THE MAKAROV ROUND DUG into the Executioner’s chest, slamming home with the force of a fist. The Kevlar armor spread the slug’s penetrating force but didn’t spare the shock of impact. Bolan took a diving slide to the ground, even as the gunner who’d first spotted him tumbled backward lifelessly. Two men were scrambling in the room as Bolan dived past the entrance. He recognized the little alcove as a mess hall.
He also saw that the two Taliban mercenaries were reaching for heavier hardware than the pistols on their hips, although one of them had the presence of mind to have already filled his hand with a gun.
Bullets zipped over the Executioner’s head as he was already at ground level. The gunmen were reacting to where the big black shadow had been. Bolan didn’t make that mistake. Aiming just a little ahead of where the running shooter was headed, he ripped off a burst that took the terrorist just above the hip. A salvo of four 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched through soft viscera, exploding the flesh of the gunman’s kidney, then tunneled through relentlessly ripping a ragged exit wound.
With a scream, the pistol man collapsed to his knees, but his partner had reached his AK-47 and whirled. Bolan’s dive for cover was almost complete as he skidded along the slick stone floor, and he rolled up tight into a ball, saving his legs from being chopped and splintered by a hail of 7.62 mm shockers.
Bolan heard the mad rush of feet, and knew that the rifleman was going on the offensive. He had one opportunity to take the man out without testing how well the Kevlar he wore could stop the armor-piercing powers of the steel-cored COMBLOC rounds. He scrambled to his feet, and timing it perfectly, grabbed the barrel of the AK the moment it poked out the doorway ahead of the rifleman. With a powerful twist, the Executioner dragged the gunman into the hall with him, his foot snapping into the shin of the shooter.
The man shouted in pain, but held on to his rifle, despite the fact that Bolan twisted it, levering the trigger guard now against the man’s index finger. Another hard yank and bone snapped. The Taliban fighter tried to cry out, but Bolan cut him off with a breath-stealing punch to the stomach, the power of the blow increased by the unyielding steel barrel of his Uzi.
The thug coughed and gagged, barely able to think before Bolan swung the barrel of his own rifle hard into the man’s face, the merciless wood and steel tearing his cheek down to the bone. The gunner’s head bounced back, mouth slack and eyes glazed from the impact. Bolan swept his feet out from under him, letting him crash to the floor, still holding on to the AK.
He pressed the muzzle of the silenced Uzi pistol into the man’s face.
“How many more are there?” Bolan asked.
Boots stomped in the hall behind him, and the Executioner knew that the time for conversation was over. He left the staggered gunner where he lay and kept his fist tight around the barrel of the AK, knowing he might need some extra firepower if things got too hectic. He set down the Uzi pistol long enough to scavenge three magazines from the unconscious rifleman. He penetrated deeper into the tunnels, taking a quick left when he saw shadows converging at an intersection over a hundred feet ahead.
The Executioner found himself in a storage room, drums stacked up against the far wall. He squinted in the darkness and saw the international symbol of “flammable.”
Fuel drums.
He heard the clatter of boots, lots of them, getting closer.
11
It wasn’t the first time that Tera Geren had been punched, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Neither was it the first time she’d been in hot water with agents of a foreign power. Captain Jason Blake was seething and Geren was certain that the swelling red mass on her cheek, puffing her eye closed, was the only thing slowing the Special Forces team leader’s desire to throw her in handcuffs.
“That son of a bitch,” he growled.
“Tell me about it,” she answered. “I fix up his arm, give him a nice bed to sleep in, and he coldcocks me and steals my Land Rover.”
Blake looked like he was about to say something, but Geren had maintained enough angry tension in her voice to give a convincing impression that she didn’t like Bolan’s plan of action. Then again, she didn’t like the big soldier’s idea to head off on his own to limit collateral damage. She didn’t mind the shiner that was hard and tight, forcing her into a one-eyed squint.
“It’s your own fault,” Blake grumbled, steering them through the streets of Chaman.
Geren was shocked by the comment. “What gives you that idea?”
“Working with someone like him. I’ve heard rumors about a guy like that.”
“Colonel Stone?” she asked.
Blake shrugged. “If that’s what they’re calling him now. There’ve been half-remembered names circulating through the community about him.”
“I’ve worked with him, and I know him. He doesn’t mean any harm. If he did, you’d be sporting bullet holes, not bruises,” Geren explained.
Blake snarled at the reminder, but his features softened. “I know that. He didn’t return fire. He probably had more firepower than the specialists I brought with me, and he didn’t fire a single shot.”
“So why can’t you call off the hunt for him?” Geren asked.
Blake frowned. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“No?”
“He isn’t part of the system.”
The Israeli agent rolled her eyes, feeling her head swim at the effort. “Screw the damn system. Nobody talks to each other from different groups under one government, let alone allied governments. That’s how so much shit happens. Nobody’s willing to listen to someone else from a different set of stupid letters.”
Blake sighed. “You would know something about that.”
“That’s why Israel is still standing. We do have most of our shit together. Sometimes it doesn’t go right, and the boss on top feels that it’s better to drop a whole neighborhood to get one man. But at least we have a network that is a network. People work together because they know that if they don’t, people are going to get dead. We’re not perfect. But dammit, we try, and someday cooler heads are going to prevail, but until that time, we still have bad guys to put down, and this particular time, the bad guys also happen to be renegade Israelis.”
“What?” Blake was hit with a palpable wave of shock.
“A death squad calling itself Abraham’s Dagger is on the loose here. They’re after the witnesses of a refugee slaughter in a camp called Shafeeq. Dr. Bronson was one of those witnesses,” Geren explained.
Blake took a deep breath. “Let me guess—the one with the grenade?”
“Blew himself up before leaving us any clues to lead to his buddies in the Dagger,” Geren said.
Blake frowned. “You were there?”
Geren kept quiet.
“Damn it, Rosenberg…”
“Tera,” she corrected.
“Tera, you’re going to have to come clean with me if I’m going to help Colonel Stone.”
“He doesn’t want you involved.”
Blake stared at her. “What?”
“He doesn’t want any American soldiers involved. He doesn’t want me involved. He doesn’t even want his Afghan guide involved, and the only reason he hasn’t completely ditched Laith is because he isn’t fluent in the local dialects,” Geren explained.
“That’s suicide—” Blake began, but his attention was attracted by something up ahead in the road. Geren snapped her head around to catch the glint of light from the rising sun, reflecting off drab metal, worn smooth by peeling paint, yet not quite rusted.
“Rocket attack!”
Blake stomped on the gas, accelerating ahead as rocket-propelled grenades suddenly sizzled forward, riding rails of smoke toward them. Geren tensed, wishing Blake hadn’t confiscated her weapons for the trip back to headquarters. Three rockets were flying all at once, and all three missed them as Blake powered the Mercedes past their point of aim. She spun in the shotgun seat, watching as the two Humvee escots behind them were turning
hard and breaking formation, plowing through feeble fences and down through roadside ruts.
“Grab my M-4 from the back!” Blake shouted.
Geren didn’t argue, slipping into the back seat and grabbing the Green Beret’s rifle and spare ammo. The short-barreled weapon was easy to turn and hammer into a rear passenger window, the squat aluminum tube of the adjustable stock providing all the punch necessary to knock out the safety glass. She flipped the gun like a baton and poked herself halfway out the window, triggering bursts where the con-trails of the rocket launchers were still dissipating.
A scream emanated from the rocket exhaust cloud where her bullets met flesh. Wild return fire swarmed, muzzle-flashes illuminating in the rusty dawn light, smoke and dust providing sharp contrast to the starbursts given off by chattering enemy rifles. Geren left it to Blake to keep them driving fast and hard, and she selected a cluster of enemy weapons and she fanned the group with an extended burst of her own.
The sweep of autofire drove the enemy gunmen to cover, but heartbeats after the autoburst, in the middle of changing magazines, Geren was forced to duck back into the Mercedes. The road and the door of the vehicle were being hammered by return fire.
“Blake?” Geren asked as the Mercedes jerked to one side, still roaring up the road, passing the line of ambushers who were being torn to shreds by twin lines of fire from the Humvees. Knowing the two vehicles that were with them, she almost pitied the ambush squad, being slammed by automatic 40 mm grenades and .50-caliber slugs that would tear a human being in two with ease.
“I’m okay. A bullet got through the door but glanced off my load-bearing vest. I don’t feel any blood,” Blake said.
Geren kept an eye out. More riflemen were off to the other side, hastily struggling to get their RPG up and firing at the Special Forces convoy. She aimed, holding down the trigger for a long blast of 5.56 mm slugs that sailed into the second ambush squad. Men twisted and screamed. An RPG shell popped up into the air like a bottle rocket before spinning lazily to slam into the earth with a ground-shaking eruption. But the squad of gunners were undaunted by the Israeli’s autoburst.
Not that it mattered. She’d spoiled the aim of the grenade attack, and now the Special Forces Humvees were at an angle on the road to see the gunmen. Again, twin streams of heavy weapons fire slammed into the pocket of Taliban militiamen. She saw that individual Green Berets were adding their rifles to the fusillade of withering fire that chopped into human flesh, though that was like adding the effects of a squirt gun to a fire hose. Bodies were smashed to a pulp by explosions or slugs.
Geren shuddered at the carnage, but doubled her discomfort as she realized that this had all taken place in the space of a few seconds, less than a minute of actual time.
It never ceased to amaze her how quick and sudden death could be.
She looked back to Blake.
“Captain?”
The Mercedes gave a violent shudder. It felt as if gravity had let go. Geren’s fingers released the rifle and grabbed for a handhold somewhere in the interior of the vehicle. She was flung toward the ceiling of the upturned Mercedes, and a heartbeat later—backness.
IN THE BLACKNESS of the shadow-laden storage room, the Executioner was pulled in tight, ready to repel any and all invaders with whatever means he had. He had a war bag full of his usual combat gear, and a confiscated enemy rifle. He also had years of combat experience and a knowledge of the way the human mind worked. Hands feeling in the shadows, he found a row of lockers with his shooting hand and swiftly moved along it feeling for a possible gap behind them. Finding none, the bank continuing flush against the wall, he groped the handle of one then another locker until he found one that was open. The fit was tight, but there was no upper shelf. That made it possible to squeeze his frame into the cramped space.
He tugged the locker door almost completely shut as he heard the stampede of boots rumble past the storage area. A flashlight swept the room, and Bolan remained still, watching the shaft of light play across the interior. After a few moments, the overhead lights in the room came on and three men rushed inside, looking around.
The men scanned the place quickly, thinking that the best hiding spots were deep within the room, instead of glancing back to the corner. Crammed in the locker, Bolan didn’t have the ability to move quickly, but tucked deep into shadow, he was almost invisible. As the men looked around the storage area, so did he, following their movements through the vent slits, taking inventory as they moved boxes and crates.
It was more than just a fuel dump, and there was enough gear to wage a whole new war. Bolan waited, seemingly for an eternity as the trio of Taliban mercenaries poked and prodded boxes and barrels before finally turning and racing out of the room.
Bolan was about to move when he caught the sound of more boots at the entrance, and heard a curt order. The overhead lights went out, and the stomping boots thundered down the hallway as the guards separated, seeking out the Executioner in their midst.
Bolan slipped out of the locker as smoothly as he could and drew his red filtered flashlight. The short cycle of red light didn’t travel far or show up in even moderate lighting. The red lens filter allowed him to see things at the space of about ten feet with crystal clarity while making him less noticeable, even if waving it in absolute darkness.
He didn’t really need the torch to find the bit of shelving he was looking for. He remembered its location from when the lights had been on, but he didn’t want to trip over anything and make a sound. Reaching the crate, he set down his light, took off the top and found what he was looking for. A box full of riot-control gas grenades. In the tunnels, they would be as good as gold, but only as long as Bolan could protect himself from the ravages of the choking clouds.
He hadn’t seen any gas masks, but he did see a box of goggles. He pulled some electrical tape from his vest, sealed off the vent holes in the sides of one set and strapped them around his head. He crouched down as he heard a couple of men jog past, then disappear. Bolan wasn’t about to go searching for something to replace gas filters. He removed a wad of gauze from his first-aid pouch and taped it across his chin and the bridge of his nose.
It was time to let the Taliban know that their reign of terror was going to end in tears.
MARID HAYTHAM SAW the Special Forces convoy take some bad hits after wiping out two groups of ambushers with their superior firepower. He knew full well the effectiveness of RPG-7 Soviet-designed rocket grenades, having used them in everything from laying vengeful waste to an Israeli airfield to taking out troop trucks and armored personnel carriers. The Mercedes in the lead took only a glancing blast, being the quicker, smaller target. However, the slower, larger Humvees were smacked with relative ease, even by the horrible Taliban marksmen.
Haytham looked at his partners, Fasood and Sariz. “We have to do something,” he told them.
“Like what? Fight off men armed with rockets?” Sariz asked.
“The woman in the Mercedes is our best chance to track down the men from Abraham’s Dagger,” Haytham stated.
“A temporary alliance, you mean?” Fasood asked.
“With them?” Sariz asked. Even Fasood looked doubtful.
Haytham hit the accelerator, racing past the shattered hulks of the two Humvees. A Taliban gunman spotted the speeding automobile, a hard worn Russian ZIL, and shouted a warning as Haytham took the vehicle off-road, plowing through two of the mercenaries before they had time to dive for cover.
Fasood pointed the muzzle of his submachine gun out the window and he held down the trigger. The Hamas man was one of the few people who Haytham worked with who had actually trained to control his weapon and put bullets on a target. Two Taliban men were cut down by precision gunfire from the Palestinian shooter. Their corpses spun out of control to the ground as their life forces were cut from them.
Haytham exited the driver’s door and fired off rounds from his Makarov, taking enemy gunners in the heads and chests. When his weapon ra
n dry, he ducked down, pulled his rifle and rolled free of the car, certain that Fasood was doing the same maneuver on the other side.
Sariz snarled in angry derision at the choice that Haytham had made, but that didn’t keep the Uzi clamped in his big fists from rattling off an extended blast of slugs that served only to keep the enemy’s head down. Scattering the remaining fighters of the ambush team was not a waste of ammo, for the time being. Haytham simply raised his Uzi as Sariz’s autofire herded gunmen into his line of fire and ripped into them with salvos of 9 mm slugs. Using the hood of the ZIL as cover, he kept up the pressure, Fasood’s weapon chattering on the other side.
No return fire came, and Sariz finally stepped out of the ZIL, giving a howl of victory, emptying a quarter of his magazine into the sky before Haytham gave him a hard shove.
“What’s wrong?” Sariz asked.
“Gravity, you nit!” Haytham scolded.
“What?”
Haytham grabbed the man’s shirt and yanked him back into the cover of the ZIL, moments before the steel roof came alive with the sounds of leaden rain as gravity pulled the 9 mm bullets back down. The dirt was alive with impacts, and Sariz howled in surprise.
“Who’s shooting at us?” he snapped.
“You! Bullets go up, and they come back down,” Haytham growled.
“Gravity,” Sariz muttered. He looked out and saw Fasood, clutching one arm, scowling at the men in the car.
“Twit,” Fasood shouted. He took his hand away from his shoulder, wet and glistening with blood, then looked around. “We’d better get the woman.”
“And the man,” Haytham replied. “I’m sure that whatever happened, they called for help as soon as the first shooting started.”
“I thought you wanted some kind of alliance,” Sariz said.
“We’ll be friendly, but we’ll be friendly on our terms, all right?” Haytham explained. “I’m not going to have a rifle in my hand and two vehicles full of dead or wounded American soldiers when their backup arrives.”
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