These weren’t single-button blowups. Each was armed with a three-digit signal from the remote control, or a single detonate button would blow all the currently armed devices.
Conversation came over the radio Bolan had acquired from the guards. He understood enough to know they had discovered the corpses at the entrance. Somebody asked something about a radio. Bolan knew they would quickly figure out their intruder was listening in. Sure enough, the radio went dead.
He had better things to do than hunt for another frequency. Like pulling the plug on the generator. He found a red rubber switch recessed in the cabinet where the rain wouldn’t get at it, and he jabbed it.
“THIS IS Team South reporting.”
“Where is Adnan?” Jasim’s voice exploded into the radio.
“We heard shots. We’re on our way to the front gate.”
Jasim stared at the radio in his hand as if he couldn’t believe the device had dared say what it just said. Al-Douri chortled.
Jasim glared at the Iraqi. “Can you see them yet?” he demanded into the radio.
“I see bodies—”
“Whose bodies?”
“Not close enough yet. The gate is wide-open. All teams be aware—intruders are on the premises.”
The generator kicked in. The lights came on weak and yellow, then rapidly brightened to full strength.
The Team South security man was silent for a moment while Jasim glared menacingly at the wall, refusing to meet the eyes of the Iraqi. Somehow he still sensed that al-Douri was grinning bitterly.
“Two bodies. It is the gate team,” the man squawked over the radio.
“Is Adnan dead?” Jasim demanded. He didn’t know or care who his security leader’s partner was.
The radio transmitted a gagging noise. “He is dead.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“His head is blasted open. I just stepped in some of his brains.”
“That sounds very dead to me,” al-Douri commented mockingly.
“We do not see Adnan’s radio,” the guard reported urgently. “They are eavesdropping. All personnel, switch to the backup scramble.”
“Wait!” Jasim shouted, but it was too late. Just as their protocol dictated, the guard had instantly clicked off. He would now be calling in to Jasim on the new frequency, and the system would automatically alter the scrambling software. The other guards would initiate this week’s numerical code on the radio, giving them access to the new frequency and decoding protocol.
Just one problem. Maysaloun Jasim stared miserably at the electronic device.
“You were not paying attention at this week’s security meeting, were you?” Al-Douri’s drunken voice was full of scorn.
Jasim’s eyes seemed to have retreated into his skull in the last few minutes. He had never seen the need to change the code every damned week. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually bothered to commit the backup code to memory.
Al-Douri’s chiding became hot anger. “Even I would not have believed it! Your stupidity and arrogance goes beyond my wildest imaginations!”
Jasim’s body trembled with rage and he crossed the room in two great strides, snatched al-Douri by his sweat-dank shirt and wrenched him half off the couch.
“I have had enough of you!” Jasim barked. “No one may insult me—no one! I will kill you!”
“You have already killed us both,” al-Douri replied with a drunken smirk. “Do me a favor and put me out of my misery now.”
Jasim flung the man back into the couch.
“Coward!” al-Douri said with fresh laughter.
The lights went out again, and they were in darkness. Jasim cursed his decision to put the emergency system on a two-minute delay.
“If you had any mettle whatsoever, you would not be standing here waiting for death to come.” Al-Douri shrugged.
Through his bafflement the Kuwaiti millionaire heard the words, and then he knew the truth. He couldn’t think straight, but al-Douri was not panicking. As intoxicated as he was, al-Douri was lucid. If he was going to survive, Jasim had to put his trust in the repugnant little worm.
“How do we escape?” Jasim blurted. “Tell we what to do—I will follow your directions, whatever they are.”
Al-Douri nodded. “It is about time. Help me up.”
BOLAN ARMED THE FIRST of the explosives as he went hunting around the vast building, and heard footsteps coming his way. A pair of armed guards headed for the gate. They came to Bolan like willing victims and jogged within a yard of the decorative palm tree that half hid him. The second man had to have noticed something strange in the shadows and paused to investigate, turning back. He saw the glint of light and knew what it was. He tried to make a sound but could not, for the glint of steel had vanished into his throat.
Bolan extracted the combat knife as his victim fell, mute and dying, then broke into a run that brought him up on the second guard. The guard noticed something wrong and glanced over his shoulder just as a leg came out of nowhere and hooked his foot. The guard plopped down hard but reacted fast, turning onto his back instantly, but his attacker was already coming down on him. The same foot that tripped him landed on his throat, shattering the jawbone and crushing the airways. Bolan slashed open the aorta, and the dying man’s lifeblood rushed out.
He had another radio, already set to the new security frequency. The squawking was tremendous. Chaotic. Something was going wrong. They wouldn’t have noticed the sudden silence from this pair already.
Were they saying Jasim was out of contact?
Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
Bolan continued around the building, heading for the motor pool. The lengthy garage was hidden under a decorative garden. Three of the eight car bays were open and empty in the emergency light glare.
He heard voices. Thumbing the stolen radio volume to silence, Bolan stepped over the retaining wall, landing with a tiny scrape on the drive, and crept inside the carport. He moved into a crouch behind the imposing front end of a restored Packard Town Car that dated from the late 1930s.
A trio of gunners hurried into the garage and piled into a military-style jeep without even considering the possibility of danger creeping up behind them in the darkness. Bolan unclipped a high explosive round and when the last man was in his seat the warrior leaped up, passing so close to them they could have grabbed him by his belt loops.
They were too off guard to do anything before the black figure fled into the night, and only the man in the back seat sensed the grenade that bounced on the seat beside him. He shouted, grabbed for the grenade, only to feel it jolt past his hands to the floor, where it was invisible in the darkness.
The man left the jeep with a mighty leap that carried him to the low roof of the next car, a disco-vintage Lamborghini Countach, before tumbling to the ground. The pair in the front seat had too much information to process, but their fleeing comrade’s shouts of “grenade” registered. They were halfway out of their seats when the HE blew.
The topless jeep filled with orange fire like a bathtub overflowing with lava. The effect was witnessed only by the backseat man, flashing across his vision just before the wall of fire expanded to fill the garage, incinerating the top half of his head. It had been a mistake to look back.
But nothing he could have done would have saved him, because the intense heat of the high explosive was augmented an instant later by the detonation of the jeep’s fuel tank, then the entire carport burst apart with a series of fuel-tank explosions that swelled the conflagration.
BOLAN WATCHED the fire just long enough to be sure none of the jeep’s occupants had the catlike reflexes necessary to survive the blasts and come after him. It was soon obvious that nothing would emerge alive from the curiously contained blaze, which looked like a bonfire in a pit, surrounded by darkness.
JASIM STOPPED RUNNING and stared out the window. Now, when he should be running for his life, he stopped to admire the view.
“Come o
n, you fool!” Al-Douri spit each word as if it were its own insult.
“All my cars were in there!” The Kuwaiti millionaire spoke as if he could not believe what he was seeing. His terror was turning to numbness, and that was dangerous. Al-Douri knew he wasn’t getting out of here without Jasim’s help.
“Not all your cars—the most important one is waiting for us out front. It is the one we are getting away in, remember?”
Jasim nodded and plodded after him, shell-shocked.
“WHO IS LEFT?” al-Douri demanded as he staggered from the building toward the vehicle that had been sitting out front all night long, just in case.
“I am not getting any responses!” the driver replied. “None of them!”
“What about the remote security force?”
“They are on their way.”
“Get him in there!” al-Douri snapped at the gunners, nodding at their employer. One of them stepped from the exposed rear deck of the gun-mounted Hummer and jogged to Jasim, who was moving like the walking dead. The gunner propelled his boss unceremoniously into the open rear door of the Hummer, lifted the man’s legs inside and slammed the door. The Iraqi had collapsed onto the floor of the front seat. The gunner repeated the process on al-Douri, pushing his legs inside and slamming the door, ignoring the Iraqi’s yelps of pain.
The gunner was a hired Syrian. He liked to think he was a mercenary, but the plain truth was he was just an opportunistic murderer, wanted for slayings in Syria and Egypt. He thought his problems were solved when he took a position with the Kuwaiti millionaire Jasim. His mind flashed back to a night he had spent on the run in Damascus after he was caught red-handed with the corpse of an old woman. Half the neighborhood had been incensed by his depravity and became a mob. He was like a caterpillar in a sand pile trying to escape an army of ants. He’d been lucky, somehow avoiding the mob and the authorities, but it had been the worst night of his life.
The Syrian clambered back into place on the rear deck of the custom-made Hummer, which had a truck bed built behind the passenger compartment with enough room to mount a pair of .50-caliber machine guns. When he was back behind his gun, feeling the big powerhouse of the Hummer rumble to life, the Syrian’s fear became determination. Fuck them, whoever they were. He didn’t care if it was a neighborhood mob or the whole Kuwaiti National Police Force. Whoever got in the way of this Hummer was going to get mowed down by him personally. His companion was watching the rear, and he’d mop up whatever was left.
The Hummer jerked and the Syrian held on to the machine gun for support, scanning the landscape illuminated by the vehicle’s floodlights. They steered for the nearest entrance to the grounds, which the Syrian guessed was on the opposite side of the enemies’ entranceway, judging from the pattern of events. But that did not mean there wouldn’t be a reception party waiting outside.
The gate was closed. The Hummer jerked to a halt. The driver shouted out his window at the Syrian.
“Get the gate!”
The power was out. The Syrian vaulted to the ground, jogged to the gates, and scanned outside frantically while unlocking the gates manually. The broad streets were quiet. The nearest rich man’s house was in darkness behind its own set of steel gates.
The Syrian’s back muscles knotted against the gates. They were not meant to be operated manually and were heavy. Then he climbed into the rear of the Hummer, swinging his torso inside just as the big vehicle careened out the narrow opening.
His own people were going to get him killed, but he grinned when he got to his feet and into his position of power behind the machine gun. The path was clear, in front and behind. They were no longer the hunted.
All they had to do was get to the boat.
12
Bolan heard the frantic radio exchange and came to an unpleasant conclusion: he wasn’t going to get to Jasim and al-Douri before they made it to an escape vehicle parked on the other side of the building. But the rats had been flushed out, and he knew where they would scamper.
He bolted for the gate ruins that had been his entrance and jogged to the Ford junker. As he brought the car to life, he mentally scanned the Kuwait City map in his head. He guessed that Jasim’s driver would take the most direct route to the docks. Jasim would have called for police help, and he might very well have an escort all the way down to the docks.
Bolan went by the side streets, pushing the tiny car to rattling speeds and taking bone-jarring off-road shortcuts, always keeping the descending slope of the land in front of him. Twice he slammed the undercarriage of the Ford into obstructions and thought the vehicle would simply die on him, but it kept going, complaining every foot of the way. When he reached the docks, he scanned for the slip that held Jasim’s boat.
It was easy enough to find. The 102-foot, white-hulled pleasure cruiser was ablaze with light, and a police vehicle was parked near the entrance to the wide wharf, engine running and headlights on.
Bolan saw at a glance that he had won the race, then spotted the vehicle carrying Jasim and al-Douri. It was a military Hummer, piercing the night with a collection of floodlights. Beyond the glare Bolan made out a pair of mounted, belt-fed machine guns.
His shortcuts had put him in the lead, but not by much. They had a half mile of travel left before reaching the wharf. Getting between the vehicle and the cops wasn’t an option. The machine guns would cut him down and endanger the police. He’d have to stick to Plan A, if possible.
With the lights cut on the Ford he revved it up from the top of the last stretch of the long, narrow access road that was taking him down to the bay. He pushed the car until its engine whined and was incapable of further revolutions, and the tires slithered uncertainly on the gravel. Then Bolan cut the engine.
He was a bullet, barely controlling the rattling Ford as it careened out of the curve and barreled down the last stretch of incline. If it were daytime, he’d be fully exposed to the police and Jasim. He reached level ground and shot across open space to another dock, the plank surface, rattling under his wheels. Would the cops hear that?
The end was in sight. The whitewashed wharf ended in blackness. Bolan slalomed the Ford to slow it without resorting to brakes, then snatched his pack and leaped out. He was suddenly churning his legs at a sprinter’s pace to avoid a high-speed tumble.
As he slowed to a jog, the receding lump of the Ford reached the end of the dock and dived off with a mighty splash.
Bolan ducked behind a thirty-eight-foot cruiser, breathing steadily to bring his body aches under control. Ache, hell, he was in pain. And he didn’t have time for pain. He didn’t have time for any distraction.
The cops were out of their car, but they were watching the approaching Hummer. Neither vehicle showed alarmed behavior. Bolan was far enough away that he had gone unheard, unnoticed.
So far. Bolan crammed every piece of hardware on his body into his pack, a water-resistant SEAL stow that Kurtzman had appropriated for him with a few bureaucratic maneuvers from the local U.S. military. Bolan kicked off his shoes and went in after the Ford.
The water was cool enough to soothe his abrasions and burning arm and gave him a fresh burst of energy, which he needed to make the powerful strokes that carried him across the open water to Jasim’s big pleasure cruiser. Pausing to watch, he saw the vehicle disgorge its occupants at the end of the dock. Apparently they didn’t trust the planks to support the Hummer. Bolan saw al-Douri being supported between the cops. A man in an expensive suit and headwear had to be Jasim himself, but he was being propelled down to the boat by one of his men as if he were without a will of his own. Two gunners guarded the rear, armed with portable assault rifles.
Bolan made for the aft end of the yacht and dragged himself onto the folded diving platform. He clung there, riding out a wave of exhaustion, feeling like the prototypical drowned rat.
When he heard the boarding party and crew activity, Bolan extracted the Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-3. He aimed it over his head, ready to fire into the first fa
ce that poked over the aft end.
No one came. The engine thrum intensified, and the cruiser pushed away from the dock on lateral maneuvering thrusters, then made a tight turn. Bolan found himself looking at the shore. The police were pulling away unhurriedly.
Jasim’s pleasure cruiser was heading out to sea at a leisurely pace herself. The danger was behind them.
But not nearly as far behind them as they imagined.
The Executioner’s workday was just beginning.
THE SYRIAN PACED the deck nervously, watching the receding lights of Kuwait City.
Good riddance.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being hunted. He would never have admitted it, but he had been afraid—was still afraid.
He forced himself to breathe deeply. The air was almost cool in the near-dawn. In an hour it would be hot again, but right now it was comfortable. He tried to feel at ease.
They were safe now. Unless their attackers came after them with speedboats. Could that happen? Well, why not? Whomever they were, Jasim’s enemies had shown remarkable resources and skill. Why stop now? If they knew how to get into the mansion grounds, then they had to know about the cruiser.
The Syrian squinted across Kuwait Bay. There was a light on the water, maybe two klicks back, and he made out the faint lines of a boat in the graying dawn. Was it pursuing them?
He quickly strode to the rear and glared at the light. Maybe it was just a fishing boat.
Then he heard a sound, a human sound, and it was so close it seemed impossible. The Syrian’s head jerked. He had one endless heartbeat to realize that his instincts had been correct. He was still being hunted, but the hunters—make that hunter—was not on the fishing boat.
He was one soaked and battered human being, hanging on to the back of the ship like a lemming on a cliff face, but with an intensity in his eyes that bordered on mania.
This man seemed beyond caring about his own life, driven by an obsession. The Syrian didn’t know what the obsession was and didn’t have time to think it over, because before he could shout or aim his weapon he found himself airborne.
Mercy Mission Page 10