Bolan didn’t want to believe it. “Fafniyal is working with Hahmir to hide the weapons?”
Azhul actually spit on the ground. “Hahmir is a fool and a puppet. Fafniyal is the strong leader Syria needs. Fafniyal will lead us to true greatness. Hahmir is weak. He can do nothing.”
Bolan didn’t like where this was going. “You’re coming back with me,” he said. “First we’re going to negotiate that minefield again. I hope your luck holds, because you’re going first.” He paused. Beyond Azhul, in the distance, he saw a dust cloud rising.
His captive followed his gaze and laughed. “The Wolf is coming, American! He will free me and kill you. You cannot stop him. And soon we will control your Yankee Doodle missiles.”
Bolan snorted. “Great,” he said. From his war bag, he took out his binoculars. Focusing on the line of vehicles headed his way, he saw that it included tanks and armored personnel carriers.
Azhul was squinting into the distance. “That…that is not a patrol,” he said.
“No, it’s not. That’s a full-on military force. And from where I’m looking I see royal blue.”
“Hahmir.”
“Regular Syrian military,” Bolan said. “Not the Wolf. Looks like Hahmir might know something about the Wolf’s intentions. That unit looks like it’s moving with purpose on Sarrin.”
“Which you have already blown up,” Azhul said. “Murdering American—”
Azhul’s head exploded.
Bolan hit the dirt. The crack of the gunshot rolled over him. The oncoming column was firing at him with sniper weapons. That shot might even have been intended for him. Hitting someone at this distance from a rolling armored vehicle was not easy.
The soldier ran. More gunshots chased him, churning the dirt around him. He had no choice now but to race full bore back the way he’d come. The armored column would not pass through the minefield, not unless they had a minesweeper vehicle or men with metal detectors. Either way, the mines would provide the barrier necessary, however temporary, to let him and Yenni escape. They could not face down the regular Syrian military. They simply couldn’t match that kind of firepower head-on.
And now Bolan was running straight for the very minefield Azhul had sprinted through.
He hoped Yenni would get the idea.
She did, but she did it her way.
The sound that opened up from the opposite end of the minefield was not Bolan’s M16, but the FN Minimi. Using the high-cyclic rate of the machine gun, she chattered away, pouring rounds across the ground in front of him. Twice, landmines exploded, and each time Bolan shielded his face from the blast with his arm. With Yenni’s help, he managed to get back across the minefield and to the Mahindra, which she was already revving.
“Head that way,” Bolan said, pointing north. “There’s a column of regular military coming for us. The mines will only slow them down a little.”
Yenni nodded and urged the battered truck onward. “The regular military is not as powerful as Fafniyal’s troops, not as numerous as the loyalists,” she said. “But Hahmir’s soldiers massacred entire villages when he initially rose to power. There is no difference between them and the loyalists. Not when it comes to the crimes they have committed.”
“They’re also well trained,” Bolan said. “My mission brief outlines that.”
“What of Azhul?” Yenni asked.
“Shot by the Syrians. They may have been trying to hit me. Either way, we have part of our puzzle. The camouflaged men with the weapons systems are working with and for Fafniyal.”
“The Wolf,” she said. “He is behind this.”
“He could still be working with Hahmir,” Bolan said. He didn’t actually believe that, however. If Hahmir controlled the weapons, it would make no sense for him to pretend he did not, then stage them in secret. His control over Syria hinged on creating the impression that he had the strength to fend off any more revolts.
“What shall we do?” Yenni asked.
“We stick to the plan. We keep following the priority target list. The weapons have to be neutralized. Nothing about that has changed. We just know it isn’t the loyalists who control them.”
“I would kill them all if I could,” Yenni said. “Murderers. Puppets of a tyrant regime.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bolan said. “But it does mean the loyalists are not our mission priority.”
“You do not seem to care about ‘priorities’ when it is a question of what is right,” she said.
“Guilty.” Bolan checked his tablet and read off another set of coordinates, then gave her a compass bearing.
“I cannot believe you ran through a minefield. You truly are mad. You need someone to take care of you, Cooper, or you will be dead in months. Perhaps weeks.”
“I’ve done pretty well so far.”
“Cooper?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“What will we do if Hahmir’s forces give chase?”
“Keep running and then circle back,” Bolan said. “They can’t match our speed as long as the truck holds out.”
“And if it does not?”
“There’s always a way,” he replied. “Always another direction. Another step to take. Combat is fluid. That’s why my military stresses adaptability above all else.”
“Like the Germans in World War II,” Yenni said. “They developed the machine gun fire team. Made their forces mobile and flexible.”
“You know your history.”
“Benefits of a classical education,” she said. “But not all of it was of benefit.”
“No?” Bolan said. “Why not?”
“When you read the history, when you read the classics,” she said, “you learn a lesson.”
“That is?”
“History is nothing but tragedy.”
12
“I have heard that American children do this,” Yenni said. “I have seen it on television.”
She and Bolan had dug a pit for a small campfire. The hole helped conceal the flames in the night. They’d stopped just short of their next goal, in what he thought of as the official Middle of Nowhere of northern Syria. A few kilometers distant, the largest concentration of the stolen weapons was housed in a small depression or valley in the otherwise flat landscape. That much Bolan could glean from the topographical enhancements of the region. As far as the actual force they faced, that was anybody’s guess. The more weapons, the greater the protection that was likely to be in place around them.
He had set a couple cans of chili near the campfire to warm. One of the crates they’d taken from Khasky’s stores had actually been full of American- and Canadian-manufactured canned goods. Bolan’s war bag contained a very compact mess kit, as eating was not normally a high priority on missions.
Fortunately, he had a cast-iron stomach, a gift from his time spent on missions abroad. He could eat things that would make most grown men ill. But that wasn’t in the cards tonight. This evening he’d have a pleasant dinner with a pleasant-looking woman.
“What is it you’ve heard about American children?” Bolan asked. “The counterterrorism or the camping under tarps in the Syrian wasteland?”
Yenni laughed. She had a nice laugh. Lounging next to him, she looked beautiful in what little firelight there was. They had attached the spare tarp from the truck bed to the cab, using the driver door, then staked the opposite end in the dirt, making a lean-to that would also help shield their fire. They were relaxing beneath it, cooking Khasky’s stolen food.
“Camping, yes,” Yenni said. “That is the word. Americans have fine homes with many luxuries. So they set up tents outside or travel far from their comfortable homes to do so. I have never understood this until now.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in the field,” Bolan said. “I don’t think I would choose to ‘camp’ if I could sleep under a roof. You learn to appreciate the little luxuries where you can take them.”
“You are a liar, Cooper,” Yenni said. “A liar and a bad plan-m
aker.”
“Oh? How do you figure?”
“You would endure any hardship if you thought it was needed to accomplish your goal,” she said. “I can tell this about you. I have seen it. You are unusual.”
“How am I unusual?”
“Another man like you would brag. He would be insufferable. He would have a mighty head.”
“Uh, I think you mean a ‘big’ head.”
“That is what I said. But instead, you and I are sitting here talking of how much you enjoy luxuries. Next you will suggest we find sticks and make smears.”
Bolan laughed. “S’mores.”
“S’mores? But that makes no sense.”
“Some more,” he said. “You know. Some more. S’mores.”
“Oh.” Yenni sounded almost disappointed. Shaking that off, she moved closer to him by the fire. “There is something else you have not done,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“You have not tried to kiss me,” she said. “Most men would have done this by now.”
“I’m not most men.”
“That is clear enough,” she said and kissed him, hard.
They remained intertwined for some minutes. Then, without warning, Yenni tensed in his arms. She pulled away slightly.
“Did you hear that?”
“I did,” Bolan said. Yenni’s hand fell to the hilt of her jambiya. Bolan drew the Beretta 93R. They turned away from each other without needing to discuss it, each checking different portions of the night horizon.
It was a scraping sound, the kind gear made when noise discipline wasn’t followed and a soldier’s equipment rubbed together. Bolan watched the night intently. Next to him, Yenni sheathed her knife and ran back the bolt in her Krinkov. The weapon made a loud clack when the round chambered.
The night lit up with muzzle flashes.
Some of the shots struck in and around their little camp, while others went wide. It seemed many of the gunmen out there had no real idea what they were supposed to be aiming at. They were simply squeezing off shots into the darkness.
“Just like the village,” Bolan said. “Circle wide and to your right. I’ll go left. We’ll both sweep our circuits and then come back, meet at the truck. That should shake loose whoever is out there.”
“Cooper,” Yenni said, her voice a whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, Broken Clock. We have unfinished business.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Beretta in hand, Bolan slipped off into the night. Once more he used the old trick of staying low in order to silhouette his enemies against the night sky.
This all felt too coincidental and he didn’t like it. How had the enemy located them? There was so much open territory out here. Ski had found them because he had an identical target list and knew, logically, where they would need to go. Was the enemy using satellite tracking of some sort? Was it simply the empty countryside making it easier for them to be spotted? Had someone managed to pin a tracker on one of them?
The most obvious answer was that Yenni was some kind of spy. Well, she was a spy, with double- or triple-agent status, depending on how you wanted to look at it. But he didn’t think she’d betray him.
It wasn’t because she seemed to have feelings for him, either. Having heard her story, Bolan was confident it was true. If it weren’t, Yenni would have to be one of the most brilliant actresses of her generation…and a total sociopath. He’d seen the pleasure she took in getting revenge on the loyalists. She had lost no sleep over the deaths of the Wolf’s men, either, and she shared Bolan’s concern about getting caught up by Hahmir’s troops. Her genuine bloodthirstiness was not something easily faked. If Bolan was any judge of character, she was who she claimed to be.
But that left the nagging mystery of how their enemies had stumbled on them here. Bolan did not believe in luck that good, or that bad. So how had these gunmen found them?
Once he was out in the darkness, seeking his enemy, he realized just how large the patrol was. The night was full of movement.
He chose a moving shadow and headed for it. It would be so easy to simply open fire on these figures, knowing they had opened up on him first. But he did not shoot what he could not identify. And he had to admit he was curious. He drew his combat knife with his left hand, keeping the Beretta ready in his right.
When he reached the moving shape in the darkness, he smashed the man across the face with the butt of the knife.
The enemy went down, crashing to the ground with a whimper, trying to activate a flashlight duct-taped to the forward end of his Kalashnikov. He succeeded in illuminating only his own torso and the bloodred scarf tied around his neck.
Loyalists.
Bolan shoved his knife into the would-be killer’s neck and wrenched it free from the side, ending the man’s life. Wiping his blade on the dead man’s uniform, he tucked it away, holstered his Beretta and picked up the Kalashnikov. It was time to sow some chaos in the enemy’s ranks.
Using the dark, Bolan moved once more into the thick of the creeping foe. Now he deliberately gave away his position. He didn’t know enough of the local dialects to say anything the troops would find convincing, but some things were universal. He whistled shrilly through his teeth and then started firing blindly into the night, away from the camp he shared with Yenni. It was easy to spray out the magazine on full auto.
That would draw them. Bolan tossed the useless AK aside. No one would find it in the dark. He once more filled his hand with the silenced Beretta and waited, a wolf ready to slaughter sheep.
As he crouched there, he felt his head ache. Yenni was right. He should probably see a doctor, eventually, when the mission was over.
Bolan realized too late that his mind had wandered. A living, breathing enemy crashed into him, pinning him down. He heard the man’s heavy breathing and processed the fact that this was a uniformed soldier in load-bearing gear. It was a loyalist, a killer, an enemy who favored the previous totalitarian regime. But Bolan’s head felt so thick. He couldn’t think what to do.
The loyalist screamed and began throwing punches. Bolan felt the sides and back of his head stinging as the idiot tried to stun him with fisted blows. That was the thing about the human skull: if you didn’t know how to hit it just right, you would break your knuckles before you did any worse damage. Bolan was on his stomach and the enemy, who had crept up to him in the dark, was on his back. He tried to roll and could not. He was pinned fast.
Bolan arched his spine.
Shrimping along like that, he found it took several surges to dislodge his rider, but he eventually managed it, bucking the heavy weight to one side. Bolan extended his hand to shoot his foe.
His hand was empty.
The loyalist fighter took the advantage and rushed him again, diving for his waist, bulling him back to the ground. Now they were wrestling once more. But Bolan didn’t have time for a protracted fight. More loyalists would be converging on his position, and when they got here, they would overwhelm him.
What do you do? What do you do in a situation like this? He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.
His fingers brushed the hilt of his combat knife. Of course! Why had it taken so long to think of it? He slipped this free and plunged it into the enemy’s flank, pumping it in and out, feeling warm, wet liquid soak his hand and sleeve. His mind might not be working properly, but his body remembered. As if on automatic pilot, he wiped the blade clean and tucked it away. He rolled onto his back.
Something was digging into him. He reached down and grabbed it. It was the Beretta. This, too, his body knew what to do with, and he holstered it again. Like a zombie, he stood. His feet felt heavy.
Put one before the other, he told himself. Take a step. Take another. Keep going.
His mind, his combat computer, addled though it was, registered the approach of more loyalists. They had heard his attempt to draw their fire, and they were coming for him. He had created this situation. It w
as now his task to survive it.
The Desert Eagle, the hand cannon that had in one form or another accompanied him on so many missions, saved his life so many times, taken out so many foes, felt heavy but familiar in his fist. Its thick grip filled his palm. It was a friend. He dropped to one knee, bracing himself as best he could, staggering somewhat. Then he raised the Desert Eagle and started pulling the trigger.
Muscle memory did the work for him. What was the old saying? That you had to practice a motion ten thousand times before it became automatic? Mack Bolan had no idea if he’d fired ten thousand or ten times ten thousand rounds in his lifetime of war. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that his rounds find their way into his enemies.
He fired. The yellow gout of flame from the Desert Eagle’s heavy barrel shocked him. He told himself to move, that when you gave your position away in darkness you were supposed to move with every shot. Where had he learned that? How did he know it? The answers seemed faraway.
Lift. Aim. Fire. Lift the gun. Aim the gun. Fire the gun. His world was reduced to this. When he ran out of ammunition, he let his muscles remember how to reload, and they performed the task without conscious involvement from him.
His mind was starting to drift away. He felt as if he was floating. It was dark, or it had been dark. Now he saw orange light at the periphery of his vision. The colors were strange. Pink and orange, like salmon.
That’s not good, some part of him said. That’s exactly what it looks like when you get choked out.
He was losing consciousness. He was fading. If that happened here, surrounded by enemies, they would take him, and there would be nothing he could do to save himself.
The ground rushed up to club him in the face. He felt the dull thump reverberate through him. Was this how he would die? Was this the end, after so many years of his endless war?
He looked up and saw stars. Out here, with almost no light pollution, the stars were amazing. It wasn’t just the number of pinpoints of light or the differences in their brightness. He could see satellites pass overhead, looking like tiny comets. He could see variations in the night sky, the very fabric of the cosmos itself. He was staring into eternity.
Assassin's Tripwire Page 10