"You're hit."
"A scratch."
"You're losing blood."
"We have not far to go."
Bolan searched his eyes for several heartbeats and finally nodded.
"Right."
A straggler could kill them all, and he did not intend to place himself in that position. If he felt that he could not keep up, Kasm would break away and find a place to make his stand, content to buy them time by slowing down the enemy who would be sure to follow.
They had come this far, but they were not yet free by any means. The stable lay before them, possibly guarded, and there was still the open courtyard, as well as the gates they could never hope to open on their own.
So pointless, but his spirit would not let him wallow in dejection and surrender. Better to die in combat, fighting for his honor, than to gain an extra hour by submitting to his enemies.
A hundred yards, more or less, would bring them to the stables. He could make it that far. After that, it might not matter.
A hundred yards, and Hafez Kasm knew that he was privileged. Few men were favored with the gift of measuring their lives with such precision.
* * *
Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, Tahir Arrani knew he was too late. The bodies in the corridor had been a warning; the gunsmoke, hanging in the stairwell like a whiff of grim disaster in the offing, was confirmation.
The American was gone.
Amal had failed to stop them; his death was no real consolation. The infidels were again at liberty, and they were obviously armed. They would be killed, of course — they could not hope to stand against an army — but the very fact that they survived to this point was a humiliation for Arrani. He was losing face with every moment that his enemies remained at large; each soldier lost in the pursuit was one more stumbling block for his campaign to one day rule the Eagle's Nest.
Where would they go? Two strangers in the labyrinth might easily be lost, but he could not afford to put his faith in chance. Thus far, the infidels had managed to defy the odds of probability. They were resourceful, ruthless, deadly. And he knew that they would have a plan by now, however desperate and hopeless it might seem. They would not wander aimlessly around the tunnels, waiting to be ambushed and annihilated.
Would they dare to try the entrance they had used upon arrival? It was guarded, they would know that much, but in a pinch, they might have no alternative. Arrani thought the force on duty at the palace entrance was sufficient, made a mental note to keep in touch with them by runner and began to consider alternatives.
On orders from Sheikh al-Jebal, the infidels had not been watched as closely as they should have, and he had no way of knowing whether they had sniffed out other exits from the castle. Surely they would not have found his secret passage to and from the garden of delights, but there were other avenues — the stables, for example — that his enemies might be aware of. Three exits came to mind, and while a token force had been assigned to each, Arrani knew they needed reinforcements.
He turned to the riflemen around him, selected runners, issued orders and watched them disappear. They would alert the sentries on the farthest exits, gather reinforcements and return to join him when their work was done. They knew where he would be.
The nearest exit opened on the stables, and Arrani meant to lead the hunters there himself. He had no reason to believe the infidels would choose that exit over any of the others, but accessibility, the need to act, made up his mind. If sentries on the stable gate had seen no strangers, he would reinforce the post and carry on the hunt. In time, he knew, his path would cross the American's, and he would be victorious.
It was a pity that he would be forced to kill the jackals outright, rather than resume his interrogation, but he would not risk more damage to his battered reputation. There would be no second chance for his enemies to escape.
At least, he thought, the interrupted torture session had borne meager fruit. He was prepared to take the tall man's word about an accidental meeting with the Irish terrorist, who had been en route to Alamut. Israeli sponsors were believable, as well, and it made sense that they would use a mercenary this time, after losing other agents in their past attempts to track the Assassins. Arrani had disposed of one himself, and knew that Syrian police had snared another in the recent past. The American's Arab comrade was a problem, hinting at the possibility of other traitors searching for the Eagle's Nest, but it was a problem he could deal with, given half a chance.
When he had found the jackals, finished them, there would be ways of insulating Alamut against impending danger. Contacts in the Ba'ath regime would help identify the Syrian, his friends and relatives. A hunting party could be sent to clean the slate before unfriendly eyes discovered what was written there.
The prospect of annihilating families improved Arrani's mood, but first he had to find the infidels. Their heads, on silver platters, would be helpful in restoring his position in the eyes of Abdel al-Sabbah… but would it be enough?
Of late, the Old Man had been looking at him strangely, with a sort of wariness, as if he harbored dark suspicions, sought some reason to mistrust Arrani. Given the disaster that now confronted him, there was a possibility that he would be deposed, relieved of duty by the sheikh, replaced with someone who had wooed and won the Old Man's favor.
If it came to that, what were his prospects for survival? Earlier that day, Sheikh al-Jebal had ordered death for twelve disciples on the basis of a bungled training exercise. How much more serious was his predicament, with intruders at large and armed inside the castle?
Moving through the tunnels with his squad of riflemen, Arrani knew that he was in a desperate situation. Even a successful hunt might leave him facing execution, and he did not plan to offer up his own head to pacify the master. If it came to that, he was prepared to make a rather different sort of sacrifice to Allah.
With the outsiders killing anyone they met, it would be tragic — but predictable — if one of them should meet the sheikh. Quite by chance, of course. It would be touch-and-go, with bodyguards around him, but the mercenary and his companion had already slaughtered ten or twelve disciples that Arrani knew of. It was conceivable that they could drop the palace guards, eliminate the sheikh… and if they died in the exchange of gunfire, riddled bodies laid out at the scene, who would be rash enough to question Allah's will?
In the event of such a tragedy, it would be only natural to seek immediate replacement for the chief of the Assassins. And who better to accept the post than one who had been faithful to the sheikh for years on end, a loyal disciple, well versed in all the projects their sect had undertaken on behalf of clients in the world outside? Who had a better right to occupy the throne?
It would be risky, but the prize was worth the gamble. At the moment he had everything to gain and nothing but his life to lose.
Before he could inaugurate his new regime, however, he would have to find the outsiders. From there, he could proceed with the elimination of Sheikh al-Jebal, his bodyguards and the Assassins who were witness to his treachery. Perhaps two dozen lives in all.
It would be, Arrani thought, a vital new beginning for his personal jihad.
21
"We are approximately thirty yards from the stables."
Bolan hesitated, glancing back along their trail, where angry voices echoed in the tunnels. At his side, Hafez Kasm seemed to be maintaining his composure, but the crimson stain beneath his arm was wet and glistening, more than triple its initial size. If he had not yet begun to feel the blood loss, his time was running out. Debilitating weakness was not far away.
All the more reason, then, for them to make their move as quickly and decisively as possible. The Executioner had no idea how they should play it once they reached the stables, but he knew they could not afford to run in place. As long as they were moving, they were still alive, and there was hope.
Sarah was intently studying the corridor that stretched ahead. Her friend, Mari, wore a ne
rvous look, but she was hanging tough, and Bolan counted her as a survivor, streetwise, ready to confront an unforgiving world on any terms. Kasm was fading, and Bolan did not like the little smile that played across the Arab's features. He had seen that look before, on dying men.
"We're going," Bolan told him. "Are you with us?"
"With you? Yes." He pushed off from the wall and raised his AK-47. "To the stables."
Bolan shared the point position with Kasm, concerned about reaction time if they encountered sentries unexpectedly. Already, he could see the Syrian responding sluggishly to questions, like a man who's had one drink too many. He was still in control, but fractions of a second could be life or death in point-blank confrontations, and the Executioner did not intend to sacrifice four lives in the pursuit of saving face.
They reached the final elbow of the tunnel unopposed. Beyond that point, they would be moving through a free-fire zone, and Bolan couldn't risk even a glance around the corner to assess their opposition. Listening, he was rewarded with a dismal silence that could mean anything… or nothing. A battalion could stand silent if the troops were disciplined and motivated, or the total lack of sound might simply indicate an empty corridor. If he could only poke his head around the corner once…
"I'll go." The lady from Mossad had sized up his dilemma at a glance. "They'll think I'm lost in the confusion. If there aren't too many…"
"No. It's my turn." Mari had removed her cartridge belt before she finished speaking, and she was around the corner before they had a chance to haul her back. A futile curse beneath his breath, and Bolan held his Uzi ready. He couldn't control the situation now, but he could try to make the best of it.
Beyond his line of sight, he heard the woman speaking rapid, frightened Arabic. A male voice answered sternly, then another. Clearly the appointed sentries on the stable entrance had no sense of chivalry where duty was concerned.
"On three," he told the others, conscious of the fact that there could just as easily be twenty guns as two, around that corner. Counting down, he put his faith in the advantage of surprise, and knew that once the sentries were disposed of there would be no time to stop and count their options. They would have to keep rolling, blind and possibly outnumbered, killing anyone who tried to stop them.
Bolan didn't even want to think about what happened after, if they survived the next few moments, managed to secure mounts inside the stable. He couldn't allow himself to dwell on the mammoth gates, the walls with riflemen on top, the courtyard teeming with Assassins.
"Three!"
Bolan made his move, Kasm behind him, Sarah bringing up the rear. Two sentries, who were now outnumbered, saw Death approaching but refused to break and run.
They carried folding-stock Kalashnikovs, and both were firing as their enemies emerged from cover. Mari lunged against the one on Bolan's left and grappled for his weapon, taking half a dozen rounds at skin-touch range, which flattened her on impact, left the guards wide open.
Bolan hosed them with his submachine gun, heard the automatic rifles of his comrades chiming in. Another heartbeat, and their enemies were dancing jerkily, like puppets with a drunkard or a madman on the strings. Bright splotches were painted on the door and wall behind them as they fell. Bolan didn't have to call a cease-fire; there was no one left to kill.
There was no time to check on Mari, who was obviously dead. Bolan rushed the door, reloading on the run, aware that every second counted. Death might be waiting for them just beyond the threshold, but there was no other way. The heavy door was built to open inward, and he pushed against it with his weight, prepared to feel the impact of a bullet in his face at any moment. Crouching, Bolan scuttled through the opening and hit a flying shoulder roll to spoil his adversaries' aim. He came up on his knees, the Uzi braced for action… and discovered that his «opposition» was a solitary stable hand.
The man had seemed dumbfounded for an instant, but he was a trained Assassin, like his fellow cultists, and he bounced back swiftly, groping for the rifle that was propped beside him in a corner. Bolan helped him get there with a lethal figure eight that punched him forward like a rag doll, slamming him facefirst against the wall.
They were alone, but only for the moment. "Hurry up! Get mounted!" Bolan snapped, suiting words to action, as he moved toward the stalls where horses stood.
None of them were saddled, and the gear was stowed at one end of the stable. The warrior moved with long, determined strides to fetch the minimal equipment he would need. A set of reins, for starters; a saddle would be nice, but time was short and Bolan was prepared to rough it, if he had to. Reins were crucial, though, if he was going to control the horse, and he draped a set across a shoulder, moving on to choose a saddle.
He could hear the numbers falling in his mind, but Bolan forced himself to work methodically, with steady hands. There might be faster ways to do the job, but they would likely dump him on his butt before he traveled fifty feet, and riding into hell was bad enough. He had no wish to try the journey on all fours.
As he was tightening the cinch beneath his horse's belly, watching Sarah snug her saddle into place, he was startled by a shouted warning from Hafez. A single fluid motion put the Uzi in his hand, and he was pivoting to face the enemy as three of them burst through the outer doorway to the stable. All were armed with automatic weapons, and they read the situation in a glance, their rifles snapping up and into target acquisition.
Bolan broke away from the animal, tracking right across their line of fire, determined not to let his adversaries shoot the horses by mistake. Their only hope of getting out alive was standing in those stalls, and one stray round would force them to begin the saddling procedure from square one.
Kasm was standing tall and firing at the three Assassins, even as echoes of his warning died away, eclipsed by the staccato bark of automatic weapons. One of the Ismaili gunners staggered, fell, and Bolan saw a second going down before he could align the Uzi's sights with living flesh.
It was the third who found his mark, the bullets ripping through Hafez Kasm as he held the Uzi's trigger down, too late. A storm of parabellum manglers punched the solitary gunman back and out of frame, but he had made his score in passing. Twisted like a scrap of cast-off clothing on the stable floor, the Syrian was finished. Bolan had no time to say goodbye.
"Get mounted!"
Sarah was already clambering aboard her animal as Bolan barked the order, moving toward his own. He had the reins in hand, one foot up in the stirrup, when a crash of thunder shook the Eagle's Nest to its foundations, startling the horses as no gunfire had been able.
Midnight, and the Phantoms were on time.
The Executioner could only pray that he was not too late.
* * *
Sheikh al-Jebal was a survivor. From his ragged childhood, through his service with the fedayeen, to his position as the master of the Eagle's Nest, he had possessed the necessary traits that saw him, more or less intact, through every hostile confrontation. Wit and wisdom. Ruthlessness. Intelligence. Imagination. Part of being a survivor was accepting the reality of an occasional defeat. You learned to walk away before your losses became insupportable. Above all else, you saved yourself.
And so the time had come for him to leave.
He had reports of gunfire from the cellars, from the stables, and his hunting parties had discovered Ismaili corpses scattered through the tunnels. He did not believe that two men could accomplish all of that and still survive against an army numbering more than a hundred men. Somehow his fortress had been breached, and there was nothing he could do to save it now. The first priority was preservation of his leadership as figurehead and mentor to the Assassins.
The whole disaster was Arrani's fault. The son of a syphilitic jackal had been placed in charge of all security for Alamut, and any breach of that security was his direct responsibility. It was a pity there would be no time to punish him as he deserved, but if, by chance, Arrani managed to survive this night, the sheikh
meant to see him hunted down and slaughtered for his failure to protect the voice of Allah.
In the old days, when their treasury was empty and their name anathema to every Muslim government on Earth, escape from such a situation might have been impossible. His enemies were in the stable, cutting off his access to the horses, and he could not risk the courtyard, where the vehicles were parked. He might have been cut off, but he was not, and as he called his palace guards together, the sheikh released a silent prayer of thanks for the wonders of technology.
It was a short walk to the heliport, and he could be away from Alamut in moments, soaring like a bird of prey. He had another nest prepared, but no one knew of it, other than a handful of his trusted servants. He had kept Tahir Arrani in the dark about his secret hideaway, in case withdrawal from the Eagle's Nest should someday be compulsory. His hidden lair was not a palace, in the sense that Alamut had been, but it would serve him in his hour of need, and there was always room to grow.
A true survivor learned from each defeat and memorized his own mistakes, the better to avoid repeating them in future. Sheikh al-Jebal had learned from his experience this night to trust in no one and suspect all men, however loyal they might appear when speaking to his face. It was a timely lesson, and he took it to his heart.
Maintaining contact with his clients wouldn't be a problem, though he counted on a brief disruption of communication while his new retreat was fitted with equipment. All the names and places, the assignments waiting to be carried out, were filed inside his mind. It might take time for him to build another strike force capable of serving foreign clients, but he thought that there were bound to be survivors from the night's fiasco, and it would be relatively simple to make contact, rally them around his standard once again, when he was ready to proceed.
The garden of delights would be most difficult to recreate, but given time and patience, cash and ingenuity, he would surpass the most elaborate achievements of his predecessors. He would build a fortress, sow a garden that would stand for generations as a symbol of almighty Allah's wrath against the infidels.
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