Assault

by Don Pendleton

  He had no clear fix on his targets, but he moved out along a corridor that split the house in two from north to south. The war was close at hand now, rattling the walls, and Bolan had a choice to make. He could pursue his own objectives, or he could assist Chamoun and the commandos with their stalemate. The warrior tossed the mental coin, and «heads» came up with Mara's face. The troops would have to get along without him for a while.

  At once, as if in response to his decision, a door flew open just in front of Bolan, spilling riflemen into the corridor. He counted three before he started squeezing off the pistol, spitting 9 mm rounds, his opposition reeling in the face of concentrated fire. One of them lasted long enough to raise his submachine gun, and held down the trigger as he died. Bolan ducked below the hail of bullets, flattening against one wall while plaster rained around him.

  For an instant he imagined that the sounds of battle faltered, gunmen in the nearby rooms acknowledging the presence of a foe inside their stronghold. Reinforcements would be detailed to investigate — if any could be found — and Bolan would be tied up fighting for a stretch of corridor that seemed, in essence, indefensible.

  He chose to move instead, but it wasn't that simple. As he rose, a sudden blur of motion farther down the corridor alerted Bolan to the presence of another gunner. A pistol shot rang out, the bullet sizzling past the Executioner's head. Recoiling, he glimpsed the gunman for an instant, as he ducked around another turn and disappeared. They hadn't met, but he remembered photographs from Stony Man, and Bolan would have recognized the face in any lineup.

  Bakhtiar.

  He scrambled to his feet and set off in pursuit along the corridor.

  * * *

  Mir Reza Bakhtiar had been disgruntled when Halaby called him out of the interrogation room. Moheden had been pampering the woman, toying with her and getting nowhere. Bakhtiar was on the verge of stepping in before the Palestinian returned from his excursion to "review the troops," with the announcement that a Syrian patrol was on the way.

  The news had come as a surprise to Bakhtiar for several reasons. First and foremost was the fact that he'd grown accustomed to delivering his bribes in Baalbek to a ranking officer, and months had passed since anyone in uniform had set foot upon his rural property. A second problem was the timing. No patrol had ever called at night, and the coincidence of an appearance on this night, specifically, defied all logic. Finally, if a legitimate patrol was stopping in — to hit him up for cash, or any other reason — the troops would normally have waited on the highway, clearing their approach by radio before they started through the fields.

  Accordingly he was prepared for trouble when the shooting started, scowling at Halaby's bald expression of surprise. He slipped a hand inside his caftan, palmed the automatic that he wore holstered around his waist and moved in the direction of the battle. Hanging back, Halaby laid a hand upon his arm to slow him down.

  "What is it?"

  "We shouldn't expose ourselves to danger," Halaby said. "The responsibilities of leadership…"

  "Include the act of leadership itself. Come, don't tell me you are frightened."

  "Nonsense!" Anger brought a trace of color back into Halaby's cheeks. "My first concern is the protection of our mutual investment. Dead commanders have no value to their troops."

  Disgusted, Bakhtiar threw off the Palestinian's restraining hand. "Command, then, if you think that you can find a place to hide."

  He turned away without another word, convinced Halaby wouldn't have the nerve to shoot him in the back, and moved in the direction of the battle. With a bitter curse, Halaby broke and ran, confirming Bakhtiar's assessment of the man, and Palestinians in general.

  He had halved the distance when a loud explosion rocked the house, immediately followed by another. Somewhere close at hand, the shouts and curses of defending troops were changing into cries of panic.

  Bakhtiar was torn between an urge to join his men and the compelling instinct for survival. Could he face Halaby if he turned and ran as the Palestinian had done? Would it be courage or insane bravado to proceed? He hesitated for a moment longer, felt the first small cracks in his determination start to widen, growing into fissures, letting fear seep through. It was a strange emotion for a man of Bakhtiar's conviction, and it hit him hard.

  The girl!

  He fixed upon her as a symbol of his plight and as a means to personal salvation. If — as he was certain — the attackers were associates of Joseph Chamoun, they would be fighting under orders to retrieve the girl at any cost. If Bakhtiar could spirit her away in time, before the raiders found her on their own…

  He turned and ran, content to know that he wasn't retreating from the fight, so much as taking steps to seize the victory. If he could pull if off, he would deserve a hero's laurels.

  The door to the interrogation room was standing open. Bakhtiar rushed through and found himself alone. The chair was empty, buckles dangling, the generator squatting in a snarl of cables on the floor. The atmosphere was redolent with pain and perspiration.

  It would have taken several moments for Moheden to decide, more precious time for him to free the girl and — yes, her clothes were gone — to get her dressed. Where would they go? Not toward the fighting, that was certain. Through the back? It wouldn't suit the dealer to escape on foot across the fields.

  That left the vehicles, and Bakhtiar was moving as the conscious thought took shape. Moheden wouldn't hesitate to leave without him, manufacturing some lame excuse if Bakhtiar survived, but he wasn't about to get the chance. The girl would slow him down, perhaps resist along the way, and more time would be wasted on a choice of vehicles, while the Lebanese steeled himself to run the gauntlet past his enemies.

  A chance, and it was all he needed. Bakhtiar raced back along the way that he had come, veered left in the direction of the carport, shutting out the sounds of battle that were closer, more insistent now.

  He was within a dozen yards, when gunfire suddenly erupted on his heels. He spun to find three members of his revolutionary guard collapsing in a heap, a khaki-clad intruder rising from a combat crouch, a silenced pistol in his hand.

  Instinctively the Shiite sighted on his enemy and fired, forgetting not to jerk the trigger, cursing as his shot went wild. Before the stranger could respond, he flung himself around the corner, pounding toward the carport, feeling Death's foul wind upon his neck.

  * * *

  Chamoun had led the rush across the wide veranda with a volley of grenades and automatic fire. Men fell on either side of him, but the defenders had begun to crack, retreating from their posts in groups of two and three. The gradual retreat became a rout when one of Chamoun's commandos gunned the APC across the porch and rammed its armored nose directly through the wide front doors, machine guns laying down a screen of cover fire. The carrier's retreat left the rebel leader and those around him with a means of access to the house.

  Inside he found the first line of defenders dead or dying, bodies crumpled on the floor where they had fallen in the final hail of fire. The curtains were in flames, and two of his commandos ripped them down while Chamoun pushed on, the other members of his spearhead fanning out to check adjoining rooms.

  The steady beat of automatic fire continued outside, and Chamoun knew it could still go either way. He closed his mind to the uneven odds — improved, however slightly, by their access to the house — and concentrated on the search for Mara.

  Where to start? She might be anywhere, alive or dead. He focused on the sound of her voice, imagining she was calling him, and chose a corridor that opened off the smoke-filled living room. It was a dying room today, and there would be more death before he finished with his enemies.

  A number of the enemy had passed this way, and Chamoun had moved past half a dozen doors before a scuffling sound attracted his attention. He signaled for a member of the team to cover him, before he smashed the door in with a driving kick and followed through, his wounded shoulder sending shock waves throug
h him as he hit the floor.

  He caught one gunner trying to conceal himself inside a wardrobe, while another crouched behind the bed. Chamoun squeezed off a short burst from his Uzi, and the standing target crumpled, dying silently before he hit the floor. The other came up firing with an automatic rifle, stitching abstract patterns on the wall, and the rebel leader responded with a second well-placed burst before his backup had a chance to intervene.

  The spray of rounds was dead on target, lifting the man off his feet and slamming him against the nearest wall. He left a smudge of crimson as he sank into a seated posture, head slumped forward with his chin supported on his chest. From where he lay, Chamoun could see the dead man's eyes locked open, staring at the answer to his final question.

  On his feet, Chamoun retreated from the bedroom, feeding the Uzi a fresh magazine as he continued down the corridor. Ahead of him another door stood open, spilling stark fluorescent light across the hall. The rebel leader didn't slow his pace, compelled to step across that threshold and confirm what he already felt inside.

  It was a torture room. That much was evident on sight, and Chamoun was sickened by the pent-up smell of desperation. Glancing at the generator on the floor, he stepped around it, stretching out one hand to touch the chair. Its seat still damp, still warm.

  His mind unleashed a cry of anguish, but he kept it locked behind his teeth. Instead of screaming, he turned to his first lieutenant, nearly whispering in his attempt to keep control.

  "They aren't far ahead of us."

  Removing Mara from the torture room would mean that she was still alive, whatever damage she had suffered in captivity. Moheden and the others wouldn't waste their time or energy transporting a corpse. If Chamoun could place himself inside the dealer's mind, there yet might be a chance to cut him off.

  A given: Mara was alive.

  She still had value to the opposition as a hostage, but they couldn't use her here if they were overrun. They must escape, but how? What was it that his mind had overlooked? A minor thing, of no importance at the moment of assault, essential now.

  The carport!

  Lunging from the torture room, he raced along the corridor, turned right, then caught himself and doubled back. He was retreating now, and his initial view of Bakhtiar's command post must be looked at in reverse. A mirror image of his first glimpse, as their motorcade approached the house.

  Were they too late? Was he too late?

  Deliberately he closed his mind to failure, concentrating on directions. And the havoc he would wreak among his enemies, if he wasn't in time.

  * * *

  As Bakhtiar emerged through the connecting door, Moheden shouted, "Go! Now!"

  Ahmad Halaby didn't hesitate. He had the limousine in motion instantly, tires squealing for a moment on the gravel of the courtyard. In the back seat, Moheden twisted to observe the Shiite standing dumbstruck in the middle of the carport.

  Suddenly the car was taking hits, and he gave thanks for the expensive armor plate, the triple thickness of the windows. Who was firing at them? It made little difference now. The dealer didn't plan to stop for anyone or anything, until he reached the Baalbek airstrip where his private plane sat waiting. He would let himself relax a bit when they were safely in the air.

  He could see the poppy fields burning, one more signal of disaster. Given the recent dry weather, half the crop might be ravaged. But he had other things on his mind at the moment.

  Like survival.

  One of Bakhtiar's commandos blundered out in front of them before they reached the access road. Halaby never even touched the brakes. The rag doll figure flew up and across their hood, a panicked face pressed tight against the windshield for an instant, sliding clear when the Palestinian gave the steering wheel a twist. The leaping flames reached out to stroke them on his right, but the vehicle was on the road now, leaving the smoke and death behind.

  If Bakhtiar survived, there would be problems. Moheden could swear that he hadn't seen the older man, but that would count for little. He was running, with his tail between his legs, and while the move made perfect sense, it would inevitably strike the Shiite as evidence of cowardice. Bakhtiar would doubtless try to sever their connection, and the dealer thought it might be best that the man's crop was burning. That way the competition would be minimized while Moheden went looking for another partner to complete the picture.

  Still, it would be better if someone did the world a favor and eliminated Bakhtiar. Without him, all his damning accusations silenced, there would be no trouble from the revolutionary guard when Moheden began to shop for other partners in the Bekaa Valley. He might even deal with the Shiite's successor, if the man seemed reasonable, someone who could put his holy war on hold to make a profit.

  There was ample time for such considerations later, after he was safe and sound. Moheden swiveled in his seat to check their backtrack, as Halaby reached the highway and swung north toward Baalbek. The horizon was on fire, a ruddy glow of flames appearing to run on for miles, but the Lebanese saw nothing that would indicate pursuit. No doubt their enemies — and friends — were too concerned with killing one another to give chase.

  Moheden concentrated on the task at hand. Escape was paramount, and once he made himself — and his hostage — secure, he could start to think in terms of realignment, reconstruction. If the flames behind him ate up most of Bakhtiar's crop, that simply meant the addicts in New York would have to pay a higher price for their relief in months to come. A few more stereos and television sets to steal, and as the price increased, so too would profit margins.

  It was simple economics, but the dealer had to be alive before he could cash in.

  The woman stirred beside him, and he jammed the automatic tight against her ribs. She grimaced, but said nothing.

  "We're going on a journey," he informed her. "You will be my guest. A taste of luxury, perhaps, before…"

  He left it there, unfinished, taking pleasure from the certain knowledge in her eyes. Her death had been foretold, but he would let her cling to the illusion that some hope remained. That way, while they were waiting for her brother or Belasko to make contact, she might wish to please him, swing the odds a bit in favor of herself.

  And in the long run, it would hardly matter what she wanted. He owned her absolutely. He could dress her up in silk and jewels, or strip her naked for his pleasure. He could kill her, if she bored him or didn't perform upon command.

  But not just yet.

  She might be useful in another way before Moheden was finished with his enemies.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  On impulse, Bolan took the corner in a slide, collecting mat burns on his elbows and jolting into impact with a wall. Downrange his prey snapped off another shot and vanished through a doorway, leaving the warrior short of targets for his AK-47. Scrambling to his feet, he followed, slowing his approach.

  It was an outside door, according to the close-up sounds that emanated from the other side, and Bolan knew that they had reached the south end of the house, where vehicles were stashed inside a covered carport.

  Dammit! He was breaking out!

  Discarding caution, Bolan made it to the door in six long strides. He skipped a beat, lunged through, and was in time to see Moheden's limo veering off in the direction of the access road, absorbing hits and gathering momentum on the way. A glow of leaping flames from somewhere on his right reminded Bolan of the burning poppy fields.

  A scuffling on his left pitched the warrior forward in a desperation dive, the bullet that was meant to kill him smacking into plaster somewhere overhead. He caught a glimpse of Bakhtiar before the Shiite ducked behind another car, and in a flash the Executioner knew that he hadn't missed out entirely.

  Bakhtiar was his, if he could make it stick. But who was splitting in the limo?

  The inevitable answer settled on his shoulders like a weight, designed to press him through the floor. He'd been so damned close, and now…

  His enemy was on the
move, a darting shadow, weaving in between the cars, A glimpse of feet by firelight gave him all the target he could hope for, and he fired a burst beneath the undercarriage of a dark sedan. He was rewarded by a yelp of pain and the heavy impact of a body.

  Shifting, Bolan circled to his left, attempting to outflank his opposition. Bakhtiar was also on the move, but he was slithering along the ground, groaning.

  The Executioner felt nothing that would pass for sympathy.

  He crouched behind the car, imagining the open space between them when he showed himself, aware that Bakhtiar would have a slight advantage then, despite his wounds. It would be easier to let his AK-47 do the work, fire blind around the jeep and hose his target, but that might damage one or both of the remaining cars.

  And Bolan saw that he would need them.

  Enough. His mind made up, he lunged from cover, going low and easing off the trigger for a fraction of a heartbeat, long enough to mark his target for the kill. Ten feet away, Mir Reza Bakhtiar was on his knees, one pale hand clenched around the outside mirror of the jeep, desperately trying to haul himself erect on broken ankles. It was costing him, and when he started squeezing off in rapid fire, the rounds he threw at Bolan came in three feet off the mark.

  A short, precision burst was all it took. The Shiite holy man was dead before he knew it, spastic fingers clinging to the jeep a moment longer, giving up their grip when gravity took hold.

  Bolan stepped across his fallen enemy and glanced inside the dark four-door sedan. The keys were there, and the warrior felt a surge of hope.

  He had a chance.

  Without another thought or moment's hesitation, Bolan cracked the driver's door and slid behind the wheel. A moment later the vehicle roared to life and shot forward, the warrior hunched behind the wheel to make himself the smallest target possible. A glance had told him that the chase car didn't have the limo's armor plating, but it was a safer bet than trying out the open jeep, which was his only other choice.