"We'll be ready," a man said with determination, the others assenting firmly.
The two Bolans moved quickly out of the dorm, running the distance to the women's prison. They found two more dead terrorists on the way, and another in the entry hall of the building.
Like the men in the other dorm, women were milling about in the hall. "Round them up," Bolan said, running up the steps to the second floor. "I'll get the ones up here."
He made the second landing; some sort of commotion was going on at the end of the hall. He ran toward it, urging the female prisoners downstairs as he passed them.
About twenty women were crowded around one of the last rooms. "Whoever wants to get out of here, come with me," he said. "Come on ladies, hurry!"
They began filing out quickly, many of them covered with blood. Within seconds, the Executioner was alone with what was left of Abba.
The man lay naked on the bed, horribly mutilated. Flesh was pulled away exposing bone. One of his eyes had been poked through, blood and fluid oozing down his raw cheeks. Teeth were nothing but jagged stumps, bloody froth bubbling from the remnants of his lips. Bones were broken, his limbs twisted at ridiculous angles from his body. Barely an inch of his skin was untouched.
And he was still alive, his one good eye wide in horror, jerking back and forth.
The Executioner heard footsteps running down the hall. Then his brother's voice was calling him. "Mack… everyone's downstairs, I…"
Johnny came around the doorframe and saw Abba. He walked in slowly, his face an unreadable mask.
The man was trying to speak, his words liquid with his own blood. "P… Please… kill… me."
The brothers shared a look, then Bolan reached out a hand and put it on Johnny's shoulder. "I'll be downstairs," he said.
A heartbeat later, Bolan heard a single shot.
31
Mack and Johnny Bolan moved swiftly, covering the distance between the dorms and the banquet hall. Their hands were filled with silenced automatics, their minds locked onto the completion of their mission.
The hostages waited by their prisons for the big man to lead them to freedom, and that was certainly his main responsibility; but there was something else that had to be done first.
Loose ends.
They reached the wooden structure and flattened themselves against it. The windows were all heavily draped.
"I can hear voices inside," Johnny said, ear to the wall.
The Executioner nodded, the Ingram in his right hand, the Linda in his left. "Let's get this over with," he said.
They charged around to the front door, positioning themselves on either side. Bolan nodded to his brother and they kicked the door wide, diving and rolling inside.
Mafia buttons filled the vestibule. Minds elsewhere, they swung around in surprise, five of them, and the Executioners opened up. The execution was swift and merciless.
Within seconds the hardmen lay in a heap on the floor, limbs twisted and faces grotesque and strained. Their blood ran down the walls and splotched the furniture.
The savages hadn't time to fire a single shot.
Bolan and Johnny uncurled immediately, standing to reload quickly. Loud voices drew them to the banquet room.
* * *
Tomasso Metrano glanced at his watch. It was time to start things rolling, if only Arman would shut up and get on with it.
The fat man was standing, gesturing expansively to everyone in the room. "Let this be the moment that ushers in a close and eternal relationship between our two families. We have joined in a glorious revolution together under the eyes of Allah, and even now, we stand at the threshold of our new nation, our foothold secure…"
"I hate to interrupt," Big Tommy said loudly, "but don't you think I've waited long enough to get paid for my end of our little relationship? I swear to God, Jamil, you could talk me to death before I finish dessert."
One of Arman's lieutenants stood up, eyes flashing. "Silence! You cannot talk like this. Where is your respect?"
"I respect the dollar, chump," Metrano said, sick of the game. "That lard bucket you call a leader gets nothin' but a laugh out of me."
Arman was livid, his face reddening with every word. "How can you insult my honor this way?" he said loudly. "You have shamed me in front of my own people!"
"Go to hell, pig," Metrano said, standing. "I want my money and I want it right now. If you got it, put it up on the table. If not, I'll take it out of your ass."
Arman's people were coming to their feet, hands reaching for weapons. Arman put his hands out, motioning them back to their seats.
"So, it is only the filthy money you want," he said, bending down to reach under the table. He drew out a large aluminum suitcase and set it on the table. "I'll give you your money, and you can spend it in hell."
"I don't think so," came a voice from the entry.
They turned to see the Executioner standing before them, Johnny at his side. Two of the uniformed troops standing by the wall went for their guns. Bolan turned the Linda on them, taking them out without moving his eyes from Big Tommy.
Everyone else stopped, watching the big man. The Bolans moved farther into the room and stood, weapons ready, before the tables.
The Executioner glared at Big Tommy, who returned his glare in full measure. "I've been looking for you," he said.
Big Tommy spit on the ground. "So you found me. What am I supposed to be, impressed?"
"Money," Arman said. "I will give you all the money you can use. Do what you want with him, but I'll give you ten million dollars to leave me alone. I'll protect you and get you out of the country."
The Executioner turned to look at the man. He opened the suitcase. It was jammed full of hundred-dollar bills.
"I'll be damned," Big Tommy said in surprise.
"See?" Arman said. "Kill him, I don't care. Then take this. You'll be rich, free to live out your life as you choose."
Mack Bolan never even looked at the case. Instead, he squeezed off a short burst, blasting through the top of the suitcase, money flying into the air to float gently to the ground.
Arman backed away from the suitcase, several large holes punched through his huge stomach. His hands were shaking in front of him as blood squirted, drenching his white suit.
He looked surprised, as if he was wondering why the feeling hadn't soaked through his immense bulk to reach his brain yet.
Without a word, he stumbled backward, banging the wall, knocking his black rimmed glasses askew on his face. Then, like a mechanical man, he came forward again and pitched across the table, falling into a large plate full of lamb, blood staining the white tablecloth.
Bolan turned back to Metrano.
"You ain't gonna get no satisfaction out of me," Big Tommy said.
"No," Bolan replied. "Only the knowledge that you won't take up the space meant for decent people."
"You ain't no different than me," Metrano spat.
"That's where you're wrong," Bolan said, as he and Johnny opened up on the whole tableful of them.
Twelve people jerked in their seats, many of them trying to fire back. Parabellum slugs devoured people, table, chairs and all, the suitcase jumping on the table, sending money flying everywhere. Metrano was screaming, cursing loudly as the slugs tore at his chest.
Everyone was down except Metrano, who stumbled like a sleepwalker, arms stiff in front of him. He had pulled out one of his pearl-handled guns and carried it loosely, by the barrel. He tried to walk out, weaving crazily, then simply keeled over, the breath going out of him in a long, wheezing gasp.
But the Executioner wasn't even there for his end. He and Johnny were already off, charging around the back of the banquet hall for the truck they had seen earlier.
They climbed into the vehicle, Bolan behind the wheel. The engine hesitated, turning over slowly, then finally ground to life.
"Let's get out of here," Johnny said.
As they crossed the yard, some of the troops were
drifting back to the building complex. Johnny laid the Ingram on the windowsill and emptied the clip, four men going down amid a shower of dust.
They reached the women's building, pulling around to the back where they crouched in shadows.
"Fill the truck, quickly!" Bolan said. "Let's go. The rest of you on foot."
Within twenty seconds, they were moving toward the men's building, while other troops from the perimeter rushed back toward the complex.
As the truck reached the male quarters, the women's exploded in a huge fireball, Abba's incendiary grenade going up under the structure. The whole area was now daylight-bright.
"This is it!" Bolan yelled. "Come on!"
He pulled away from the building, people clustering around the truck and running behind it. Troops were charging toward them, firing, but still at a distance.
"It's up to Wolfson now," the Executioner said, and the men's building exploded, twin conflagrations reaching fifty feet into the night sky.
They raced across the grounds toward the point of least resistance. Terrorist troops pulled away from the fences to block their escape as Wolfson's men charged the kibbutz.
The battle was met. The terrorists were good targets under the glaring firelight, grenades exploding in their midst, 50-caliber machine guns thinning their ranks. But they were still formidable. Johnny leaned out of the window to give them a taste of the Ingram, as incoming fire shattered the windshields.
Then the Sabra group pitched in. They had silently infiltrated the area, almost to the battle lines. When they stood and began firing at the unprotected backs of the terrorists, they were no more than twenty feet from the fence.
The terrorists turned to defend their flanks, and Bolan plowed right through them in the truck. Men flew in all directions, several of them being ground under the wheels as the truck plunged through the fence, and broke free to the other side.
The Israelis ran, cheering, through the broken place, seeking safety in the night. But the PLO mob was no longer interested in anything but trying to protect their own hides.
Once Bolan saw that the Israeli hostages were clear, he pulled a one-eighty and drove back into the action.
Johnny raked any surviving terrorists who crossed their path.
Within five minutes it was all over. Bolan finally stopped the truck at the edge of an apple orchard. He and Johnny climbed down.
"Did we lose any of the hostages?" he asked his brother.
Johnny smiled. "Not one," he said.
They picked their way through the yard, which was now littered with Arab bodies. The Israelis were mourning their own dead, medics rushing frantically around with stretchers to provide aid for the wounded.
Ambulance sirens could be heard continuously. But the Israeli casualties seemed small, no comparison to the PLO dead. It looked, on surface at least, that the operation had been a resounding success.
This fact did not surprise the Executioner nor his brother. They understood this kind of warfare.
Wolfson found them in the confusion. "The hostages are safe," he said, his expression, as always, unreadable. "I don't know who you are, but I doubt if it will be safe for you around here."
Bolan nodded. "I know."
The colonel reached out and shook their hands, the action telling more than mere words ever would. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
Bolan nodded. "Give us a jeep and an hour's head start."
"Done," Wolfson said, and handed them a set of keys. "It's parked next to my command post."
Bolan took the keys. "Live large," he said.
Wolfson watched the two warriors turn and stride back into the night.
And it occurred to the colonel that he still hadn't learned their names. It bothered him as he stood staring into the gloom, wondering about the apparition in black who had delivered his people from the forces of evil. Did he imagine it? Did this wraith of death have a name?
Yes, he did. From the slime-infested back alleys of America to the corrupt streets of Europe and the hellholes of Iran and Afghanistan, all the way to the Kremlin itself, death had a name. It was Mack Bolan.
Death Has a Name Page 17