She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Take care," she said softly.
"I'm not sure where we're going," he said into her ear. "Wherever it is, I'll send word."
They pulled away from each other and Judith nodded, her blue eyes looking fragile as spun glass. Johnny got up and walked across the room, feeling all the while like a deserter.
13
Mack Bolan sat on the edge of his bed in the dark and read Guido's maps by the penlight he held in his mouth. Across the small room, Johnny lay quietly sleeping on the other bed, and that was the way Mack Bolan wanted it.
He had avoided working within structures for a long time now, because of precisely what happened at the Dan Carmel hotel. This next step he'd take on his own. It wasn't so much that he didn't need help at this point, especially his brother's help, but more that he didn't feel he could trust any but his own feelings.
Johnny was tied to Sabra through Judith. That was fine, but in an emergency, he didn't need to be faced with divided loyalties. Sabra's goals were above reproach, their methods commendable, but Bolan was sufficiently familiar with Middle East politics to know how it operated.
Terrorist groups launched mortar and rocket attacks on Israeli territory from Lebanon, Syria and Jordan; the Israelis organized a counterstrike in which they captured hundreds of PLO prisoners and jailed them in an old Turkish prison right down the ocean drive from Acco; since the captives were prisoners of war, they could legally be held indefinitely, so eventually the government of Israel turned them loose to begin the process all over again.
The Executioner didn't operate that way, and he wasn't going to this time. Maybe he was wrong, but a lot of scum were no longer around to terrorize and prey on the innocent because Mack Bolan had meted out swift justice. He wondered how many of those causing havoc right now had come under Israeli guns before. Better that Johnny sleep through this one while Mack Bolan did some permanent mopping up.
And it looked as if Guido Metrano was going to provide the key. The man's effects had included three maps of Israel, all marked off in grids. The first map showed three meeting places where, apparently, the PLO had established forward bases. One was close to Haifa, in the Yizre'el Valley near Atula. One was in Kfar Saba, northeast of Tel Aviv. The third was in Tel Aviv itself, near Clore Park, right on the beach.
On this first map were references to the other maps, with grid marks written in sequence. On checking the second map, Bolan was able to pinpoint the locations of the attacks that had come tonight, plus from what base they had been launched. From his cursory examination, he could see what good his operations had already done, for barely half the prescribed targets had actually been hit.
Then he came to the last map. Its grid marks matched up to the first map also, except these targets had not been hit at all, yet. These were the targets for the next night.
* * *
Johnny lay in bed feigning sleep, watching his brother. He was planning something, Johnny was certain, but whatever it was, Mack had decided to remain secretive about it.
Johnny watched as Mack stood and peeled off the skinsuit he still wore, changing silently into street clothes. Then he went to the makeup case. Johnny stared in fascination as Mack skillfully darkened his hair and skin tone, adding a mustache and black-framed glasses as a final touch. He looked like an Arab now.
It made Johnny angry that Mack had kept information from him — and from Sabra. Wasn't this their home? He'd seen many good people go down today, and it seemed like a hell of a time for Mack to turn into the Lone Ranger.
His brother shouldered his duffel and moved silently through the door.
Johnny hopped out of bed immediately and slipped into his shoes. Whatever happened, he was going to be there for it.
* * *
Bolan moved out of the room and into the dark hallway. He checked his watch, and the luminous dial showed 3:00 a.m. The downstairs bar was closed now for the night, the whole place asleep except for him.
He moved quietly down the hall, then downstairs and into the bar itself, lit softly by a small neon sign advertising a local beer.
A phone sat behind the bar. He found it easily and used his penlight to find the numbers while he dialed. He couldn't do this one totally alone, but at least he could control his end of it.
Judith Meyers, voice tired, answered after the fifth ring.
"There's a house," he said without greeting, "near the south tip of the Kfar Baruch Reservoir, five miles from Atula. Take your exterminating equipment and you can kill some vermin."
"Where will you be?"
"I'm keeping busy. You'd better hurry."
"Toda, Bolan," she said. "Thanks. Is Johnny…"
He hung up the phone, cutting her off. He slipped quietly across the rough wooden floor, the front door opening easily. The Fiat was parked around back.
* * *
From the top of the stairs Johnny heard his brother replace the phone receiver, then listened as he left the bar. He rushed down the stairs and made it to the front door just in time to see the Fiat cruise quietly around the building, its taillights etching a path to the front gates of the walled city.
He opened the door, running into the hot night. Very few people in Acco could afford cars, and most of those were hobbled with metal locking devices on the front tires. He frantically ran the narrow streets until he found an unfettered car.
He climbed in and hot-wired the ignition of the small Datsun. Mack had no more than a few minutes' head start. He'd catch him soon enough.
* * *
The gates at the Rosh Hanikra kibbutz were damaged beyond repair, so Abba simply blocked the gate by piling up several cars from the compound end to end and side by side. He now stood on the kibbutz side of the makeshift gate, a teenage boy held before him, the barrel of his pistol jammed against the youth's temple.
On the other side of the barricade, an Israeli colonel named Wolfson stood at parade rest, his mouth fixed in a scowl, his eyes traveling from Abba to the boy and back again. Behind the colonel, several thousand Israeli troops stood with weapons ready, prepared to repay in kind the horrors visited upon their families and friends by the PLO.
"We have 253 Jewish sluts and bastards in those buildings over there," Abba said in English, pressing the barrel a little harder, the teenager wincing in pain. "If you don't pull back, we will begin killing them one by one."
"Don't be ridiculous," the colonel said. "You'd pay for such an act immediately. All of you would be dead within minutes."
"We do not care," Abba said.
"Listen to reason. You leave now, simply cross back over the border, and that's that. We won't follow. All we want are the hostages."
"Then pull back."
"How far?" Wolfson asked.
"Two miles. The border and the crossing will be ours."
Wolfson's lips tightened to a hard slash. "I'm not authorized to do that. It's not our policy."
Abba nodded, smiling. "I understand. I will give you something to tell your superiors. Ma'as!" he called loudly.
A soldier in olive drab appeared and Abba's face turned dark and sullen. "I just want you to appreciate our position, Colonel," he said loudly, then turned to the soldier. "Take out your gun."
The man unholstered a long-barreled .38.
"Good," Abba said, nodding broadly. "Now… shoot yourself."
Without a second's hesitation, the man raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger, gore splattering all the way to where the colonel stood.
"Our points are nonnegotiable, my friend," Abba said. "You must make your decision now."
Revulsed by the senseless act, Colonel Wolfson turned immediately to face his troops. "Fall back to the base camp!" he yelled, and walked away without looking back.
14
Arab settlements in Israel were always easy to spot — they all contained large numbers of television antennas. Being surrounded on all sides by Muslim countries, Muslim residents in Israel watched the television broadcasts f
rom these countries to remind them by just how large a margin they outnumbered the Israelis.
Bolan used these antennas as a beacon, driving slowly into the Arab settlement near Kfar Saba. It was a small city of stone houses, the foundations millennia old. There was only one place large enough to house that many people here — the firehouse.
The firehouse was set in the center of town, a two-story structure of wood built in the early fifties. It served the entire area surrounding Kfar Saba. It was by far the newest building in the town, the next oldest a thousand years its senior.
Bolan left his car on the outskirts of town, hidden in some bushes off the main road. Eliminating all but essential items from his duffel, he then hoisted it over his shoulder and began the quiet walk through the darkened streets.
No one disturbed him as he picked his way around the small stone dwellings, an occasional dog barking, then quieting when he passed. When he was within a block of the fire station, he knew he had the right place. A lot of cars were parked around the structure, more than this village could support, and he saw three… no, four guards with automatics stationed all around. He'd have to take them first.
Without hesitation, he dropped the duffel in an alley near the station and put on his best drunk face. He staggered out of the alley and took to the middle of the street, humming loud enough to be heard by the guards without rousing anyone else.
He watched them congregate as he neared the structure, their rifles at the ready. He hummed a bit louder, opening his arms wide, then turned a full circle. He did this twice, then fell on the ground in the middle of the dirt road.
As he struggled to his feet, now thirty feet from the guards, he could see them poking one another and pointing, their laughter drifting across the open expanse of air to him. Good.
He staggered on toward them as if oblivious to their presence. They were calling to him gently, so as not to awaken those within. He didn't understand a word they were saying, but moved around toward them, mumbling. He was itchy for it, his hand going back to reassure himself that the K-bar was still stuck in his belt.
They were totally at ease as he moved within striking distance, smiling wide, rolling his eyes. They laughed and joked with him, obviously poking fun. The Executioner nodded dumbly, then stumbled, falling against one of them.
The knife flashed, and he came up quickly, burying it in the dark man's heart — one down. He jerked the blade free and turned on the others before they realized anything was wrong.
Like a released spring, he jumped at the other three, leaving the knife in one guy's throat, knocking the other two to the ground. Before they could yell, he stuffed a fist full of dirt into the first one's mouth, leaving him choking while throwing his weight on the remaining man.
The man writhed beneath him, and Bolan's right fist crashed into the guard's jaw. He whimpered and lay still. The sentry's M-16 had fallen beside them. Bolan grabbed it by the barrel, then brought the butt around in a wide swing. The weapon slammed into the side of the other guard's head, causing the man to spew out a mouthful of sand. The blow sent the sentry crashing to the ground.
Bolan turned to the other guard. He was on his knees, trying to pull the knife from his throat. The Executioner jumped quickly to his feet, ready for anything.
The terrorist was crawling now, blood running in thick gobs from his severed jugular, soaking into the sand beneath him. Bolan watched him without feeling, waiting for the life to seep out of one who didn't deserve it.
Seconds later, the man fell, sprawling, trying to crawl. Then he flopped onto his stomach, everything oozing out of him in a long sigh.
Moving quickly, Bolan dragged the men up near the cars parked around the structure, pushing the bodies one at a time beneath the vehicles and out of sight. Then he ran quickly across the street, retrieving the duffel and bringing it back to the station with him.
He figured that what he had to do wouldn't take long. He moved into the shadows, then dipped into the bag. First he drew on a pair of rubber gloves. Next, he removed a hundred-foot length of rope he had for scaling walls. He then pulled out dynamite, blasting caps and detonator, finally getting the wire cutters.
He worked quickly, first cutting any phone lines to the outside world. He set several charges around the structure, tying them all in at the hand detonator, which he strung across the street.
He took the length of rope and moved to one of the cars, unscrewing the gas cap. He fed the rope into the gas tank, soaking it through. Then he pulled out the wet rope, stringing it from car to car, gas tank to gas tank, looping the rope into each tank before moving on to the next car, finally ending the length right atop one of the charges.
He looked at his watch. It was 4:00 a.m.
He grabbed the duffel and ran across the street, pulling out the Ingram MAC-10 as he ran. A light flared on the second floor, a silhouetted figure moving to the window to watch him. He heard voices from the building — yelling.
He reached the detonator just as the first of the semiclad men came running out of the fire station. He quickly bolted down the leads and twisted the detonator handle, the sound of feet pounding on the roadway loud to his acute hearing.
The dynamite went up with a roar, then the gas tanks in quick succession, all of it happening within seconds. The entire end of the street exploded in orange fire, the station igniting like dry tinder. Flaming bodies leaped screaming from the windows.
Bolan moved into the street, which was as bright as day around him, burning cars scattered everywhere like children's toys. The heat from the blaze seared his face. He gunned down the two or three people who had escaped the explosions, then triggered a few mercy rounds into the flaming ones.
Another explosion ripped through the structure as the gas tank on the fire engine blew. Then the whole building collapsed into a pile of rubble, fifty-foot flames licking the night sky.
He hesitated for a heartbeat to make sure they were all dead, then he picked up his duffel and jogged back to the Fiat.
* * *
"What do you mean, he's dead?" Big Tommy growled into the mouthpiece of the field telephone.
Jamil Arman answered in that soft, nerve-jangling voice. "Your son Guido gave his life tonight so that the revolution might live."
"Where's his body?" the mafioso asked, his insides churning. "I got to see the body."
"Unfortunately that is not possible. The Israeli authorities have cordoned off the whole area of the hotel."
Metrano looked around the living room of Arman's underground bunker. Everyone was asleep but him. If that son of a bitch Jamil had just given him his money and let him go, Guido would be alive right now.
"Where are you?" he said. "Where's my money?"
The man chuckled. "I am nearby," he said. "We have pushed into Palestine and set up our forward base. You will have your money when you come to join us."
"You're insane!" Metrano shouted, several of his men stirring in their sleep. "I came here to sell you some goods, not get involved in a fucking revolution."
"But you are involved, my friend. Don't you understand that?"
"I understand that two of my boys are dead and I'm out ten million bucks because of you. Where's Tony?"
"Your other son is safe."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"You promised us professional help in demolition. He is in Tel Aviv right now, providing us the help you so graciously promised."
"And you promised me ten mil."
There was a slight pause, then Arman said, "And you may have it. I am sending someone to pick you up and bring you here to our headquarters. At the celebration tonight, I will give you your money."
Metrano picked up an unlit cigar stub from an ashtray nearby and stuck it in his mouth, chewing. "Listen, my friend. I want my money and I want it now. Then I want to take what's left of my people and get the hell out of here. Get it?"
"I understand your words."
"So have someone bring the money."
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"You've heard my conditions."
"I'm warning you…"
"I know," Arman said softly. "You can… sue me."
Tomasso Metrano thought for a minute, realizing just how smart Arman was. By involving Big Tommy in every act of warfare he committed, he was tying their fates together directly. Metrano could never go against the man on any level, lest he risk sharing his fate.
"There's something else, too," Arman said. "I know who killed your son."
"Yeah?"
"An American dressed in black who walked through the restaurant firefight as if he were immune to bullets."
"Bolan," Big Tommy said, practically spitting the word. "Can we take care of him?"
"Of that I have no doubt."
"Good. Get that car over here. I'm ready for you."
15
Johnny Bolan stood on the stairs leading down to the beach and looked at his watch. It was 4:30 a.m. Tel Aviv, a city of raucous activity, was at its quietest. As usual, his brother's timing was impeccable.
Johnny was halfway down the stone stairs, his head just poking up to street level, as he watched the Executioner across Herbert Samuel Street, preparing to enter the old Arab hotel through its street-side open-air cafe. Behind him, the waves rolled gently in to the long expanse of beach.
A mile farther down, the four-thousand-year-old port of Jaffa jutted boldly out into the ocean, its stone Crusader and Turkish buildings and Muslim minarets still intact. The Phoenicians had used the port, as had Jonah. It was where the cedars of Lebanon had been brought in for Solomon's temple.
Johnny moved up another step to get a better look. Tel Aviv was a metropolitan city of cafes and late-night parties, the entire length of the beachfront street jammed with restaurants and coffee houses. There would be no explosions here like those he had witnessed in the other place — too many innocent lives, too much innocent property at stake. If Mack needed him, it would be here.
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