Assassin's Tripwire

by Don Pendleton

  “Sure,” Bolan said. He walked across the room and held out his hand. Hahmir looked up into Bolan’s eyes, saw something there and handed over the revolver. Bolan dumped the cartridges and tossed the weapon into the corner of the room with a clatter.

  “That is very expensive!” Hahmir protested.

  “Shut up.”

  “But you don’t understand,” Hahmir said. “It was all Fafniyal. None of it was me.”

  “I get it,” Bolan said. “My government always suspected you had no real power. When Fafniyal set you up to play the role of ruler here, how much was he paying you? What did you get out of it?”

  Something flashed across Hahmir’s face. Bolan saw it. It was pride. Hahmir did not like to be told he wasn’t the man in charge.

  “I was not paid,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, right. You were afraid of the Wolf, so you pretended to be in charge and did what he told you. I’m surprised you didn’t try to defect to the United States when you were there. We have a lot of great social programs. You could have applied for citizenship. Maybe got a nice job working in a fast-food restaurant.”

  There it was again. The anger. Hahmir was starting to turn red in the face.

  “I am the leader for life in Syria—”

  “Oh, you can drop that,” Bolan said. “The Wolf is dead. He died like the coward he was. I mean, you’d have to be pretty weak to live in fear of a guy like that. But we can’t all be manly men, right? Lots of weaklings have suffered the way you have.”

  “I am not weak!” Hahmir screamed. “It was my idea to fool the Americans! Mine! Fafniyal tried to steal weapons from me, because he was foolish. I could have run Syria all by myself. I did not need him! I simply let him think he was using me. I, in fact, was using him! And with more American weapons, I can consolidate my power. People believe the loyalists were brutal. But I can be twice as brutal! I will make the people of Syria regret doubting my leadership! Every man, woman and child will feel my iron boot upon their necks—”

  Bolan punched him.

  The Executioner clenched his fist and busted Hahmir in the jaw, knocking the Syrian leader backward over his chair. Hahmir hit the floor with a yelp and struggled to right himself. He grasped the edge of his desk to pull himself back up to his feet.

  Bolan shoved a Semtex detonator into his hand. “Hold that,” he said.

  Using a roll of high-speed tape from his war bag, Bolan strapped Hahmir to his chair. He placed his last Semtex charge underneath the chair, activated the charge and then popped the cap on the detonator he’d taped into Hahmir’s fist. “Put your thumb on that button,” Bolan said. The man did so, pressing the button down.

  “What are you doing?” Hahmir asked weakly.

  “Sit there,” Bolan said, “and think about the people who’ve suffered because of you and your buddy Fafniyal. Let that switch up and you’ll go join the Wolf wherever he went. Just hope, once I seal you in here, that nobody has a similar detonator. I had only a couple for my charges and they were all keyed to the same frequency. If one of Fafniyal’s men survived, finds another detonator lying around and starts playing with it…you might explode before anyone finds you.”

  “Please!” Hahmir shouted. “Don’t leave me like this!”

  Bolan opened the door. “Leave you like what, Hahmir? Living in fear? Fear of death? Fear of injustice? Now you know what it was like for every man, woman and child who lived under your rule. Now you know how people suffered thanks to you and the Wolf.” He closed the door.

  Bolan took his time leaving the presidential palace. On his way, he stopped to get Yenni’s body. He carried her out of there and laid her gently in the cab of the old Mahindra. He would find a place to bury her. It would be a peaceful place, and he hoped she would approve.

  He looked up at the presidential palace one last time. Before he started the truck, he reached over and gently took the other Semtex detonator from Yenni’s pocket.

  Popping the cap, he pressed and released the trigger.

  Epilogue

  Tourists, suits and locals wandered the park alongside the Potomac River. The spot was one of Bolan’s favorite meeting sites. When Brognola arrived, the Executioner was waiting for him, leaning on the railing and looking out over the water. The two shared a warm handshake.

  “Striker,” Brognola said. “You look well. Did they give you a clean bill of health?”

  “Signed and filed by Barb,” Bolan said. “Apparently, I had a pretty nasty concussion and something of a blood infection.”

  “I’ll say. I read the report. If you’d waited just three more days before coming in, you might have collapsed and ended up paralyzed or dead. Were you having hallucinations? The report said that was a possibility.”

  “You know how it is. That’s life in the big city.”

  “Right,” Brognola said. He joined Bolan at the railing, gazing out over the water. This place always seemed so peaceful, so incongruous compared to the politicking of Wonderland. “You’ll be happy to know that thermal imaging from our satellites confirms that you found and neutralized all the Syrian weapons emplacements. Clean sweep, Striker. Good job.”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “Thanks.”

  “The Man isn’t thrilled at having been taken in, but of course we have the perfect cover for the whole affair,” Brognola went on. “The official news is that yet another military coup in Syria has produced yet another government. And that one is likely to be swept away in the endless civil wars raging there.”

  “Meet the new boss,” Bolan said.

  “Same as the old boss.” Brognola finished the quote for him. “I’m told the current regime is fairly hostile, but it’s not like we really lost an ally. Looks bad on the world stage. But the way the media works, everyone will have forgotten it in another week. The next time a celebrity says something stupid, it will drop off the cable news cycles.”

  “Fafniyal called it a tripwire,” Bolan said. “A careful trap laid with that fake assassination attempt on the President.”

  “It was pretty smart,” Brognola admitted. “The best plots are. But it couldn’t hold up to the harsh light of truth. And that’s why it fell apart.”

  “Yeah. What’s going to happen to Eidra? His brother is dead. The regime he worked for is gone. Will he end his days in some black site somewhere?”

  “It would be the least he deserved,” Brognola said. “But alas, Mr. Eidra is no longer with us. Word of Fafniyal’s supposed death in the new Syrian overthrow got back to him, and he killed himself in prison. Gnawed through both wrists with his teeth.”

  Bolan made no comment. He had seen that kind of thing before. He stared at the water for a moment longer before saying, “Did you have any luck tracing Yenni’s family? I don’t want them to find out indirectly. I’d like to tell them that she died fighting for her people.”

  “There’s no one to tell, Striker. I’m sorry. Yenni has no living relatives. They were all killed in the various Syrian conflicts.”

  “I was hoping there was somebody,” Bolan said.

  “Not that we can find.”

  “All right.” He shook Brognola’s hand again. “Thank you for checking, Hal. You know where to find me the next time you need me.”

  “You’re spending your downtime at the Farm, right? Barb will be happy to see you.”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “I’ll be along.” He started to walk away.

  Brognola, watching him, felt his stomach begin to roil again. He wanted an antacid. He thought of all the people who’d died in Syria in the past twenty years. He thought of Yenni, whom Bolan had obviously respected. He thought of his own work with the Sensitive Operations Group.

  “How much longer can you keep doing this, Striker?” Brognola said, calling after him. “How much longer can I, for that matter?”

  Bolan paused. He turned and glanced over his shoulder. With the sun setting behind the soldier, Brognola had to shield his eyes. The Executioner was wreathed in red-tinted light that
looked like blood.

  “As long as we have to, Hal,” Mack Bolan said. With that, he turned and walked off into the thinning crowd, leaving Brognola to stare after him.

  The corners of the big Fed’s mouth curled up into a smile.

  Yeah, he thought. As long as we have to.

  * * * * *

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  First edition April 2015

  ISBN-13: 9781460349359

  Assassin’s Tripwire

  Copyright © 2015 by Worldwide Library

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Phil Elmore for his contribution to this work.

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