Satisfied he was a goner, they were laughing, then vanished without a word.
Bolan fought to stay awake, knew if he passed out now…
The cobra inched closer, tongue flicking, Bolan fighting with every fiber of willpower he could muster to keep from passing out as its hood fanned out, and the serpent rose higher.
“TALK ABOUT perfect timing, Major.”
Collins resisted the temptation to rub his stomach.
The bastard had nearly speared the kick clear back to his spine, Collins wondering if he’d be pissing blood the next few days. Damn, but he gave Stone his due. He had taken a beating that no man should have walked away from, and Collins had the bruised and bloodied knuckles to show for more than a few wallops to the guy’s face and head. Sure, like a cop who knew how to use just enough force to subdue a scumbag perp without inflicting obvious injuries, they had pulled back some on their punches. He wanted Stone to live just long enough for the cobra to get him. It was never really the act of dying itself that was so terrible, he thought. Not for him, and certainly not for a man of Stone’s caliber, the guy nothing but balls and heart, all warrior.
It was the moments before, during which a man knew he was going to die, that could prove the worst, the waiting for the end to come, nothing he could do to stop it. In a way, he thought, it was a shame to kill a warrior as talented, as stand up and—what?—principled as Stone? Ten guys like the colonel, and he figured he could take down and control half the oil fields in the Middle East, nothing but money in the bank.
Screw him.
There was no way, what with his own moral code, that Stone would have ever been part of his team. What was this now? he wondered. Regret?
Forget it.
The thorn in his side had been removed.
Collins found Warlock looking pleased, but the bitter sheen in the eye of Cyclops told him the man wasn’t too happy with the results.
“What?” Collins rasped, leading them toward the runway where the sleek VIP Gulfstream was taxiing to a stop.
“I don’t like knowing the bastard might still be breathing.”
“Give it up. That snake was going right for him. Cooped up in those sacks as long as they were and getting riled up the whole time, those things will sink their fangs into the first live flesh they see.”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s finished. That’s the last I want to hear about it.”
Collins picked up the pace, HK subgun off his shoulder, Python and Falconi turning their way. “You know what to do, gentlemen. Quick and clean, any crap from them, bust ’em over the head. I want them cuffed, stuffed and loaded up, two minutes.”
Pulling up, Collins waited as the hatch opened, ramp unfolding. They deplaned, single file, briefcases in hand. Four of Washington’s intelligence elite, he recognized a pudgy face or two from the talk shows which they were invited on, so-called experts who could shoot their mouths off but never said a damn thing worth remembering, always dancing around the critical questions, swaddling themselves in national security. This, Collins thought, as assistants leaked information to press hounds, and their bosses cajoled six-and seven-figure book deals over martinis with New York literary agents. Go figure. Fuck it, he was taking his slice now.
Oh, but they looked and smelled good, all perfumed and pink and polished, dark cashmere coats, the expressions chiseled with self-importance, the grim seriousness with the task at hand of drilling, indicting and judging terror mongers.
That wasn’t going to happen. They didn’t know it yet, but they were in a world of shit beyond their worst nightmare.
They were looking around, unsure, probably sensed something in the air, wondering why subguns were up and aimed their way. Collins waited until the bald bulldog was down and rolling up between his fellow elitists.
Python was up the steps, subgun out and ready.
“General Aberdeen,” Collins said, then heard the cries and shouts of the flight crew as Python’s stutter of subgun fire ripped through the fuselage, cabin portholes winking with muzzle-flashes.
“What is the meaning—?”
“The meaning, General,” Collins said, stepping closer to the frozen four, “is that you four are under arrest.”
“What?” The NSA guy bleated like a lamb.
“You’re insane!”
“That could be, General, but one man’s insanity is another man’s vision of what has to be made right in the world. You are being arrested and detained for crimes and atrocities,” Collins told them as Warlock, Cyclops and Falconi moved behind the group, “committed against all Islamic peoples. You are going to be tried and most likely executed for said crimes.”
Collins heard the expected outrage, but Warlock and Cyclops were slamming their subguns off their skulls, driving them to their knees.
“What is this about?” Aberdeen roared.
“Hands behind your back,” Warlock bellowed in Aberdeen’s ear. “Do it now, or I will shoot you in the balls, I shit you not!”
Collins saw Cyclops grinning as he fastened the plastic cuffs on Aberdeen’s hands. “Teachers.”
“What?”
“You know, teachers. Those people you dump your kids off on while you and the little lady go play at being big and important. Teachers—those people who teach the next generation reading, writing and arithmetic, who are responsible for shaping and forming the character of your little darlings. Underpaid, underappreciated, barely get by while some assholes who can’t read, write or add two and two playing kids’ games get ten million dollars a year just for being assholes. It’s about an upside-down system, where right is wrong and wrong is right—”
“Come on, come on,” Collins urged. “You can give him the philosophical spiel on the decline and decay of America when they’re loaded up.”
“You’re crazy, you’ll never—”
“We’ve already gotten away with it, General,” Collins said.
BOLAN KNEW he’d get only one shot to try to save himself. If he missed the first time, it was over. If it was a spitting adder—and right then he sure couldn’t tell the difference even if he knew—he was finished. He would be blinded first, then bitten, some of the deadliest snake venom in the world coursing through his punished body, lungs collapsing, he believed, nervous system shut down in probably thirty seconds, rendered paralyzed, gasping for air, twitching out.
Slowly, staring into black orbs no larger than pinheads, Bolan reached behind, fingers curling around a thick piece of wood. The way the tip jabbed in his side he knew his fall against the cell’s table had sheared off a strip as sharp as a spike. Would it be enough? Figure distance was a short lunge of three feet, but in his punished condition, eyes wanting to blur…
The black cobra appeared nearly kissing-close.
It rose, several inches higher, body coiling tighter.
Now!
The creature struck, propelling itself forward, and Bolan felt his hand clamp flesh. He had it now, squeezing with his remaining strength just inches below the hood. It was hissing, fangs bared, dripping poison. Then Bolan had the snake on the floor, boot pinned on its fat serpentine body as he brought the sharpened stake down again and again, hammered its head, stabbing, slashing.
The world became a carousel next, instinct telling Bolan it was dead, the snake no longer thrashing.
Spent, the Executioner felt his legs melting.
Then he collapsed onto the wall, sinking on his haunches. He nearly slipped away into dark bliss, but clung to the real world, wondering how he was going to get out of the cage.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
“I’m telling you God’s honest truth!”
Collins had the muzzle of his HK subgun jammed in Captain Marshall’s belly. He looked at the bruise on the pilot’s jaw, the man’s arms above his head, eyes brimming with fear.
“Just clocked you and sashayed on out the door?”
“Coldcocked me. I never saw it coming.”
“And you had no inklin
g your buddy was set to abandon ship?”
“Clueless.”
“Guess now you maybe think you’re going to get his cut?”
Marshall hesitated, Collins reading the wheels of greed spinning in the look.
“I’m happy with ten, but whatever you think is right, Major.”
Collins looked at his troops. “How come this is the first I’m hearing about Benson vanishing into the night? How come none of you bothered to tell me? Someone, anyone?”
“We didn’t know until now,” Diamondback called out.
“We assumed he was in the cockpit,” Mamba said.
“We could do a quick sweep of the compound,” Python suggested.
Collins gave that some consideration. The problem was the AWOL Herc jockey could be anywhere. The hills were pocked with caves, an ancient lattice of tunnels dug out by the Greeks dating back to the time of Alexander.
“No. Python, front and center!”
Collins drew back the subgun. “I take it the transponder’s history?” he asked Marshall.
“All taken care of.”
“Sir?”
“Want you to sit with Captain Marshall. Do not leave the cockpit for any reason. You have to take a leak or a dump, do it right there next to him.”
“Aye, aye, Major.”
“Python here,” Collins told Marshall, “was a navigator on a Spectre during the Gulf War. You touch anything but the wheel and the stick for the landing gear, he’ll know about it.”
“Your boy back there,” Marshall said, “already gave me fair warning.”
“Move out and get us in the air.”
Collins headed for the prisoners, hollered for someone to close the ramp.
SOMETHING GLITTERED.
Bolan, bracing himself against the wall, stood, searching the hall floor in front of the bars. With the slightest movement white-hot pain tore through every inch of his body, set fire to every nerve ending. No broken bones, but the blood was still flowing from deep gashes along his eyebrows that would need suturing, assuming he got out of the cell in the near future. Medical attention was actually the last of his concerns. Even still there wasn’t one inch on his body that wasn’t aching with raw fire, pulsing from the terrible breathing. The inside of his mouth and cheeks was a series of craters, the soldier hacking out thick, gummy blood as he shuddered ahead, forcing himself to focus at the object on the floor.
Most of his vision had returned, but the haze still danced in and out, pain throbbing right behind his eyes so hard it felt as if his eyeballs would pop out from the pressure. Hand on the wall, he shuffled three steps past the pulped cobra body, breathing steady, spitting blood. He shoved himself off the wall, amazed for a moment he could stand at all, but willing his legs to stay locked beneath him.
He was two feet from the bars—
And nearly laughed out loud.
Bending, he slipped an arm between the bars, palmed the key. He drew it back, figured in all the excitement, Collins and company swept up in the brutal moment, that he had simply dropped the key. Then Bolan recalled the kick to the bastard’s gut. That was when he had lost it most likely.
No matter. Bolan reached around, inserted the key and unlocked the door. Then he saw it, freezing in midstride, the last two feet of black tail sliding out of sight as the snake vanished down Hallway B. Beyond the serpent life, the Executioner sensed the utter stillness of death all over the building.
Not good, he thought, cobras on the loose, no telling where they’d crop up, but he was soon vacating the premises.
First he entered his quarters. Mistake two was the enemy leaving his warbag behind, M-16 still leaning against the wall. Oh, but they were laughing now, feeling good, but once he put in the call to Brognola he would make sure the man from Justice pulled out all the stops, called in every marker, the Farm using every bit of high-tech skill at its command and disposal to scour the earth. Make no mistake, the soldier would hunt them down.
Bolan faltered, weaving. Suddenly he felt sick, the world gyrating, wall shimmying. He dry heaved, fell to a knee. As busted up as he was, unconsciousness threatening him with every step, he knew he wasn’t going to make it out the door anytime soon.
M-16 in hand, checking the load and finding a full clip, it was all he could do to sweep the bathroom, the entire quarters for lurking cobras.
Clear.
He went and shut the door just as he heard a distant rumble and the hallway lights blinked out. They had blown the generator, he knew, gone for good. But to where? How many had they killed here? Why? What was the conspiracy about?
Stumbling around blind in the hall with serpents crawling all over the place wasn’t an option. He palmed his lighter, flicked the lid, went and kicked his warbag a few times. They assumed the cobra would have done its deadly work for them by now, but he wouldn’t put it past the bastards to stow a serpent in the bag. He was satisfied it was free of venomous creatures, about to zip it open and pull out his satlink when a wave of nausea washed over him, driving fiery needles deep into his brain.
Bolan fell backward and collapsed on a bunk.
COLLINS HEARD the expected threatening mantra from General Aberdeen, a few of the Marines jumping into the act—his ass was grass, he would pay, he was a traitor and so on and so forth. The Marines had to have known what was coming, as Cyclops thumbed all but two rounds out of a clip.
Collins took the Beretta, turned and told a terrorist, “You! Take this. Two shots, two Marines, two freebies. You pick ’em.”
“Figure it’s the least we owe you,” Warlock said, training his subgun on the terrorist as he stood, uncertain, but took the weapon.
“No tricks,” he told the terrorist. “Just don’t do these four,” he said, nodding at the head shed.
“Yeah, they’re big TV stars back in America.” Cyclops laughed.
Despite their hands cuffed behind their backs, legs manacled together, Collins saw them rising as a group, cursing, snarling. He put three down with tranquilizer darts, Predator Five, Warlock, Cyclops and Diamond-back slamming subguns over their heads, driving them to their haunches.
“Go on,” Collins urged the terrorist who strode up to the Marines.
“You’ll pay for this Collins, I swear to—”
“I’ve already been paid, General. Any more squawking out of you and I might just decide you’re not worth the trouble of keeping alive.”
BOLAN STIFLED the groan, swinging his legs off the bunk. Assault rifle in hand, he watched as the door creaked open, flame wavering, the muzzle of a weapon poking into the darkness.
“Lose the weapon! Do it now!”
The Executioner sensed only one presence but was braced to cut loose on full-auto with the M-16.
The rifle was tossed to the floor, and a voice called out, “Easy. I’m not one of them.”
“Are you alone?”
“Just me. Everyone else here is dead.”
“Collins?”
“Gone with the prisoners—rather, their new prisoners, General Aberdeen and about ten Marines.”
Bolan stood, grimaced. “Keep that flame on your face. What’s your name?”
“Captain Benson.”
“What are you?”
“United States Air Force. Retired. Fly for the Company now.”
“Get in here and pull a chair. Shut the door behind you.”
Bolan slid a wooden chair across the floor. The lean figure in a black jumpsuit stepped in, closed the door, then sat, the flame from the lighter showing Bolan a middle-aged graying flight jockey. Benson whistled as he scoured Bolan’s punished features.
“Collins did that?”
“He had a little help from his friends Warlock and Cyclops, but, yeah, they danced a hell of a number on me. You come across any cobras on the way in?”
Benson nodded. “Six. I shot them. Collins even threw two of his own men into a cell with a few snakes.”
“Who?”
“Tsunami and Brick I believe were their name
s.”
“I was right about one thing, anyway.”
“What was that?”
“The serpent handles, those were the ones in on whatever this is about. They flew off in the Herc, Benson?”
“They did. I was their copilot.”
“You picked some rotten company to fall into bed with.”
“I woke up before it was too late.”
“Telling me you grew a conscience?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I made a mistake.”
“Seems to be a lot of that going around lately.”
“Well, I may be a few bad things in life, but a traitor to my country isn’t one of them. You must be Colonel Stone.”
“That would be me. What’s your story?”
“No story. They recruited me about six months ago. I was handpicked by the Pentagon’s Cobra Command, which is actually run by Collins. Collins had some dirt on me, pictures of me and a woman other than my wife. The usual sins, extortion.”
“That sounds his speed. What’s this about?”
“It’s about dumping off the head shed and ten Marines to one of the world’s most notorious terrorists. Way I heard it there’s going to be a sort of reverse military tribunal for the Americans. Confessions of crimes committed against all Islamic peoples, all of it videotaped, right down to their executions. You’ll probably see it on Al-Jazeera soon enough.”
“Let me guess, Collins and the rest are in it for the money.”
“One billion dollars to be exact.”
“Who?”
“Harin Salaan.”
“I’ve heard the name. So you know where they’re going?”
“I know exactly where they’re going. Iran.”
Bolan felt dizzy.
“Colonel, why don’t you let me clean you up a little.”
“When we get out of here. What’s out front to fly?”
Bolan heard the list; Benson stating there was a first-aid kit on the Gulfstream.
“Just get us to Incirlik,” Bolan said, then nearly pitched off his feet.
Benson jumped up, threw an arm around the soldier. “Colonel, I think you need to lay—”
“No time.”
Predator Paradise Page 21