Assault

by Don Pendleton

  Appearances were everything, the dealer knew, and he had taught himself to be a master of disguise.

  He thought about the woman, locked away inside the villa, and considered visiting her cell. He might feel better with some exercise, and she could offer him relief from his frustration.

  Soon, perhaps, when he had finished his cigar and satisfied himself that they were safe. He'd take another tour of the grounds before he spared the time for pleasure. It would irritate Halaby, having someone double-check his preparations, but the situation clearly called for extraordinary measures, and they couldn't stand on protocol.

  How long until the dawn? he wondered.

  Not soon enough.

  * * *

  Dark water slid away beneath the helicopter as Grimaldi broke his northern course and headed east toward land. His flight plan was a repetition, more or less, of the approach that he'd used for dropping Bolan on the outskirts of the Bekaa Valley. This time, though, he wouldn't have to make his way across hostile territory. He was homing on a coastal target, flying low to beat the radar, hoping for complete surprise.

  Grimaldi liked to think he was prepared for anything. The gunship came complete with lethal hardware, though it lacked the Phantom's power punch of bombs and napalm. What he did have was a 20 mm Gatling mounted in the nose, prepared to greet his enemies with a blistering six thousand rounds per minute. Backing up the gun, twin rocket pods provided him with an explosive edge, though he would have to use them cautiously. The automatic pistol on his belt and Uzi submachine gun mounted by his seat were standard flight equipment, but he didn't plan on getting close enough to use them this time out.

  Flying on instinct, Grimaldi replayed the last conversation with Bolan in his mind. The mission wasn't slated as a pickup operation, but Grimaldi planned to leave his options open, just in case. The big guy's «friend» might need" a lift, and you could never tell when the Executioner might find himself cut off from the established exits. Anything could happen once the play went down, and while a pickup hadn't been requested, neither had it been specifically ruled out.

  For now, Grimaldi would be satisfied to play by ear and improvise as necessary. It was a familiar story in the Bolan wars.

  The rushing darkness called up memories of other missions, other times when they had faced the enemy together, coming out on top with nothing more than guts and nerve. Each time, Grimaldi wondered if the run might be his last with Bolan, but they had always pulled it off. So far.

  In childhood he'd once been taught that God mistook such pessimistic thoughts for prayers and sometimes granted the unwitting supplicant his "wish." Grimaldi didn't buy it, any more than he believed in lucky rabbits' feet or four-leaf clovers. But he didn't like to gamble, either. From experience he knew that apprehension and distractions jeopardized a fighting man's performance in the field — or in the air. The raid against Moheden's fortress would require his concentration to the max, and he wasn't prepared to jeopardize the mission on a whim.

  Another twenty minutes. He was almost close enough to taste it now, and trusted Bolan to be in position when the time came. Darkness was an ally when it came to launching an assault, but it could also hide your human allies, turn them into moving targets in the crunch. Grimaldi's orders were precise, in terms of timing, and he couldn't wait for dawn to light the killing ground.

  If Bolan was delayed somehow, Grimaldi wouldn't get the word before he started his approach. He wasn't captivated by the notion of a one-man show, but he could play it that way, too, if necessary. There was no provision for a scrub at this point in the game.

  Ten minutes and Grimaldi concentrated on his instruments, deliberately blanking out the thoughts of death. Whatever happened in the crunch would happen. He'd done his best to be prepared, and there was nothing more that he could do. Case closed.

  Ahead of Jack Grimaldi, dawn lay crouched and waiting on the far horizon, hanging back to let the deadly games begin before it came onstage.

  * * *

  Ahmad Halaby had no taste for waging a defensive war. Since his enlistment with the PLO in younger days, his specialty had always been the hit-and-run assault — a bold, aggressive strategy that never failed to take his targets by surprise. It went against the grain for him to sit inside a fortress, waiting for the ax to fall.

  They had already tried it once, with Bakhtiar, and the result had been unqualified disaster. How many men had been lost on the farm? How many lives thrown away so that Moheden could toy with the woman? And now they were preparing for a reenactment of the travesty, with fewer troops to man the ramparts.

  Granted, there was something in Moheden's argument about their distance from the enemy, the losses that their adversaries had undoubtedly sustained. It wouldn't qualify as any kind of victory, but if it slowed down the opposition and sapped his will to fight, it might achieve the same affect. Halaby hoped Moheden was correct about the villa being safe. He had already seen enough danger for one night.

  Of late, the Palestinian had come to wonder if his nerve was failing. In the old days, prior to — and immediately after — his defection from the PLO, Halaby had been known for his aggressive fighting spirit. He had led the way on raids that passed from action into legend overnight. While Black September hired the Japanese Red Army to assault Lod Airport, members of Halaby's faction struck against the very heart of Tel Aviv, attacking Zionist officials in their offices and homes without a second thought to risk. Halaby sometimes led the raids, and he was always close at hand, providing backup and support in case of complications.

  Lately, though, he worried that responsibility had changed him, weakened him. He lacked a certain energy these days, and for the better part of two years he had done his fighting from an office, letting others do the dirty work on his behalf. A leader had responsibilities, of course, but there were times when he began to wonder whether duty had, in fact, become a fair excuse for staying safe behind the lines.

  If someone else had voiced those doubts, Halaby would have been compelled to kill his critic, as a show of strength. In private, now, he found that he couldn't escape the nagging questions that beset him. His actions earlier that evening, when he broke and ran from Bakhtiar, provided something in the way of final confirmation for his own worst-case scenario.

  The tiger had become a timid house cat, wary of the hunt. With any luck, the guilty secret might have died with Bakhtiar, but other tests would come in time, and he couldn't be certain of his own reactions in another crisis.

  Still, Moheden trusted him to oversee the guard around his villa. It was something in the nature of a ceremonial position, but considering the dealer's panic when they fled the Bekaa poppy farm, Halaby felt a little better. Frightened as he had been, Moheden had been worse. He pegged Halaby as a man of strength and resolution, capable of managing the palace guard. It was a start, and if Halaby kept his wits about him, it might be the start of winning back his self-respect.

  The job was not difficult. He made the rounds, initially, to satisfy himself that all approaches via land and water had been covered. If the enemy did come, Halaby's soldiers would be ready. They wouldn't be taken by surprise this time.

  It was a promise to himself, and one that he couldn't afford to break. Halaby recognized that Moheden would need a strong right arm now that the Shiite holy man had been removed. If he could prove himself tonight and in the days to come, the post would certainly be his. From such a vantage point, Halaby could do great things for his cause… and for himself.

  He felt a bit more confident as he began to make another tour of the line. In fact he almost wished the enemy would show himself. Ahmad Halaby's hour of redemption was at hand.

  * * *

  They drove along the coastal road with the lights off until they came within a mile of the target. Moonlight would betray them if they ventured any closer in the jeep. Bolan parked the vehicle in a stand of trees, well off the road, where it wouldn't be spotted by Syrian patrols. A narrow track wound down the cliff face
to the sea, and Bolan led the way, with Chamoun close on his heels.

  The beach was narrow and rocky, but it ran for miles in each direction. Moving south, they hugged the bluffs and kept alert for watchers on the ground or on the ledges overhead. A single slip would spell doom, and Bolan didn't intend to throw his final chance away on careless errors.

  The plan had been agreed on in advance, while they were airborne, and they didn't need to talk about it now. During Bolan's earlier visit to Moheden's villa, he had noted how the cliffs were scarred with narrow, twisting paths — no more than goat trails for the most part — granting access to the beach from higher up. In Bolan's mind, it stood to reason that the dealer's troops would watch the highway first, and then the sea approaches. He hoped they would forget about the beach as anything except a landing zone, and thereby open up a breech in their defenses.

  It was still a gamble, but it seemed to be their only chance. A more direct approach along the highway would be suicide, with gunners waiting for them at the gates. Chamoun had promised that his wound wouldn't delay them or prevent him from scrambling up the trail, and so far he had kept his word.

  In fifteen minutes they were poised beneath the cliff where Bashir Moheden's estate lay basking in the moonlight. Bolan found the trail that he'd picked out earlier, its general location filed away for future reference. He waited for Chamoun to scan the cliff face, frowning at the narrow track. Another moment and the rebel leader nodded, signaling that he was ready to begin.

  The Executioner took the lead. With twenty feet to go before they reached the top, he hesitated, turning back, and risked a whisper to Chamoun. "From here it's all or nothing. I expect some backup, but it might not help. There are no guarantees."

  "I ask for none," Chamoun replied. "The only guarantee in life is that inaction leads to failure. Let's go."

  The Executioner released his silenced side arm from its shoulder harness, easing off the safety as he started climbing. Here the trail was almost vertical, and Bolan used his free hand for support, testing each step in advance to prevent a noisy rock slide. Chamoun, behind him, gave no indication that his wounded shoulder was protesting under the strain.

  He reached the top, peered over and found a sentry less than thirty feet away. The young man was intent on studying the sea, prepared to shout a warning at the first sign of amphibious assault. If he had any company, they weren't visible from Bolan's vantage point.

  It would be now or never. If they didn't forge ahead, and quickly, they were finished.

  Bolan sighted down the slide of his Beretta, stroked the trigger once and watched the young man crumple in a silent heap. He waited, half expecting a response, and counted off ten seconds in the ringing silence. Finally satisfied, he scrambled up and over, settling in a combat crouch as Chamoun joined him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "Is everything secure?"

  "Of course." Halaby's smile was forced, unnatural. "I've toured the perimeter twice already, and will examine everyone again in a half hour."

  "All right."

  Moheden wasn't satisfied, but there was nothing else for them to do. He had to let himself unwind, forget the screaming panic he had felt short hours earlier when he was fleeing for his life. The coastal villa was a different world, impossibly removed from the Bekaa Valley in a nation where peasants frequently lived and died without traveling more than ten miles from their ancestral homes.

  His enemy had twice suffered major losses today — no, it was yesterday by now — and if Chamoun was rash enough to follow him outside the Bekaa, it would be a simple matter for authorities to mop up his survivors. All he had to do was hold them off, like any homeowner entitled to defend his property.

  Or he could simply kill them all himself.

  The dealer frowned. He was anticipating trouble where he knew none should arise. The rebels might know where he lived, but reaching him was something else entirely. Mounting a successful raid against the villa he had fortified with extreme care would be the last act of a madman. Surely Joseph Chamoun, if he still lived, was wise enough to know he'd been beaten.

  Thinking of Chamoun reminded him of Mara. Truthfully the woman had been in his thoughts since he dispatched the troops to fetch her from the rebel camp. He had participated in her torture with a mixture of reluctance and excitement he couldn't explain. Her beauty, even in the midst of suffering, enthralled him.

  And he wanted her. Right now.

  There was no reason to deny himself. The woman was his property, in essence, to be dealt with as he liked. She must remain alive for now, against the possibility of trading her for peace and quiet, but she wasn't sacrosanct. She could be his. She was his.

  Moheden dismissed Halaby, leaving him to supervise the outside troops. His mind was occupied with Mara and the pleasure she could give him while she lived.

  There was no question, ultimately, of releasing Mara. She'd seen too much to live, but it was necessary to postpone her execution while his other enemies were still at large. When Moheden had isolated them, determined their names and numbers, he would kill them all. But in the meantime he would use her for the purpose God had intended female flesh to serve.

  Inside the house, he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it down, as if for courage, without taking the time to savor the bouquet. Another, and he felt vitality returning, spreading through him with the ebb and flow of liquid fire. He pictured Mara, naked in the straight-backed chair, and felt himself respond.

  At first the warning shouts refused to register. Someone — a member of the guard? — had raised his voice, but Moheden couldn't make out the words, which were immediately smothered by a burst of fire from automatic weapons. Flinching as the shout became a scream, the Lebanese tugged the automatic pistol from his waistband, nearly dropping it before he flicked the safety off.

  A raid against the villa was impossible, but it was happening. The enemy had played into his hands, and it was time to make the bastards pay. Beginning with the woman.

  * * *

  The sentries had been placed strategically, one gunner every hundred feet or so, but in the darkness they were sometimes out of contact with one another. After taking down the lookout on the cliff, Mack Bolan found a corner of the property where trees and shadows helped conceal a solitary gunman from his fellows. Bolan studied his position from the branches of a twisted cedar just outside the wall, deciding that they wouldn't find a better place to make their surreptitious entry.

  First the takedown. It would have to be accomplished silently, before the mark could open fire or shout a warning. Bolan wrapped his legs around the limb that held his weight, his silenced automatic steady in a double-handed grip. The range was something over forty feet, but there was nothing in the way, and if the man stood still a moment…

  The warrior stroked the trigger twice and watched the sentry topple forward on his face. Another moment, waiting to be certain that the others hadn't heard, and then he scrambled down to join Chamoun. The rebel's wound hadn't restricted his activities so far, but Bolan knew it must be hurting him. Beneath the outer wall, he made a cradle of his hands and hoisted Chamoun up first, then passed the weapons over prior to scrambling across.

  They stood beside a dead man in the darkness, studying the house and grounds. A few more seconds and their quest would take them into no-man's-land, where cover was provided only by a pile of sculpture here, a bit of manicured shrubbery there. A rush across the open ground was perilous, but it would be their only chance.

  Chamoun was reading Bolan's mind. He shrugged resignedly and pointed toward the house. A cautious flash of teeth, a quick thumbs-up and he was ready. Bolan wondered what was going on inside that mind — concern for Mara, fury at her captors — but he had run out of time. Their course lay straight across the lawn, beside the swimming pool. And, he decided, it was time to raise or fold.

  The move had possibilities, but Lady Luck was dozing when they broke from cover. Up ahead on Bolan's left, a gunner was emerg
ing from the shrubbery, startled eyes locked squarely on Chamoun and Bolan as they made their break. He shouted to his comrades on the wall, and he was grappling with his submachine gun when Chamoun unleashed a burst that cut him down. The guard managed one short scream before he fell, and triggered off a burst in the direction of the stars.

  At once, selected sentries broke formation, answering the call to action. Others held their posts, prepared to handle any danger from outside the walls, but ten or fifteen men would be enough to do the job on sitting targets.

  He took the precious time to check his watch, afraid to trust his ears when they were ringing with the sounds of shouts and automatic fire. He might not hear the helicopter coming, but he knew that Jack would be on time, no questions asked. Their task, meanwhile, must be to penetrate the house.

  He fired a burst along their backtrack, toppling one of Moheden's soldiers. Without another moment's hesitation, Bolan swung in the direction of the sliding doors that were his target, firing as he ran. Bullets from his AK-47 raked the plate glass windows, bringing down both panes like sheets of falling ice.

  Still firing, Bolan plunged across the threshold and inside.

  * * *

  Grimaldi came in low over the estate at treetop level, rotors whipping at the cool night air. The floodlights had blazed on when he was still two hundred yards offshore, a signal to the pilot that the hit was going down on schedule, and he let the beacons guide him in.

  He skimmed past startled sentries on the wall and drew some scattered fire as he completed one quick circuit of the property. No sign of Bolan, but he noted gunners racing for the house, and when he flicked the small receiver on, a blast of feedback from the homer told him his friend was somewhere just below.