It wasn’t saying much, but he bet the rest of the building certainly felt that kick. The plastic explosives were unfocused, and didn’t have the shrapnel producing casing that made a grenade so deadly. However, with plenty of explosive punch, the ball of det cord did create a distraction.
Curses filled the air, followed by shouted orders. Bolan took a peek out the door with a pocket mirror and saw Faswad was sending out a wave of gunners to sweep the hallways. The Executioner slid a grenade off his harness, an AN-M8 HC smoker this time, but they wouldn’t know about its purpose. They’d just see a grenade. This time it wouldn’t produce a fatal shock wave, but a heavily concentrated cloud of white smoke. The smoke would be slightly toxic, but nothing fatal, and it would add just the right mix of confusion to allow the Executioner to get to Faswad.
He lobbed the soup-can-style grenade down the hall at Faswad, and saw the look of horror on the shell-shocked face of the terrorist before ducking back, assault rifles ripping the air where he was moments before. Men screamed and a window broke as a body down the hall dived through it. Bolan hadn’t intended to take out another Hezbollah fighter, but one less gun was one less enemy shooting at him.
He heard the familiar sound of the smoke grenade popping and hissing as it vomited choking white smoke. With a swift movement, the Executioner wrapped his nose and throat with a black balaclava, then grabbed his M-16, charging across the hall. His target was not the suddenly blinded Hezbollah fighters, but the two Egyptian commandos who remained. The rifle in his hand chattered before he even made it to their last position, bursts sweeping at chest level.
Uzi fire snapped back in kind, chewing a segment of wall, giving Bolan a hint of where his enemies were in the darkened apartment, and he leaped, pivoting in midair. He was aiming for cover behind a padded chair and found himself landing atop another of the dead Lebanese gunmen who were fighting to defend their headquarters. Bolan wondered how many of these men had their families holed up on the second floor, and how many children could have died because their parents chose to ally with the wrong conspirator. The Executioner had seen such bloodthirsty tactics too many times before.
And every time it happened, he fought tooth and nail to protect as many young lives as possible. A passing thought told him that he’d turned many children into orphans in countless other battles with murderers and thieves. Bolan fought his way over it and the lumpy body of a dead Hezbollah fighter, rattling off another burst from his M-16 into the darkness. Uzi fire crashed and rattled, homing in on the muzzle-flash of the noisy rifle in his hands, and Bolan quickly crawled behind the cover of an overturned dining-room table.
Slugs chewed and pounded at the other side of the rectangular tabletop, and Bolan gave the M-16 a quick reload, feeding it a fresh clip. His plan was to take one of these commandos prisoner. It wouldn’t be easy, but in case the other commando proved incapable of supplying information due to blood loss and shock, he’d need someone healthier.
Screams to his left roused the Executioner from his battle planning, autofire raking wildly into the doorway as Hezbollah commandos charged, their eyes rimmed red from the irritating smoke. Bolan levered his rifle around and cut loose with the M-16, chopping mercilessly into the chests of the first three gunners, raking them with half of the 30-round magazine. At that range, the hypersonic bullets hit hard enough to literally make flesh detonate, and the gunmen tumbled lifelessly, their torsos turned into soup by the impacts of Bolan’s fusillade. The Egyptian commandos across the room were also laying down fire, hammering at the doorway when to Bolan’s right, glass crashed.
It seemed like a lot of people were crawling the walls this night, and Bolan scooped up a dead fighter’s rifle and hurled it. The AK-47 caught one invading gunner in the chest and unbalanced him, knocking him back out the window, screaming until he hit the ground.
Another gunner swung in and dropped to the floor, raking the wall with the Egyptian commandos, only to be perforated by twin streams of autofire. More gunners came charging through the apartment’s front door and Bolan laid down another blistering wave of ammo, making the terrorists dance.
Gunfire halted abruptly. Ringing silence replaced the shattering symphony of violence that had gone on before. Bolan was out from behind the table, and he was looking at the last of the Egyptians, who was looking down at his slain comrade.
Bolan lunged, bringing up the M-16 to use it as an impact weapon on the enemy. Instead, the commando brought up his Uzi, deflecting the fiberglass stock with the steel frame of his weapon, and then snapping the wire stock of his own weapon into the Executioner’s chest. Bolan stumbled backward, robbed of breath by the sudden impact, but not of his fighting skills. The Egyptian lunged at him and tried to bash the steel wire stock of his weapon into Bolan’s skull, but the soldier ducked under the swing and hammered the barrel of his M-16 into the man’s gut.
The Egyptian commando slammed back into the wall, but brought up one boot to catch Bolan in the hip, the impact nearly knocking his feet out from under him. Bolan dropped the M-16 and latched both hands on to the commando’s battle harness, yanking him down hard. Bolan was aiming for a head butt, but missed as the Egyptian squirmed out of his way. A fist pumped hard into the Executioner’s armpit, making him lose the grip in his left hand. With a violent twist, the Egyptian swung Bolan to his right, but the Executioner hooked his leg around the fighter’s and slammed him to the floor, face first.
Bolan crawled desperately, grabbing at the Egyptian’s hair and watch cap, but his opponent twisted hard. Skin tore and hair came away in a bloody clump, along with the cap. The Egyptian screamed and kicked the Executioner hard in the jaw, dazing him.
Bolan drew his SOCOM from its hip holster. He opened fire, but the commando was too fast out the door, racing to freedom.
Getting to his feet, Bolan started for the door when his boot bumped the corpse of the man who had managed to get in through the window. The face on the floor was familiar.
Imal Faswad.
Too late, too slow.
Bolan grimaced and limped into the hallway, looking around for more survivors, smoke still billowing from the grenade. Except for corpses and blast craters, the hallway was empty.
That’s when the Executioner heard a fit of violent coughing. He followed the sound to where the smoke was thickest, seeing the bald-headed lackey who Faswad had so viciously dismissed only minutes before.
Minutes. That’s how long this whole mess took.
Bolan pressed the muzzle of his .45 into the face of the bald man, grabbing him by his shirt.
“You speak English?”
“Yes…especially with a pistol rammed up my nose,” came the answer.
“How much do you know about Kazan and the tanks?” Bolan growled.
“Enough to make you not want to shoot my head off,” the gasping Hezbollah agent wheezed.
“Then we’re going on a little trip. Come on.”
9
Cabez looked askance at the big, grim figure sitting in the passenger seat of the old Volvo. The barrel of a cocked handgun the length of his forearm was aimed right at his gut.
“Could you uncock that gun? There’s a lot of potholes in this part of town,” Cabez stated.
“Drive more carefully then,” came the answer. Cabez didn’t like the voice this guy had—it reminded him too much of the sound of a shovel grating in hard-packed sand, digging a grave.
Cabez swallowed hard and drove around a patch of seriously cracked, broken pavement. The eyes of the big man never wavered from him.
“You have a name I can call you by?” he asked.
“I’ve heard that some people call me al Askari.”
Cabez gripped the wheel tighter, sweat soaking his face now. “Oh God.”
Bolan remained silent.
Tears began to sting in Cabez’s eyes. “You didn’t have to kill everybody in the building. We didn’t do anything to the Americans.”
“I didn’t kill everyone. The children are saf
e. And those men in black weren’t mine,” Bolan answered with a sudden absence of harshness. “Your boss made a bad decision, got mixed up with the wrong business partner.”
“Yeah, and now he’s dead,” Cabez answered, laughter bubbling nervously from his lips. “We not only have al Askari, but someone else out to kill us all.”
“If you tell me who your boss was dealing with, I’ll make sure that you won’t be bothered by either of us again,” the big, brooding shadow next to him said.
“Sure. You’ll kill me right away.”
“You’ll live. You have children to fend for. Get them placed. Give up your war. Try a more peaceful way to deal with Israel.”
“It was the Israelis who came after us,” Cabez growled back.
“No, it wasn’t. They’re Egyptian.”
“Egyptian?” Cabez was stunned.
“Turn left here,” Bolan ordered, waving the massive pistol.
“I know that the tanks came from an Egyptian. Someone with real pull and rank, but I don’t have a name,” Cabez said as he followed Bolan’s directions.
“That much died with Faswad, for now. I’ll get my handle on him somewhere else. But what are you doing with the other six tanks?”
“You’re asking me to sign my own death warrant,” Cabez said.
“I can always find someone else to take care of your orphans,” Bolan replied.
Cabez felt himself spin. Whirling vertigo plunked him down and he stopped the car.
“Kazan is going to use the M1s as the tip of a spear for an assault on Nahariyyah.”
“Where are they staging this assault from?” Bolan asked.
“From a camp five miles east of Naqoura.”
The silence in the car was deafening, and Cabez felt his bowels clenching in anticipation.
“Keep driving. We’re going to where the kids are.”
Cabez, hand trembling, started the car.
THE EXECUTIONER HAD GONE against impossible odds many times before, but not against a strike force of tanks ready to punch into a city. A half dozen M1 tanks, backed up by the Hezbollah’s standard T-72s would give them a chance against Israel’s war machines—at least to cause as much murder and mayhem as possible before being destroyed or forced back beyond the border.
But in the meantime, especially if the Hezbollah force managed to get in to street fighting, the loss of life would be enormous.
Nitzana, times ten at the least.
And Israeli policy was to exchange blood for blood. Three or four thousand dead Israelis would be answered by twice that amount in the bombing of Lebanon, taking a terrible toll on cities where the Hezbollah received its support. Maybe this time, Bolan grimly mused, it would push the entire region into a bloodbath of retribution, with neighboring nations acting in response to their murdered citizens.
Bolan gave Cabez the Toyota 4Runner, since it was the only vehicle that had the capacity to comfortably ferry the orphaned Lebanese children, and locked his icy gaze with the terrorist.
“Remember your promise.”
Cabez flinched. “I won’t let these children live without families, and I will not raise arms except to protect myself.”
Bolan gave the roof of the 4Runner a double slap, and Cabez drove off.
He glanced back to Kalid.
“Our prisoner is named Anwar. He lost a lot of blood, but your field dressing, and a couple liters of saline solution have stabilized him.” Kalid started the briefing immediately.
“You got his name?”
“He’s giving us the name, rank and serial number deal. Rust is running that through those computerized contacts of yours.”
Bolan frowned. “Egypt is an allied nation.”
“Only just barely, since the fun and games in Iraq. I seem to recall a lot of rioting, angry people assaulting the embassy in Cairo.”
Bolan shook his head. “People are entitled to their opinion. What was done was what was done.”
“We’re going to nip this war in the bud, though, right?” Kalid asked, with an almost childlike exuberance designed to bring Bolan out of his brooding.
Bolan managed a smile and a nod. “That’s what I’m here for. I’ll get some rest. You talk some more with Anwar. I have a feeling he and his friends got steered wrong on this particular mission.”
“We’ll awaken you come the eve, mighty Horus. I’ll prepare some tanna leaves to replenish thy godly might,” Kalid joked.
“Make it some strong coffee and a sandwich, and I’ll be happy.”
Kalid crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. “Yes, sahib.”
Bolan’s mood lightened, the strength returning to him even as he made his way to his cot.
AS BOLAN SLEPT, Kalid sat, keeping watch over him. Using one of the safehouse’s laptops, the young American was surfing the Web for information about Horus, inspired by his association of the soldier with the warrior-god.
Kalid found a quote attributed to the ancient god and smiled. “Yeah, that’s impressive.”
Bolan gave a toss in the bed, and Kalid worried that he’d awakened the sleeping soldier. But it was merely the troubled sleep of a man with too many sorrows. He looked at the quote on the screen and began to read. He wanted to impart the words of the speech into his mind.
“‘I am Horus, the great Falcon upon the ramparts of the house of him of the hidden name. My flight has reached the horizon. I have passed by the gods of Nut. I have gone further than the gods of old. Even the most ancient bird could not equal my very first flight. I have removed my place beyond the powers of Set, the foe of my father Osiris. No other god could do what I have done. I have brought the ways of eternity to the twilight of the morning. I am unique in my flight. My wrath will be turned against the enemy of my father Osiris and I will put him beneath my feet in my name of Red Cloak.’”
“Impressive,” came a whisper from the doorway. Kalid’s heart leaped in surprise. He turned to see Tera Geren standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed.
She was just out of the shower, her hair disheveled, still wet and uncombed. The scent of soap on her drifted to his nostrils and a heady drunkenness threatened to overtake him.
“Hey,” Kalid whispered. He shut off the computer and got up, walking closer to her. He didn’t want to disturb Bolan’s sleep anymore. “How’s Anwar?”
“He’s fine,” she answered. “And you?”
Kalid realized his face was almost touching hers as they spoke quietly. He started to jerk back, heart hammering as her green eyes twinkled alluringly. “Shook up. I killed two innocent men.”
“We both went through a lot,” Geren answered. “Do we have to talk here, or do you think he can sleep by himself?”
Kalid looked over his shoulder at the sleeping Bolan. “I guess he can. He just came in looking like hell.”
Geren nodded knowingly as they walked to the living room of the safehouse. “I know what you mean. When I first joined Say…” She paused and looked at him. “Sayeret Duvdevan. Who are you guys?”
“A mixed breed. I don’t even know who I’m working for. I’m just on loan from the FBI.”
“And Russel?” Geren asked.
Kalid shrugged. “I think he’s CIA. Not sure.”
Geren nodded.
“You’re not going to ask about Colonel Stone?”
Geren glanced back to the bedroom where Bolan rested. “I don’t think he works for anybody.”
“He is the cat that walks by himself,” Kalid told her.
“I thought he was a falcon.”
“He is a god of many aspects,” Kalid said, winking.
Geren chuckled.
“So you’re Unit 217?” Kalid asked.
Geren nodded. “I think I’m still with them, if they haven’t written me off completely.”
Kalid couldn’t stop from blurting his next words. “They’d be pretty foolish if they did let you go.”
Geren’s freckled cheeks reddened. “Thanks.”
Kalid clamped down on dozens of questions he wanted to ask her, the foremost in his mind being if she had a man back in Israel. He sat with her, the silence filling the room like a thick fog, everything else blotting out. Moments dragged on until the house became alive, Anwar talking to Rust in one room, Bolan getting up and clomping around his bedroom.
“We’d better attend to our guest and the big guy,” Kalid said.
Geren nodded, keeping quiet. “I’ll go check on Brandon. You see how things are with Anwar.”
Kalid looked at his watch. “We didn’t say a word for an hour.”
Geren smirked. “Let’s chalk it up to admiring the view?”
Kalid shrugged. “Or simple diplomacy.”
Geren took a deep breath, and Kalid searched for something to distract him from the swell of her chest. “We’ll have to work on your diplomacy, Mr. Johnson,” she said.
WHEN BOLAN OPENED HIS EYES, it was to the bright light of the sun. Judging from its height over the horizon, he figured he had been asleep for a couple of hours. A catnap, one of those dreamless bouts of unconsciousness where he shut down to conserve energy. It was a pattern he’d grown used to in a lifetime where he often lived hand-to-mouth and picked up shelter and warmth between bouts of mayhem and madness.
He got to his feet and tested his equilibrium. He wasn’t dizzy, and no bright floaters crossed his vision. If the explosion the previous night aggravated his concussion, Bolan couldn’t tell. He took slow steps around the room, working to stretch out his cramped muscles. His stitches were still holding in place, and except for a mild cough, he was pretty much over the accumulated smoke and dust he had inhaled the night before. Fires, smoke grenades and vaporized drywall, it was a wonder that he wasn’t choking.
Bolan poured himself a glass of water from the carafe that Kalid had to have set there, then peeled off his dirty shirt and threw it in a corner.
“You look like a road map,” a voice stated behind him. Bolan turned and saw Tera Geren, holding a plate with the sandwich he’d requested earlier.
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