.

Three months into his rotation he and a small team of blacksuits had accompanied a five-man team on a mission to Central America. Thompson had stepped on a Claymore and lost most of his right leg. That had ended his stint with both the blacksuits and the Rangers.

While in the hospital, a government type had visited him and told him that the blacksuits looked after their own and offered to cover all expenses for any retraining Thompson needed.

Thompson had recovered, accepted the offer and had become a journalist. With a helping hand from his Justice Department contact, he was employed by a national newspaper. Due to his combat experience, he was often sent to war zones. In exchange for the assistance, Thompson had agreed to keep an eye out for anything that might be of interest, particularly terrorist activities in whatever country he was visiting. Never once had he queried why his contact was from Justice and not State.

The previous day he had been leaving Aden International Airport after covering a story about international aid when he had spotted a known terrorist. After sending a text message over his phone using a special number, he’d followed the man at a discreet distance. Once in the desert, when he could no longer follow his quarry, he’d texted that, as well. A reply had come through a few minutes later. The target was being tracked. Meet a man at specific coordinates in the morning and assist him with exfiltration. Nothing more.

Thompson took another sip of water. Still waiting. The game of spies was deadly dull. Apart from the helicopters, apart from the distant long-gone sounds of a car, there had been nothing. No sign of life anywhere. He turned his attention to the larger column of smoke coming from Aden.

As he did so, he felt the cold muzzle of a pistol being pressed behind his left ear. Thompson knew in that dreadful moment that either his skills had deteriorated so much that he deserved to be shot or the guy holding the pistol was the stealthiest bastard he would ever come across. He tensed, waiting for the bullet.

“Six Alpha Green.” It was the sound of a chilling graveyard whisper.

“Alpha Deep Six” was his response. The gun was lowered and Thompson breathed out. He raised his hands cautiously into the air. “May I turn around now?”

“Yeah. But do it slowly and put your hands down.”

Thompson did as instructed and turned to face an apparition from hell. The man was covered in dried blood, sand and combat cosmetics—his face, his hands, as well as the all-too-familiar blacksuit. The man stared back, his ice-blue eyes penetrating deep, inadvertently causing Thompson to flinch. It took the African-American several seconds to find his voice, during which the man holstered his Beretta.

“Shit! You sure know how to make a guy turn white. I must be slipping to have allowed you to sneak up on me like that.” Thompson caught himself babbling and reddened, feeling unprofessional. He tried again. “Hey, um, I recognize you. You used to train with us sometimes. Buck called you Striker. Damn, you were good.”

“You’re making me blush. Where’s your car?”

“Just down the slope, on the other side of the road. I brought some water so you can wash, and a change of clothes. When you’re finished, we can head out to the safehouse. But I have no idea how to get you out of the country quickly. And what should I call you?”

“Cooper. What’s the problem with the evac?”

“See for yourself.” Thompson pointed in the direction of Aden, to the thick column of black smoke, which was now spreading across the sky.

* * *

MACK BOLAN HAD already seen the pillar of smoke. He turned to Thompson for an explanation.

“It’s the airport. A passenger flight from Turkey crashed about an hour ago. From what I heard on the radio, it appears that there was a Mayday, a fire on board, and an emergency landing was attempted. Other than that…” He shrugged. “The city will be bogged down in traffic. The airport is more or less right in the middle of Aden. It will be closed for a quite a while. I’m missing one hell of a story.”

Bolan gazed at him, wondering if Thompson was missing the point of the tragedy. People had died. People who had lives, dreams. It was more than just “a story.”

“If it’s a story you want, then I’ll give you one,” he said coldly, “but for now you have an unexpected guest who needs an alternative method of extraction. Return to your car. I’ll join you in a few minutes with my vehicle. I need to transfer a few things over.”

Thompson nodded and hobbled away, his artificial foot making scuff prints in the sand. Bolan watched him for a few moments before turning his attention to the distant, burning village on the far horizon. Shielding his eyes, he could just make out the two helicopters buzzing around, searching for survivors. The army troops would find the tracks of his UAZ once they got over the initial shock of finding so many bullet-riddled bodies. Time was of the essence.

He started to jog toward the dunes where the UAZ was hidden. The sun was searing.

It took him several minutes to reach the vehicle, start it and drive to where Thompson was waiting, the trunk of his white Peugeot car open. Bolan hopped out, opened the rear and prepared to transfer his equipment.

Thompson spoke up. “You do know that we have to pass through several checkpoints before we can enter the city, don’t you?”

Bolan closed his eyes, disappointed with himself. Of course he knew that. Lack of sleep had made him lax. He had been on the go for almost thirty-six hours. The catnap in the Hercules had done nothing to ease his weariness. He nodded. “We’ll have to bury the equipment and burn the vehicle. My fingerprints are all over it. Just in case.” He sighed, knowing that he had wasted precious time. He pulled an entrenching tool out of the UAZ and proceeded to dig a shallow hole at the side of the road. He chucked the ruined gear bag in along with the remains of his sniper rifle, several grenades and various other items for which he no longer had a use. He noticed that the sat phone was missing. He thought it had fallen into the back of the UAZ when Kurtzman had yelled at him, but now realized that it had been left behind in the village. Another mistake.

Kurtzman would be able to remotely erase any electronic footprints, but it was still careless to have left it behind. Too much was going wrong with this mission. He refilled the hole and scattered the remaining sand. “I’ll drive your vehicle over the hill and burn it,” Thompson said. “You really need to get yourself cleaned up. There’s a small compartment under the passenger seat. You can stash the hardware there. It’s also where your papers are hidden. They were rushed over to me during the night. You’re now a freelance journalist like me. Water is in the trunk. Once the UAZ is burning, we’ll have to move. Another smoke column will attract the choppers.”

Bolan opened the hidden compartment as Thompson drove away. Inside he found a passport along with forged Yemeni travel documents. The name inside the passport was Mike Blanski. He smiled. That was one name he thought had been put to rest long ago. The passport looked a little tatty, and Bolan wondered where it had come from, where it had been stashed. A picture of his younger self stared back. How many miles had he traveled since he’d last held this?

He removed and reloaded his weapons before placing them in the compartment. The blue notebook of Qutaiba’s joined the two guns. If anybody did a thorough search, then they would be quickly discovered. In the trunk he found a bowl to be used as a basin and a gallon of water in a large plastic bottle. A bar of soap had also been provided. A white shirt, a pair of jeans and a pair of casual training shoes, all cheap imitations of famous American makes, lay neatly inside.

Bolan stripped off his ripped bloodstained blacksuit and proceeded to wash himself all over. Within minutes he felt human again. He dressed, the clothes a perfect fit, then buried the blacksuit and his combat boots in the sand. Somewhere over the dune there was a muffled whump, the familiar sound of a gasoline explosion. A few moments later he saw Thompson working his way down to the car. Bolan poured the bowl of soapy water into the sand, slammed the trunk shut and waited.

Thompson grinned when he got close to Bolan.

“Wow, you sure look pretty enough to ask to the prom.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Let’s go before they see that.” A column of smoke was working its way into the air.

“Yeah.” Thompson got into the vehicle and turned the engine over. The old car belched black exhaust fumes, coughed, then caught. Thompson grinned again at Bolan, who was climbing into the passenger seat. “Well, she ain’t pretty, that’s for sure, but I keep the engine fine-tuned, and she won’t attract any undue attention. There are hundreds of them in Aden.” He put the automatic transmission into Drive and accelerated away.

“Why haven’t we seen any traffic on this road?” Bolan asked.

“It’s a road that goes nowhere. I have no idea why it was built. But we’ll be joining the main highway in a moment, and it’ll get a little busier.”

It did get busier on the main highway. As they traveled toward Aden, they encountered several troop trucks heading in the opposite direction.

“They’re probably going to see where you were playing.”

Bolan didn’t reply.

“There’s a camera on the backseat. Hang it around your neck. You’ll look the part of a journalist to them.”

Bolan leaned back and grabbed an old Nikon digital camera. “Does it work?”

“Sure does. I’ve even taken a few photos of the desert if they care to inspect it. They’ll stop us at the checkpoints and ask us what we’re up to. We’ll say something about following the troop trucks for a story, got turned back and now we’re on our way to the airport to cover that story. I have some money to slip into the passports, for administration purposes you understand. Say, are you going to tell me what happened back there? What happened to Qutaiba? It was Qutaiba, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn, I knew it. Oh, this is going to be on the front page of the New York Times.” Thompson glanced at Bolan. “I can report this, can’t I?”

“As long as all credit goes to the brave Yemeni army who tracked and engaged Qutaiba in a gun battle, killing all of his terrorist team while sustaining no casualties themselves. Something like that.”

“Damn. And they won’t even give you a medal for what you did.”

“That’s the way it goes.” Bolan leaned back and closed his eyes. “I found a notebook of Qutaiba’s. I haven’t had time to look at it yet. We’ll need to decipher it when we get to your place. How much farther is it?”

“Depends. Without checkpoints and disasters, about an hour. But this one wasn’t here this morning, and it looks like they’re checking all cars.”

Bolan’s eyes snapped open as Thompson brought the car to a halt behind a truck full of bleating goats. There were at least another four cars in front. The barricade was no more than a couple of military-style jeeps parked on either side of the road and two wooden barriers, which could be raised and lowered. Half a dozen soldiers milled around.

The Executioner closed his eyes again. There was no point in looking nervous. It was just another day for a freelance journalist with a job to do. Just another checkpoint. Thompson didn’t seem nervous, either. The man had to pass through roadblocks every time he left the city. Three cars, then two, then one. It was the truck’s turn. The driver chatted with the soldiers a few minutes before being waved through.

Thompson drove the car to the makeshift barrier, smiling at the soldiers. They didn’t seem impressed, especially after spotting a white man in the passenger seat. Thompson was instructed to turn off his engine. A young soldier held his hand out for papers, never taking his eyes off Bolan or Thompson. The others stood back, hands on their AK-47s. The young soldier scanned the documents for a few seconds, discovered a small pile of US dollars hidden within and slid the money into his top pocket. He looked down at Thompson.

“Who this?” he asked in heavily accented English, indicating Bolan with his chin.

“Why, my new colleague!” Thompson said. “We came out looking for a story for our newspaper.”

“How you find story in desert?”

“Well—” Thompson lowered his voice conspiratorially “—I have a friend in the glorious Yemeni army, quite high up, a colonel, and he told me that you guys had a big gunfight out here somewhere in the desert. So my friend and I, well, we came looking. But then some soldiers turned us back, saying they would shoot us if we didn’t go away. So now we’re going to the airport to see what story is there.”

How much the soldier understood wasn’t clear, but he seemed to get the gist of it. He continued to stare suspiciously at Bolan and Thompson before finally waving them through. Whether it was the bribe that convinced the soldier, the mention of knowing a colonel or a combination of both, Bolan didn’t know. Thompson let out a breath, muttered something about good luck and drove away from the checkpoint at a cautious speed, apparently not wanting to raise further suspicion.

“The first of many,” he said.

Bolan closed his eyes again. The sun beat down. Thompson turned his inefficient car cooling system to full. Warm air blasted into Bolan’s face. He adjusted the vents so that they pointed toward his feet, then he dozed off.

They passed through another army checkpoint on the outskirts of the city. The situation was no different from the first: some money in one of the passports, answer a few questions about journalism, mention a nonexistent colonel and be waved through.

The city appeared in the distance. They passed the outlying buildings, billboards advertising cola, jeans, cars. Bolan asked for the cell phone, and Thompson passed it over. There was a strong signal. The soldier typed in a long number and waited for it to ring. The number was good for one call. Once used, the number would be reassigned by one of the phone companies, becoming a launderette or pizza parlor. The signal would pass through many cell phone providers and bounce off several satellites before being answered. The entire electronic journey took two seconds.

“Yes,” a disembodied voice answered.

“Six Alpha Green,” Bolan replied.

The phone clicked a few times, then Barbara Price came on the line.

“Striker?”

“Affirmative. The line is unsecure.”

“Understood.”

Bolan reached for the dashboard and turned the car’s roaring air system down in order to hear what was being said.

“Our friend was at the location, but had to depart quickly to meet his maker.”

“Understood.” There was slight relief in Price’s voice at the confirmation that Qutaiba was confirmed dead.

“I’m now heading back I’ll check in again at our other friend’s house.”

“Understood. Be advised that the boys in green have found a burning car in the desert. The local police have been informed.”

“Roger that.” Bolan broke the call and handed the cell phone back to Thompson.

“They found the burning UAZ,” he said, “and have informed police.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that. The police won’t be as easy to please.”

“I could bail out and make my own way in.”

“What would that achieve? If you get caught, then you’ll have even more explaining to do. Stick together and we can give them the old dumb-Yankee-journalist routine.”

Thompson had a point, and Bolan decided to go with it. The concealed weapons were the only problem. The Executioner spotted an industrial building with several large garbage containers outside. There wasn’t much activity around the place.

“Pull over here.”

Thompson complied, driving the car up to the containers. Bolan reached behind the seat, to the compartment, and removed the two weapons and the blue notebook. Working quickly he stripped the two pistols to their component parts, emptied the magazines of bullets, then spent several moments spreading the contents among the garbage, ensuring that no two pieces could be found together. The ammunition was similarly dealt with. Bolan climbed back into the car, and they left the scene without anybody taking any notice.

Bolan flicked through the pages of the notebook. Some of it was in English, but the car bounced too much for him to be able to read anything clearly. He looked up from the book when Thompson began to slow the car. A police checkpoint loomed ahead, consisting of several police cars and an armored vehicle. The police were stopping and searching every vehicle entering the city. They watched as an officer mounted the tailgate of a truck before clambering in among the goats and sheep. The animals could clearly be heard bleating in protest. The policeman jumped out, the truck was waved on and the procedure began again with the next car. And the next. After ten minutes it was finally Bolan and Thompson’s turn.

The police officer who leaned into the vehicle was instantly suspicious. He held out his hand for their papers, while several armed colleagues moved up close. One began to check under the car. Bolan knew that if they had the equipment to check for traces of cordite, he would light up like a Christmas tree. The officer instructed them to get out. Bolan and Thompson complied. Bolan had tucked the blue notebook into his shirt’s top pocket, where it was clearly visible, hiding in plain sight. They were ushered away from their car as several policemen began the search, popping the trunk, the hood and clambering inside. They found the empty compartment easily. The first officer finished examining the two men’s papers and looked at them, staring coldly. Bolan knew he could easily stare back but didn’t, knowing that the challenge could be construed the wrong way. Instead he wore the air of someone slightly cowed and intimidated. Thompson remained cool, smiling at the official.

“No problems?” Thompson asked.

The man continued to stare. Eventually he broke his silence. “Where have you been?” he asked. The question sounded like an accusation.

“Well,” Thompson began, but the officer silenced him.

“I ask him,” he said, pointing at Bolan. “Mr… B-lan-ski.”

Bolan gave the man a weak smile. “We were looking for a story. We were told that there was shooting in the desert. We followed the army out, but they turned us back at the checkpoint. They told us there was nothing to see. So now we are going to the airport to cover that story.”

“Airport closed. Who told you about shooting?”

“Colonel Nissal,” Thompson said. “He’s a friend.”

The policeman was unimpressed with the reference to an army colonel. He looked at one of his approaching officers, a black eyebrow raised in question. The other man shook his head, muttered something and then stared at Bolan and Thompson, obviously hoping to intimidate them more. The official in charge turned back to the two Americans.

“Why compartment under seat? You hide drugs?”

“No, no,” Bolan protested. “No drugs. It is for this.” He held up the camera hanging around his neck. “We hide it in the car—we don’t want it stolen.”

The officer seemed to find this answer acceptable. He examined the papers again, hoping to discover a discrepancy in the passport stamps, the work permits. Finding none, he reluctantly handed them back.

“You go now. Leave.”

Bolan and Thompson thanked him and climbed back into the car. They left the checkpoint, the police still staring after them. Thompson let out a gasp of pent-up relief.

“That was tense. I’m sure glad I didn’t slip in the customary bribe. I don’t think that guy would have appreciated it.”

“No, he was dedicated, I’ll give him that. Colonel Nissal?”

“Guy in the army who I have tried to interview a few times. I think that he’s on the take. Keeps turning me down. Maybe the police will check him out. Revenge is sweet.”

Bolan chuckled. The city became more and more modern. Low houses gave way to towering apartment buildings, extremely white, and shining in the sun. The road was black and smooth, the cars driving on it far more modern than those outside the city. More billboards lined the road and hung on the sides of buildings. It barely seemed like the Middle East. Almost ringing the city was a long, unbroken chain of stone hills. Thompson caught him taking in the sights.

“You ever been here before?” he asked.

“I’ve passed through once or twice.” Bolan said.

The buildings to his right vanished, offering a fantastic view of the bay and the sea beyond. Bolan could see all manner of oil tankers and freighters docked in the harbor, entering, leaving, all floating on a perfect blue surface. The whole vista was simply stunning. Thompson broke the spell by reminding him that the USS Cole





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