Agent of Peril

by Don Pendleton

  “Take a hike. I got me some pigs to castrate,” Geren said. She let the machine pistol drop on its sling, drawing out the knife that he’d loaned to her.

  Eleven gleaming inches of steel shone in the setting sunlight. Geren saw the reflection of the terrified eyes of her kneecap victim. “You want to be first?” she asked.

  “You’re bluffing!” the Egyptian spoke.

  Geren shrugged and slashed along his groin, slicing his pants open. Hot urine sprayed as if it were coming from a firehose, and she rammed his head into the wall, savagely hammering him on the face with the handle of the knife. Cheekbones broke like eggshells. Ruined features leaked blood into a mask over his face and the terrorist curled up, legs crossed, lungs heaving with sobs of terror.

  She stepped back, sneering, then stepped to the next stunned terrorist, wiping the blood from her knife. As furious she was, she was terrified by how easily she was resorting to pure barbarism. Mentally, she was putting on the brakes to keep from enjoying the suffering from others. She wanted to tear the balls off all of these bastards. She grabbed the guy’s ear. “You’re next?” she asked.

  Terrified eyes looked at the pulpy-faced mess in the middle of the floor. The nearly foot-long blade hadn’t even been used to cut, and it had reduced the poor man to a broken lump of a weakling.

  “I asked you…” Geren pressed the knife edge to the guy’s cheek. “You’re next?”

  “We handed him off to Major Tofo,” the man whispered, tears flowing down his cheeks.

  “Where? Where’s he hiding?” Geren asked.

  “Tofo…”

  “If you’re afraid he’ll kill you, just remember who’s got the knife and who’s the fillet.”

  The Egyptian swallowed hard, then sang.

  “HOW DID YOU LEARN ABOUT this mountain bunker?” Rust asked as Bolan and Geren finished cleaning up from their journey through Cairo.

  “We cut out the small talk,” Geren said. “M-16s alone aren’t going to win a mountain assault.”

  “We could use bunker-buster rounds,” Bolan stated. “But we want to get Alex back.”

  “They transported him there that quick?” Rust asked. “It still sounds like bullshit. No way they’d tell the Muslim Brotherhood about a secret Egyptian military installation.”

  “It’s not Egyptian military, though,” Bolan explained. “It’s Muslim Brotherhood. And they’re sharing the facilities with General Idel.”

  “General Idel?”

  “That name rings a bell with you?” Geren asked.

  “His father was killed when the Israelis made their press to take the Suez Canal,” Rust answered. “He was a kid at the time. He joined the army as soon as he could. Since his daddy was army brass, he was put on the fast track to be an officer.”

  “All the while, he has a grudge against Israel,” Geren said.

  Rust nodded. “He is vocally a moderate.”

  “Like he’s supposed to wave a sign that reads ‘I’m secretly plotting with Hezbollah and the Muslim Brotherhood to smash the Jews’?’” Bolan asked.

  “Point taken,” Rust stated.

  “So what do you have coming in for us?” Bolan asked.

  “You’ll get to survey the goodies when we get to the airfield. You are trained for HALO diving, aren’t you?” Rust asked Geren.

  “Better than you Yanks. Israeli paratrooper training is the best in the world,” she answered.

  “Not a little ethnocentric, is she?” Rust asked.

  Geren’s face reddened. “Listen, I just sliced a guy’s groin to get information about where Alex is. I’m sick and tired of dicking around.”

  “All right. We’re in motion,” Rust said, heading to the door.

  Rust saw Bolan put an arm on Geren’s shoulder, and she nodded as he whispered softly to her. He wasn’t able to hear what was being said.

  When she looked up, her frustration was gone.

  Only steel remained, a steel matching the big soldier’s.

  16

  Kalid was breathless. The weight of his body against his restrained arms was cutting off the air to his lungs. As he struggled to straighten, he backed against the sizzling heat of a hot pipe pressed behind him. As long as he sagged, he didn’t cook, but he suffocated. If he pulled himself up enough to breathe, he felt his flesh blistering even deeper in contact with the pipe.

  Tofo sat across from him, smoking a cigarette, which made breathing even more difficult. His gaze never left the American. An evil smirk crossed his lips.

  “Half Egyptian, half Cuban. And working for the Americans?” Tofo asked.

  Kalid coughed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ahman, he recognized your accent. Cuban.”

  Tofo laughed and strode up, stubbing out his cigarette in Kalid’s armpit. The jumble of nerves and sensitive skin there exploded in warnings of pain and damage. Tears poured down his cheeks, but he kept his teeth crushed together.

  “This would go so much easier if you just told me what you knew about the operation, Alessandro Johnson.” Tofo’s voice wafted forward to his ears.

  “We know enough to shut you down, shithead,” Kalid answered.

  “Really? I’d like specifics,” Tofo said. “Then I could end this quickly.”

  “I gotta laugh,” Kalid croaked. He tried to punctuate his statement with a laugh, but it only came out as slight coughing.

  “Tell me,” Tofo said. “What is funny?”

  Kalid pushed back to breathe more, and he didn’t feel the hot pipe. It had been moved. “I was feeling naked and vulnerable coming into Cairo without a weapon.”

  “Oh really?” Tofo asked. “And now?”

  “You don’t scare me,” Kalid whispered. He tried to get his balance, but something hard hit the backs of his knees, and he was soon hanging straight down from his wrists. His shoulders felt like they were tearing.

  “No?”

  “You annoy me,” Kalid growled. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being.”

  “Keep talking, but steer the conversation toward something with an actual conclusion,” Tofo ordered.

  “You want my conclusion? I conclude that your mother sucks sheep dick,” Kalid said.

  Tofo swung the hot pipe, slamming it into Kalid’s ribs. He’d put on a pair of insulated gloves to keep from burning himself on the heated metal. Kalid winced again. Another hard rap crashed off his rib cage. The third time he was just prodded with the pipe until he gurgled uncontrollably in agony. Reflexive convulsions gave way to inarticulate expression.

  “Keep up your silence, boy. It won’t be long before we undertake our plan, with or without forewarning about what you know,” Tofo taunted. He brought a fresh cigarette to his lips and lit it.

  “Kind of figured that,” Kalid moaned.

  “Do tell?”

  “Israel is spreading itself to deal with whatever threat you can get the Hezbollah to pretend to be. Nitzana. Nahariyyah. Oh wait. That didn’t happen, did it?” Kalid asked.

  Tofo leaned in close. “You know about Nahariyyah?”

  Tofo pressed the pipe between Kalid’s legs, and he couldn’t hold back his wail of agony anymore. He screamed, thrashing on his chains. The touch lasted for only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity and the aftereffects stayed with him. He felt nausea boil up from his stomach, but running on empty, he only gagged helplessly.

  “We’re getting somewhere.” Tofo cackled gleefully. “Sloppy of you, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Motherfucker…motherfucker…if I ever get out of these chains, I’m going to break your neck.”

  Tofo smiled and gave Kalid’s chin a tap. “That’s why I’m never letting you out of those chains.”

  Kalid coughed up some bile, fists clenching. He could taste his death.

  WHEN TERA GEREN LOOKED at the airfield, she thought that they’d bought into a betrayal for certain. Four helicopters with squads of grim-faced men assembled.

  “J.R.?” Geren said.

  “Relax,
they’re here on my say-so,” Rust answered. “I have some good relations.”

  A wiry man, with skin so brown it looked like shoe leather, stepped toward Bolan. “You are Colonel Brandon Stone?”

  Bolan nodded.

  “I am Major Atef Fesjad, Colonel Stone. Anwar told me some of what was going on,” the wiry little man explained. “Then the American embassy contacted us at your friend Mr. Russel’s request.”

  “Anwar contacted you?” Bolan asked.

  “He sent me a secure message,” Major Fesjad replied. “He had more notes on him when we picked up his body.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Someone has turned Egyptian against Egyptian, and Egypt against her allies, America and Israel. They murdered my nephew, and they got his fellow soldiers murdered in conflict with you,” Fesjad stated. “Anything you need to protect our nation’s fragile peace with Israel, it is yours.”

  Bolan put out his hand. “Thank you for letting us see this through to the end.”

  Geren let out her breath finally as the men of Unit 777 began an impromptu briefing with the Executioner.

  “IT’LL BE ANOTHER FIFTEEN minutes before we’re in our drop zone,” Major Fesjad announced. “I still don’t think that sending you in first, Colonel Stone—”

  “Enough members of Unit 777 have died, Major,” Bolan cut him off as the Westland Commando helicopter tore through the night sky. “I just need your men to set up a kill box until we can figure out what’s going on.”

  “And then you start blowing stuff up,” Fesjad answered.

  “If it comes to that,” Bolan promised. “Nobody gets out of there.”

  Fesjad gestured out the window to the AH-64 Apache that was keeping pace with the pair of Commandos and the big Russian-designed MI-8. The quartet of helicopters were keeping so close to the ground, the lead helicopter threatened to clog the windshields of the following helicopters with blowing sand.

  They’d crossed the Gulf of Suez only minutes before. At the speeds the helicopters were moving, the relatively short distance between Cairo and the Sinai Peninsula’s inner region was eaten up in less than half an hour. It made sense to the Executioner that their enemy would be nestled where Egypt had historically kept its copper and turquoise mines. Nearly eight thousand years earlier, settlers set up shop to begin mining precious metals. Bolan reckoned that over eight millennia, a lot of tunnels would have been carved into the mountainsides. Jebel El Tih, a massive, rocky plateau that bisected the mighty triangle of the Peninsula, was only minutes ahead.

  This was the land where Moses had gotten lost for forty years, and if the wonders of satellite imagery hadn’t been brought down from on high, it would have taken that long to find any trace of General Idel’s hideout. Thermal imaging and radar had picked up some traces, based on what they got from the Muslim Brotherhood. It wasn’t easy, and the computerized search ate vital time before the helicopters could take flight.

  The Egyptians, Bolan and Geren were all prepared for the frigid plateau, dressed warmly against the frosty chill. From desert broil to near arctic tundra, the Executioner was set to fight to the end of this war wherever it took him.

  Bolan glanced over to Geren, who was cradling a spare Colt M-4 assault rifle that Unit 777 brought along. It was no surprise to the Executioner that the Egyptian specialists were armed with American equipment. They trained with American forces, so using the same top of the line equipment was natural. Bolan knew that they were highly skilled and hard-core veteran fighters.

  Bolan double-checked his weapon. It wasn’t an act of distrust of the Egyptian special forces armorers. It was knowing that being intimate with each tool you carried into combat was the difference between life and death.

  The MI-8 and one Commando swerved away as their Apache escort kept tight with them.

  “Your drop-off point, Colonel,” Fesjad told him. “Another ten minutes. The others are swinging around to close the box.”

  “Just make sure they keep well back. There’s no telling what kind of antiaircraft General Idel has,” Bolan warned.

  “He doesn’t have enough antiaircraft to keep me from seeing his operation put out of commission,” Fesjad declared. “Good luck, Colonel Stone.”

  TOFO WASN’T HAPPY TO BE pulled away from toying with the captive. Still, when the boss called, business came before pleasure.

  “How goes the interrogation?” General Idel asked, clenching his teeth around the soggy butt of a cigar.

  “He knew about Nahariyyah.”

  “This isn’t a surprise. Someone raised hell. Kazan never reported in, and my Lebanese sources have told me that they found him and nearly forty of his men slaughtered. Only one man escaped, and he said that the legendary al Askari himself descended upon them and killed them all brutally,” Idel explained.

  Tofo swallowed hard. “Al Askari? What about the tanks?”

  “The Abrams we gave to the Hezbollah were all destroyed, as well as a good portion of their ammunition and fuel supplies,” Idel grumbled. “If it was just one man, he certainly lives up to his legend.”

  “We have his lackey, though,” Tofo reminded him. “We can figure out who al Askari is.”

  Idel glared. “Put a bullet through his head now. Al Askari was in Cairo as of two hours ago. Some even said he was chasing the very van that abducted your prisoner.”

  Tofo blanched.

  “They were following the men you sent to take the American agents working with him,” Idel added.

  “They can’t know about our complex,” Tofo said, drawing back.

  Idel’s gaze smoldered.

  “This is a Muslim Brotherhood stronghold. They know about it. We updated it on the sly, but it’s still their territory!”

  “So what do we do?” Tofo asked.

  Idel snorted. “Prepare to repel invaders and let loose the dogs of war.”

  “We’re launching?”

  Idel smirked. “Go kill that useless prisoner. Now!”

  KALID FELT THE EARTH shake as big, fast-moving engines pushed something outside. He couldn’t be sure of what it was, but he wasn’t taking the time to work out the exact details. He suspected it was the unmanned aerial vehicles that he and Tera had surmised were going to be used. The deadline was down, or perhaps the mystery man decided it was time to do his thing.

  Tera. Her name danced across his mind like the fingers of a talented pianist in concert. He wondered how much their lovemaking was at fault for his being captured, but he cast aside that thought.

  Alone, Kalid had the chance to try to get off the hook that held his chains. His whole body hurt like hell, and he was very weak. He got his feet under him and breathed deeply, concentrating. He figured help had to be on the way, otherwise the bad guys wouldn’t be panicking.

  He kicked off the ground without thinking, without giving his body time to react to the pain and effort. Arms yanking hard, he swung himself up and felt his feet impact with a support strut over his head. For the first time he could see what was above him. The roof of some sort of shack, held up with a couple thick beams of wood. Around him were crates of equipment and a table covered with tools that he figured Tofo would get around to sooner or later.

  Kalid took it all in swiftly, then concentrated on getting his legs up and wrapped over the top of the wooden beam he was hanging from. The chains clinked with his effort, but he was more concerned by the agony in his shoulders and across his back. All of his weight was piling atop the already stressed out muscles as he worked to get his long, lean legs up and over. Finally, folding his knees over the support beam, his entire body quivered with thanks.

  “One bit down, a whole bunch to go,” Kalid whispered. He folded himself to reach the hook that he was hanging from. With one hand grasping the iron hook, he began working the chains over. His hands and forearms were slick with blood. The iron coils cut into his flesh, but he kept going. Links of chain barked against his knuckles until finally, he’d loosed the lot from the hoo
k.

  Kalid straightened and held his hands below his head, releasing the grip his legs had on the beam. Gravity took over and he hit the floor on his hands and knees, the concrete shredding skin where he hit hard.

  They hadn’t even bothered with manacles. The chains, simply knotted, were easy to shrug out of. He got them off his wrists but kept them well in hand. He was naked, but at least he had a weapon. It was an old, simple weapon, which wouldn’t stop an AK-47-toting killer at thirty feet, but if anyone came in, they were going to catch some hell.

  It was the least that Kalid could do to give back to the bastards who had tortured him.

  BOLAN AND GEREN WERE climbing the mountainside when the roar of launching aircraft filled the air. Bolan looked up and saw the familiar cruise-missile shape of drones ripping out of the side of the mountain in a salvo, tearing off and swerving northeast.

  Toward Israel.

  “We’re too late,” Geren gasped.

  “They’re not supersonic. We’ve got to move quickly to stop them, but we can do it,” Bolan said, putting his strength into crawling up toward the shelf carved out of the mountainside. The launches were almost finished, and the heat coming off their engines and the buffeting winds as they passed forced the soldier to dig in even harder to hold on.

  Finally the last unmanned drone was gone. Bolan wondered if Fesjad would assign anyone to try to intercept the unmanned drones. He didn’t want to break radio silence this close to their goal. He trusted the Unit 777 commander.

  The drones had flashed past his vision too quickly in the dark for Bolan to get a decent look at them. He had counted around two dozen, but the winds kicked up by the tail rotors forced him to look away or blink, so it could have been twenty-five or thirty drones. Either way, he dreaded knowing what their payloads were. He’d seen mock-ups of remote drones used for biochemical warfare at Stony Man Farm.

  Bolan hauled himself onto the flat rock, silenced M-4 sweeping the darkness. Geren tucked in behind him.

  “This is a lot bigger than a mine entrance,” Geren said.

  Bolan looked around the hewn mouth to the cave. Now that the launching drones were long gone, the chill winds once more whipped the wall of the plateau. “I think this place has been under a lot of reconstruction. At least a couple centuries worth of work.”