Suicide Highway

by Don Pendleton

  “If that wasn’t a kill, it sure got their attention,” Kent said. He was right. On the targeting panel, Bolan could see the speeding blips of trucks suddenly accelerating, racing away from one another.

  He hit the firing stud, seeing a couple of trucks racing off the road at such an angle that he could unleash a salvo of artillery rockets. The powerful explosive darts hurtled along the three and one-quarter miles between the helicopter and the convoy. The truck drivers probably didn’t even know they were under the hammer until the supersonic slammers smashed into them. Two vehicles were chewed apart by detonations, the sand around them boiling with shock waves.

  Three down and nine to go, according to Laith, but Bolan’s instincts were on red alert. He counted only eight, and the trucks seemed like they’d let off some of their forces. He didn’t believe it was because they were short of manpower. Not with the amount of men thrown at the Palestinians and American soldiers back at Chaman.

  Bolan targeted another truck with a Hellfire and split it in two. He glanced over to the other SuperCobra, knowing that even if Geren or Haytham knew how to operate the gunnery controls, they wouldn’t have been able to operate them in the narrow confines of the cockpit, not with both of them stuffed into one seat. The second helicopter was relegated to being a transport, at least until they got within range with their M197 20 mm cannon, which the pilots could aim with the sophisticated targeting systems in their flight helmets.

  The Executioner, except for Kent behind him, was on his own.

  The SuperCobra was eating distance greedily, and he popped off another trio of Hydra-70s, watching another truck disappear in a fireball, fragments of steel and flesh flying in thousands of directions. Always, he was scanning the desert around the edge of the refugee camp. He spotted them, finally. Men—at least twenty—running on foot.

  They were close enough to use the helicopter’s guns. Finally the second gunship could act.

  The other SuperCobra dipped and accelerated toward another truck, its 20 mm cannon spitting fire now. The vehicle disappeared in a rainstorm of explosive shells, the pilot swerving and darting, bringing his cannon to bear on a second, and then a third target in the enemy convoy.

  It was as if two gods had reached down smashing old, unwanted toys. Bolan held his fire as Kent cut loose with his cannon as well. There was only one target left.

  It didn’t matter. As fast as the truck accelerated, trying to escape, it was doomed as the 20 mm hellstorm flashed out. The result was as expected—complete destruction.

  “That’s not all,” Bolan said before the explosion reached its climax.

  “It never is,” Kent answered. “Where do you need to be put down?”

  “Drop me at the hospital. We have to get ahead of the Taliban terrorists,” Bolan told him. “If we can, then maybe I can contain any conflict away from civilians.”

  Kent looked around. “I don’t envy your job.”

  MARID HAYTHAM WAS GLAD to be back on the ground again, free to move on his own, uncramped by steel or even the pinning form of Tera Geren. He felt naked, even with the Makarov filling his fist, but when they’d crammed into the gunship together, there was no way they could fit their rifles, even the compact Uzi he carried, in with them. He looked back as the pilot of their helicopter, Wayne, gave them a wave.

  “You’re going to need something more than your pistols,” the Marine said. He produced a weapon from his seatside. “Ever use the P-90?”

  Haytham took the gun. It looked more like an advanced wood-planing device than a gun. He looked it over. “Magazine on the top. Trigger?”

  “It ejects out the bottom, so it’s fully ambidexterous,” Wayne told him. “There’s no thumb safety, and pressure on the trigger determines how many shots you fire. A light pull and you get one shot. Mash it down, and you’ll be in rock-and-roll heaven. Clips hold fifty.”

  Haytham took a couple spare magazines and looked at the pilot. Doubt had to have been written across his face.

  “I don’t know you from Adam,” Wayne told him. “But the man who ordered us to the rescue here, he trusts you. I’ll take that as a good sign.”

  Haytham smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “There’s another P-90 in the front,” Wayne told Geren, and she leaned in, taking it and its spare ammunition. “Good hunting,” he said.

  “I hope so,” Geren replied. “Thanks.”

  The two people whirled and went to meet Bolan, who was standing by a jeep. Haytham recognized the young man with him as Laith Khan, the nephew of one of Afghanistan’s most powerful mujahideen leaders.

  “Too bad there’s so many civilians around,” Laith said. “Those Cobras could kick some serious ass.”

  “They did their job,” Bolan told him. “Now it’s time for us to earn our pay.”

  “Where are the doctors?” Haytham asked.

  Bolan nodded toward the prefab hospital building. “At least the walls will do something to slow down some bullets.”

  “It took a lot of arm twisting to get them to go in there,” Laith said. “But when you started blowing up half the desert—”

  “They got the point,” Geren finished.

  “That’s right,” Laith answered. “How many do you think got through?”

  “Too many,” Bolan answered. He shifted his grip on his M-4.

  “Tera, Marid, you two take that side,” Bolan ordered. “Laith, stay by the entrance.”

  “And you?” Haytham asked.

  The Executioner’s voice was grim. “I’m going hunting.”

  REFUGEES LOOKED at the stranger as he strode through the camp, their eyes wide with surprise. Bolan remembered he was still wearing the midnight black greasepaint on his face and hands, and to them, he probably didn’t look human.

  People scattered at the sight of him, keeping their distance, which was exactly what the Executioner wanted. Anyone near him could end up catching a bullet if he encountered the remaining members of Abraham’s Dagger or their Taliban strike force.

  No sooner had he thought it than the devils themselves rose, en masse.

  A trio of them tore around a corner from where they were waiting in ambush. Rifles chattered, but Bolan hit the ground, bullets spitting over his head. People around him were also dropping, screams of terror almost drowning out gunfire.

  The Executioner put the crosshairs of his scope on the chest of one enemy gunman, pumping a 2-round burst through his rib cage that tossed him aside like trash. Bolan rolled over once, his wounded shoulder protesting as his weight crushed into it. He put another three shots into the torso of the second of the three gunmen, eliminating his menace.

  Bullets chewed into the ground, advancing toward the Executioner. He was glad that the aim was low, as there was less chance for a shot to leave the immediate battleground. It also meant that the enemy gunman wasn’t quite keeping up with him. Bolan swung his M-4 on the would-be murderer, slicing a 6-round burst, from shoulder to shoulder, nearly decapitating the rifleman.

  The sound of autofire rattled behind Bolan, and he quickly got back to his feet. He saw Laith Khan opening fire on a pair of Taliban shooters who were charging the prefab hospital. Bolan swung his carbine around and punched a 3-round burst between the shoulder blades of one of the gunmen while the other buckled under the storm of impacts from Laith’s rifle.

  A line of exploding stone signaled the slash of another automatic weapon, a swarm of bullets racing for Laith. Bolan dashed forward, heart almost in his throat. He was going to see another of his allies felled in action, and he had no angle on the gunman. Laith pivoted and opened fire, then stumbled, puffs of sand flying from his chest.

  The young man dropped to his knees, rifle falling from numbed hands as the Executioner raced toward the hospital.

  Two more Taliban mercenaries raced out, one from Bolan’s left and one from his right, looking to take advantage of the soldier while he was on the move. They hadn’t counted on facing a fighting machine. As much as Mack Bolan, the man,
was stricken with concern for his fellow human beings, the Executioner was a combat computer in a finely tuned body. Firing on the run, even from the hip, was a task the warrior had trained for and had done in the field a thousand times before. He knew where his rounds would hit just on pure base reflex.

  Two squirts of 5.56 mm supersonic rounds, and the Arabs were dying.

  Bolan exploded into the clearing around the hospital, spotting a quartet of gunmen taking cover behind a stack of water pipes. The buttstock of his carbine met his shoulder, and he took them, 2- and 3-shot bursts smacking into skulls, dead on target in the crosshairs of the scope. He felt a round glance off him, and when he looked down, he saw pouches torn from his load-bearing vest, Kevlar frayed by the passing of an enemy slug.

  The Executioner didn’t count how close the hit came, nor did he pay attention to the searing ache in his side where the 7.62 mm thunderbolt had been stopped by the combination of body armor and gear layered around his ribs. Gunfire rattled behind him, and he spun in reaction to it. He watched a Taliban gunner dance as Marid Haytham opened up on him. A second shooter popped into view, taking aim at the both of them, but Bolan’s and Haytham’s guns ripped him apart.

  The Executioner looked toward Laith and saw Tera Geren dragging him into the hospital, assisted by men and women in scrubs. Laith appeared to struggle, trying to get up and rejoin the fight, but a half dozen pairs of hands were unwilling to let the injured Afghan rejoin the conflict.

  Reassured at the safety of his young companion, Bolan swung around, looking for more targets. He glanced at Haytham, who was similarly on the alert, his dark eyes wide and wild, black hair matted to his forehead.

  “Take that side,” Bolan told him.

  The Palestinian gave a curt nod, pausing only to insert a fresh magazine into his FN P-90. Weapon fully loaded, Haytham swung around the corner. Bolan felt reassured at the Hamas fighter’s professionalism in combat, and hoped that, odds willing, the Middle Eastern warrior would have a chance to change his life around.

  Bolan turned to the other side of the building, rifle at the ready. His fingers brushed for a spare magazine, but they found nothing except the tender, sore area where at least one AK-47 round had hammered him. The pouches that held his spare ammunition had saved him from perforation, but had been torn free in the collision. That left the Executioner with only one carbine with an unknown amount of ammunition. He cast it aside and pulled out the Uzi pistol. A quick glance let him check that it was topped off, and he scanned for more snipers.

  Almost a dozen of the enemy were already down, but the soldier didn’t want to rest on any assumptions. The Taliban troop trucks seemed understaffed, and he didn’t know if that was because they had unloaded half of their number for a pedestrian assault, or that they had simply wanted to spread the few numbers they had across a greater area by using more vehicles. Either way, one truck came up missing from the convoy, and that could have easily held two dozen men on its own.

  And Bolan still hadn’t seen any more members of Abraham’s Dagger, and three of them were unaccounted for.

  Every instinct screamed that they were still out there.

  Three Taliban gunmen burst out of an alley from the shantytowns, and Bolan brought up his Uzi to meet them. They were already coming under fire, sharp rifle cracks resounding as slugs sliced into the gunmen from behind. One of the Arab riflemen spun. He screamed and leveled his AK-47 at whoever shot at his companions, but the Executioner cut him off at the waist with a sizzling swarm of 9 mm hornets that tore open the gunner’s belly. The thug glanced toward Bolan, eyes stricken with some unexplained betrayal, mouth open.

  It was as if he wanted to tell the Executioner something, but he dived face-first into the ground, never to rise again. Bolan saw a trio of men appear, wearing Khaki desert clothing and the distinctive blue berets and armbands of a UN security team.

  “Identify yourself!” one of them said, aiming a Colt Commando at him.

  “Colonel Stone, U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Division,” he lied. He knew that he could rely on Captain Blake to provide him with some verification of his cover if push came to shove. Bolan didn’t intend to cause any trouble with these men, not when he was here to help them out.

  “Captain Rhodin,” the one with the highest rank pips said. “Thank you for helping out.”

  Bolan scanned the man’s face. He looked Arabic even with his eyes obscured by the shooting glasses. This was no big surprise considering that the UN usually did its best to hire people who could fit in and relate. But there was something wrong. “Anytime. I’ve been part of an investigation in the area involving the group behind this attack,” Bolan said slowly.

  Rhodin looked around for more marauders. His clean-shaven jaw was a shade lighter than the skin on his cheeks. The perception clicked into place, and Bolan recalled the name that the “UN security” man so casually tossed out—a name from Tera Geren’s list.

  Olsen Rhodin was the leader of the Abraham’s Dagger cell that she was hunting. Bolan stiffened in recognition, his Uzi coming up.

  More gunmen rushed in, their rifles erupting with automatic blasts of lead and fire. Bolan and the three imposters scattered. One man dived alongside the Executioner. The wall he’d stood in front of moments before was now pockmarked with a hundred new holes, but the charging enemy wasn’t slowing down. They adjusted their aim, but not before the Executioner stiff-armed his machine pistol and swept them with withering blasts of his own cleansing fire. He knocked down three of the seven remaining attackers.

  A form came darting from behind the hospital, his gun snorting and snarling like a chain saw. Marid Haytham opened fire on the last four marauders, catching them off balance. Totally focused on the downed Executioner, they were unprepared for a strike from the side. Bullets tore mercilessly through the men.

  Bolan looked up and sought out the Abraham’s Dagger intruders. “They’re disguised as UN security forces,” Bolan called to Haytham, pushing off the ground.

  “Look out, Stone!” the Palestinian shouted back.

  From the shout of alarm, Bolan knew what was coming. He ducked, avoiding having the back of his head crushed by the unyielding stock of an assault rifle. Tumbling forward on his shoulder, he looked to see one of the Israelis lunging at him, his face a grim mask of hatred.

  Unfortunately, in his somersault, his already tenuous grasp on his Uzi was lost. The Abraham’s Dagger commando stepped back, swinging the rifle around to aim at him.

  The burst of autofire was blinding and deafening.

  17

  Marid Haytham brought his borrowed P-90 to bear on the man who was going to kill Colonel Brandon Stone. He triggered the weapon as he charged. The Israeli gunman saw the surge of movement and swung his muzzle. Out of the short barrel of his enemy’s rifle, the muzzle-flash was a basketball-sized fireball, impressive to the Palestinian fighter even in broad daylight.

  Haytham saw his bullets strike home. The shooter jerked almost in slow motion with each successive impact. But something was wrong. The Hamas man couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Instead, a burning sensation boiled within his torso and his hands loosened on the P-90 submachine gun. The weapon sailed, spearing into the ground as momentum dragged him forward several stumbling steps.

  Strong hands grabbed him and held him up. He looked into the face of Colonel Brandon Stone. He looked down and saw one side of his shirt drenched in blood.

  “You’ve been hit,” Bolan said, voice disjointed and muffled. “It’s a lung shot. You can make it.”

  Haytham tried to swallow. Blood bubbled into his mouth. “You’re bleeding too,” he said.

  “Old injuries,” the American lied. “I need a medic!”

  Haytham reached up, fingers clawing into Bolan’s vest. “There’s still two more. I saw them go inside.”

  “You’re not going to die,” the colonel ordered.

  Haytham’s eyes started to blur, but he blinked, bringing them back into focus. “Stop them. Save the
innocent.”

  He heard the bubbling sound of a child’s laughter. It could have been from the refugee camp, but it sounded so familiar. He turned to see where the sound came from, when he saw the stocky shape of a man, leveling a rifle at Stone’s back. With his last vestiges of strength, the Palestinian swung him aside, literally throwing him six feet.

  Haytham was impressed with the display of power, then looked down the barrel of the gun intended for the American. He didn’t blink.

  The black tunnel of the gun’s muzzle became a glowing light.

  THE EXECUTIONER’S Desert Eagle was in his fist three heartbeats after he recovered from being tossed like a sack of potatoes. Marid Haytham had saved his life twice in as many minutes. Now, he watched the Palestinian man convulse as bullets punched out from a window.

  He fought off a nauseating wave of stunned shock and triggered the massive steel pistol, smashing glass. Feeble cracks of return fire poked at him, the dirt around him puffed as missed shots rained all around. Bolan scrambled to his feet, racing halfway to the window before he saw the gunman disappear into the halls of the hospital. He stopped and checked on Haytham. His eyes were open, staring glassily toward the blue sky.

  He thumbed the dead man’s eyes closed. There were a million things he wanted to say over the departed soul, but he remembered the final words whispered to him.

  Stop them. Save the innocent.

  The Executioner didn’t have to be told twice. There was a time to say words over the dead, but this wasn’t one. He hit the door, reloading his Desert Eagle on the run.

  Marid Haytham had finally been reunited with his family. He was at peace.

  Mack Bolan, on the other hand, wondered when he would ever achieve that state.