Warrior's Edge

by Don Pendleton

  To the hardmen it was an ideal situation.

  ZIS patrols were always on the move, checking out canyon after canyon. And thanks to the Maskarai warriors, the Desert Knights were always one move ahead of them.

  The sound of hoofbeats was reassuring.

  At first.

  But then the hoofbeats increased in volume as the riders galloped into the jagged oval enclosure. The chorus of snorting and shrieking horses grew louder than usual as the animals sensed something in the air.

  More riders were returning than had gone out with the war party.

  One of the mercenaries finally realized something was wrong as he looked down from the mouth of a cave at the huge number of milling shadows twenty feet below him.

  Then he realised the Maskarai weren't there to protect them, but to destroy them. He shouted an alarm and drew his weapon.

  A cloaked rider directly below him fired three bursts from a silenced weapon.

  Looking upward for a moment, chest and chin whacked by the burst, the mere staggered back against the cliff side. He then slipped forward and dropped to the ground, his death cry swallowed by the sound of the riders as they spread out along the cul-de-sac.

  Bolan holstered the Beretta, uncoiled a black nylon rope and whirled a three-pronged grappling hook over his head. When it picked up sufficient speed he let it fly up to the cave.

  The high arc of the hook brought it down onto the mouth of the cave where it speared into a jutting lip of rock. Bolan tugged hard to make sure it would hold his weight, then jumped free from his mount.

  Two other riders followed suit. Like Bolan, the ZIS commandos were dressed in the desert garb of the Maskarai, and they clambered up to the cave a few seconds behind him.

  By then the Executioner was inside, the business end of the Beretta probing the way.

  A hardman who'd just been snatched from sleep rushed into the corridor.

  Without breaking stride, Bolan triggered a round that kicked the man back into the arms of Morpheus.

  This time permanently.

  A flood of ZIS officers swept inside the cave, some of them spearing the darkness with wide flashlight beams while the others covered their approach.

  Gunfire echoed from all around the canyon as mercenaries in adjacent caves awoke to find their former allies at their throats, repaying them for their treachery.

  From deep inside Bolan's cave came a chorus of panicked cries, the voices of the hostages, enraged that they'd survived so much only to face death at the hands of their captors.

  The mercenary responsible for their confinement and, if necessary, their deaths, raced into the splinter cave, braced himself against the wall to cover all the prisoners, then steadied his submachine gun.

  A burst of 9 mm Parabellums threw him off his feet. His trigger finger closed as he fell, studding the dirt with an automatic burst while his own blood spattered down on his body.

  Bolan and his commandos filtered into the dark recesses of the splinter cave and found the group of human scarecrows, gaunt from fear and brutality, and minimal food and water. But in their eyes he saw a fire that hadn't gone out.

  One by one the hostages stepped forward.

  A woman with a tear-streaked face was talking softly to herself in an amazed girlish tone.

  A man walked forward with bruises covering his face and his arms. He limped slowly and painfully.

  Then another hostage stepped forward, thanking them in a cracked and dry voice. It was Leopold Sabda.

  The president of Zandesi stepped in front of the other hostages and, in a voice that had never let go of its authority, said, "Who are you?"

  "An adviser," Bolan replied. "And my advice to you and everyone else, Mr. President, is to haul ass out of here."

  "But who are you with?"

  "I'm with Martin Molembe, Mr. President. And with you."

  Sabda stood there like a man who'd just woken up and somehow managed to carry part of his dream with him. All this time he'd dreamed of the moment when he'd be free. But in the back of his mind he'd resigned himself to dying in a dark and forsaken cave.

  "You're all free now," Bolan said. "If you want to stay that way, follow me. Those of you who know how to use a weapon, take one of these." He pointed toward a ZIS man who'd gathered submachine guns and automatic rifles from the fallen meres and leaned them against a wall of the cave.

  Like a man who'd found a golden grail, Stephen Ward limped forward and picked up an AK 47 with a 30-round clip. Bolan watched the man check over the weapon. According to the Maskarai warriors who'd pinpointed the cave where the hostages were held, Ward was the one who'd received the brunt of his captors' brutality. Physically the man was a wreck, but mentally he was primed for battle.

  A second man stepped forward. He was a stocky security man at home with the weapons.

  He picked up one of the SMG'S, slung the strap over his shoulder, then tucked it under his arm.

  "Anyone else know how to use a weapon?" Bolan asked, looking at the small gathering. "If you're not sure, this isn't the time to start. We don't want you shooting our own people. But if you know how, we can use every man here."

  Sabda stepped forward and stared at the weapons. "It's been a long time since I've held one," he said. "Too long." Then he picked up an AK-47. "Now it's time to cast my vote against Heinrich Fowler."

  Bolan gave the former hostages a quick briefing about how the Maskarai had worked with the mercenaries only long enough to set up the attack and had really formed an alliance with the ZIS. "Make sure you know your target before you fire. The Maskarai are on our side. But be ready to fight your way past anyone else."

  The networks of caves were linked in many places, intersecting at odd and hidden angles where hardmen could set up an ambush.

  "All right," Bolan said, "let's move."

  The group of ZIS commandos and Sabda's battered cabinet members hurried back to the main cavern, heading for the entrance.

  When they were halfway there they heard a loud clatter behind them. A ragged band of mercenaries emerged from one of the secondary caverns, their weapons clacking together as they tried to regain their balance and get into a shooting position.

  Then a deafening barrage stopped them in their tracks. Crouching in a crevice with his AK-47 emptying into the meres, Stephen Ward shouted a war cry that echoed up and down the cave. It was the cry of freedom found once again after it had been ripped away.

  Beside him Leopold Sabda and a ZIS commando opened up at the same time. They'd been leapfrogging through the cave, one group covering the other in turns.

  The technique worked perfectly. The pursuing meres hadn't expected much resistance they were used to dealing with scared prisoners.

  But now they paid for it with their lives.

  Their faces froze in surprise as bullets riveted them to the curved, craggy stone corridor. Then they fell forward, leaving strains of red dripping down the rock.

  A few moments later the hostages and the rescue team reached the edge of the cave.

  Depending on their condition, they climbed down the rocky face of the cliff side or slid down the ropes the ZIS commandos had staked into the ground.

  Down in the canyon bed, the Maskarai horsemen were circling the cul-de-sac, firing up into the open caves. Ricochets sang against rock now and then, but more often the single shots found human targets. And each time one less mere served in Heinrich Fowler's outlaw army.

  When the hostages were put on horseback, the ZIS commandos escorted them out of the canyon. Behind them came Bolan and the Maskarai, carrying their wounded with them.

  The horsemen rode hard for a half mile, their cloaks flapping behind them, the moonlight casting their shadows on the desert floor.

  They gathered at a temporary base protected by a wall of moonlike spires, where Bolan radioed Serpentine Force, who'd set up their forward operating base just a few miles away in the desert.

  Within minutes the steady whir of rotor blades beat the air, growi
ng louder as the pack of gunships bore down on the canyons. There were nine aircraft in action, including three new arrivals, courtesy of Hal Brognola's behind-the-scenes connections.

  Now that the hostages were safe, the gunships could go in full blast.

  The lead chopper soared through the canyon, announcing its presence with two high-explosive rockets that shattered the face of the cliff.

  Huge slabs of rock slid to the bottom of the canyon in a thunderous avalanche.

  One after the other, the choppers streaked through the canyon, unleashing salvos of high explosives and antipersonnel darts. Metal shredded the air and chopped into the caves, streaming waves of fire scorching the interiors.

  The echo from the rockets and the chatter of machine guns merged into a steady roar as bright clouds of flame and smoke settled over the canyon.

  There was no escape. After the helicopter assault sealed off the cave mouths, ZIS armored units rolled into the area. The ground troops scanned the canyons with night-vision devices, mopping up when necessary.

  The desert network was smashed.

  14

  "It looks just like the Alamo," Bolan commented, watching the stone face of the darkened fortress museum on the northern edge of Zandeville Bay. "Let's hope we're on the right side this time."

  ""Remember the Alamo,"" Molembe said.

  "You know the story?"

  "You're not the only student of war, my friend. All of us have learned it firsthand in Zandesi."

  "Good," Bolan said, "because the final exam's going to start any minute."

  Molembe grunted, growing impatient. Like Bolan, he'd sat in the darkness for hours, peering through palm fronds and brush at the museum.

  All around him ZIS commandos did the same.

  Molembe's nightfighters were dressed in dark blue fatigues and blue berets. Among them were several Joyhouse irregulars who'd abandoned their covers to strengthen Molembe's unit. The bouncers and band members brought their sophisticated weaponry with them. Saint-Denis and the Joyhouse Arkestra were ready to perform with nightscope and laser-locking Heckler and Koch MP-5 SAID's.

  Sharp and ready for battle hours ago, they were in danger of falling into that half-trance state that often came at the end of a long surveillance. Watching, waiting and staring so long that the stone walls seemed to move.

  The fortress was in its third incarnation.

  When it was first built hundreds of years earlier, it had guarded Zandeville from the pirates and slavers plying the coast. Then it became a stronghold during the world wars, a place of refuge. In recent years, when Zandesi began to prosper and war seemed a distant concern, the ramshackle fortress was turned into a museum.

  Across from the small parking lot and access road was a landscaped park. Garden hedges, bright flowers and gurgling fountains were spread among patches of palm trees, an idyllic symbol of Zandesi's prosperity. But now the idyll was inhabited by ZIS men with hellfire in their hands. Like serpents in the garden, Molembe thought.

  The fortress was in its latest and probably last incarnation as a giant trap, a treasure house with counterfeit bullion.

  "He won't come," Molembe stated, breaking the silence several minutes later as he stretched out his legs to ease his cramped muscles. "We haven't heard anything from the air base yet. Neither of the turncoat pilots have made a move. I think we guessed wrong."

  "He'll come. He has no choice."

  Molembe laughed. "There are several choices for Heinrich Fowler. Probably many we don't even know about it."

  "Lots of choices," Bolan agreed. "But there's little chance he won't choose this one." He nodded toward the fortress. "He can run, he can surrender or he can try to make one last strike. He's still got his hard-core meres with him, men who've fought alongside him for years. They're not the type to walk away. If Fowler does a fade, his rep fades with him. Believe me, they'll go for the gold."

  Molembe nodded. He'd believed the same at one point in the evening. They'd baited the trap well.

  But now he wasn't so sure. Now he could picture Fowler spiriting himself away, abandoning his men and settling for a hidden account somewhere. Men like Fowler prepared well for these things.

  And so did Molembe.

  He had the streets leading to the museum covered, and though the bay looked harmless with city lights painting their reflections on the water, ZIS cruisers were there as backup. The twin-hulled powerboats were manned by elite commandos, ready to hit the beach or troll for Fowler's meres at sea.

  Whichever way the German chose to come, they were ready.

  * * *

  "You can stop right there," Captain Tsawa growled.

  Both pilots turned. Suited up and ready for flight, they were only ten feet away from their Lynx chopper.

  The younger pilot glanced longingly at the cockpit, as if he could teleport himself inside and escape. Then he looked back at the officer who'd levered an automatic on him.

  "Julian," he whispered out of the side of his mouth, "what do we do?"

  "We stop right there like the man says. What else can we do?" His voice was resigned, as if he'd been expecting that sooner or later they'd be found out. But even as he spoke he turned slightly to his right, covering the slight motion of his hand dropping to his side arm.

  Then he heard a click and looked up into the cold black eyes of a 12-gauge shotgun wielded by a tall ZIS man who stepped out from behind the chopper.

  A second shotgunner appeared from the tail end of the chopper.

  While the shock was still registering on the pilots, the cabin door slid open and a pair of uniformed officers jumped down to the tarmac, training their weapons on the pilots and disarming them.

  "You boys are grounded," Captain Tsawa said as he approached Julian, keeping his automatic trained on him.

  "What if we talk?" Julian asked.

  Tsawa shrugged, his hard eyes boring into the pilot who'd tried to sell them out. "You can talk all you want, but there's damned little we don't already know about you and your movements, Julian. That's why you weren't allowed on the strike against Fowler's desert camp."

  The pilot shook his head, trying to dispel the nightmare enfolding him.

  "We've been watching you all along," Tsawa continued, "and we know where you were headed tonight."

  The pilot laughed. "You a mind reader?"

  "No," he said, "I'm a museum Boer. Just half of the ZIS. Tonight they're all waiting for the Fowler exhibition."

  At the mention of the museum, Julian's heart sank. Then he looked dazed. No longer was he a pilot with information on Fowler to trade. Now he was just a traitor with little to offer. "How did you know?"

  "Logic. Fowler had to have some reason to keep you alive for so long. Molembe figured it was so you could act as a taxi service when Fowler makes his final move. He loots the treasury, and you fly him out of the country. Then you all live happily ever after. Thaws the basic plan, isn't it?"

  Julian nodded.

  "Well, we're going to make some changes," Tsawa promised.

  The copilot lost it then, talking wildly and asking for mercy, chanting a dozen excuses along with his promises to testify. He was looking for a way out of the trap that had been closing on them. "What can we do?"

  Captain Tsawa smiled coldly.

  "There is one thing. In case Fowler contacts you for a security check, tell him all systems are go and you're on your way. But right now, take us through your flight plan for tonight. Every step of the way. Every contingency plan." He waved his automatic at the young pilot. "Any arguments?"

  There were none.

  A few minutes later Captain Tsawa radioed Martin Molembe. "The treasure hunt is on."

  * * *

  A cream-colored sports car drove along the road that followed the curves of the bay.

  About a quarter mile from the museum, it pulled off the road onto a wide stretch of soft shoulder, headlights spearing out toward the sea.

  Then the lights flicked off.

  Take
n by itself, there was nothing remarkable about the incident. But then, separated by a few minutes, several other cars repeated the maneuver, slowly working their way down the stretch of road.

  Fowler's men were arriving.

  Backing up the seaside cars, a number of station wagons and vans began rolling down through the streets, heading toward the museum. Soon the convoy of killers was ready to strike.

  Heinrich Fowler was in the lead van, chauffeured by Gauclere.

  The outside lights of the dockside museum had been shut off, and only a few windows gleamed brightly from the second floor. Three cars were in the parking lot, enough to make it look as if some guards and caretaker staff were on duty inside the museum.

  Fowler looked over at Gauclere.

  "Our last battle begins," he said. "Soon we'll be rich men again."

  Gauclere nodded. He steadied his glasses and watched the front of the fortress. It was going to be a direct assault. Breach the walls, blow the vaults and make their getaway via chopper, which even now was heading their way. Gauclere had just received confirmation from the pilots.

  "Let's hope we live to spend it," he grunted.

  Fowler nodded. He stood, leaned over his seat and shouted into the back of the van. "Fire when ready." The van doors slid open on both sides.

  Kneeling in position were two meres with light antitank weapons on their shoulders. HEAT projectiles extended from the rear of the launch tubes. The LAW-80s were cocked and ready to fire.

  The men fired their weapons in tandem. The bunker-busting rockets streaked through the air and thumped into the main entrance of the fortress. Wood, stone and iron shards flew into the air as the explosions shattered the night.

  Smoke clouds drifted out onto the fortress grounds.

  Dark figures sprinted forward as the rest of Fowler's troops descended on the fortress.

  Firing on the run, they emptied full-auto bursts into the gaping opening and strafed the windows above.