He was met by an armed rebel. The hardman was blinking, his watering eyes as he struggled to maintain his stance, the autorifle in his hands swinging about wildly. The weapon began to fire, bullets peppering the walls behind Bolan. The Executioner stayed low, his Uzi tracking the man. A short burst caught the rebel in the chest, knocking him off his feet. As he went down, his finger still jerking back against the trigger, a 5.56 mm bullet hit one of the office windows, shattering it and dropping glass to the square below.
Bolan was already moving.
He identified Leland Cartwright, bound to a chair, his face marked by a spread of ugly bruises. Behind him an armed rebel was frantically rubbing his eyes with his free hand. Bolan took him out with a burst to the side of his head, spinning the rebel away from the ambassador.
Joseph Karima sat at his desk, both hands cupping his face as he reacted to the effect of the flash-stun grenade, and Raymond Nkoya was down on hands and knees, groping blindly around the floor.
Bolan turned his attention to Harruri and Zimbala. The rebel leaders were at the far end of the room, backs to the door in deep conversation, and had escaped the bright white burn of the grenade’s light, although the concussion had deafened them. They both turned as Bolan came into the room, hands dropping to the pistols on their hips.
In the brief seconds it took for Bolan to deal with the rebel standing over Leland Cartwright, Zimbala and Harruri cleared their weapons and turned them on the Executioner.
Out of the corner of his eye Bolan saw the autopistols. He took evasive action, throwing himself to the floor and rolling frantically, hearing the heavy sound of the handguns. Bullets pounded the polished wood floor around him. Keen splinters smacked against Bolan’s clothing. He felt a solid blow to his left upper arm and it started to go numb. The Executioner knew he’d been hit. He slammed up against the front of Karima’s large desk and cast the Uzi aside, snatching the Desert Eagle from its holster. His left arm had lost all its feeling now and dragged along the floor as he moved to a better position.
Shempi Harruri rushed around the far end of the desk. His face was twisted in pain from his deafened ears. Bolan fired the moment he saw Harruri’s feet and legs, placing two .44 Magnum rounds into the rebel’s right thigh. Bone shattered, the power of the slugs ripping away muscle and flesh. Blood began to pulse from the pulpy, open wounds. Harruri fell, clutching the edge of the desk. As his upper body came into Bolan’s target space he fired a third shot that punched through Harruri’s forehead and shredded his brain in a shower of mushrooming gore blowing out the back of his skull.
GLEN MCKAY had seen Bolan vanish inside Karima’s office. He picked up the pace and moved along the passage until he rounded the corner that opened onto the wide landing. The shadows he had seen turned into the stunned figures of the two rebels. They were trying to shake off the disorientation caused by the flash-stun grenade. McKay hit them with a burst from his M-4. One went down on his back, the other staggered across the landing before toppling out of sight back down the stairs he had just climbed.
By this time McKay had crossed to the com room door. He drove the door wide open with a hard boot, then stepped forward to face the room’s occupants. There was the radio operator and an armed rebel and his rifle. McKay hit the rifleman with a burst that sent a line of slugs into the man’s upper chest. They knocked him off the chair he was straddling, sending him into the corner of the room. The rebel tried for the rifle he’d let go of. McKay hit him with another burst that stopped him completely.
Turning the muzzle of the weapon on the radio man McKay caught the rebel picking up a hardgun he had beside him. The rebel swung the weapon around, firing a fraction too soon. The bullet passed between McKay’s body and his left arm. Before the rebel could alter his aim McKay triggered the M-4 and put a pair of 5.56 mm slugs into the rebel’s chest. The impact shoved him back in his chair and it rolled away from the desk, coming to rest against the far wall.
“Son of a bitch,” the Marine muttered.
He heard the sound of gunfire from the direction of Karima’s office, then picked up the clatter of boots on the staircase.
Company was on the way.
McKay stepped out of the com room and moved to the head of the staircase, meeting three rebels attracted by the shooting. He caught them midway up the stairs, raking the area with his M-4. The rebels were caught in the open with nowhere to go and not a second left to react. McKay’s burst punched through their chests and threw them down the stairs in a bloody tangle, weapons bouncing down the stone steps behind them.
McKay positioned himself so he could see the base of the stairs and also keep an eye on the passage on the far side of the wide landing. With the bases covered he had time to wonder how his partner was faring in Karima’s office.
HARRURI WAS SPRAWLED across the floor directly in front of Bolan, his body shuddering from the ravaging effects of the .44 Magnum rounds, his pistol slipping from his dead fingers.
Bolan had already moved around to the far end of the desk and then to the rear. He heard a scurry of movement as well as a sound of protest from Karima.
“Belasko, if that is your name, I have Karima. Do anything and I’ll shoot him.”
Leaning around the corner of the desk Bolan saw Karima’s legs and the seat he was sitting in. Glancing up, Bolan saw Zimbala, one arm across Karima’s chest, his other hand wielding a pistol. The rebel leader was in the act of bringing the weapon down to press against Karima’s head.
Bolan had a couple of seconds to act. After that it would start to get tricky. His one shot at Zimbala had to be accurate.
The Desert Eagle rose in Bolan’s steady right hand, tracked in on Zimbala and blasted a .44-caliber bullet that struck the rebel leader in the side of the head. Zimbala stumbled back, his shocked expression wiped away when Bolan fired again, this time laying the Magnum round in Zimbala’s chest. The man turned under the impact, blood trailing from his shattered skull and chest, legs losing their coordination. He went down heavily, his pistol flying from slack fingers. It bounced as it hit the floor, spinning across the smooth surface.
Bolan pulled himself erect, leaning against the edge of the desk, his left arm starting to give him pain. He could feel blood streaming down it, dripping from his fingers.
“Sorry, Mr. President, I seem to be bleeding all over your floor,” he said.
Karima was staring at him through watering eyes, and Bolan realized the man couldn’t hear him. There was the sound of boots moving along the passage. Bolan raised the Desert Eagle.
“Belasko? You secure?”
It was Glen McKay.
“All clear,” Bolan said, lowering the hand cannon.
McKay stepped into the room, taking a swift survey of the situation. “You’re clear,” he confirmed.
“Out there?” Bolan asked.
“No problems. Especially now the military just busted in through the front door,” the Marine said with a grin. “I guess we shook ’em up with all the shooting.”
They could hear shouting and the clatter of boots on the stairs, then approaching the office. From a distance they could hear the rattle of autofire. McKay crossed the office and used his knife to free Leland Cartwright.
“Hey, Belasko, you okay?” McKay asked, spotting Bolan’s blood-soaked sleeve.
“I will be after I see that medic of yours back at the Embassy.”
Armed figures filled the office doorway. A young officer stepped forward, scanning the room, his face a classic example of total surprise and bewilderment. “I think an explanation is in order here. Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Captain,” McKay said, stepping forward. He offered a salute, which the officer returned. “You can let your people watching the rear know that the sniper has been taken down. We also dealt with a pair of armed rebels in the garden area. The communication room has been cleared, and President Karima, Vice-President Nkoya and Ambassador Cartwright have been removed from rebel hands, sir.�
�
The captain, to his credit, maintained a professional manner. He turned to his men crowding in behind him. “Sergeant, room-to-room search. Flush out any other rebels. Secure the building. Have our communications team take over the com room and get signals to all our units. Inform them the president is safe and they can go ahead and retake rebel-held sites.”
The captain turned back to survey the room. He took off his peaked cap and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. For the first time he noticed Bolan, who was standing quietly to one side.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Joseph Karima spoke. Still smarting from the effects of the flash-stun grenade, he had recovered enough to intervene.
“Captain, he’s with me.” He glanced at Bolan. “Do you have more good news for me, Mr. Belasko?”
Bolan nodded. “They’re both waiting for you at the Embassy. Probably sleeping by now.”
“I owe you a debt I can never repay,” Karima said.
“Seeing those kids back with you will be enough,” Bolan answered.
“Time we got this boy back to the Embassy. In case nobody noticed, he caught a bullet,” Leland Cartwright said.
“Captain, see to it,” Karima said. “Mr. Belasko, we will talk later. It seems I have a country to get back on the tracks.”
“If anyone can do it, Mr. President, you can.”
Epilogue
U.S. Embassy.
Three days later.
“When are you coming home?” Brognola asked. The clarity of the connection via the Embassy communications placed him in the room where Bolan was sitting.
“Couple more days,” Bolan told him. “Karima has things in hand pretty well now. Have to hand it to the guy. It’s like he’s undergone a transformation. Nearly losing everything, especially his kids, has given him an edge. And the country is behind him. Rebel opposition has crumbled heavily. The ones who haven’t quit took off for the back country. Karima’s going to have to deal with them sooner or later, but I think he’ll come through.”
“Losing Chakra seems to have taken the spirit out of the rebel movement,” Brognola said. “Information we’re getting says the military is in a state of shock finding out he was working against the government.”
“Karima has taken over Chakra’s role until he can find a replacement. He’s coming down hard on the people who were siding with the rebels. Cleaning house has rooted out most of the rebel sympathizers.”
“Cartwright is back on track with his negotiations, I hear.”
“That guy is unstoppable. He was back at the conference table the next day.”
“From what I heard from the Man, Cartwright is now a big fan of yours. Apparently you impressed him, and Leland Cartwright is not easily impressed.”
Bolan didn’t make any comment.
“By the way, the President sends his thanks. I also reminded him he owes us one for this.”
“I hear one of the concessions Karima wants from the Navy is a couple of coast guard cutters so he can set up surveillance on these slave traders?” Bolan asked.
“Like you said, Striker, Karima is determined to make things work out there.” Brognola paused. “Did his teams locate all the people you hauled off that ship?”
“They found them. They’re working on getting them all back home.”
“How’s the arm doing?”
“Mending nicely. I was lucky, Hal. Luckier than some.” Bolan was thinking about Christopher Jomo. And Chembi. The image of the boy, cold and alone in death, would become one of the ghosts that reached out of the darkness to remind Bolan why he continued his Everlasting War. Sometimes it had nothing to do with large-scale threats or the twisted plans of evil men. There were occasions when it had to do with the death of a single, innocent child.
And that was more than enough to keep him moving along that extra mile.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-7399-6
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michael Linaker for his contribution to this work.
SHADOW SEARCH
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