“Can you manage your bag, or would you like me to carry it?”
“You carry it. I’ll watch for snakes on the way out. Let me be clear on something, Benson. I’ve had a bad night, and if I find out you’re not playing it straight…”
“Understood, Colonel.”
Bolan remembered he had been passed out before Benson appeared. “What time is it, Benson?”
“The sun just came up.”
“Gives them about a four-hour head start. We get to the plane, I’ll help you sweep it for snakes. You can stitch me up after that.”
Bolan dredged up every bit of strength he could, shuffled for the door, clacked open his lighter, M-16 poised to shoot the first serpent he came across. Soon, the Executioner knew, he would be hunting snakes of the human variety. And woe unto Collins and whatever was left of Cobra Force when he caught up to them. As far as Bolan was determined, payback was as close as tomorrow.
“NOW, WHAT IS YOUR major malfunction, Mr. Falconi?”
“Oh, just the little matter of a hundred million to collect and the fact our Russian pals seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.”
They were sitting alone in the com center, Collins puffing on a cigarette, Falconi looking edged-out.
“The Russians were your department. Part of us collecting the rest of our money was for delivery of those VX briefcases to the ayatollah of Rocknrolla.”
“You changed the schedule by a full two days. Two days is when I am supposed to contact the Russians, no sooner.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, Major, when we land in Iran, I don’t think the ayatollah will just wire the rest of the money to our accounts and bid us a nice day.”
“So we sit tight for two days. Sample the ayatollah’s hospitality, help the head shed and the Marines get settled into their new home.”
“While the entire might of the United States military and intelligence agencies are hunting for us. You don’t think this bird can be spotted and tracked?”
“That’s why my men are right now creating ghost ships for any spy eyes. Another little marvel, courtesy of high-tech supercomputers. We go one way, any military installations tracking us find their screens showing us going the opposite direction.” Collins blew a cloud of smoke into Falconi’s face, the black op frowning. “Look, it will be at least two days before anybody discovers what happened at Camp Zero, since part of the plan was radio silence with Washington, which I arranged through my contacts at the Pentagon. By then, the Russians deliver the VX packages, we get our money, everyone goes their separate ways. Passports, new identities…”
“You hope it goes down that way.”
Collins didn’t like being second-guessed. “Mr. Falconi, we are in way too deep now to start fretting like a bunch of old hags over things that haven’t happened yet.”
“The Iranians are fanatics, Major. I’m amazed they even bought into this scheme.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying what’s to stop them from either taking us prisoner like the others—or just killing us on the spot?”
Collins laughed around his smoke, patted his HK subgun. “Me, Mr. Falconi, that’s what would stop them. You want out?”
“What?”
“You want out, I can go and open the door right now.”
“You threatening me, Major? This is my deal, too.”
“No threat. I merely asked a simple question.”
Falconi bobbed his head, pondering something. “When I want out, I’ll let you know. Two days, the Russians don’t touch base, and I walk. We clear?”
Collins nodded. “Yeah, we’re clear, all right.”
ONE MORE SHOT cobra found twisting in the cabin, thirty-plus sutures later, a cleaned and sterilized but brutally punished face, and Bolan found himself in the air, putting Camp Zero behind, Benson at the helm of the Gulfstream. He settled the satlink on a table, sipped bottled water, fighting to keep it down. The soldier knew he would wear the war wounds on this one for some time to come, but it was far from over. The worst for somebody was waiting on the other end in Iran. And Bolan was hell-bent on winning the next round, or die trying.
Quickly he dialed up Brognola. Allowing for the time difference he tried the big Fed at his suburban Virginia home, roused Brognola from sleep.
Brognola came alive at the sound of his voice. “Striker? I was getting worried.”
“Your worries have only just started.”
Bolan fought to find his voice, bell still ringing.
“Striker, you all right? You don’t sound so hot.”
“I sound about the way I look.”
“What gives?”
Bolan gave the bitter and the short of it to Brognola, finally told him he was on his way to the American air base at Incirlik. When he finished updating Brognola, he wasn’t sure the big Fed was still there, then heard, “What a mess.”
“Doesn’t even begin to define it, Hal.”
“Bastards.”
“Doesn’t even begin to define them, either. Now, this is what I want and this is how I want to play it. Get a pen. Here’s the laundry list of what I need.”
Bolan spelled out the hardware he would need, wanted Brognola to get the Farm on this ASAP, marshal up every resource he could to make it happen. He knew where they were headed, and Brognola knew all about Harin Salaan. A satellite would be parked over the region within the hour.
“Do you realize, Striker, if this comes to public light…”
“No time to stew over this one, Hal. Get the Man right away. Presidential directives for me across the board. I’m going in.”
“Other than a flying armada, you’re going in alone, Striker. We don’t even know yet how many will be on the ground.”
“I started this alone. I might as well finish it alone.”
Brognola knew better than to try to change his mind. “Okay, I’ve got a lot of work to do and no time in which to do it. You get to Incirlik, call me.”
Before he signed off, Bolan heard the grim and angry tone in Brognola’s voice. “This guy Collins, he’s the worst kind of rat bastard, Striker. How this all happened…Nail his ass.”
“Count on it. I’m thinking, Hal, he had a lot of help in some circles your way or he couldn’t have taken it this far.”
“We’re on the same page. Problem is, Striker, unless someone talks we may never shine the light on all responsible parties.”
“I’m keeping the faith we do. I’ll be in touch.”
“Stay frosty, Striker.”
Bolan rang off, slumped back in his seat, wincing against fresh waves of pain coursing through his body. He had some time on his hands before they landed, and he had no doubt Brognola would work his usual logistical sorcery.
The rest, Bolan knew, was up to him.
God have mercy on Collins and his pack of rat bastards, because the Executioner wouldn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
“They’re here,” one of Harin Salaan’s top lieutenants announced.
“Bring them to me.”
“They insist on keeping their weapons.”
“But of course. Our prisoners?”
“Eight. A paltry number considering how many of our own were lost.”
“Indeed. Take the prisoners to the quarters arranged. Have your own men stand guard. Do not unchain them. Do not feed or water them. We will treat them as the savages they are.”
He opened his eyes, recognizing the voice of Pavi Khalq, his lieutenant’s eyes angry dark orbs, the face hidden by the black hood. He could tell Khalq didn’t like the idea of infidels roaming freely about the palace, armed to the teeth, Westerners who had slaughtered many Muslims before their plane touched down on the runway. There were many things, he knew, his men didn’t understand these days, but they were paid to obey, serve his will since his will was merely a divine instrument of God. Lately he heard the rumors, whispered behind his back, how it was near blasphemy for faithful serva
nts of Islam to be in league with Western devils, that it was borderline madness. And he caught the looks more frequently now whenever they entered the great hall, where he sat on top of the white marble table, legs folded, listening to American rock and roll, drinking Coca-Cola, occasionally slipping some American movie into the video machine, one that was usually rife with sex and violence. Recently, days after this glorious plan was initiated and he had opted to go ahead and hold hands with the devil to further jihad, he had gathered his flock of disciples, gently attempted to explain that to defeat the enemy they had to understand that enemy. Beyond that, as their ayatollah, he believed certain indulgences were owed him.
This was his palace, left to him by his father, who was one of the original oil magnates decades ago when the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company was created. These days he imported heroin from Afghanistan, the bowels of the palace refining drugs that were shipped to Lebanon, then to Europe and America. Let the infidels poison themselves; he didn’t care. Their lust for drugs provided more cash than he could spend in five lifetimes, the sickness of the minds and souls of his enemies arming his troops, bringing the vision of acquiring weapons of mass destruction closer to reality by the day.
He shut his eyes, as six of his lieutenants settled into the white marble chairs, armed with AK-74s, black hoods concealing their faces. With the remote he cranked the stereo a few decibels louder, hit the replay button.
“Jeremiah was a bullfrog…”
He smiled, sipped his soda. If they thought him mad, so be it, since it was said madness and genius were kissing cousins.
His palace, his music, his world.
Soon, it would be his show of defiance to the Great Satan, interrogating the prisoners, filming for all the world to see their cowardice, evil and treachery as he put them under the knife, skinning them alive. Soon, when he had the requisite hardware delivered by the infidels as part of the deal, America would know horror from their sea to bloody sea. The entire Muslim world had been under the boot heel of the Great Satan for too long. Soon he would crush his enemies, but not before he tried and executed the Americans who were now his prisoners.
“They are going to want to know about their money.”
Salaan smiled, knew his lieutenants were getting warmed up to fire away with all manner of questions and concerns.
“These jackals, I hear, murdered many of our brothers-in-arms.”
“Somali, Sudanese, Lebanese, they were still of Islam.”
“You intend to play host to these devils?”
Salaan opened his eyes. “I intend to perhaps give them just enough rope by which to hang themselves. The money is my concern, a mere grain of sand on the beach if it furthers our cause. Let us hear them out. They did as I had asked.”
“How can you possibly trust men who so blithely betray their own?”
“Who said I trusted them?”
COLLINS COULDN’T BELIEVE what he was seeing, hearing. Leading his men into a massive conference room, the walls, domed ceiling and table gleaming white marble, he tried to keep his expression neutral. He had heard about the eccentricities of Harin Salaan, but what he found in the flesh wasn’t what he expected. He balked at the sights and sounds, Python nearly walking up his back, Warlock throwing him a look, a sneer forming on his lips.
Ayatollah Salaan was a diminutive figure, five feet tops, white turban, white robe for starters, with a flowing white beard, a snowy complexion. Collins saw him sitting at the head of the table, legs crossed. The major found the black hoods a little unsettling, burning eyes aimed their way, sizing all of them up, assault rifles close at hand. The sooner he put Iran behind, the happier he’d be, but with the latest news about the Russians, well, two days, he feared, could feel like an eternity, might just become that if the Ivans didn’t come through. He stole a look at stereo speakers that were ten feet tall if they were a foot, vibrating teak pounding out the classic rock. Whatever his views on the Western world, the ayatollah apparently liked his music.
It figured, he thought, made twisted sense. He had yet to meet a fanatic who didn’t talk out of both sides of his mouth, espousing the virtues of Islam while doing just the opposite, the strict tenets of their religion meant for the other guy while those in charge partied like there was no tomorrow. Collins was grateful, if nothing else, the black hoods had allowed them to keep their weapons. That alone tended to tweak his nerves, sure they were sharpening the blade behind his back.
“Gentlemen, be seated.”
“What?” Collins shouted over the music, pointing at his ear.
Slowly, a weird smile on his lips, Salaan lifted his remote and lowered the din.
“When you are in my humble home,” Salaan said, “you are to walk only on carpet.”
Collins looked down, the jeweled tile glittering, then, silently cursing the brazen little bastard, stepped only on Persian carpet, claimed a seat at the opposite end of the table.
“First, in keeping with our original deal, it is a mere courtesy on my part,” Salaan said, “that you and your men are allowed to keep your weapons.”
“We appreciate the big consideration,” Warlock said, drawing a scowl from Salaan.
“Let’s get down to business,” Collins said, glancing at Falconi. “Mr. Falconi here says it will be two days before he can reach the Russians, arrange delivery of your merchandise.”
“Really?”
Collins watched as the black hoods tossed looks between them.
“We had some minor problems. Just to name one, seems one of your people in the Bekaa,” Collins said, “apparently knew a little more about the operation than he should have. I’m talking detailed records, naming names, threw our whole schedule off. That’s why we landed earlier than I wanted to.”
“That would not have been of my doing.”
“Whatever, we’re talking two days.”
“Then it will be two days before you see the rest of your money,” Salaan said.
“We sort of figured as much.”
Collins heard his heart pounding in his ears, felt the first beads of sweat pop out on his brow in the lingering silence.
“The men that were left with you?” Falconi asked.
“You will be reunited with your CIA comrades in a few minutes when my men take you to your quarters. I will have food and water sent to you.”
Collins glanced at the ten black hoods lined up, flanking both sides of the doors. It sounded as if they were dismissed.
“I do hope the Russians do not let you down,” Salaan said. “I would be gravely disappointed, since you have already been paid the bulk of your money.”
“It’ll happen,” Collins said, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure.
“See that it does. That will be all for now.”
Collins rose, gripping his HK subgun, watched as the Salaan shut his eyes, smiling, and snapped back on the classic rock.
“HOUSE OF THE WHAT?”
“Holy. House of the Holy.”
Bolan chuckled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. The Executioner was in some of the most terrible physical pain he could recall enduring in some time, but he was feeling as angry and amped up as ever. But he didn’t have time to nurse wounds or dwell on the pain. The enemy had landed and he was busy crunching numbers, laying out the final attack strategy.
On a lightning presidential directive, Bolan had been granted full access to the American air base in Incirlik, no questions. Colonel Stone was in charge, and he would get whatever he needed to chase down Collins. The intelligence and black ops wheels were churning, every piece of hardware the soldier needed scrambled and dropped off by the time he landed and turned Benson over to the CIA for interrogation. The Executioner had claimed a private office adjacent to the special ops war room. Right then, an attack team—a combination CIA, NSA and Green Berets—was in the war room, nailing down the logistics to get Bolan launched. He was poring over every piece of pertinent intel, the skies over the Dashte-Lut desert region in southeastern Iran swarming with
American reconnaissance aircraft. Along with recon photos, sat pics were flying across his table at lightning speed, at least four satellites parked over the region, leaving no piece of rock or stretch of sand unmonitored.
Bolan had a fighter squadron of F-15Es, Tomcats and a Spectre at his disposal, his own ride to the LZ a C-141 Starlifter. At first, Brognola told him, the President, so enraged over the treachery of American military and intelligence men entrusted to carry out the operation in the name of justice and the new war on terrorism, had balked at sending Bolan in alone. How Brognola convinced the Man to cut him loose, Bolan wasn’t sure. It was happening. Figure one more deniable expendable, if it went to hell on the ground in Iran, and the political powers in Wonderland could simply wash their hands of the whole fiasco, cite a rogue operation they knew nothing about.
It happened, and all too often.
“The house that heroin money built,” Brognola said.
“It will be the house of the damned by the time I’m through.”
“Amen to that, Striker. According to the CIA and the DEA, Salaan exports something in the neighborhood of ten to fifteen metric tons of Afghan heroin to the West every year.”
“Ironic, don’t you think?”
“You mean in a country like Iran, where if you get caught with a marijuana joint they’ll march you out to the village square and lop your head off?”
“And all the mullahs just turn a blind eye to a major narcotics trafficker in their own backyard.”
“I imagine they get their cut—or tribute—to see no evil. Besides, we know drug money finances terrorism. It’s no different with Salaan.”
Bolan checked his watch, needed to wrap it up with Brognola, engage his fighter pilots and Spectre crew in one last brief.
“Okay, Hal, I want constant sat imagery of the house of the damned shot to me as soon as you get it. The way it’s shaping up from my first look, they’ve taken the head shed and the Marines to quarters at the far west edge of the compound. I’m seeing Collins and snakes traipsing the grounds, north, all of them armed, looks like they have their own quarters. The word I get here is that there are no servants, no women, no family members in the palace proper. Which means I can bring the roof down, wade in and blast away.”
Predator Paradise Page 22