Stealth Assassin

by Don Pendleton

  “If he’s there,” McMahon said.

  “Only one way to find out,” Bolan said. He took out his Beretta 93R and dropped the standard mag, replacing it with an extended one.

  McMahon raised an eyebrow. “I been meaning to ask you where you got that thing.”

  Bolan said nothing as he replaced the weapon in its holster.

  McMahon looked at him askance. “I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it?”

  “You got that right,” Grimaldi said. “It’s his pride and joy.”

  Bolan gestured for the others to get their weapons. “Let’s move out.”

  The five of them piled into the van, with Charles driving again and McMahon riding shotgun. Bolan didn’t like being relegated to the rear area, but he and Grimaldi were tagging along on this trip. McMahon apparently had the information and location, so the Executioner was all right with letting him take the lead, at least for the first act.

  The streets were beginning to clear for afternoon prayers, and Charles was able to proceed according to the GPS device at a fairly rapid pace.

  “Hopefully, Farouk and friends will be just getting out their prayer rugs when we get there,” McMahon said. “And we can get the drop on them.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Grimaldi said.

  The guy named Snyder smirked but said nothing. He pulled back the cocking hammer on his MP5, locked it, then pushed the selection lever to Safe.

  Bolan felt a growing uneasiness about this situation. He was used to being in control, and at this point he was anything but. Plus, although he’d worked with McMahon briefly in Syria, and he’d performed well, something niggled at the Executioner as they rode through the dusty streets with ramshackle buildings on both sides. He had a feeling that a storm was coming. The only question was how bad it would be.

  McMahon grunted a command to Charles, and the van rolled to a halt. He half turned and pointed to a large building seemingly constructed out of rippled sheet metal. It extended beyond the encroachment of houses leading up to it.

  “Let me check with Redmond,” McMahon said, taking out his sat phone. He pressed a button, then held it to his ear. Redmond’s voice was a faint, almost indistinguishable whine to Bolan.

  “You sure?” McMahon asked, the phone still pressed to the side of his head.

  Bolan heard the barely audible sounds of more whining.

  McMahon nodded, then said, “Okay, stay on it. In the meantime, we’re gonna hit this place.” He terminated the call and looked at Bolan.

  “It’s for sure that the shells are inside here. Redmond tracked them from K-Fifty Airstrip, and they’re being transported here in a red pickup. There are at least five of them inside, but Farouk’s nowhere to be seen yet.”

  Bolan regarded the man closely. “How does he know these are the sarin shells?”

  McMahon shrugged. “I told you, he’s been tracking them from the airstrip with the Athena. It’s got the best 360-degree optical sensors—”

  “You told us that before,” Bolan said, interrupting. “Did he see them loading the shells into the truck?”

  McMahon shrugged again. “He practically said as much. Why? I told you Boy Wonder is completely reliable.”

  Bolan waited a solid five seconds before replying. “I was just wondering why he didn’t use a drone strike to take out the truck before it reached a populated area.”

  McMahon raised his eyebrows. “Good point. Sometimes he isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s been trained to wait for authorization. We left him in Djibouti while we beat feet down here. When we left, we weren’t sure where the stuff was.”

  This story seemed a bit flimsy to Bolan, but in terms of the flow of authorization through governmental channels, it was possible. He reached for the door handle.

  “We’d better beat feet, as well,” he said. “If we want to take advantage of them being distracted by afternoon prayers.”

  McMahon grinned. “Yeah. Right. I love it when these fanatics are so busy praying that we can catch them with their drawers down.”

  “We haven’t caught them yet,” Grimaldi said, shifting so he could get out of the van after Bolan.

  The Executioner drew the Beretta, then flattened against a nearby shack and did a quick survey of the area. It was a typical Mogadishu neighborhood: ramshackle buildings pieced together with wood, metal sheets and chicken wire. The paved street in front of them gave way to a rock-strewed mixture of sandy earth and detritus. Across the way, the abandoned factory looked equally decrepit. The doors were closed and the windows had been boarded up. Bolan saw what appeared to be relatively fresh tire tracks leading to a pair of closed doors on the side of the building. A sagging sign in Arabic hung lopsided across the front. He studied the scene intently for several seconds. No sentries were visible.

  Bolan took point as soon as the others had filed in behind him, and he led the group across the street at a quick run, his Beretta up and ready. When he got to the front entryway, he pressed himself against the wall. A foyer offered the shade of a small enclosure housing the front door.

  It hardly looked sturdy enough to withstand a solid kick, but advertising their presence without knowing how many enemies they were dealing with or how heavily armed they were wasn’t prudent. Instead, Bolan crept forward and slipped his knife from the pocket of his cargo pants, flipping open the blade one-handed. He worked the long shank of metal in between the door and the jamb, prying it open to provide a sliver of visibility of the inside. Little could be seen other than darkness. He worked the knife upward slowly until it encountered resistance about six inches above the door handle. Bolan applied more pressure, bending the door open a bit more and saw what appeared to be the flat surface of a board fitted horizontally against the other side. He withdrew his knife, returned it in his pocket and turned back to the others.

  “It’s blocked,” he said. “No chance for a stealth entry.”

  “I’ll take my team around the other side and look for another way in,” McMahon said.

  “Not much time if we want to surprise them during prayers,” Bolan said. He pointed to the boards covering the window on the left. “See how secure they are.”

  Grimaldi went to the window and gripped the middle board. He pulled back and the wood cracked and crumbled away from the securing nails. He smiled. “A crackerbox.”

  Bolan motioned for McMahon and his crew to move to the adjacent set of windows to the right of the entrance.

  “We got your back,” McMahon told him.

  They quickly assembled by that window and began peeling off the boards, while still holding them in place. McMahon held a thumbs-up toward Bolan.

  The Executioner holstered the Beretta and assisted Grimaldi in removing the two lowermost boards. He pulled out his mini-flashlight and shone it through the window. The room inside was dark and barren. Bolan kept the beam pointed low, sweeping it across the floor and settling the light on an interior door that apparently led to the inside of the structure.

  He turned to Grimaldi and whispered, “Ready?”

  “I was born ready.”

  Bolan pocketed the flashlight. Gripping the window sill he pulled himself up through the opening, sliding under the remaining boards while Grimaldi guided Bolan’s feet from the other side. As noiselessly as he could, he worked his way over the sill and all the way inside until his palms rested on the floor. He pulled his feet through the opening and did a quick check of the surrounding area before extending his hand through the opening for Grimaldi, who slithered inside moments later.

  After drawing the 93R and giving the pilot a chance to acclimate himself, Bolan moved to the door and pulled it open a crack. Inside he saw the red pickup truck and five men rolling up their prayer rugs. Some AK-47s had been placed against the side of the pickup. He hoped that McMahon and his crew had succeeded in gaining entry, but there was no time to wait. Bolan turned back to Grimaldi and said, “Five hostiles straight ahead. The pickup’s there, too.”

&n
bsp; “Marvelous,” Grimaldi muttered. He took out his 9 mm SIG Sauer and nodded.

  Bolan pushed through the door and advanced in a rapid combat crouch, his Beretta held in front of him, the selector switch on 3-round-burst mode. One of the hostiles looked up, his face registering shock and surprise. He reached for an AK-47.

  The Executioner squeezed off a quick burst and the man fell. His companions began to scramble as Bolan continued to fire. Grimaldi was next to him now, his pistol spitting lead. The remaining four hostiles twisted and dropped to the ground. Bolan glanced around, his ears ringing from the sudden explosion of rounds. He was suddenly cognizant of movement to his right and started to swivel, but McMahon was already there, his arms outstretched, aiming at a slight elevation. His weapon sent a burst of bright flame from its barrel. Bolan’s eyes traced the trajectory and saw a hostile above on a catwalk, his face contorted as his grasped his chest, a rifle slipping from his hands. McMahon fired again, and the rifle slid completely from the man’s grasp and he tumbled off the catwalk and made a sodden crunch as he landed about twenty feet below.

  Bolan nodded a “thanks.”

  McMahon acknowledged the gesture, and continued forward.

  The Executioner advanced, scanning on the move. The room was large but mostly empty, offering little in the way of concealment. They had it cleared in under a minute. After checking each hostile for signs of life, and finding none, Bolan walked back to the back of the pickup truck. A vertically stacked assortment of white-tipped artillery shells labeled GB 105 mm—the same as those in Syria—were in the bed of the truck.

  “Jackpot,” McMahon said, taking out his cell phone and snapping a couple pictures. He turned and took a few more shots of the dead bodies. “Just in case the brassholes think we were sloughing off.”

  “None of these is Farouk,” Grimaldi said, stepping up to them. He slapped McMahon on the shoulder. “Nice shooting.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Let’s get these shells out of here,” Bolan said. “We can drive the truck to a remote area, and then you can have your drone blow them up.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  He turned to Snyder. “Get this thing started while we open those big doors.”

  The other man recoiled. “Me? I don’t want to be in the same truck with that stuff. I’ve seen what it can do.”

  “It’s a binary gas,” Bolan said. “There’s a rupture plate separating the two sections that’s designed to break upon impact. There’s no danger unless the gases mix.”

  “No way,” Snyder said. “I’m not doing it.”

  McMahon grabbed the other man’s blouse and pulled him close so their faces were inches apart. “I got a low tolerance for anybody not following orders on my strike team.”

  Bolan didn’t like the way this was shaping up. Disunity was a surefire path to disaster in a fluid field situation. He rested his palm on McMahon’s shoulder. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I’ll drive the truck.”

  “The hell you will,” McMahon said. “Snyder and I are gonna do it. You follow along in the van.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances, then nodded. He knew it was ultimately better to let McMahon maintain control over his own team. If he was going to remain with Snyder, it would assure the other man’s cooperation, at least for the present. The disciplinary problem was McMahon’s to deal with at a later time.

  “What about Farouk?” Grimaldi asked.

  “I’ll tell Boy Wonder to keep an eye-in-the-sky out for him,” McMahon said, releasing Snyder’s blouse but still glaring at the man. “Remember, the Athena’s got 360 degrees of high-quality optical scanners.”

  “How can we forget when you keep reminding us?” Grimaldi said.

  Twenty minutes later they stopped in a bleak stretch of desert with nothing in sight in the encroaching twilight. McMahon and Snyder got out of the truck. McMahon slapped the other man on the back and gave him a gentle push toward the van. Snyder, his head down, walked slowly toward the other vehicle.

  “That guy McMahon’s got balls,” Grimaldi said. “You gotta give him that.”

  Bolan said nothing, but he was in basic agreement. McMahon had proven to be dependable and an effective leader.

  “Okay, Redmond,” McMahon said into his sat phone. “You got our location?” He paused and a smile crept over his face.

  Bolan could hear some scrambled, but excited, tones coming from the sat phone.

  “Great,” McMahon said. “You make the call?” He listened a few seconds and then added, “Zero in on him, click him and light his ass up.”

  McMahon looked toward Bolan and Grimaldi as he closed the sat phone. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his regular cell. “Redmond’s got Farouk pulling up in a car outside the warehouse. Excuse me, but this is what they used to call a real Kodak moment. Here comes the Howler.”

  He raised his arm and pointed his cell phone toward the distant city. A split second later an orange flower blossomed in the distance and coalesced upward forming a small mushroom cloud. The reverberations of the blast came rolling over them in a concussive wave moments later.

  McMahon laughed.

  “Mission accomplished,” he said. “Come on. Let’s book. I told him to give us twenty minutes to get clear, and then he’s gonna swoop in and do the same to that hunk of junk.” He gestured toward the truck, then turned and removed his pistol. “No sense taking any chances, although Boy Wonder’s watching the whole thing on closed-circuit TV.” McMahon fired off two shots, placing one in each tire of the pickup.

  “Nice shooting,” Grimaldi said.

  McMahon watched as Snyder got into the van, then said to Bolan, “Sorry you had to see that before.”

  “Not a problem,” Bolan said. “It happens.”

  “Not with my team it doesn’t.” McMahon’s solemn expression faded and was replaced by a smile. “But right now, all I want to think about is getting out of this hellhole. It’s time for us to go home.”

  Chapter Six

  Stony Man Farm

  Virginia

  Bolan stretched out on the bed, appreciating the smoothness of the sheets and the freshly washed fragrance of the pillow. It felt good to be in a regular bed for a change.

  The bed in his quarters at the Farm, he thought while taking a deep breath as Barbara Price’s fingers kneaded the muscles of his upper back and neck. It had been a little more than thirty-six hours since the last mission, and he was finally starting to feel the tension fading. She lightly traced her fingers around the jagged scab on his right shoulder, the place where the AK-47 round had ripped across his flesh in Syria.

  “That looks like it’s healing nicely,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Bolan said, smiling. “It only hurts when I laugh.”

  He heard her quiet chuckle. Bolan took in a deep breath, then exhaled, consciously willing the tension to leave his body. Sometimes it took longer than others, and doing two nonstop, back-to-back missions hadn’t helped. He inhaled deeply again as her hands went back to work on his shoulders and back.

  Just as he was starting to relax, the phone, which was on the bedside table, jangled to life.

  “If that’s Hal wanting you to go on another mission right now,” Price said, “I’ll have to have words with him.”

  Bolan glanced at the screen and nodded. “It’s him.” He pressed the button to answer it and brought the phone toward his ear. “But don’t worry. It’s not a Skype call.”

  She slapped the solid muscles of his abdomen and laughed.

  “Hey, sorry if I’m interrupting anything,” Brognola said. His tone indicated that he’d caught part of Price’s laugh.

  “I figured you’d be getting ready to drag Jack through another one of your training drills.”

  “That’s on the agenda for this afternoon,” Bolan said. “But he told me after our last assignment all he wanted to do was sleep for a week.”

  “Yeah, well, he deserves it. As far as I’m concerned, you
guys earned the Triple Crown this last time. And, the President is very grateful.”

  “That news and six dollars might get me one of those fancy coffees at Starbucks.”

  Bolan heard the big Fed clear his throat and then his tone grew serious. “I don’t mean to rain on your parade, but I needed to ask you something.”

  Bolan said nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “When you guys were in Syria and Somalia,” Brognola said finally, “that Agency team you worked with. You remember what they called themselves?”

  “The Raptors,” Bolan said. “Why?”

  “Looks like they got wiped out coming back from over there. Figured you’d want to know.”

  “The whole team?”

  “Yeah, as near as they can figure. You know how sketchy things are with the CIA. They’re saying it was an airplane crash, but there’s some suspicion that the Russians were involved.”

  Bolan remembered McMahon’s last words to him: It’s time for us to go home. He recalled the many casualties in his War Everlasting. So many with the same goal. So many dead.

  Welcome home, he thought.

  “That’s too bad. A couple were video game commandos, but on the whole they seemed pretty squared away, especially their leader.”

  “Well, to hear that one congressman, Meeks, telling it,” Brognola said, “the Raptors and their damn drones did the whole rescue op in Syria and the other one in Somalia singlehandedly.”

  “That’s fine. We had to keep our customary low profile anyway.”

  “There’s something else I wanted to run by you. Can you and Jack stop by ?”

  “Sure. Jack needs his beauty sleep, so it’ll be a while.”

  “Okay. Come to my office,” Brognola said.

  Bolan hit the button terminating the call, replaced the phone and turned toward Price. Their faces were inches apart now.

  “Bad news?” she asked.

  “More casualties.” He shrugged. “The war never ends. But for now, there’s just us.”

  Independence Avenue