Teheran Wipeout

by Don Pendleton

  Three crumpled bodies lay on the other side of the smoked-window limo, killed instantly from razoring shrapnel from the grenade.

  The detonation echoed between the barracks buildings.

  Two surviving soldiers alongside the limo struggled to recover their senses, one of the riflemen tracking on Bolan without knowing it.

  The Executioner stayed under cover of night. He triggered a burst from the Uzi, red-hot parabellums pulping the rifleman's chest, red muck belching out of the soldier's back as he tumbled against the limo. The door was edging open, someone inside responding to the grenade blast.

  The limo looked bullet and bomb-proof. The occupants did not know this or simply wanted out of this firefight to reach what they considered the safety of the nearest building.

  The front passenger door of the vehicle nudged against the impacting weight of the falling man. The back door eased open, figures inside scrambling out.

  The last Iranian soldier stared at death everywhere he looked, stunned because less than thirty seconds ago everything had seemed all right. He triggered a blast from his bucking AK-47, frantically hammering the night without a target.

  Bolan closed in on the car from another angle, triggering the Uzi.

  The projectiles ate out the hardguy's chest, back-flipping the bullet-riddled body across the hood of the car.

  The rear door of the limo slammed shut.

  The front door started to, the occupants obviously rethinking their escape.

  Bolan triggered a stutter before the front door could close.

  A gasp punctuated the thwack of slugs bursting open flesh. The door swung outward again, a dead body leaning half out of the car, half reclining from the front seat, spreading a pool of blood on the ground beneath.

  Bolan dashed toward the car, rapidly reloading without a glance at the uniformed corpse half in, half out of the car like a grotesque jack-in-the-box.

  An arm from inside the car reached across the body to grab the door handle and pull it shut.

  Bolan triggered a 3-round burst, messily amputating at the wrist, the fingers of the severed hand remaining gripped around the door handle.

  Bolan kicked the door wide open, activating an interior light, bringing the mortal panic in the limo into crisp focus.

  A figure, face completely swathed in bandages, scrambled for escape out the opposite back door of the limo as the Man From Death loomed in for the kill.

  The soldier in the front seat shrieked, bouncing and screaming, oblivious to anything except the throbbing stump of wrist and the stream of highpressure red he tried unsuccessfully to stem with his remaining hand.

  Bolan put this bodyguard out of his misery with a 9mm bullet.

  The bandaged plastic-surgery patient in back managed to yank open his door and start out of the limo.

  The Uzi yammered again, loud in the confines of the car, spewing slugs to help this one out of the car, blasting away spine and the back of his head into slimy chunks of blood.

  Bolan straightened from leaning in the car, the haze of gun smoke in the confines of the limo irritating his eyes. The acrid stench of cordite assaulted his nostrils.

  One minute had elapsed since Aswadi's guerrillas engaged Mahmoud's rebel force outside the perimeter, signaling this assault.

  The banging of rifle fire in the distance continued, more sporadic than before.

  Bolan hurried to the truck that was parked in front of the limo. He paused at the tailgate to pull back the tarp flaps.

  He saw vague shapes: a file cabinet and padlocked crates in the dim truck bed; files for this complex operation, LeQueux's equipment, but no men. No reason to delay.

  The Executioner hustled toward the closest barracks building, death on his mind and in his fist, not knowing what he would find.

  * * *

  As the brutal firefight raged too near for comfort, General Mahmoud heard the crack of a projectile whistle past his ear, barely missing him.

  Mahmoud sought quick cover behind his disabled command car, scanning over the chassis, aiming his Tokarev pistol with two hands, hunting for the source of the near-fatal shot.

  A rifle spoke from a nearby rooftop, and a heavy bullet hammered into the car's body.

  The general fired at the muzzle-flash, rewarded by the clatter of a rifle dropping from the roof, followed a second later by the heavy thump of the man he killed.

  Mahmoud held his position, keeping his head down, searching for the safest route of withdrawal, trying not to let panic make him careless. He knew he had no hope whatsoever now except to run; try to escape Iran alive.

  He heard the exchange of fire between his men and the attacking force diminish into single reports back and forth.

  Mahmoud's stunned mind whirled.

  How did Khomeini learn of my plans?

  Nothing had gone right since the man Bolan arrived in the country!

  Mahmoud realized his carefully laid plans to grab power and deliver the Executioner's head stood no chance. Except for the few rebels trying to hold their positions in the nearby residences, Mahmoud knew most of his men were slain, cut down in the ambush.

  When my dead are found, Khomeini will know and I shall be forced to join my men, Mahmoud thought.

  He darted from his useless car.

  The neighborhood remained dark, the frightened residents hiding in their unlit homes.

  I can escape while they fight each other, Mahmoud decided. There is no one to stop me!

  He sidestepped the body of Major Kravak. The GRU man had fallen from the car when the ambush surprised them less than a minute ago, a burst of gunfire flattening the front tires of Mahmoud's vehicles before tracking to riddle Kravak.

  I have more of a chance on foot, Mahmoud assured himself.

  He cut sharply toward an alley in a desperate effort to place as much distance as he could between himself and the fighting.

  An AK-47-armed man wearing mujahedeen guerrilla garb emerged from the moon-splashed alleyway to stand firm, blocking Mahmoud's retreat.

  Mahmoud froze several feet short of the guerrilla.

  "Karim Aswadi," Mahmoud said without lowering his pistol." I thought Khomeini..."

  The guerrilla smiled grimly above the assault rifle that was trained unwaveringly at Mahmoud.

  "Wrong, General. The Ayatollah cannot risk sending a backup force to counterattack, compromising his operation here."

  Mahmoud could not conceal his surprise. He realized the gunfire had tapered off to nothing between his men and the ambushers, the battle done, his rebels dead or surrendered.

  "I... heard gunfire from the barracks. Bolan?" he asked, scheming as he spoke, realizing he could salvage this, confident he could deceive this man Aswadi who, the general had heard, loathed the necessity of force.

  Mahmoud started to relax, thinking of how easy it would be for a desert-law aggressor like himself to persuade a misguided pacifist.

  "Ah, perhaps we could negotiate," he suggested, his fear gone, replaced by a cynical confidence. "My dear Aswadi, you would have much to gain if..."

  Aswadi fired.

  General Mahmoud ceased to exist.

  18

  An invisible Executioner in blacksuit stormed soundlessly into the dark, vacant-looking barracks.

  The glass door sighed shut behind Bolan as if sealing him in the cryptlike silence of the hallway that stretched ahead into unfathomable gloom.

  He jogged forward, Uzi ready, night vision adjusting to the smattering of moonlight from unshaded windows in the bay and noncom one-room units lining the corridor. The hallway extended along the length of the building. At the end of the hall Bolan discerned a stairway leading up.

  He hustled along the hall, peering through open doorways, finding no one, nothing.

  He heard no more shooting from the direction of Aswadi's battle with Mahmoud's group.

  The night beyond the barracks buzzed, residents calling warily to one another, trying to decide if they should risk stepping from their hom
es to investigate the shooting. Barking dogs created a canine symphony.

  Bolan halted when he got within ten feet of the bottom step of the stairway.

  He heard someone hurrying down, light-footed but in too much of a hurry.

  Bolan flattened himself to a wall, a suggestion of black against black, nothing more. He brought up the Uzi.

  An Iranian army officer dashed from the stairway, oblivious of the Bolan presence, rushing toward a side door that looked out onto the tarmac where Bolan had massacred the convoy less than a moment ago.

  Bolan eyeballed the scurrying figure: too young to be CO of Khomeini's operation at Lavizan barracks.

  Bolan tabbed him as security officer — the bigwigs probably upstairs when Bolan hit the convoy — on his way to retrieve an emergency vehicle kept separate from the convoy for a contingency such as this.

  The young officer appeared relieved and anxious to escape the fate of his men.

  "Halt," Bolan ordered quietly in Farsi, one of the few words he knew of the language.

  He intended to make fast work of persuading this security officer to divulge information.

  The Iranian twirled to the side, away from the command, drawing the holstered pistol from his hip.

  Bolan regrettably triggered the Uzi.

  And nothing happened.

  He tossed the jammed weapon, flinging himself sideways, clawing for the Beretta.

  He stared into the frightened eyes of the officer who did not realize he was looking into the eyes of Death.

  Bolan held his fire as the Iranian had, watching the guy cast one parting look at the gloom where a voice had commanded and nothing happened.

  The soldier looked confused, relieved. He lowered his pistol and continued scurrying toward the door.

  Bolan reached out and grabbed the man's collar the instant before he touched the door handle. Bolan yanked hard, depositing the man on the floor.

  The Executioner pressed a knee down on the officer's chest, pinning him, shifting his fist from the collar to hold the soldier's head to the floor using a one-handed strangle clamp.

  Bolan touched the snout of the silenced Beretta to the man's sweaty forehead.

  "Name," he demanded in English, in a terse whisper.

  "L... Lieutenant Hashem," croaked the soldier. The man shook with fear. "Please... do not kill me..."

  "Who's upstairs?"

  "Colonel Rafu and... him!"

  "Khomeini?"

  Hashem nodded, jittery.

  "Who...are you?"

  Bolan heard sirens wailing in the Teheran night. He figured Khomeini's local authorities were responding to the firelights in and near the Lavizan barracks, giving the Executioner only a few minutes, if that, for the grand slam of this wipeout of cannibals. Many things counted in a world of fighting, killing, dying for what mattered, and Bolan had to know something about this man before he went up those stairs for the big kill.

  He did not move the snout of the Beretta from the forehead of this enemy, nor the strangle grip at Hashem's throat.

  "Lieutenant, you heard me toss away the Uzi just now. Why didn't you fire at me when you had the chance?"

  "I've... never killed," the frightened whisper choked. "They came... took us from our homes, our families... forced us to join... Who are you?"

  Bolan eased the Beretta away, keeping Hashem covered. He relieved the officer of his pistol, then released him and stepped back, gesturing to the side door that led out of the building.

  "I'm your second chance, Lieutenant. Grow some wings and fly. Everything is changing tonight. Get to your family where you belong."

  Hashem scrambled toward the exit, pausing to turn and stare at indiscernible speaking shadows, as if expecting a trick.

  "You are... the Executioner?"

  Bolan started toward the stairs.

  "Scram, Lieutenant. I see you again tonight, I'll kill you."

  Hashem gave up trying to see what he could not.

  "You are Allah's mercy," he whispered after the silent, moving darkness. "And His judgment."

  The young officer disappeared.

  Bolan ascended into the pitch-black, three stairs at a time, holstering the Beretta.

  The nightstriker unleathered Big Thunder.

  He topped the landing and started left toward a rectangle of light spilling onto the hallway floor from an open door three down to his right.

  At that precise moment, three briskly moving figures emerged in rapid succession into the corridor as if on prearranged cue to confront the nighthunter.

  Bolan paused close enough to the periphery of light for the three to see the Executioner and the stainless-steel hand cannon tracking on them.

  The blonde who called herself Tanya Yesilov emerged first from the lighted office doorway, pushed from behind by an ape in an Iranian army uniform.

  Colonel Rafu propelled the woman roughly, his left fist filled with her hair, cruelly arching the woman's head back so she could barely see where he pushed her. The colonel had a Tokarev pistol pressed to her right temple.

  The third figure followed Rafu into the rectangle of light in the corridor before realizing the Bolan presence.

  The old, scraggle-whiskered, unhealthy-looking gent in the black robe and black turban sidestepped with an agility that belied his years, dodging to hide behind Rafu and their shield, the woman. The spry old-timer's eyes were sharp and crafty in the brutal countenance of Ayatollah Ruholla Khomeini.

  Bolan triggered Big Thunder and the Ayatollah's head exploded into awful red, the decapitated corpse reeling to crumple in a corner like a sack of discarded laundry, the briefcase he carried skidding across the floor toward Bolan.

  Rafu snaked a forearm under and around the woman in front of him, clamping the blonde against him in a deadly mugger's grip. His narrowed eyes on Bolan, Rafu applied pressure on the gun against the woman's temple.

  Bolan tracked to them with the AutoMag before the headless body fountaining blood finished its fall.

  The Executioner held his fire.

  The woman watched him from her trapped position, her eyes as impossible to read as ever.

  Rafu snickered from where he shielded himself.

  "You will drop your weapon, please, or the woman will die."

  Bolan snickered right back.

  "What makes you think I give a damn?" Iced eyes and cold death in his fist aimed at the blonde and the cannibal hiding behind her. He nodded to the sack of garbage in the corner. "Just out of curiosity, Colonel, is this the real one or don't you know?"

  The ape holding the woman and the gun did not move.

  "That is something you will never know. Throw down your weapon, please. My captive and I are leaving. I know something about you, Mack Bolan. You will not murder this woman in cold blood, even i f she is a KGB agent."

  The AutoMag stayed leveled.

  "Maybe you should know something about the lady, yourself," Bolan growled. "She's not KGB and you've got more trouble than you think, Colonel. My guess is CIA."

  Rafu blinked in surprise.

  The woman used that exact instant to unexpectedly, unceremoniously collapse. Her knees buckled, her shapely body wilted to the floor away from the hold around her throat.

  Her dead-fall pulled Rafu's body forward, then the colonel released her to track his pistol on Bolan, realizing in the moment it took to recover from the surprise of Bolan's words and the blonde's faint that he stood exposed.

  Bolan slammed off a round, the deafening report cannonading through the tomblike building.

  Rafu's pistol flew from his hand, as did his fingers.

  The wounded cannibal spun around with a shrill scream, falling to his knees, grabbing wildly at his red-bubbling, digitless stump.

  Bolan stepped forward, straight-arming the .44 AutoMag, at the guy's disbelieving features.

  The woman recovered from her "faint," scrambling from the line of fire.

  From behind the mighty hand cannon, a graveyard voice demanded of
Rafu, "Is this man the real Khomeini? It's finished, Colonel. LeQueux is dead, your soldiers are dead, the guy LeQueux worked on to replace whoever I killed yesterday at the pavilion." The Man From Ice nodded to the headless corpse in the corner. "The real one? Tell me, Colonel."

  Rafu lifted an agony-quivering ape face to look into the AutoMag's muzzle.

  "The Ayatollah... has been dead for two years." A strange quiet voice, almost as if forgetting blown-away fingers. "Those... I serve... to hold power, they need... a figurehead... I have failed... they... will kill me..."

  "No, they won't," Bolan assured him.

  He blew the guy's brains out.

  Rafu's abruptly decapitated body flipped backward atop the other corpse in the corner.

  Bolan picked up the briefcase that had dropped.

  The banshee rise and fall of sirens in the night sounded closer, coming in on the Lavizan barracks from more than one direction.

  Git time.

  He turned, the briefcase in one hand, fisting Big Thunder.

  Right into the sights of Colonel Rafu's pistol, which a million-dollar blonde aimed at a spot directly between Bolan's eyes.

  19

  Bolan did not lower the AutoMag as he turned, aligning the .44 at the vicinity of the woman's navel.

  "Looks like a Mexican standoff."

  "Not if I can help it," the blonde answered evenly, listening to the approaching sirens. "I don't want to be caught here any more than you do."

  "What do you want, Tanya?"

  "That's not my name, as you seem to know. I want my Walther PPK, the one you took from me yesterday at General Mahmoud's when you killed Yuri Steranko, and I want to know how you know what you told Rafu."

  "About you being CIA? Just a guess and I wasn't sure but it worked. That and your fainting spell."

  "You believe what Rafu said?"

  "About the Ayatollah already long dead? Yeah, I believe it. Rafu had no reason and too much pain to lie, and you people have been picking up the same whispers. This must fit in real well with the Company's plans for the region."