I really am far gone, the rational, calculating part of his mind said.
He tried to pick himself up. That rational inner dialogue asserted itself now, taking inventory of his body, assessing the damage. He had not been shot. He had no wounds, nothing that would stop him from functioning. He was lying on his back in enemy territory, staring at the night sky. The Desert Eagle was in his hand. Did he have any rounds left? He wasn’t sure, but he did distinctly remember eliminating everything that was moving toward him.
“Come on,” Bolan whispered to himself. The sound of his own voice surprised him a little. “Get up. Get up, damn you. Get up and drive on. There’s more work to do.”
He strained, feeling the impossibly heavy pull of the ground beneath him. This really wasn’t good. Something was wrong with him, something he’d missed before. The helicopter. The explosion. That was it. He remembered now. He had suffered some kind of head injury.
He could be bleeding inside. Things could be even worse than he was just now realizing. He might need surgery and, if that was the case, he was dead already, because there was nothing to be done about that here and now.
Drill a hole in my skull, he thought. Let the evil spirits out.
Something about that was funny. He laughed out loud. As his vision began to dim once more, the stars were replaced by a woman so beautiful he was stunned. For a second, he thought her name was Barbara. No, it was April. No, it was—
“Cooper, it is me. It is Yenni. Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
But Bolan couldn’t hear her anymore.
He couldn’t hear anything.
13
Hahmir’s troops were forming up into a circle, trying to save themselves. Fafniyal, riding atop his tank and flying his banner—a white scimitar on a black field—would have laughed, if not for the fact that he didn’t believe in celebrating victories before they were truly earned.
It had been bad luck for this column of Hahmir’s regular military to stumble across Fafniyal’s own mobile armored command, out here in the middle of nowhere. Fafniyal was here to conduct a meeting, but there was plenty of time before that rendezvous to remove this troubling remnant of support for Hahmir.
A lesser man might have felt regret for his actions. Fafniyal saw no reason that he should. The way of the world was strength. Strength took what it could. Strength protected what it had.
Hahmir had dreamed of being the sort of leader the Syrian people could love. That was why he’d thought up this ridiculous scheme to win over the Americans, to trick them into supporting his regime. Fafniyal still scoffed when he thought of it. Absurd as the plan was, it had brought them multiple high-tech American weapons systems. He couldn’t complain about that. He simply had to figure out how to make them work.
Diverting the weapon shipments has been easy enough. He was Hahmir’s second in command, the feared Wolf, whose legions were loyal to him first. When he gave orders, people obeyed, because disobeying meant death. That, too, was strength. It was what Hahmir lacked, for all his pretensions to power.
In some ways, Fafniyal pitied his boyhood friend. Hahmir had always fancied himself a leader. It had never occurred to him that he was being used. Hahmir did have one thing Fafniyal lacked—the ability to smile on command, to ingratiate himself to others. Hahmir was naturally charismatic. In truth, that was what had drawn them together when they were boys growing up in Damascus. Fafniyal had seen in Hahmir a talent that could benefit them both.
For strength was not always enough. Strength made enemies. Strength clinched power, but often, to secure power in the first place, you had to be able to smile and persuade. Fafniyal’s idea of persuasion was torture and murder. He lacked finesse. He understood this.
As teenagers, it had been Fafniyal who’d approached his classmate. Hahmir was a handsome enough boy, but he had problems contending with school bullies. Fafniyal, for his part, was feared among the student body, a bully in his own right. But there was much competition. He could fight the other boys, take over through power, but in the process he would make many enemies. Far better, if he wished to run the student body behind the scenes, that a charismatic leader be found. Someone Fafniyal could serve as enforcer. Someone who wouldn’t realize Fafniyal was the power behind the throne.
They started slowly. Fafniyal made sure the other school bullies left Hahmir alone. He never took credit for this fact. If people spoke of Fafniyal at all, it was in hushed whispers. Word spread: do not mess with Hahmir, or you will deal with the one they call the Wolf. Fafniyal would sneak up behind you after class in some dark Damascus alley, it was said. It was rumored he’d put one boy in the hospital by beating him with a rock. It was said he’d stabbed another.
These rumors were true. Fafniyal didn’t care what classmates said as long as the authorities could prove nothing.
In time, Hahmir and Fafniyal had risen to the first levels of paltry power in their private school. Both of them came from families of privilege, so it seemed only natural for Hahmir to enter politics. He and his strange, quiet friend, Fafniyal, had endured the long years of political turbulence here in Syria. Fafniyal had filled Hahmir’s head with all manner of delusions. He was destined to lead, Fafniyal had told him. People would flock to him. Hahmir would unite all of Syria under his royal-blue flag.
Hahmir was said to have come to power through a combination of bold diplomacy and championing the people. Fafniyal knew this was a lie. While Hahmir was campaigning publicly, building support for the new, supposedly moderate government he claimed he would institute, Fafniyal was working behind the scenes. He intimidated. He bribed. He threatened. He murdered. He did whatever was necessary to see to it that Hahmir ended up in the seat of power. He waged a covert war of blood and fear, and the result was Syria held by Hahmir.
Fafniyal understood the loyalists and their devotion to the previous regime. They wanted strength. They wanted a leader like, ironically, Fafniyal. And that had given the Wolf an idea…
He would take over. He would be the power behind the throne. And Hahmir would become the mere figurehead he deserved to be. It was only just. Success had made Hahmir arrogant and foolish. He’d begun to take the Wolf for granted, had started to speak as if the Wolf were hired help. Fafniyal would not tolerate such disrespect. It was the final push he’d needed to put his plan in motion.
He and Hahmir had been discussing a way to eliminate the loyalist threat and bring Syria under unified control. Hahmir, the fool, had come up with the plan to ingratiate himself to the US President, then appeal to the American leader for the weapons he needed to defeat his loyalist foes. Fafniyal had arranged for his most trusted operative, his brother, to carry out the assignment.
Briefly he wondered how Eidra was faring in American hands. The prisons of the West were notoriously soft and the Americans had many laws. Even with a high-profile political prisoner like Eidra, the Americans would not execute him. They lacked ruthlessness. They were incapable of breaking their own incredibly stifling rules.
Eidra would wait. He would be safe enough with the Americans. Once Fafniyal had full control of the weapons, full control over Syria, he would use Hahmir to politely ask the Americans to turn over the wayward Syrian citizen who had attempted to do this terrible act. Eidra would claim to be a hard-liner and a loyalist who’d sought to murder Hahmir. It would thus be revealed that the President of the United States was not the intended target, and this would help mollify the Americans and convince them to release Eidra to Syrian custody.
Fafniyal was impressed with his own cleverness. He’d thought it all through.
However, when he had explained that they could extort even more weapons from the Americans by conveniently “losing” them to rebels and requesting resupply, Hahmir had balked. He didn’t want to risk his new friendship with the US.
He’d allowed the Americans to mount a search-and-destroy mission to keep the weapons out of unsanctioned hands, out of Fafniyal’s grip. The Americans didn’t know the Wolf was the
enemy they faced, but they were clear enough in their intentions. That had been extraordinarily inconvenient.
Fafniyal had diverted the shipments and carefully placed them around the country, some disguised, some not. He knew how tricky the Americans were. He knew their eyes saw everything from the orbit above Syria. But he was smarter than the West. They would all dance to his tune.
He hadn’t counted on just how deluded Hahmir had become, however. When Fafniyal stole the shipments, his old friend had deployed his troops. He’d also discovered just how much his military had been compromised by Fafniyal, who’d converted more and more soldiers to his own cause.
From the moment Fafniyal had moved forward with his plan, his men had been hunting down contingents of the military whose loyalty was to Hahmir. This armored column was the last of these forces.
Fafniyal hadn’t been seeking these men. He’d stumbled across the force as they’d moved in pursuit of some other quarry.
The Wolf was on his way to meet with the loyalist leadership, here in the wastes. For weeks he’d been in secret talks with them. They saw him as a forceful leader, of the type they missed, the type they respected. He planned on promising the loyalists a position with his elite guard. They saw how formidable Fafniyal’s troops had become. They saw the power he commanded and they desired that for themselves. Once everything was in place, they would help cement his control, not because of Fafniyal, but because keeping Fafniyal’s regime in place would mean keeping their own privileged positions.
Like the rest of his plan, it was brilliant.
From atop his tank, Fafniyal watched as his men finished corralling the last of Hahmir’s armored column. He was pleased to see that in most cases, it hadn’t been necessary to destroy the personnel carriers and tanks.
Now there was only the matter of Hahmir’s men.
Once Fafniyal had achieved total control, he would simply convince his old friend that the only way to survive, and to watch Syria prosper, would be to continue on as Fafniyal’s puppet. Hahmir would learn to like his new life. Fafniyal would see to it that he had plenty of luxuries, all the trappings of power. Hahmir was, after all, a very superficial man. Soon he would become accustomed to the new arrangement and, as long as he remembered his place, Fafniyal would allow him to retain it.
An icicle of fear, unfamiliar to him, tickled the back of the Wolf’s brain. He found himself thinking about what might happen if he was wrong. What if he could not stop the Americans? What if they learned of Syria’s deception? What if Fafniyal himself died in the battles to come? What of Syria then?
If only Hahmir had seen things his way. If only they’d been able to work together.
One of his lieutenants came to stand beside his tank. The man saluted. “Sir,” he said. “We have captured prisoners.”
“How many?” Fafniyal asked.
“At least forty, sir.”
“Very good. Have them form up in ranks at the center of our cordon.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Wolf waited as the enemy soldiers were assembled. His men surrounded the prisoners, pointing their assault rifles. Fafniyal took up his bullhorn.
“You are my prisoners,” he told them. “You will swear allegiance to me. You will repeat the words I say.”
The prisoners looked confused, but nodded their assent. Unfortunately, any man foolish enough to fight on the side of Hahmir lacked the judgment necessary to make himself useful.
Part of this was psychological. Hahmir had to know there was no one he could call for help in resisting the Wolf’s wishes. Fafniyal’s grip on Syria had to be total so Hahmir would go along with being made a puppet leader.
“I solemnly swear,” the Wolf said through his bullhorn.
“I solemnly swear” came the chorus of responses.
“That I will go to my death knowing,” the Wolf said.
“That I will go to my death knowing,” the prisoners echoed, their voices wavering now.
“That I have backed the wrong leader,” Fafniyal said. “Fire!”
His troops opened up, executing the prisoners, blowing them apart with a hail of bullets. The corpses fell to the ground, soaking the Syrian soil with their blood.
Fafniyal might have smiled. But he did not feel like doing so. Not today.
14
Bolan woke to the feeling of soft, feminine lips on his. He opened his eyes, squinting against the Syrian sun. He was lying in the back of the Mahindra. Yenni, kneeling next to him, snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Are you alive, Cooper?” she said. “How do you feel?”
“How long was I out?”
“A very long time,” Yenni told him. “I feared you would not wake.”
Bolan tried to sit up. His headache stopped him.
“Slowly,” she said. “Your pupils have returned to normal, but I am not sure what exactly is wrong with you. Do you feel like your brain is bleeding?”
“How would I know that?”
“How many fingers am I holding up behind my back?” she asked.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “You can’t check me for blurry vision if I can’t see your fingers.”
“I am not checking your vision,” she said. “I am checking your brain. If you were soft in the head, you would try to tell me what you cannot see.”
“Touché. Where are we?” he asked as she helped him sit up. “What’s going on?”
“I drove us to the coordinates you explained were our next target,” Yenni said. “I did not know what else to do while you were unconscious. We are above the valley indicated. Cooper, something very strange is happening.”
Bolan looked around for his war bag and his weapons. Yenni had placed them nearby in the bed of the truck. He put his shoulder holster back on, arranged his jacket around himself, strapped his war bag across his chest and then fished out his monocular. She had already set up the FN Minimi and several other pieces of hardware.
Mortars.
Bolan had been holding these back. They had many rounds for the mortars, but he was planning for the long haul, for a protracted engagement. He was pleased to see that she’d set things up as they needed to be.
“How is your head, Cooper?”
“My brains haven’t leaked out,” he said. “Not yet anyway.”
“Are you in much pain?”
“Some,” he admitted. “But it isn’t as bad as it could be. I feel better than I did when I collapsed.”
“That is not saying a great deal, if I am any judge.”
Bolan made no comment. He took his M16/M203 from the truck and settled himself on the ridge overlooking the weapon emplacement below. “What the hell is going on down there?” he said, looking through his monocular.
“This is what I have been trying to tell you. The Wolf is here. The loyalists and the Wolf’s troops both came to the weapon emplacement and were greeted by the camouflaged crews as if they were allies. Now they stand there, talking and joking.”
Bolan studied the scene. There in the thick of it, talking to several men wearing red scarves, was the Wolf himself. He had brought plenty of his own guards with him, but Bolan sensed no hostility.
“I have been reading their lips through my binoculars.”
“Useful skill,” Bolan said. “What did you learn?”
“I believe Hahmir and Fafniyal hatched a plot together,” Yenni said. “To make the United States think Syria is an ally. Once the weapons arrived here, Fafniyal took control of them. Now he and Hahmir fight for power in Syria. Fafniyal gave the loyalists the means to follow us to our target sites, gave them the coordinates the United States shared with Hahmir. That is how they have stayed so close behind.”
“Explains a lot,” Bolan said. “Not satellite imaging, after all. Not carelessness on our parts. Just good old-fashioned betrayal and porous intelligence. Not in that order.”
“I do not know what is this porous,” Yenni said. “But yes. You are right. Fafniyal intends to give the loyalis
ts a favored place when he completes his takeover of Syria,” she went on. “The loyalists do not like Hahmir, but they fear the Wolf. Hahmir, meanwhile, is prisoner in his own palace. The Wolf’s troops have surrounded Hahmir’s troops, with Hahmir in the center. The Wolf means to make Hahmir his puppet. He will rule, while Hahmir provides the face of Syrian government.”
“Another strongman. Just what Syria doesn’t need.”
“There is more,” Yenni said. “The loyalist leadership is here, as are most of their command hierarchy and some of their troops.”
“So if we wipe out their leaders, what’s left of the loyalists won’t pose much of a threat to the country. We’ll have removed a variable.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” Bolan said, “let’s get to work.” He began analyzing the terrain below.
The meeting between Fafniyal and the loyalists was taking place amid the largest concentration of weapons and equipment from the stolen shipment. Three launching vehicles were down there, all crawling with technicians dressed in Fafniyal’s covert camouflage. Surrounding them were a series of tents and collapsible outbuildings the technicians had obviously been using for housing. A barbed-wire perimeter had been erected around the whole affair, wiring off most of the little valley and turning it into something resembling a Vietnam firebase.
Several armored vehicles and a tank, all bearing Fafniyal’s black banner, were gathered on one side. Troop trucks and passenger vehicles, some of them those ubiquitous Chinese Hummers, were parked on the opposite side, and they bore red colors. Bolan knew that stopping these forces from aligning would also help keep Syria out of the totalitarian grip of men like Fafniyal. The Wolf might die tomorrow of a bullet or a heart attack, but if the mechanisms of power were left in place, including this alliance between him and the loyalists, the inertia of the whole affair would keep Syria oppressed.
He heard Yenni’s words in his mind, remembered her passion for freeing Syria, her emotion when she spoke of the suffering of its people.
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