Bouh tottered toward it.
* * *
BOLAN SILENTLY CURSED the mercenaries for opening fire too early. If they had waited a minute more he would have had Bouh. The fat man was now wobbling toward his armored carrier, which meant that Bolan would have to catch up later. But first he had to deal with the two sentries guarding the cave.
Streib had communication gear with him, unsecured but workable. A battered laptop was hooked up to a portable satellite terminal, a white-colored device not much larger than a touch-screen tablet. The internet speed was not impressive, but Bolan managed to send an email to Stony Man Farm, a quick rundown on the situation and a request for an evac for him and the three hostages. Once he had entered the GPS coordinates of Bouh’s camp and sent the message, he broke the connection without waiting for a response. The Farm would make all the arrangements and time was precious. The State Department could warn the Djiboutian government of an impending coup, leaving them to batten down the hatches.
While Bolan was busy with his email, Streib organized his forces. Fourteen of his men would take the now-working APC and a couple of the ACMATs to the rendezvous point where the dinghies were hidden. He and Krulak, together with six other men, would accompany Bolan to Bouh’s camp. Streib had stressed that he didn’t want to fully engage Bouh in a war, and Bolan understood. But a distraction was needed. Streib had twelve rockets and six launchers.
A plan was quickly formulated in which Streib’s men would fire two rockets each, destroy as many vehicles as possible, then withdraw to the rendezvous, leaving Bolan on his own. It would be enough. Bolan would eliminate the cave’s guards and get the three men to safety. Nobody would notice them missing for a while. And by that time, some sort of evacuation should have been organized. “Should have been” being the operative phrase.
The two sentries were standing, slack jawed, staring at the carnage of the camp. A solitary rocket whizzed away from the brow of the neighboring hill, detonating against a burning APC. One of the sentries pointed to the launch site of the rocket-propelled grenade. Bolan drew a bead on him and squeezed the FAMAS’s trigger, sending three rounds downrange. The sentry staggered under the impact, falling sidewise. His fellow soldier turned toward the sound of the shots, unlimbering his rifle. Too late. Another three bullets caught him in the chest, throwing him backward.
Bolan approached the cave in a crouched position, weapon up, ready to fire on another target. A quick scan of the camp showed a few remaining soldiers staggering around in confusion, unsure where to begin with damage control. Bouh was climbing into the Ratel. Bolan crept past one of the corpses and entered the blackness of the cave.
“Who’s that?” The voice was weak, watery.
“Me,” Bolan replied.
“You sure took your time,” Douglas said.
“Still alive? I was waiting for you to croak before I mounted a rescue.”
“Yeah, well, your timing sucks. I figured you were back when things began to go boom. Your calling card. So what happens now? Is Bouh dead?”
“Not yet. First we have to get you out of the cave and onto the hill. There should be some sort of extraction soon, but I’m not sure when. Failing that, we have to find a working vehicle and get to Lemonnier, or extract with the mercs.”
“Sounds like a piss-poor plan. You know our hands are still cuffed? Tried doing that thing you did, but it hurt too much.” Douglas was struggling to his feet. Bolan could sense Sanner and Twohig leaning against the cave wall, doing their best to stay upright.
“I’m going out now. Walk forward slowly,” Bolan directed.
He led the three prisoners out of the cave, into the night, which now glowed orange from burning fires. And straight into somebody’s gun sights.
Bolan reacted instantly, dropping to his knees, bringing his rifle around. He held off as the other figure lowered his weapon.
Streib.
“Figured you could use some help,” the major said. Krulak and a couple of others stood to one side. “Bouh is making off in his APC. Do you want to go after him?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so. There’s an untouched ACMAT down there with what looks like a .50 cal. Some of my guys have been sniping off anybody who shows an interest in it. You interested?”
Bolan considered for a moment. A nighttime pursuit against an armored vehicle that could reach up to sixty miles an hour and armed with what? A .50 caliber? A 7.62 mm? A 20 mm cannon? It would be extremely risky. On the other hand, allowing Bouh to escape back to his barracks and make excuses, cause an international incident by claiming that US troops had murdered his men, was not an option. Bolan’s considerations lasted less than a heartbeat.
“Let’s do it.”
Streib nodded. “Sergeant, get these men back to the Renault and give them aid. Wait for me. I’ll be accompanying… I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s irrelevant.”
“Mr. Irrelevant to capture or kill Bouh.”
“Sorry, Major, but no.” Krulak stepped up close. “You’re the CEO of the company and are responsible for the men’s paychecks, and you’re the only one who can access the money. You should stay. I should go.”
“Dammit, Krulak, I…”
“Krulak goes,” Bolan ordered, taking charge. “Major, get my friends some medical attention. Sergeant, with me.”
Bolan left with Krulak in tow, leaving a stunned Streib to organize the evac.
The Executioner and the former sergeant had their weapons ready as they crossed the remains of the camp, heading toward the untouched all-terrain vehicle. They passed burning tents and stepped around corpses. A couple of surviving Djiboutians were creeping toward the French ACMAT, hoping to avoid the attention of the snipers in the hills. A small pile of bodies lay around the vehicle, testimony to the mercenaries’ accuracy. Bolan put one soldier down with a triburst from his automatic rifle. Krulak fired twice, filling his target with six rounds of lead. The two men encountered no resistance as they reached the ACMAT. They scanned the remains of the camp to make sure. No interest in them at all.
“You drive,” Bolan said as he reloaded and shouldered his rifle. He climbed into the bed of the truck and examined the .50-caliber Browning M2 machine gun that was mounted on the rear. It was fully loaded and ready to go. Bolan pulled back the lever to arm the “Ma Deuce.” The powerful machine gun was capable of firing 450 rounds per minute. Would it be enough to stop Bouh’s APC?
“You ready?” Krulak started the big engine.
“Yeah,” Bolan replied.
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER they caught up with the Ratel. They bounced across the desert without headlights, not wanting to give away their position. Now there was enough light in the sky to see by. Dawn was breaking and ahead of them was a rooster’s tail of dust, kicked up by the speeding APC. Krulak increased the speed of their captured truck.
“How do you want to play this?” Krulak yelled over the roar of the engine. “That vehicle’s also armed with a .50 cal.”
“Not sure,” Bolan yelled back. “Get us in close, right behind them.”
In a race, on a flat surface, the two vehicles would have been equally matched. As it was, Bouh’s Ratel was moving fast but not at top speed. The personnel carrier was one hundred yards ahead when Krulak pulled in directly behind it. If there was a gunner in the turret, then he hadn’t spotted them yet.
“You see that?” Bolan shouted.
“What?”
“The rear hatch is damaged. It isn’t closed.”
The rear hatch was swinging open a foot or two, then slamming shut again as the APC bounced over the rough terrain. Bolan recalled that it had been hit by an RPG.
“I have an idea. Get us right in close, almost to the door. I want us there before we go up that slope.”
“Roger.” Krulak’s foot was flat against the floor. The ACMAT drew closer and closer. Still the gunner hadn’t seen them.
Closer. Closer.
Bolan was choking on the dust kicked up by the six fat tires of the armored carrier. His eyes were narrowed to slits. Krulak shouted something, but it was lost over the cacophony of the two engines. He waited.
They were a mere three yards behind.
The APC slowed slightly as it ascended the rise. Krulak dropped back a little.
The rear hatch swung open, pulled agape by gravity.
Bolan could see a little way inside.
It was more than enough.
The Executioner depressed the twin button triggers with his thumbs, and the Ma Deuce bellowed to life. He held the triggers down for a full two seconds, pouring at least twenty heavy rounds into the vehicle before the hatch swung shut again. He hadn’t seen a living target to shoot at, but he didn’t need to. The heavily armored floor plates of the carrier would cause the bullets to ricochet, bounce around like peas in a tin can. And hopefully hit something.
At least that was the idea.
* * *
BOUH CLASPED BOTH hands over his ears. He was screaming. The soldier in the turret was screaming. The driver was screaming. The attack had been completely unexpected. The gunner’s right leg lay severed on the floor. Bouncing with the APC. Blood was squirting everywhere. The man was held in place by straps. He couldn’t fall out of the turret, even though he wanted to.
“Shut up!” Bouh shouted. “Shut up! Stop screaming. I order you.” Bouh could not stand it. The man continued his high-pitched wail, oblivious to everything except pain. With shaking hands the general drew his automatic pistol and shot the dying soldier twice in the back. The man shuddered and died.
“Drive! Drive faster!” Bouh’s voice was hoarse, shrill. He didn’t know if the driver heard him or not. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide as the broken rear hatch swung open again.
He ducked back as his enemy once again opened fire. The driver jerked and shuddered as the rounds penetrated his chair, tearing him to pieces. His now-dead foot fell from the accelerator, the Ratel instantly losing speed. The shooting stopped as the enemy drove around the Ratel, barely missing it.
Bouh had to get away. He had to. Run. Hide. His enemies may yet overlook him.
He fumbled with his restraining harness, cursing, his fingers barely responding. There was a click as the belt was released. The APC stalled and rolled to a stop. Bouh staggered out of the blood-splattered chair and hobbled to the rear hatch. The open rear hatch. He still had his pistol gripped in his hand. He could still fight back. He was a soldier. Trembling slightly, he climbed out into the early-morning light. And took a step.
Then another one.
After four steps he looked around—right at the escaped spy, who was manning a machine gun. One of his own machine guns. The driver was one of the mercenaries. Bouh didn’t see any others. Only two men. Then he stood a chance. If he could shoot fast enough.
He brought his right arm up.
* * *
MACK BOLAN DIDN’T give the renegade general a chance. As the arm came up, Bolan depressed the two trigger buttons, sending a stream of metal into the general.
Bouh literally came apart. Disintegrated.
The three-second burst was overkill. When Bolan released the triggers and the gun smoke cleared, little remained of the ambitious Bouh. Most of him was completely unidentifiable, spread over the desert sands.
* * *
THEY MADE IT back to the rendezvous, Bolan riding in the shotgun seat. Douglas and the two Trenchard employees were sitting in the rear of the Renault VAB. Bolan realized this was the first time that he had seen Sanner and Twohig. He had never spoken to them except in the pitch black of the cave.
“You look like a sand monster. You’re covered in it. And?” Douglas asked, clutching a half-full bottle of water.
“It’s done,” Bolan replied. “Now, give me some of that water.” He poured some of the water over his face, washing the grime away. The rest he drank.
Streib was listening to Krulak, nodding. Then he strode over to Bolan.
“You want a ride with us?” he asked.
Bolan shook his head. “No, I think you’ll find that’s our ride.” He pointed to the west where a shape was slowly materializing in the sky, accompanied by a familiar racket.
“A Navy Seahawk,” Streib said. “I think it’s time for us to be on our way.”
“What ship are you sneaking out on? I’ll ask the Navy to give it wide berth.”
“The MV Cape Faith. It’s a rust bucket. What?”
Mack Bolan had started to laugh.
EPILOGUE
Dallas, Texas
“Lesley! Lesley! Where are you? Damn that woman!” Robert Trenchard slammed his briefcase onto his secretary’s desk. He felt both furious and scared. Furious because his personal secretary was not behind her desk, furious because he was the first in the office. He had to switch on his own lights! He had no idea where everybody was. But they would be sorry when they did roll in.
Deep down he knew something was wrong. The elevator had been empty. There had been nobody manning the main reception desk.
There had been no word from General Bouh for two days.
No word from Djibouti at all. Trenchard cursed himself for entering into an alliance with that fat African general. Cursed himself for trusting the man to keep to his end of the bargain. He had borrowed heavily, investing in the promised oil of Djibouti.
No news was bad news.
He all but kicked open his door, flicked on the lights and stopped. Sitting behind his oak desk in his high backed leather chair was a man he had never seen before. A man dressed in a black polo who held a pistol pointed directly between his eyes.
“Who…who…?” His voice shook. Trenchard blinked and cursed that weakness, as well.
He noticed that the man’s eyes were ice blue. Cold. Chilling.
“I’m Djibouti.” The voice was frozen.
Trenchard felt his knees buckle. It was over. He knew that now. Something had gone catastrophically wrong. His company, the company his great-grandfather had begun, was about to collapse. He would be declared bankrupt and have to face all sorts of questions. He’d be the laughingstock of the oil world.
“Sit down,” the man commanded. Trenchard considered resisting, saying no. He could still bluff his way out of this mess. There had to be something to salvage.
The sound of the pistol being cocked was the loudest sound he had ever heard in his life.
On wobbling knees he crossed the floor and sat in one of his guest chairs. He had never sat in one before. The opposite side of the desk was his.
The pistol never wavered.
“Listen,” he said, “listen. It was General Bouh. It was Bouh. He made me…”
“Bouh’s dead.”
Trenchard rubbed his eyes.
“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked.
“I should. You’re a traitor to the United States.”
“I am not!” Trenchard shouted.
“Bouh was using your money to fund an al Qaeda–backed coup. Your money. Do you know how many people have died because of your greed? Do you know how many would have died if the attack on the USS Ford had been successful?”
“I…I have no knowledge of those things. Bouh…”
“Planted bombs and attempted to kill two CIA agents. As it was, the ground floor of the hotel was devastated. Twenty-six people died.”
“I had nothing to do with it!”
“You have everything to do with it. Without you Bouh would not have had his funding. I’m sure some other greedy businessman would have stepped up, but it was you. A friend of mine wants to make an example of you. You’re going to be put on trial. Your staff has been sequestered in a room downstairs. They’re being questioned by the Justice Department as we speak. You’re locked out of your computers. Your bank accounts have been frozen. The telephones are blocked. Your home is being searched. Your wife and daughter are being held for their own safety at a secure facility. It’s over, Trenchard.”
“The CIA men?”
“What about them?”
“What happened to them?”
“One was evacuated to the USS Ford, along with your two employees Bouh was holding hostage. From there they were taken out to the military base before being flown out to Ramstein in Germany for medical attention. Bouh had a private detective watching the families of your employees. That man has been brought in for questioning.”
“So what happens now?”
“We wait.”
“For what?”
They heard the elevator down the corridor ping in the silence of the office.
“That.”
Mack Bolan stood and holstered his weapon. Without looking at Trenchard he walked away, out of the office.
Trenchard didn’t watch him leave. It was all over. He was going to need a good lawyer.
He looked for his briefcase, which contained his cell phone. He didn’t see it. He had to have left it on Lesley’s desk. He stood and turned, just as a man with an unlit cigar stuck in a corner of his mouth entered the office accompanied by two uniformed police officers and several men in suits. The man held up his credentials.
“Robert Trenchard? Justice Department. You’re under arrest.”
* * * * *
http://www.harlequin.com/harlequinexperience
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin ebook. Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
First edition April 2015
ISBN-13: 9781460352212
Armed Response
Copyright © 2015 by Worldwide Library
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Glenn D Williams for his contribution to this work.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
Armed Response Page 25