Bolan could hear the chopper turning around, the beat of the rotors rising and falling as it repositioned itself. He heard the steadying pulse as the aircraft made its run. The soldier stayed low, pushing himself tight against the base of the boulder so it would be harder for the pilot and gunner to pick him out. His dust-coated clothing helped him merge in with the ground. The Executioner had his AK-47 set to automatic fire, with a full magazine in place, and now he waited.
The chopper cast a large, dark shadow on the parched, dusty earth as it coasted in. The pilot had throttled back to allow the gunner to identify his target.
Peering out from his ground-level position, Bolan watched the silhouette of the helicopter. He could barely see the pilot through the tinted canopy; he was just a dark shape working the controls. As the chopper slid by, Bolan spotted the opened rear slide door. A 7.62 mm M-60 machine gun was swivel-mounted on a swing-arm pintle, enabling the gunner solid control over the weapon. On the balanced rig the big gun could be swung back and forth with comparative ease. The machine gun looked out of place in the civilian helicopter. Bolan thought that but also knew the placement wouldn’t reduce the devastating power of the weapon.
The rotor wash was kicking up swirls of dust, denying the gunner a clear vision of his intended target. The chopper had dropped to within twenty feet of the ground, almost at a hover. Bolan saw he was not going to get a better opportunity. Before the dust obscured his vision, he angled up the AK-47 and triggered a long burst aimed directly at the gunner in his open hatch. He heard slugs slap against the fuselage to the right of the hatch and quickly adjusted his aim, sending a further burst that screamed into the gap.
As the chopper powered up and away Bolan saw the gunner fall back, letting go of the M-60 as he hung suspended in his safety rig. The chopper gained height quickly. Bolan emptied his magazine into the underside of the fuselage, then ejected the empty magazine and clicked in a fresh one. The chopper yawed to the side, swinging away to a safe distance, then hung in the air. Bolan saw a dark figure drag the gunner back inside the chopper’s cabin and take his place at the 7.62 mm machine gun.
Leaning out from cover, Bolan checked out the guy who had been signaling the chopper in. A third figure had joined the original two, and they were racing down off the ridge, moving purposely in Bolan’s direction.
The helicopter remained in its stationary position. The 7.62 mm machine gun had a greater range than Bolan’s Kalashnikov. As long as it remained where it was, it could keep him covered.
The Taliban closed in. Two carried AK-47s, while the third had an RPG-7 launcher over his shoulder.
A germ of a thought was born, and Bolan slid back into the deep cover of the boulder.
“Reef, get out here.”
Mahoud joined him. “You want me to do something?”
“Keep your head down and watch that chopper. Let me know if it moves in closer.”
“Where will you be?”
“Using your little hidey-hole.”
Mahoud frowned, not quite understanding.
Bolan crawled into the gap where Mahoud had been waiting, moving until he could see through the far side. In position the soldier pushed the AK-47’s selector switch to single shot, sighting down the weapon until he had the approaching rebels in range. He held the muzzle on his first selected target. The Kalashnikov was an unknown weapon as far as accurate single shooting was concerned. In reality, to use it as a sniping weapon he would have checked the rifle, calibrating it and making sure he knew its eccentricities before going for a hard kill. Right now all he had was his own skill and his past experience as a marksman.
Bolan had picked his man. He shifted the muzzle a little, deciding on a full body shot. He needed a bulky target, not the relatively smaller head. He eased back on the trigger, again not knowing its pull. When the rifle fired, Bolan kept his eye on the target and saw the man react as the 7.62 mm slug hit him an inch above the Executioner’s intended spot. Bolan quickly adjusted his aim, allowing for the windage, and his second shot struck directly over the guy’s heart. As the Taliban fighter went down, the rocket launcher slipping from his fingers, Bolan turned the AK-47 on the other two, who were much closer now. He snap aimed, his sure hand guiding the muzzle on the targets.
The first rebel, the helicopter spotter, went down hard, a slug having blown through his left hip, tearing out muscle and shattering the bone. He slammed facedown on the ground, kicking and yelling. He still made an attempt to use his rifle, dragging it around to point at Bolan. A final slug impacting against his skull stopped him. The survivor opened up on Bolan’s position. His slugs pounded the earth and whined off the face of the boulder, snapping viciously. He began to run forward, weaving as he sprang across the open ground. The Executioner let him get close, ignoring the sharp stone chips that caught the side of his face. He jacked out three single shots that caught the Taliban gunner and kicked him off his feet.
“Helicopter is coming in, Matt,” Mahoud called.
Damn right it was, Bolan thought. Just as he had expected.
“Take the rifle,” he said. “Keep him interested.”
Bolan shoved the rifle behind him, pushing it toward Mahoud with his foot, then wriggled his way out of the narrow space and pushed to his feet.
He could hear the beat of the chopper as it swung in toward the boulder and the single crack of shots as Mahoud started firing.
Bolan ran.
He put everything into the effort, dismissing the threat of the helicopter. His boots pounded the hard ground, muscles straining, lungs pumping.
He got at least ten seconds into his run before the chopper’s machine gun opened up. The gunner’s shots whacked the earth behind Bolan, the 7.62 mm shells tearing up splinters of rock, throwing gouts of earth into the air. Trying to correct his lagging shots the gunner swung the muzzle and laid down another burst. He overcompensated and the slugs ripped up the ground ahead of Bolan, who veered to one side. He felt the spatter of hard debris against his legs, ignored the threat and powered forward.
He could see the crumpled, bloody shape of the dead rebel ahead of him. The long tube of the RPG-7 lay alongside the body, the loaded rocket head protruding from the barrel.
One chance was all he’d get, Bolan told himself as he covered the final few feet in a headlong dive, ignoring the machine-gun fire. He felt the jar of his impact with the ground, kept moving and snatched at the rocket launcher, fingers closing over the pistol grip, hauling the weapon to him as he rolled away from the dead rebel. He spit out acrid dust that had entered his mouth, forced himself to ignore the looming bulk of the chopper as the pilot attempted to line up for the gunner.
Bolan dragged himself to his knees, the RPG over his shoulder.
The numbers were falling fast.
He could see the open hatch, the hunched figure of the gunner swinging around the M-60.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bolan felt the launcher recoil as he eased back on the trigger. The missile burst from the muzzle, trailing smoke as it streaked up at the helicopter. It struck just ahead of the open hatch, penetrating the thin body, and detonated a microsecond later. The front of the chopper vanished in the blast. The stricken aircraft went belly up, the gunner’s finger pressing back on the M-60, sending a short burst into the open sky. The wrecked carcass dropped, rotors still turning, and hit the ground. A secondary explosion tore it apart, hurling debris in all directions. Smoke trailed into the air.
Dropping the launcher, Bolan climbed to his feet, backing away from the fierce heat of the burning helicopter. He chose a large rock and leaned against it, feeling the effects of his recent exertions wash over him. Something wet ran down his face and when he inspected it he found it was blood from a gash above his eye.
A sound caught his attention. It was Mahoud joining him.
“I’m glad you are on my side,” he said.
Bolan didn’t have the energy to reply.
He watched as Mahoud returned to the two dead rebels and relieved the
m of whatever weaponry he could find, helping himself to an AK-47 and extra magazines. One of the Taliban rebels had been wearing a leather satchel. Mahoud used it to carry the additional ammunition. He also found automatic pistols on the men. When he handed over the weapons, Bolan caught a concerned look on his face.
“What is it?”
Mahoud pointed to one of the dead men. “That one I recognized. Muhadjar Khan. A devout follower of Wazir Homani. He was known as one of Homani’s chief enforcers.”
“Not anymore. But I understand what his presence means. Homani knows we’re here. The helicopter was sent in to back up the ground force. Homani is determined to get to you before we leave the area.”
“If he has found out about me, what about the rest of my family? Matt, you understood my stipulations about all of us coming out together. I will not back away from that. I must have my family safe before I attend the peace talks.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to do anything less.” Bolan glanced up from checking his weapons. “Where is your family?”
“They are waiting in an abandoned Soviet outpost near the Afghan-Pakistan border. My wife and two daughters.”
Bolan walked to where the dead Taliban spotter lay and picked up the transceiver the guy had been using. He slid the unit pack free and checked it over. It was a Codan HF SSB 2110M model. The tactical machine was state-of-the art military unit, built to demanding MIL-SPEC design. Within its features were transmit-receive and GPS capability. Bolan worked his way through the frequency readout until he logged on to the setting Lieutenant Pearson had given him. Picking up the handset, Bolan began to transmit his pickup request. He was rewarded minutes later by the slow drawl of a communication technician. Shortly, Pearson himself came on the line and they quickly established a GPS lock on Bolan’s position.
“Be a couple hours before we can reach you. You okay with that?”
“We’ve had hard contact with some Taliban,” Bolan advised. “They wanted the package, but we managed to persuade them that wasn’t going to happen. I can’t say there might not be another attempt, LT.”
“Understood. We’ll make it happen ASAP, Cooper. Just make sure you keep that GPS lock working. Any change, you call it in. Good luck.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“The attack failed. Shehan killed Mahoud’s guide, Azal, but the American killed Shehan, then escaped into the hills.”
“Has he been located?”
“No, not yet. Our people lost him.”
“They lost a stranger in their own backyard? Where did you find these people?”
“I was assured they were the best.”
“Something tells me someone lied to you.”
“These things happen.”
“Not with the money you’ve been paid to carry out this operation.”
“I have instructed our people to keep searching and find Mahoud and the American.”
“Instruct them that if they fail to find them it might be better if they stayed in those hills.”
Roger Dane cut the call. He remained where he was, staring out the window across the water. The Crescent Moon was anchored in Monaco harbor, surrounded by dozens of other luxury vessels. Smaller craft slid by carrying suntanned visitors to the tiny principality. Global economic slowdown had little effect on the ultrarich who flocked to the principality to flaunt their wealth.
Behind Dane the main cabin door opened. Dane didn’t turn. He knew who had entered.
“There’s been a slight problem, Daniel,” he said. “The team in Afghanistan didn’t complete its mission. They killed Rahim Azal, but the American took down Shehan and got away into the hills. I just got off the phone with Bouvier. He has his backup people still searching for the American and Mahoud.”
“That’s not the news we were expecting. I hope you made it clear we can’t accept any kind of failure.”
“Oh, he understands.”
“What about Marino?”
“They have the boy. It went off without a hitch. They have Rafiq Mahoud safely locked up in the cabin we rented.”
“At least we have that to fall back on. Mahoud loves his son, and that gives us an edge.”
“Only if he loves the boy more than his ambitions.”
“Roger, you have a cynical streak and it’s showing.”
“I like to see it as being aware of human frailty. Sharif Mahoud may be a dedicated crusader, but he is also a devoted father and we all know the strength of filial devotion.”
“Keep track of what’s happening, Roger. Don’t let anything slide. We can’t afford any more mistakes. By the way, I came to tell you that Homani will arrive tomorrow morning. He’s coming in from his French retreat.”
“He wasn’t supposed to be here for a couple of days. What’s he up to?”
Hartman laughed. “I can’t get you to trust him, can I, Roger?”
“I’ll admit it. I don’t like the man and I don’t trust him. Daniel, I can’t feel comfortable around a man who treats me like I was something that came in on the bottom of his shoe. And he never shakes hands.”
“The guy is a mullah, Roger. A religious man.”
Dane shook his head. “He’s an arrogant bastard. He really does believe we’re his inferiors. He’s only tolerating us because we can deliver him what he wants. Jesus, Daniel, he’s using us. Playing us like fish on a hook.”
“Puts us in a difficult position morally then, doesn’t it?”
“Meaning?”
“You understand me. We’re using him to get what we want. Roger, you should be ashamed.”
Dane grinned as he said, “It’s different for us.”
“Why the hell so?”
“Because we are doing it for good old American free enterprise.”
“I’m glad I have you around to keep me on track, Roger. I keep forgetting our primary mission is to fly the flag and keep dear Uncle Sam clean and pure.”
“Not forgetting to line our own pockets, too.”
“We wouldn’t be money-grasping Imperialists if we didn’t.”
“I’d better go and make sure we have a cabin ready for our visiting mullah,” Dane said. “Last time he was on board he kept complaining the towels weren’t white enough.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carl Lyons’s rental vehicle was a plain, standard model in a light tan color. He wasn’t overly impressed with it, but it suited his current role as a field agent for the Justice Department. Lyons didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention when he arrived at Rafiq Mahoud’s College. It was midmorning when he arrived, and the grounds were busy with students moving between classes.
The sight of all the young people hurrying around made Lyons feel his age. And dressed for it in his gray pants and sport coat. The last time he’d worn a shirt and tie had been too far back to recall. He locked the car and read the direction board, then cut off along the walkway. The only good thing about the day was the fact he was back in California. Sunshine. Palm trees. And from what he was seeing at the moment it still had the monopoly on gorgeous young women.
Inside the main building Lyons checked in with reception, showed his ID, asked for and was escorted to the office of the Dean of Admissions.
Dean Graham Prescott was an affable, tall man who wore an expensive suit and a perfectly formed bow tie. The moment he became aware of who Lyons was, he ushered him through the outer office to his inner sanctum, firmly closing the door.
“Please sit down, Agent Benning,” he said, using Lyons’s cover name.
As Prescott resumed his own seat behind a desk busy with paperwork, Lyons took one of the seats facing him.
“Is this about Rafiq Mahoud?”
The question came out of left field, and for a heartbeat even the usually unflappable Carl Lyons was caught off guard.
“Why?” he quickly countered. “Is there a problem?”
Prescott cleared his throat.
“I hope not. It’s only that Rafiq didn’t attend his classes on Monday, or this mo
rning, and no one appears to have seen him since Friday.”
Lyons leaned forward, his interest peaked. “Perhaps he’s decided to take a little time out?”
Prescott shook his head as he said, “No, no. Not Rafiq. As a student he is incredibly punctual. It’s something he prides himself on. In the whole time he has been here Rafiq has never, ever, missed a class.”
“Does he live on campus?” Lyons probed.
“Yes. We already thought of that. His room has been checked. It doesn’t appear to have been used since he left on Friday.”
“How about any special friends? Anyone he might have told if he was going away? A girl, maybe.”
“You would need to speak to some of his classmates to find that out.” Prescott paused, then continued. “Agent Benning, was it Rafiq you came to see?”
“Yes.”
“If you feel reluctant to tell me more, Agent Benning, I have to inform you that we do know about Rafiq’s family background. He has never concealed it himself. We understand his father’s situation. His difficult situation. Dr. Mahoud is a respected figure in his field. Though we here in America can do little to aid his efforts, the man has to be applauded for what he is trying to do.”
Just great, Lyons thought. If the news was out on Rafiq’s identity, it could turn into open season.
“I need to speak to anyone who might be able to point me in the right direction.”
Prescott sat upright. “Do you think Rafiq might be in danger? Something stemming from his father’s work?”
“My priority is to find out where the young man is,” Lyons said brusquely.
Prescott picked up his phone, dialed a number and had a conversation. When he finished he put the phone down and caught Lyons’s eye.
“I’ve asked for a couple of students to come here to my office. I recall they are friends of Rafiq’s. Perhaps they can help.”
THE YOUNG COUPLE WAS impressed with Lyons’ Justice Department badge. The woman, who introduced herself as Maddy, smiled nervously while her companion, a red-haired, broad-shouldered linebacker, feigned cool indifference. His name was Brad.
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