The Iranian Hit
( The Executioner - 42 )
Don Pendleton
Stop the Assassination!
The directive came from the White House, and the target was less than twenty miles away in an affluent Maryland suburb.
For Mack Bolan it was a very strange assignment: tooprotect a high-level Iranian exile, General Eshan Nazarour, from imminent assassination. It became stranger still when the generals beautiful American wife was kidnapped. Immediately the intrigue, violence — and murder — began to form a familiar pattern. Organized crime was getting involved with foreign subversion. The maze of treachery and terrorism could lead to only one conclusion — the deadly presence of the Executioner: Mack Bolan!
Don Pendleton
The Iranian Hit
There are plenty of devices for shunning death in every kind of danger if a man sticks at nothing in word or deed. But... the difficulty does not lie so much in avoiding death as in avoiding dishonor. For she runs faster than death.
Socrates
Dishonor is, in itself, a form of death; in the end, the worst form, because it degrades the soul. We take to God only what we give to Life. I will not give it dishonor.
Mack Bolan, "The Executioner"
Prologue
There were times when it would seem to a rational man that the whole world had gone crazy. But Mack Bolan knew that it had not. There were a lot of crazy people, sure — and even a few lunatic nations; these could not, however, state the case for the planet earth. The state of the planet was complexity, not insanity. Complexity, Bolan knew, was a natural consequence of growth. As the world's human population increased, and as individuals within that population continued to expand and evolve into smarter and more perceptive humans, then the problems of living together on this crowded earth increased geometrically — sometimes with quantum leaps.
The problem, as Bolan saw it, is that we do not all expand in the same direction, at the same time, or from the same stimuli. Equality between individuals was a political idea — and one not in conformity with natural law. The jungle knew better. All of man's great social inventions were, after all was said and done, a mortal attempt to repeal the laws of nature.
Anomaly. There was a word popularized by the space scientists (who had their own ideas about how to deal with natural law). Anomaly. It had to do with events that had not been planned, or intended....things existing outside the established order, something irregular or abnormal.
Abnormal was another word for crazy. So maybe that was why so many people were arriving at the conclusion that the world was headed that way. But it was not. Actually, the world was anomalous, a natural product of abnormal expectations in the human mind. The world of men was not a fixed system. It was not of a single piece but composed of many individuals and diverse elements, classes, types. Therefore, anomalous — because everyone expected everyone else to think and feel and view the world precisely as (or within narrow limits, the same as) he or she did. The world was not crazy, nor was it endowed with a natural sameness. And that was the problem for mankind. In complexity, things were never equal.
Men who could discuss learnedly the chemical composition of a distant star occupied the same time and space as aboriginal peoples who believed that star to be a tiny light imbedded in some celestial web suspended just beyond the earth. Men who right now were devising exotic environmental systems for human colonies in space share the planet with others who devoutly insist that man's adventures upon the moon were actually filmed in Hollywood as some godless hoax upon the world.
Anomalies, sure. They sprang naturally from the conflicting world views held by individuals who were not, in any sense, equals. If a man or woman is the sum total of all his or her experiences, how then can there be any claim of sameness between a Nobel physicist and an Australian bushman — or, for that matter, between a Beverly Hills housewife and her counterpart in Karachi. How do you get these widely disparate individuals to share a common world view when their basic thought processes do not follow the same track? More than a difference in language, or even in social cultures, the difference that divides is a conceptual chasm: the one simply cannot communicate with the other except toward the most elemental biological needs.
So... back to Square One. The world is not crazy. Its parts simply do not understand one another. And these parts need not be geographical divisions, particularly. The parts may exist side by side within the same city or village — within the same family, even. The parts are called human beings — and each is awfully isolated from everything else that exists, totally alone in the jungle of survival and crying out that "the world" has gone crazy because anomaly is the order of the day.
An anomaly can occur only where some specific expectation exists. An expectation is a human invention, usually born somewhere outside the jungle. It often finds form as an attempt to repeal some natural law while clothing itself as conventional wisdom.
Now and then, however, the expectation is no more than jungle law masquerading as moral order — and here is where anomaly ends and "crazy" begins.
Mack Bolan knew all about crazy, too. He did not live in the anomalous world. Bolan had dwelt all his adult life in the jungle of survival... and he knew its ways.
1
He sensed something about to happen from the moment his peripheral vision caught movement in the shadows shrouding the base of the high brick wall.
Bolan slowed the black Corvette to coasting speed and glided past, trying to discern exactly what had caught his attention. Then he saw her. A woman, moving furtively in the twilight, carefully picking her way along the wall that surrounded this estate in Potomac, Maryland.
The lady was a looker; it was clear even from amoving car on an evening road. Bolan registered shoulder-length blonde hair that seemed to shimmer even in the gloom, and a damn fine set of curves wrapped in a belted leather jacket against the October chill.
Then he was past her.
The woman moved at a quick clip in the opposite direction, still hugging the shadows of the wall. Still furtive.
Uh huh.
Mack Bolan sensed something. Something ominous. Coupled with the fact that this wall bordered and protected the forty acres of ground that was Mack Bolan's destination...
He let the Corvette roll another twenty feet, then steered to the shoulder and killed the engine.
Mack Bolan (a.k.a. Colonel John Phoenix) was togged for night work. The heavy dark sweater and navy pea jacket, worn over a nylon-weave Kevlar protective vest, were complemented by dark jeans and shoes. The silenced 9mm Beretta Belle was leathered under his left armpit beneath the jacket. Big Thunder, the mighty .44 Magnum Autoloader, rode low on his right hip, western-style. A leather attache case within easy reach beside him carried a variety of hard-punch munitions and a full set of belted knives and garrotes. Snug in the compartment behind the Corvette's bucket seats were an infrared Startron spotting scope, an Uzi 9mm submachine gun, and a M1 match rifle sheathed in its leather case. Bolan was loaded for bear.
But he was not pleased with this latest mission, and it hadn't even begun yet. He was in civilian territory with all of this hardware. The peaceful environs of upper-class rural Maryland dozed around him in the evening stillness.
Bolan hated bringing his war near civilians and avoided it at all costs. But this time the choice was not his. This hellground had been chosen for him. And so here he was, tooling through the darkening byways of the Potomac, loaded down with implements of death and destruction for the battle royal that was due to commence amid this quiet, rustic backdrop.
Within the next few hours.
That was the time element that Hal Brognola had passed on, and the initial intelligence data had been
confirmed.
A few short hours. But Bolan knew that a hell of a lot could go down in much less time. The complications seemed to be starting already. Right. It promised to be that kind of mission. It was the only type of mission that a man of Bolan's capabilities ever drew.
So the big warrior's battle senses had all been on high as he approached the walled property.
That was how he spotted the woman.
The main entrance to the property was another half-mile up and around a corner from the direction in which the lady was heading. But Bolan had shifted his priorities. He reached behind the Vette's bucket seat and withdrew the Startron spotting scope, which was fixed with a window support clamp. He focused behind him on the woman. He couldn't shake his sixth-sense premonition that something was about to happen....
She was still moving away from him at a fast clip along the base of the wall. She seemed too caught up in her own thoughts to have noticed him slow down and pull over. For brief seconds — the one time she glanced back over her shoulder, still not at him but in the general direction of the high, imposing wall — he caught a stunning vision of high-cheekboned loveliness in the scope's greenish glow.
That beautiful face wore an expression of pure, naked terror.
A four-year-old Datsun entered the Startron's field of vision and braked to a stop at the curb near the woman. Bolan implanted the license number in his memory, then shifted his attention to the youthful-looking guy in his mid-thirties who leaped out from the driver side of the Datsun and dashed directly toward the lady.
Bolan felt himself tensing. He wondered what this confrontation he was witnessing was about. Did it concern his mission?
He relaxed.
There was no danger to the blonde from that quarter. No danger at all. The man and woman met in a passionate embrace and a long, soulful kiss. Then the guy took her hand and led her back toward the car. She accompanied him willingly, taking time for only one more apprehensive look over her shoulder at the wall.
Bolan pulled back from the scope, relieved that this was a false alarm. Now he could be on his way and about his business. About the mission. He only had a few short hours. And those numbers had already started falling, even before he'd been sent in on this job. But the coming confrontation was to be inside that walled estate. Not out here. Not playing voyeur on some girl from the household or staff who had chosen this moment and this place for a romantic assignation. Bolan would rather have all civilians out of range anyway.
He began unscrewing the Startron's window clamp when everything changed. And Bolan suddenly knew that this was the time.
Yes, by God.
He heard a loud squeal of braking rubber back up where the couple were and brought his eye back to the scope.
A '78 Malibu had swerved into the curb, blocking in the Datsun's front end. Four big dudes came barreling out of the Malibu and charged the couple on the sidewalk. The guy with the woman swung away from her to meet the onslaught, shielding her with his body. Then he died. Silenced saffron flashes licked out at him from four different angles, and the way he fell told Bolan that the man was dead when he hit the pavement.
Two of the hefties stooped and lifted the body, toting it back toward their car.
The other two grabbed the woman before she could run, also dragging her toward the Malibu. The blonde fought and twisted wildly in their grip, but it did her no good. She was their prisoner.
Bolan was already swinging into action, tossing the Startron into the compartment behind his bucket seat and gunning the Corvette to life. He stomped on the gas pedal, tugged the steering wheel, and brought the sports car around in a fishtailing U-turn that momentarily included the opposite grassy shoulder.
Only seconds had passed, but even as he straightened the Vette out from the turn, Bolan could see that the four men had moved with stopwatch precision. The man's body and the woman had been loaded into the Malibu. The heap executed its own U-turn and sped off into the distance.
Mack Bolan was a seasoned, savvy warrior. He had baited many traps of his own during his career as a soldier, both in Vietnam and against domestic foes and world terrorism, and he was fully aware that this could be a diversion intended to draw him away from the estate. There was that chance, sure. But that wasn't Bolan's reading. The woman's struggles and the fear in her face had been too real. The way the slain man had fallen — yeah, too real.
One human being was dead.
Another was in obvious, serious peril.
Bolan saw no choice in the matter. The mission would have to wait.
The Malibu negotiated a corner a quarter-mile up the road and, its tires screaming, skidded out of view into the moonlit evening.
Bolan fed the Vette more gas and eased into third. The sports car's gears shifted with a smooth, purring sound like that of some living thing.
With lights off, Bolan tailed the Malibu around the corner onto another rural stretch that a street sign told him was Persimmon Tree Lane. The Malibu's taillights winked at him from a quarter-mile down the road. The driver had slowed down to legal cruising speed. Bolan decreased his own speed accordingly, holding his position at the quarter-mile mark, still running blind.
Apparently the guys in the Malibu didn't know they were being tailed.
Sure.
Unless it was a trap.
The track continued south on Persimmon Tree, out of estate country, through an area of ritzy developments that bordered the road, and finally into the grassy, hilly outer reaches of Maryland suburbia.
Bolan saw plenty of spots along the way that would have been ideal for hot contact with these boys, had this been taking place under ordinary circumstances. But the idea here was to save the lady's lovely hide, not expose it to the vagaries of a firefight. He would have to wait and choose his time and place carefully.
The Malibu swung east onto MacArthur Boulevard, a principal suburban artery that was lined with darkened businesses at this hour. But vehicular traffic was still heavy enough to finally warrant flicking on the Corvette's headlights. Bolan dropped back another few car lengths to compensate and held steady. No need to be on top of them, as long as they were in sight.
He reached behind him and grabbed the Uzi. The weapon was equipped with an enlarged, extra-capacity magazine, fastened at a right angle for speed and quick reload. Bolan knew that when he engaged these men, he would need to move fast, with maximum hard punch. The Uzi, with its relatively moderate rate of fire and its accuracy in open spaces, was perfect for the job. The odds would still be stacked; the lady's safety was still on the line (whoever the hell she was). But there would be no dicking around when Bolan took on these four — whoever the hell they were. None at all.
Both cars were moving smoothly in and out of the sparse traffic now, continuing east on MacArthur. With the Uzi nestled beside his right hip, Bolan next snatched up the small UHF radio transceiver attached to his belt, which kept him in contact with home base.
Stony Man Farm, the 160-acre nerve center of Mack Bolan/John Phoenix's "new war," was a mere ninety miles to the south, in Virginia's Blue Ridge country. As usual, there was a team sitting back there at this very moment, doing overtime on this mission. A beauty named April Rose and a damn good buddy and head fed named Hal Brognola, waiting to assist or supply backup at the sending of an S.O.S.
Bolan did not feel the necessity of bringing in reinforcements, but Stony Man had to be told. They could relay word to those awaiting Bolan in the house back within those walled-in grounds — to the people Bolan had been on his way to protect. At least the estate had its own security force, which had served adequately — up until now. They would have to hold on a bit longer.
Before Bolan could make contact, however, the car up ahead accelerated with a sudden, unexpected burst of speed and skidded into a sharp right, zooming off the highway and out of sight amid a cluster of tall white oak.
Bolan dropped the radio and threw caution to the wind, sending the Corvette speeding in pursuit, wheeling on
to the narrow blacktop road only seconds behind the first car.
A sign went zipping by to his right: Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Park. Lock 17 Parking Lot.
The road curved and dipped up ahead. The Malibu's taillights were nowhere in sight. Bolan decreased his speed slightly, but continued on. So they were leading him toward the old canal and the Potomac River a few yards beyond. The river, with its strong undertow, would be ideal for disposal of an unwanted body. But the Malibu's destination was not to be that obvious. The narrow, seven-mile-long park was deserted at this hour and there were plenty of spots for an ambush.
They were waiting for him at the base of the first rise, just beyond a short underpass that cut beneath a stretch of old railroad track that ran along the canal's bank. They must have spotted him along that stretch of MacArthur, despite his precautions. Now they were parked at the point where the road widened for a parking lot. They obviously intended to zap the Corvette as it came out through the underpass. But they had not taken into account the glint of moonlight off the Malibu's chrome. Or the fact that their target was approaching from high ground. Or the capabilities of the man behind the Vette's wheel. Now it was too late.
Bolan tromped on the gas pedal and surged forward into the fray, again with lights off.
They were waiting for him. But they were not ready for him. Just before the underpass, Bolan yanked the wheel to the right. The sleek black sports car left the road and went sailing up the side of the embankment. Bolan kept the hammer down. Railroad tracks clattered underneath; then the car overshot and was momentarily airborne before coming to rest with a four-point landing and skidding to a halt slightly beyond and below the waiting ambush car.
Bolan grabbed the Uzi and catapulted out from the Corvette's passenger side, his black garb holding him to the darkness.
The Iranian Hit te-42 Page 1