Mack Bolan had long accepted he was living on borrowed time

Over countless missions he had gambled against the odds, and as time went by he realized those odds were becoming slimmer with every mission he accepted.

Stepping as he did into the killing grounds, facing enemies intent on turning Bolan’s world into a savage hell on earth, he saw himself not as some indestructible automaton, but a normal guy doing extraordinary things by simply refusing to give in to savage man. The rules devised for civilized existence were being trampled into the dust by the hyenas walking around on two legs.

Mack Bolan did what he could to bring some kind of sanity to the evils perpetrated by the spoilers.

Other titles available this series:

Shock Tactic

Showdown

Precision Kill

Jungle Law

Dead Center

Tooth and Claw

Thermal Strike

Day of the Vulture

Flames of Wrath

High Aggression

Code of Bushido

Terror Spin

Judgment in Stone

Rage for Justice

Rebels and Hostiles

Ultimate Game

Blood Feud

Renegade Force

Retribution

Initiation

Cloud of Death

Termination Point

Hellfire Strike

Code of Conflict

Vengeance

Executive Action

Killsport

Conflagration

Storm Front

War Season

Evil Alliance

Scorched Earth

Deception

Destiny’s Hour

Power of the Lance

A Dying Evil

Deep Treachery

War Load

Sworn Enemies

Dark Truth

Breakaway

Blood and Sand

Caged

Sleepers

Strike and Retrieve

Age of War

Line of Control

Breached

Retaliation

Pressure Point

Silent Running

Stolen Arrows

Zero Option

Predator Paradise

Circle of Deception

Devil’s Bargain

False Front

Lethal Tribute

Season of Slaughter

Point of Betrayal

Ballistic Force

Renegade

Survival Reflex

Path to War

Blood Dynasty

Ultimate Stakes

State of Evil

Force Lines

Contagion Option

Hellfire Code

War Drums

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

All ambitions are lawful except those which climb upward on the miseries or credulities of mankind.

—Joseph Conrad,

1857–1924

Jackals in human form are quick to cash in on the misery of their fellow man. I do what I can whenever I can to even the odds.

—Mack Bolan

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

London, England

He never saw his killer. At the last moment he heard a faint click as someone eased off a safety. Before that, nothing. Whoever had come to end his life was good. That he had got this close meant he was better than good. And the sudden realization that he was about to die brought a rush of emotions and an overwhelming sadness that unrealized dreams would now never be. In the final moment he did make an attempt to pull out his own weapon, but the very act of reaching for it became his last. The bullet that blew apart his skull impacted a scant second before the second one followed. He felt only a solid blow that completely took away all of his senses in the ferocity of its effect on his brain and the functions it had controlled. There was no sound. No time to think about what had happened. Just that stunning blow that wiped his life away in an instant. The second bullet cored its way through and blew out his left eye. His body lurched forward, then dropped to the ground in the fluid slackness that comes only with death. There was no grace in his demise, simply the collapsing of a lifeless corpse that had only seconds before been a living, breathing man.

The body lay for almost twenty minutes before it was spotted by an employee of one of the restaurants the alley ran behind. Stepping outside for a cigarette the kitchen assistant almost tripped over the corpse. He recoiled at the sight of the body and the pooling, drying blood that had edged out from beneath the head. He stood for a few seconds, simply staring, uncertain what to do now that he found himself confronted by the corpse of someone who had been the victim of a violent death. He turned and went back inside to let others know what he had found, then made his way to a telephone to inform the police.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER THE crime scene team showed up. The metropolitan police cruiser that arrived earlier had cordoned off the area, holding back onlookers so the crime scene was untouched. With practiced efficiency the CS team marked possible relevant evidence, took photographs and checked the vicinity. When they were satisfied, they had the body removed, the contents of the victim’s pockets tagged and bagged and sent to the CS lab. In due course fingerprints were taken and fed into NAFIS, the UK cousin to the American AFIS system. It was, due to the current security conditions, connected to the U.S. database and it was able to identify the dead man. According to the criminal database the deceased was one Harry Vincent. NAFIS threw up a rap sheet that showed Vincent to have been arrested twice in the U.S. for suspected arms trafficking, but insufficient evidence had meant he was never charged. He had done time in prison for minor criminal acts. His background read like a familiar story of early criminal activity that continued into adult life. Certain questions arose that the UK police needed answers to. The main one concerned the seeming ability of a known criminal to be able to move back and forth through customs, without his past raising a flag.

Before the police could continue their investigation, matters were taken from their hands in the form of agents from the London field office of the CIA stepping in with a claim for Harry Vincent. Protests were stepped on harshly by orders from the higher-ups in Scotland Yard, who had received their instructions from MI-5, acting on calls originating in Langley, Virginia. Everything referring to Harry Vincent was confiscated by the CIA. There was a brief flurry of protest that ran all the way up to the top and back. At each level, those in control were given the stern warning to stand down. This was not a request, it was a top-priority command. Those who had identified Harry Vincent were told to forget about him. They found their computer access blocked, all references to Harry Vincent deleted. The phrases “need to know” and “in the national interest” were trotted out. That didn’t settle too well with the police department, but in the era of cooperation and national-international security, any tardiness was frowned on when it came to interfering with due process. The CIA team did its work with cool efficiency, whisking away Harry Vincent, his belongings and all the data gathered by the police. By the end of the day it was as if Vincent had never existed.

In truth, he never had.

Only those at the uppermost level knew that Harry Vincent was simply the cover identity created by the CIA’s Deep Cover section for one of their agents. His fingerprints, fed into NAFIS, then AFIS, had set off alarm bells at Langley. Langley had informed the London field office, issuing a removal authorization that entitled the team to acquire Vincent and all relevant data. The body was driven directly to a small airstrip used by the CIA and put on a plane that would finally deliver Harry Vincent to Langley, Virginia.

CHAPTER ONE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Two days later Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, received an urgent summons that took him directly to the White House where he was ushered in to see the President of the United States. The big Fed was sequestered with the Man for almost two hours. When he left, with a briefcase holding a “need to know” file, he returned to Stony Man. During the helicopter flight, he sent an e-mail directive requesting an immediate mission briefing. On touchdown he went directly to the office he used while at the farm and made four copies of the file, then headed to the War Room.

Those in attendance were Barbara Price, mission controller, and Aaron Kurtzman, the facility’s cybernetics chief. The third person he had requested was missing.

“Where is he?” Brognola growled as he sat, opened his briefcase and slapped the presidential files on the conference table.

“He’s on his way,” Price said. Concentrating on her own paperwork, she maintained a calm manner, hoping that her emotions didn’t betray her.

Brognola sorted the files, muttering to himself, and failed to hear the door open and close behind him.

“Time on this is scarce,” Brognola said sharply.

“I’m all ears, Hal.”

Brognola glanced up to see Mack Bolan facing him across the table, a slight smile on his face. The big Fed loosened his crumpled tie and opened the top button on his shirt. He noticed that Bolan looked cool and relaxed in clean, casual clothing, his hair still holding the damp shine from a recent shower.

“By the look of you, I’m being too easy. Not interrupting your free time am I?”

Bolan sat. “Not right now. R and R is over.”

If he hadn’t been so immersed in his paperwork Brognola might have noticed the sudden rush of color that invaded Price’s cheeks. It was only Kurtzman who picked up on it and chose to ignore it, sliding out a computer keyboard from the table, busying himself logging on. For the briefest moment Price’s eyes caught Bolan’s and they exchanged a fleeting smile. Then the soldier turned his steady gaze on Brognola.

“So what have you got, Hal?”

Brognola slid a copy of the file to each person in the room and sat back while they read and digested the data inside. He allowed them the time they needed before clearing his throat to open the discussion.

“Comments?”

“Why us?” Price asked. “I mean, the President has lifted the case from the CIA and pushed it our way.”

“Plain and simple. The President wants Stony Man to handle this. He had a visit from the CIA special ops director, and from what he told me the U.S. is in a fix over this Iranian deal. Intel has Iran’s hard-liners pushing for their own nuclear capability in defiance of UN rulings. They’re doing their damnedest to refine weapon’s grade plutonium and intelligence sources say they have some underground development work on the technical side.”

“Hardly a threat in the short term,” Price said.

“No one is expecting them to suddenly have fleets of ICBMs targeting New York,” Brognola replied. “But the very thought of Iran having any kind of nuke is sending shivers all across the Middle East, especially in the direction of Israel.”

“Those hard-liners have been laying it down pretty fierce,” Aaron Kurtzman pointed out. “They blame Israel for every problem in the region. I understand the rhetoric involved in politics. It’s all to do with psyching out the enemy, but in an area like the Middle East it’s very easy to start the fires.”

“If Israel gets pushed too far it might use one of its own surgical strikes against Iran,” Bolan said. “Preemptive. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Exactly. If that happens, we could end up with one hell of a conflict. But there’s more to it. The President has intel that points to Chinese involvement, behind-the-scenes courting of Ayatollah Muhar Razihra. He’s the man behind the belligerent criticism of Israel and the West. The Chinese are promoting themselves as the emerging political and market successor to the U.S. They have their eye on the future and Iran’s oil reserves. Iran as a superpower, wielding the strength of nuclear capability in the region means they’ll have clout. Beijing hasn’t been slow at seeing the benefits of wooing the Iranians. The country is oil rich. And oil is as important to China as it is to us. The Chinese are willing to work at this over the long term.”

“What about the rest of the region?” Bolan asked.

“Unrest. Negative feelings where it comes to Iran becoming nuclear. That’s another of the President’s concerns. We all understand the uncertainty in the region in general. All it needs is one country suddenly having a big stick they can use to intimidate other countries.”

“What about Iran’s moderates?” Price asked. “Isn’t there a calming influence?”

Kurtzman nodded. “Sure. There are government members who want to stay out of the nuclear club. They see the problems on the horizon. Right now they seem to be shouted down at every turn and the problem is they don’t have enough backing from the military or the religious community, which Razihra does.”

“Aaron, put up those images I sent you,” Brognola said.

Kurtzman tapped his keyboard and one of the wall screens lit up.

“The guy on the right in the black robes is Ayatollah Razihra. He’s the big gun in the pro-nuke debate. His direct opponent is Nuri Masood, a government minister who argues against the program. That’s him in the middle. On the left is Dr. Shahan Baresh. He works under Masood, and he’s a skilled negotiator who does all the Iranian dealings with the UN and other groups trying to ease the tension. He spends a great deal of his time out of the country in meetings, seminars, doing his best to promote a better image for Iran.”

“I’ve heard about Razihra,” Price said. “He’s not the kind of man you’d want standing against you.”

“I imagine this is only part of the picture, Hal,” Bolan said.

“Oh, yes.” Brognola tapped the file in front of him. “The CIA had a man infiltrated into a group that has been supplying the Iran Secret Service with conventional weapons and technical data on the construction and deployment of nuclear weaponry. This sweet bunch has even been negotiating with them to purchase this information and hardware. If the Iranians get their hands on this data, it gives them a jump-start on their development program. If they aren’t already up and running.

“The CIA director had initiated the covert operation himself, choosing his own agent and keeping it close to his chest after getting the go from the Man. It appeared to be running pretty smoothly until a few days ago when the undercover agent was assassinated in London. Professional hit. Two shots to the back of the head. The agent was working under the name Harry Vincent. When Scotland Yard put the name through their system it went all the way to Langley and was red-flagged in the director’s office. The numbers clicked in and Vincent’s body was appropriated by the CIA’s London field office and flown back to CIA headquarters. The director did his best to keep the details under wraps, but the killing made him suspicious and he went straight to the President. He suspected he had a leak within the Agency. The President took over the covert operation and told the director he’d take care of it.”

“He didn’t mention us?” Price asked.

“How could he?” Kurtzman asked. “We don’t exist.”

“Exactly,” Brognola agreed. “The President hinted the military would look into the matter and told the director it would be dealt with. I guess the director would have been relieved to have it taken off his hands. He’s going to have enough explaining to do over the Agency leak.”

“So we pick up the slack again,” Price commented.

“It’s what we do best,” Brognola said. “The director handed over all the intel his agent had gathered. His real name, by the way, was Carl Marchesse. Thirty-four years old. Native New Yorker. Joined the Agency when he was twenty-two and worked his way up through the ranks. Seems he showed a flair for undercover work early on. Worked a number of assignments that gained him a lot of brownie points. Five years ago he was recruited into a special ops section, specializing in the really down and dirty covert operations. He did well. When the Iranian operation was set up around five months ago, Marchesse was the man the director chose. He disappeared for a couple of months and when he resurfaced he was Harry Vincent. According to the director, he infiltrated the group suspected of providing the Iranians with weapons and data on nuclear weapons. The group’s headed by a Russian named Anatoly Nevski.”

“If a double agent in the CIA ordered his murder,” Bolan said, “all that intel is most likely in his hands, as well.”

“Unfortunately that’s probably true. Aaron, second file, please.”

“The gaunt-looking guy is Dr. Gregori Malinski, a Russian nuclear physicist. After the Soviet Union collapsed he was more or less out of a job. He moved around and started to sell his knowledge on the open market to whoever would pay. Marchesse’s intel told us the Iranians had him working big-time on their nuke development. But he dropped out of sight some days ago. Nevski had brokered Malinski’s contract with Razihra and his military backers. From what Marchesse managed to pick up the Iranians are less than pleased about Gregori’s jumping ship. It could be he left them at a critical stage in the development. If the Iranians had people clever enough to develop their own nuclear weapons they wouldn’t have needed to buy Malinski.”

“This is an old photo,” Kurtzman said. “The girl is Malinski’s estranged daughter, Sashia. She’s management in an international travel agency. Hops around all over the place. Right now she’s based in Paris. It might be that Malinski got in touch. It’s a long shot, but it could happen. It would be helpful for us if he did. But not so much for Razihra.”

“And this is because…?” Bolan asked.

“Malinski knows the location of the Iranian base where the nuclear development is taking place,” Brognola said. “Also, he’s just one of the equations in the picture.”

“I get the feeling you’re about to tell me what I’m about to let myself in for.”

“That’s my guy.”

Kurtzman brought up more pictures. “This next batch show the members of the Russian syndicate Marchesse infiltrated. I mentioned Anatoly Nevski. He’s the lean guy with the blond crew cut. He might look like a California basketball player but don’t be fooled by his good looks. He’s the top man. Not exactly Russian mafiya, but no Mother Theresa, either. It isn’t difficult to categorize him,” Kurtzman said. He pushed at a thick file across the table for Bolan to scan. “Courtesy of your buddy Commander Valentine Seminov, Moscow OCD. His attached note says he would be most appreciative if you could ‘take the piece of scum down.’ Do that and he will forever be in your debt. Nevski is no more than a connected street thug. Background is pure Moscow underworld. Worked his way through the ranks. From street hustler, pimp, pusher to present-day global arms dealer.

“When the Soviet regime collapsed, Nevski was in the front of local crime. Anything is fair game for the man. Stolen cars. Drugs. He was, and still is, one of Russia’s promoters of the white-slave trade, snatching young women off the streets to put them into prostitution and porn. He trades them across Europe, the Middle East and here in the States.”

“Sounds like a sweet guy,” Price said.

“Nevski has a unique business procedure,” Kurtzman went on. “If he takes a liking to your business, he makes a single, time-limited offer. If you say no he sends in his people and you get a bullet to the back of the head. Deal settled. No sentiment. No reasoning.”

Bolan was leafing through the file. “How did he segue into the arms business?”

“He saw the opportunities when the Soviet military machine started to fall apart. He nurtured contacts, wiped out a couple of smaller dealers and took their place. No hassle. He surrounded himself with plenty of muscle and firepower, and within twelve months he was one of the major players. He added industrial espionage and technical expertise to his catalog.”

“Which brings us back to the good Dr. Malinski,” Brognola said.

“Nevski looks for what the client wants, makes them a good offer because money is never a problem in this market,” Kurtzman said. “He sets up the whole package and delivers.”

“A nuclear physicist to jump-start your missile program,” Bolan added.

“Exactly.”

“But Malinski going AWOL has spoiled his customer satisfaction record.”

Kurtzman nodded. “Damn right. It isn’t going to make him popular with Ayatollah Razihra. Nevski will do anything to stay on Razihra’s good side. The word is Nevski is in very deep with the Ayatollah. This is more than just a one-off contract. Nevski is with Razihra for the long term. He’s realized the profit margin that staying with the guy will bring. So he’s in there pitching. Anything Razihra wants Razihra gets.”

“So he quickly gets rid of the CIA mole as soon as he’s been exposed,” Brognola said. “We were right it being a professional hit.”

Kurtzman tapped in another image. “The scowly guy is Nevski’s second in command. Lem Kirov, all round bad guy. Unstable and very violent. Next up is Claude Stratton. British. He’s a fixer, paymaster, dealer, for any number of dissident groups floating around Europe and the UK. He does a lot of transactions for ex–Saddam Hussein loyalists, like these three charmers—Ahmer Musak, Omar Jafir, Ibrahim Hassan. They appear to have access to some of the money Hussein stashed away. They’re using it to help Razihra and keep things hot in the region. They were all colonels in the Iraqi military. Now they’re being feted by militant Jordanians. They’re holed up in the desert at some training camp, along with some of Razihra’s hard-liners, led by Yamir Kerim. Marchesse knew that a consignment of weapons was shipped out to this camp. He never got the chance to find out what it was for.”

“Educated guess?” Bolan asked and answered the question himself. “Israel?”

“Borders Jordan. And we know Razihra is anti-Israel. It’s one of his main political rants,” Kurtzman said. “And why would weapons be delivered to Jordan if they were intended for Iran? Too far to risk transporting all that way. Could be part of Razihra’s aim. He doesn’t hide the fact he wants Israel destabilized. To be frank, his ideal would be Israel up in smoke.”

“If Razihra’s group has its way, it will boost its standing within the radicals across Iran,” Brognola said “It would strengthen their cause. A victory over the current administration isn’t what Iran needs. It could make for an isolationist condition that would back them up against the wall. It could happen if Razihra plays to fundamentalist emotions. The man in the street already sees the West and Israel as the brokers of everything going wrong in the region. If Razihra gets his hands on the reins we can kiss goodbye to any negotiations. And that feeling could spread beyond Iran’s borders.”

“According to the intelligence progress reports, Iranian nuclear development is still on a low learning curve,” Bolan stated.

“For now. Getting his hands on U.S. data and hardware is going help Razihra make a big jump in nuclear development,” Brognola said.

“It won’t get him a warehouse full of nukes. Having the instructions isn’t the end of the R and D. His teams will still have to build the devices,” Bolan said.

“That’s why Razihra is buying the components. Nevski has been orchestrating the search. It was Marchesse’s job to find out who was in the running and stop them,” the big fed told them.

“Any leads?”

“Thin. Mainly what we have already gone over. He managed to pass along a few pointers to the director. You have his last one in your file.”

“London?” Bolan queried.

“Yes. Activity appears to be fairly strong right now, according to security readouts. London’s at the crossroads for international dealing, the jumping-off place for Europe and the Middle East. It’s a financial hub, as well. You’ve been there before. You know the situation. Wide-ranging cultural mix. Large urban sprawl. Easy place to hide. And Claude Stratton is based in London.”

“I’ll make it my starting point.”

“There’s an Air Force plane on standby,” Brognola informed him. “I’ll make the arrangements. Tell Barb what you need and it’ll make the flight with you.”

“Backup data to be forwarded?”

“As long as we can maintain contact, you’ll receive it ASAP. Aaron will check out your communication gear before you leave.”

“Fine.”

“You need any local backup?” Brognola asked.

“I’ll call if I do.”

“Any local interference, just dial the number.”

“Time to move out.”

“Striker, stay sharp. Don’t trust anyone. We don’t know how deep this CIA connection to the opposition goes.”

“Trust is for little children and old ladies,” Bolan said. “I’m not expecting to meet many of either in the field.”

“This could turn into one hell of a mess, Striker,” Brognola said. “We don’t want to be caught with our pants down if it blows up. Too much is at stake—future relations with less aggressive Middle East countries. Then there’s Afghanistan watching what’s going on. India and Pakistan edging around each other. If it comes out that U.S. technology has been assisting the Iranians, denying our complicity is going to be one hell of a job. And don’t forget the Israelis. If they suffer any damage, they’ll hit back hard and fast. Do what you have to. Find the players. Shut down the supply of U.S. data being fed to the Iranians. Take down Nevski’s organization. See who and what’s behind this Jordanian connection. You won’t have any interference from U.S. security agencies. If you do, refer them to me and I’ll field them to the Man. He’s told me you have absolute authority to get what you want.”

“Knowing that is going to make it so much easier out there,” Bolan said dryly.

“Sad to see such blatant cynicism,” Kurtzman said.

Bolan pushed to his feet. “I’ll see you in thirty, Aaron. Just make sure my cell phone is fully charged.”

“Give me your details and I’ll make sure your flight is on standby,” Price said. She knew Bolan would be moving out within a short time. Going back into the hell grounds to take on yet more faceless enemies in his continuing struggle.

As he stepped by her, the soldier briefly laid a big hand on her shoulder, then he was crossing the War Room, going out through the door and she knew the mission had started.

CHAPTER TWO

London, England

Claude Stratton lived in a mews apartment in Chelsea, a double garage taking up the lower floor, with the living quarters above. Sitting in his car across the street from the enclosed courtyard, Mack Bolan judged the place to be prohibitively expensive. For someone like Stratton it would be pocket change. Bolan read the profile Stony Man had provided during his flight to the UK. It had detailed Stratton’s business ventures, his connections with various dubious organizations. Despite that, the man had never been convicted of any crime, due to the fact Stratton was a clever man. His wealth allowed him the privilege of hiring the best lawyers available and their legal machinations kept him free and clear. Stratton was able to continue in business and stay one step ahead of prosecution.

This was Bolan’s second day tailing the man, and during that time Stratton had done little to arouse suspicion. From what he had seen, Stratton lived a solitary life in London. He made few contacts during the time Bolan had been watching him, visiting exclusive stores, dining alone. If he was involved in anything big at the present time, he appeared to be playing a waiting game.

That changed late afternoon of the second day.

Bolan could see Stratton’s silver Rolls-Royce parked outside the apartment. He was debating his strategy when a dark-colored Toyota slowed and turned into the mews, pulling up behind the Rolls. A dark-haired man climbed out and pressed the bell at Stratton’s door. When the door opened Bolan caught a glimpse of Claude Stratton as the visitor stepped inside and the door closed. Bolan memorized the license plate on the Toyota. He turned on the cell phone Kurtzman had provided. It had Tri-Band connections and a dedicated e-mail interface. He logged on and established a connection, wrote and sent an e-mail request for a check on the UK registration of the Toyota. He received his reply in less than ten minutes.

The vehicle is registered to a Jason Novak, UK citizen. A check on the man revealed his business as an import-export dealer. His main client base is in the Middle East, and British Intelligence was investigating the possibility that he could be in the arms business, using his legitimate trading as cover.

Bolan logged out and switched off, checked his 93-R and exited the rental. Crossing the street, he entered the mews and walked to the big Rolls-Royce. He leaned against the side of the car and braced his heels to the ground, using his body to rock the vehicle. Nothing happened until he repeated the move, using more pressure, and heard the alarm system kick in. The shrill beeping sounded loud within the confines of the courtyard. Bolan flattened against the wall to the left of Stratton’s front door and waited.

The door was yanked open and Stratton stood with the car’s remote in his hand. He pointed it at the Rolls and depressed the button, shutting off the alarm. As he turned to reenter the apartment Bolan stepped into view, pressing the muzzle of the Beretta against Stratton’s spine and urging him forward. As soon as they were inside, Bolan pushed the door shut behind him, locking the dead bolt.

“What the hell is this?” Stratton demanded. He had a soft face, and his loose double chin quivered with indignation. Bolan didn’t miss the cold gleam in his eyes.

“Just a home visit,” Bolan said, and pushed the 93-R hard into Stratton’s soft flesh. “Keep quiet and let’s get back upstairs.”

Stratton had the sense to do what he was told and preceded Bolan up the stairs. If he had been planning any tricks, Bolan was ahead of him. As they reached the head of the stairs, the soldier edged around him and scanned the room that spread out to his left. Well appointed, with furnishings that had to have cost a small fortune, the living room had a wide window that overlooked the courtyard. Stratton’s visitor, Jason Novak, was standing at the window. His lean features paled when he saw Bolan and the weapon he was carrying.

“Claude, what the hell is going—?”

“Novak, keep the hands where I can see them,” Bolan ordered. He was running his free hand over Stratton as he spoke, checking the man for weapons and finding he was clean. “Stratton, sit over there. Do it now.”

Bolan turned his attention back to Novak. “What’s on the table today, Novak? Autorifles? RPGs? Electronic technology? You cut your deal yet?”

Novak didn’t respond, but the expression on his face told Bolan he had touched a nerve.

“Don’t tell this bastard a thing,” Stratton said.

Bolan raised a hand in Novak’s direction. “Take the jacket off.”

“What?”

“The coat. On the floor.”

Novak shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the carpet. A bolstered handgun rode his left hip, butt forward.

“Two fingers. Left hand. Take it out. Place it on the coffee table and join your pal.” Bolan picked up the revolver, a 5-shot, .44-caliber Charter Arms Bulldog. He flipped out the cylinder and let the bullets drop to the carpet. “This has to be illegal, Novak. UK has a no-handgun policy for civilians.”

“So what’s that in your hand, Yank? A stick of candy?”

“I admit to bending the rules.”

Bolan had seen the sheets of paper spread over the surface of the coffee table. He scooped them up and checked them out. One was a list of ordnance, covering a wide spectrum of weapons from handguns to autorifles, machine guns and even explosives. There were details of a port of destination in Jordan. The other sheet that caught his eye was a letter of introduction, which had been signed by Stratton. The final item was an airline ticket and hotel reservation—again the destination was Jordan.

“You guys are making this too easy for me,” Bolan said.

“I don’t know who you are,” Stratton said, sounding extremely nervous. He wasn’t used to being threatened. “But you should understand this is something you don’t want to get into.”

“Uh-huh,” Bolan said, “it’s something you should have got out of. Now it’s too late.”

“Too late? What is this crap?” Stratton asked. His attempt at bluffing failed. He tried another tack. “You realize who I am?”

Bolan shook his head. “I only heard about you recently. From what I read I haven’t missed a deal. You run errands for bottom-end terrorists. We’d call you a gofer in the States. Somebody calls, you fetch. Have I got it right?”

Stratton’s plump face reddened at the insult. “You bastard. I don’t run errands for anyone. They come to me. I…” He closed his mouth before he said too much.

“Okay, you got the drop on us,” Novak said. “So who the hell are you? A cop? Not British. American? Some agency? You can’t be CIA.”

“Why not?” Bolan asked.

Because I have some kind of Agency protection. Was that what Novak meant?

“I…”

“Jesus, Novak, shut your bloody mouth,” Stratton snapped. “Is this a rip-off?”

Bolan smiled. “You mean, a shakedown? I don’t think so, Stratton.” He folded the papers from the coffee table and slid them into a pocket inside his leather jacket.

That action forced Novak’s hand. He lunged forward, ignoring the weapon in Bolan’s hand, and cleared the coffee table in a desperate dive. One foot hit the top of the table, and he used it to propel himself at Bolan. In the fleeting moment before Novak made contact, Bolan saw Stratton move, too, pushing to his feet and turning toward an antique roll-top desk against one wall. He lost eye contact as Novak slammed into him, driving Bolan backward. They hit the room’s end wall, the soldier feeling the hard impact.

Novak clawed at Bolan’s throat, fingers attempting to gain a hold. He failed to divert his adversary’s gun hand, and it cost him when the solid bulk of the 93-R slammed down across the side of his skull. The blow dazed him, and Bolan struck again, aware that Stratton was still in the game. Novak gasped, shaking his suddenly bloody head and slackened his grip on Bolan’s throat. The soldier immediately slammed his left hand under Novak’s chin, the heel impacting hard. Novak gagged, head arcing back, and Bolan swung the Beretta one more time, steel crunching against the other man’s jaw. The blow spun Novak to one side and as he slumped to the carpet Bolan swiveled to face Stratton, and met the guy as he turned from the desk, his right fist gripping a SIG-Sauer P-226. The muzzle was already arcing in Bolan’s direction, Stratton’s flushed face taut with rage. The Executioner didn’t hesitate, his finger stroking the 93-R’s trigger. The pistol fired a suppressed 3-round burst into Stratton’s chest. He fell back against the desk, eyes widening in total shock, sliding to the floor, facedown, the P-226 spilling from his limp fingers.

CHAPTER THREE

Bolan stood in the silence, shaking his head at the sudden change in the situation. Soft to hard in a matter of seconds. No way could these events be predetermined.

He stripped off Novak’s belt and used it to secure the man’s hands behind his back. He lifted the unconscious man onto the leather couch, then bent over Stratton and took his belt. Kneeling in front of Novak, he bound the man’s ankles together.

Bolan took out his cell phone and contacted Stony Man. The connection was smooth and fast in spite of various cutouts and Bolan asked for Brognola. When the big Fed came on the line, Bolan explained the situation and made his request.

“You sure on this, Striker?” Brognola asked, then caught himself. “I know you wouldn’t be asking if you weren’t.”

“I need Stratton’s body removed and Novak in secure—and I mean secure—isolation. We remove Stratton’s Rolls from outside his place and have it hidden in a secure garage. Make it look like he’s gone on a trip. Novak’s car, as well. It might be less suspicious if his car is removed ASAP. It might give me some lead time. And Stratton’s phone needs monitoring for any incoming calls.”

“Give me his number and Aaron can access it and keep 24/7 surveillance. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment.”

“I’ll arrange the removals.”

“Novak’s flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll lay low until then. I also need a UK passport in Novak’s name with my photo and details on it. A suggestion—have the removal team arrive late in the evening. Less chance of anyone getting suspicious, or seeing it isn’t Stratton driving away. As soon as it’s done, I can leave and get back to the air base.”

“Stay close, Striker, I’ll call back with details.”

BOLAN LOCATED THE SMALL, expensively fitted kitchen and made himself a mug of coffee. He took it back to the living room and waited for Novak to regain consciousness. The man eventually roused, groaning at the pain in his head. Blood had run heavily down his face and soaked the front of his shirt. He struggled against the bonds at his wrists and ankles. He finally raised his head and stared across the room at Bolan.

“What’s your game?”

Bolan remained silent. He let it stretch, waiting until Novak looked around the room and saw Stratton’s corpse.

“Jesus, is he dead?”

“He’s dead. You can be next, Novak.”

The man shook his head. “If you wanted that, I’d already be dead. You want something. So we have a trade-off coming.”

“You can still end up like the deceased Mr. Stratton. Let’s be clear, Novak. If I can get what I want, fine. If not, I can go with what I have.”

“And what’s that?” Novak’s voice held a trace of a sneer.

“Your inventory. Your flight ticket and the reservation at Le Meridien Hotel in Aqaba, Jordan.”

“Maybe I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Then we don’t have anything to discuss,” Bolan said, and reached for the Beretta on the coffee table. “Like I said, it makes no difference to me. Two dead is just as acceptable. Actually it would make my life easier.”

BY THE TIME THE CLEANUP team arrived it was dark. Bolan had received an advance call and was there to let the four men into the apartment. They worked quickly and efficiently. Within twenty minutes Stratton’s body had been taken outside and placed in the trunk of Novak’s car. One of the men took the keys, slid behind the wheel and drove off. Novak, hands cuffed and mouth gagged, was taken out of the building and placed in the rear of the Rolls. All this was done with the minimum of fuss and at chosen moments so as not to alert anyone in the other apartments. There was only one of them that showed any light in a window, and close observation by the cleanup team ensured no one was watching. After the Rolls had driven out of the mews, the remaining member of the team handed Bolan a package.

“I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for, Cooper,” he said, using Bolan’s cover name.

“Thanks.”

They were standing in the gloom of the apartment, all the lights turned off following Stratton’s supposed departure.

“Novak?” Bolan asked.

“Don’t worry about him. Where he’s going they don’t have guest telephones. He’ll be out of circulation big-time until we get the word. Could be useful. We’ve been dying to get our hands on that character for some time. This gives us the opportunity to talk to him without his legal team breathing down our necks.”

“If you get anything that might be of use to me, I’d appreciate the information.”

“We know where to pass it along.” The man pointed at the laptop. “Likewise, anything we can use.”

“I’ll give my people the word to download the contents soon as they can.”

The apartment had offered up nothing else in the way of information. Bolan and the cleanup man slipped out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind them. They stayed out of the security light and left the quiet mews. Bolan crossed to his rental car, the cleanup man already out of sight on the far side of the street. He started the vehicle and swung it around, his destination the military airfield where he had landed in the UK.

Military Airbase, Oxford, UK

“DOWNLOAD COMPLETE,” KURTZMAN said over the com link. “We’ll go to work on the files and give you anything useful.”

“Once I get to Jordan I might be out of touch for a while. There’s no way of knowing how this is going to play out.”

“Take it easy, big guy.”

Brognola came on the line. “The package you asked for?” He was referring to the passport Bolan had requested.

“Looks good. I don’t know how far it’s going to get me,” Bolan said. “If someone over there already knows Novak…”

“This is not a good idea,” Barbara Price said over the multilink. “You’re going to walk in blind.”

“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Bolan said. “I don’t have much more to go on, so I have to take what I’ve got.”

“Just watch yourself, Striker. Backup’s here. Just remember that.”

BOLAN, DRESSED CASUALLY AND carrying a small flight bag, arrived at Heathrow Airport well ahead of his flight time. He checked in and went to the departure lounge, bought himself a light snack and a coffee, and took a seat. He used the time to go over what he had already learned from his encounter with Stratton and Novak.

Prior to the arrival of the cleanup team, Novak had given Bolan what he wanted. The destination and time of a shipment that would complete his transaction with the group based in Jordan. Novak had finally accepted his delicate position in relation to staying alive. Stratton’s unexpected death had shaken the man, and Bolan’s cool demeanor had convinced him his continuing existence was dependant on cooperation.

Armed with that and the documents he had found, Bolan was going to step into the viper’s nest willingly. It wouldn’t be the first time. He knew he was putting himself at risk, but there was no way he could control all aspects of any mission. A degree of calculated risk was there, and Bolan had to chance it. There was no other way of moving forward.

At the back of his mind lingered the suggestion of some kind of Agency involvement. And that was something that would keep the Executioner looking over his shoulder.

CHAPTER FOUR

Aqaba, Jordan

Bolan’s flight touched down in Jordan just after noon. He hailed a taxi and headed to Le Meridien Hotel, where a room had been booked for Novak. Bolan checked in, went to his room and settled down to wait. When he had collected his key card, there had been a message waiting for Mr. Novak. It had informed him that he would be contacted and to wait at the hotel until then. There wasn’t much Bolan could do until that contact was made. Nothing happened during the rest of the day, and after a meal, he turned in and slept.

BOLAN SAUNTERED OUT OF the bathroom of his hotel room, towelling his hair dry after a cooling shower. He dressed in black, lightweight clothing and lace-up boots, then crossed to look out the second-story window. The sun was already up over the busy city.

Because of the high security in Jordan, Bolan had been forced to enter the country without the benefit of weapons. He hadn’t been happy with that idea, but he had been left with little choice. Somehow he was going to have to get his hands on some weapons.

As he considered his options, there was a light tap on his door.

“Who is it?”

“Clean towels, sir.”

When Bolan cautiously opened the door he was confronted by a lean man in a creased, cream linen suit. The man held a well-used Browning Hi-Power pistol, and was pointing it directly at Bolan.

“Please step back, Mr. Novak,” the man said politely. “I would hate to have to shoot you out here.”

Bolan retreated. The man knew his business. He stayed far enough away from Bolan to avoid being jumped while keeping the 9 mm gun on target. However much he might have disliked the situation Bolan wasn’t reckless enough to try to take the gun away from the man just yet. Not until he had gained some information at least.

The man followed Bolan inside, pushing the door shut with the heel of one worn and scuffed brown shoe. The cuffs of his pants were grubby around their frayed edges, and the overlong legs dragged on the floor when he stood still.

“Am I supposed to be expecting you?” Bolan asked. “Or is this just some local custom?”

The man’s wrinkled brown face creased into a semblance of a smile. “You had a message waiting when you arrived?”

Bolan nodded. “It said to wait, so I waited.” He turned and indicated his breakfast cart that had arrived minutes earlier. “You mind if I finish my coffee before it goes cold?”

The man gestured with the Browning, then went and sat on the other side of the room, the gun still trained on Bolan.

“You want any?”

The man shook his head. His black hair was worn thick and long, and kept sliding over his left eye. He brushed it back with a flick of his hand.

Bolan drank his coffee. “You know who I am.”

“Forgive me. I am Salim.”

“And your job is to…?”

Salim smiled. “I am your escort.”

“Why the gun?”

“To maintain mutual trust and ensure your good heath.”

“You speak good English.”

“Thank you. For an Englishman you have a very good American accent.”

Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time over there. I do a lot of business with the Yanks. Goes down better if they understand what I’m saying.”

“I need to see your passport and a certain letter.”

Bolan handed over the items and watched the man study them. Finally satisfied, Salim pushed them into a pocket.

“Time to go,” he said.

Bolan pulled on his jacket. They left the room and made their way out of the hotel lobby without incident. Once outside, Salim guided Bolan to a black Audi. A solidly built man sat at the wheel. All Bolan saw were wide, powerful shoulders and a shaved head set on a thick neck.

“In the back,” Salim said. He followed Bolan inside, then spoke in rapid Arabic to the driver. The Audi swung around and out of the hotel parking area, merging with the traffic.

“Are we doing business, Salim? Or are we just going to tour the city?”

“Enjoy, Mr. Novak. This is a beautiful city. Look at the architecture. The sea.”

“I can do that on the travel channel.”

“True, but not with all the ingredients. Television is a false medium. Not real. Like you, Mr. Novak. It only pretends to be what is is.”

In that instant Bolan knew his claim to be Jason Novak hadn’t been believed. He was ready to make a move when Salim suddenly lashed out with the Browning Hi-Power, striking him across the skull.

BOLAN AWOKE IN A SHADED room that held the stale odors of casual existence in the dusty shadows and a scent of danger that heightened his awareness.

He sat up, leaned against the wall at his back and took a look around. Shabby furniture occupied a shabby room. Sunlight permeated the thin blinds drawn across the windows. He was facing the door and as he focused his eyes, pushing back the dull ache from where Salim had struck him, he saw the man watching him. Salim said something and a second figure materialized from the far side of the room. The driver. On his feet he was tall. His dark features held an expression that suggested he was more than ready to inflict harm on Bolan.

“Tell me where Novak is. And refrain from maintaining this deception. I know you are not Novak. Your false identity was spotted at the airport. Whatever your intention, it has failed.”

“It got you out in the open.”

“Much good that will do.”

“The game isn’t over yet, Salim.”

“If I shoot you now, it will most certainly be over.”

Bolan ignored that. “I’d guess you need to know why I took Novak’s place.”

Salim stepped forward. “And you are going to tell me.” It wasn’t a question. “I am also still curious about Novak himself. Is he dead?”

“I’m sure you’d like that to be true. Novak dead means he can’t talk about you and your people. Sorry, but he’s very much alive. The people who have him are very good at getting what they want. He’ll tell them everything in time.”

Salim closed in on Bolan, raising the pistol in his hand. “Death comes quickly in this country. Life can be cheap.”

“But not from you, Salim. You need my secrets. Kill me, and you’ll never find out what I’ve learned about your organization.”

“Nothing. You know nothing.” The words were spit out in an angry moment. He didn’t believe Bolan. Salim was eager to inflict harm, but something held him back and the soldier figured he had his orders. His threats were threats and little more.

“Your employers believe that? Razihra? Yamir Kerim? Anatoly Nevski? Hard men to keep happy I’d say.”

Bolan was deliberately goading Salim, using names he hoped would get a reaction. And they did. Salim failed to conceal his surprise. The man was nervous. Excitable. He turned and said something to his helper. The big man came forward, his large hands forming even larger fists.

“You will tell me all you know,” Salim said. “I need to understand.”

Bolan pushed slowly to his feet, watching the advancing figure. The man was slow, his movements heavy. No fast mover, Bolan realized. He’d work on that. The man depended on his strength, not his speed.

Salim was urging on his man now, his Arabic racing out in a continuous stream. The guy reached behind him and produced a broad knife. He cut the air with it to show Bolan what was coming.

“Yusef is very skilled with the blade,” Salim said. “He can cut you and you will still live. Save yourself the pain and give me what I need.”

Yusef leaned forward, the gleaming steel blade threatening Bolan.

“It is not too late.”

Bolan ignored Salim’s taunt. He stayed where he was a second longer, then spun hard and went low, driving a clenched fist into Yusef’s groin, catching him unprotected. Bolan’s fist went in deep, drawing a high yell from the guy. While Yusef’s attention was centered on his pain, his stride faltered and Bolan reached out, grabbing the wrist of the knife hand. His grip secured, the Executioner turned his back on the guy, twisting the arm and bringing it across his shoulder so that when he applied unrelenting pressure against the natural bend of the arm, bone snapped.

The knife slipped from loose fingers. Keeping hold of the wrist, Bolan turned, staring directly into the face of the moaning assailant, then launched a crippling punch that crunched the side of Yusef’s jaw with force enough to fracture the bone. The guy went down on his knees, lost in his new world of pain, blood dribbling from a slack mouth where teeth had dug into his cheek. Bolan slammed a brutal, sledgehammer blow to the back of Yusef’s neck and he flopped to the floor and lay still.

Salim had moved up behind Yusef, not wanting to miss what was supposed to happen to the American. When Yusef went down, Salim was left exposed. Before he could recover, Bolan was on him. He closed his left hand over the barrel of the pistol, twisted hard. Salim’s trigger finger, caught in the guard, snapped like a twig. He howled in pain and didn’t stop until Bolan backhanded him across the side of the face, the blow stunning the man. Salim started to transfer his pistol to his other hand and Bolan kicked his feet from under him, dropping him to the dirty floor. He bent and took the pistol from Salim.

Bolan stepped close, running skilled hands over the man as he checked for more weapons. He found a couple of filled magazines for the Browning and little else except for some coins and crumpled banknotes. He found his passport and the Novak letter, which he retrieved. He slipped the Browning mags into his pocket. Taking hold of Salim’s coat Bolan pulled him across the room and swung him into a sagging cane chair. He raised the man’s head and stared into his pain-dulled eyes.

“Is this the way it works, Salim?”

The man in the chair clutched his broken finger and shook his head. Up close his brown face was a mass of fine wrinkles, his slack jaw unshaved and he was sweating heavily.

“Maybe I should break the rest of your fingers. Just to show you I don’t play games.” The man shrank away Bolan. “Your choice,” the Executioner said. “Personally, I don’t care if I have to break both your legs, as well.”

“You are a cruel man.”

Bolan found it hard to hold back a smile. “That from the guy who just tried to have a knife stuck in me? What was that, a local greeting?”

“That was business. Nothing personal.”

“Wrong there, friend. When someone comes at me with a knife, it gets very personal.” Bolan straightened, regarding the man silently, waiting.

“What do you expect of me? Should I tell you who wants you dead?”

“It would be a start. Right now all I want to know is where they are.”

“You expect me to take you to them?”

“Why not?”

“You expect me to betray them? That will never happen.”

“Wrong answer. I’m not happy with that and you are getting closer to having something else broken. Maybe I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with.”

Salim’s eyes widened and the man sweated even more. He regarded the tall, cold-eyed American closely. The man had a look about him that indicated he meant what he said. He handled the pistol with authority, and it was plain to see he had killed before.

Salim, in fact, had a long acquaintance with violence. It had been his business for many years. In that time he had come up against many men of violence, and he had dispatched many of them. Always in the line of work. Never with any personal animosity. His killing trade was just that—his trade. He worked quickly and efficiently, mostly with his knife because it was that weapon he had mastered at an early age. He had killed his first victim when he was fifteen and ever since it had been the way he had earned his livelihood. Salim had an excellent reputation among his people. In some quarters he was feared. Others envied him his skill and his discretion. Yet here he was another man’s prisoner. The man he had been paid to capture. It was, above everything else, humiliating. To have been overpowered and wounded by an American. If the story got out, Salim would lose much of his status.

“So if you will kill me, do it. There is nothing I can tell you.”

Bolan backed away, turning to peer through the window. The narrow, sunlit street below had little traffic. Between the houses he could see the glittering water, boats bobbing gently. Here, away from the tourist hotels and the busy shops, life went on its slow-paced way. Just as it probably had for a thousand years. Change here was slow to the extreme. It didn’t stop the shadow people from plying their back-street trade in arms dealing. Weapons were always in demand, and the enterprise was thriving. The merchandise was no longer the usual crates of Kalashnikovs and RPGs. The stakes were far higher.

Nuclear stakes.

“If they know I’m not Novak, they must be concerned,” Bolan said. “Worried I might be close to discovering something about them. Like the location of the desert camp.”

Bolan watched Salim’s eyes as he spoke. Though he tried not to, Salim made an involuntary movement with his head when Bolan mentioned the camp.

“There is nothing to say,” Salim muttered, avoiding looking directly at the big American.

“I’ll be sure to let your employers know you helped me find them. Yamir Kerim especially.”

Salim became instantly alert, eyes wide with alarm. “You cannot do this…”

“You haven’t told me anything. Yet. But you will.”

Bolan let his words hang in the silence that followed. He could almost sense Salim’s mind working overtime, assessing and debating which way to go. He was caught in a dead end. No matter which way he turned, he was facing threats. Bolan on one side, Kerim on the other.

“Why should this happen to me? I only offer my services as a business. Not to become involved like this.” His voice had taken on a whining tone as he tried to worm his way into Bolan’s sympathy. “I am just a poor man struggling to make a living.”

“About now might be a good time to consider a change of occupation.”

Salim stared at the American. When he looked deep into the hard blue eyes he saw no consideration. Only the steady gaze of a man who knew his own mind.

“What do you want from me? If I offer you information, how do I know you will not betray me?”

“I don’t go back on my word. All I want is to find the camp. Give that to me and I’ll let you go.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Bolan leaned in close, his blue eyes looking directly into Salim’s.

“I never lie. If I give my word, I don’t go back on it.”

Salim knew instinctively that the American was telling the truth. There was no guile in his voice. It was that of an honest man, which was something of a novelty in Salim’s world. He lived in the shadows, surrounded by lies and cheating. Truth and honesty were items in short supply, so to be confronted by such things left him briefly at a loss for words.

“You tell the truth? What guarantee do I have?”

“How about I let you live.”

Salim recalled how easily this man had broken Yusef’s arm. The easy way of violence was in him.

“What do you want?”

“Get me to the camp. I need to go there. If you don’t I’ll kill you here. Now.”

“If I do this, you will set me free?”

“As I said, you walk away. No strings.”

Salim sighed. He had little choice. If he gave this American what he wanted, at least he would have his life. He would need to have his injuries attended to, collect his money from his apartment and take the first coach heading up country. He could always find work. His expertise was always in demand. After that…

“Do I need to explain what will happen if you betray me?” Bolan asked. “Just remember one thing. I’m very good at finding people.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Bolan hired a high-end Range Rover from a Jordanian rental company. The vehicle was fitted with satellite navigation, had climate control and a digital communications setup. Bolan, carrying a couple of cameras he had picked up from a local store, said he was scouting locations for a movie.

“Do you think they believed you?” Salim asked as he accompanied Bolan from the rental office.

“They believed the money I handed over.”

“Only an American would say such a thing,” Salim said.

“You didn’t take on your contract for money?”

Salim shrugged. “Perhaps it came into the picture a little.”

The rental assistant showed them around the gleaming vehicle. “It is very new, Mr. Cooper.” He was fussing over the Range Rover, rubbing a smudge with his sleeve. “Only a few hundred miles on the clock.”

“We’ll take good care of it,” Bolan said. “We are just going for a short trip.”

“The tank is full. You have spare cans of petrol and water in the rear. You understand how to operate the satellite navigation?”

“America is a big country, too,” Bolan said. “We use them all the time.”

“Then have a good trip and be safe.”

They climbed in and Bolan fired up the powerful engine. He eased away from the rental lot onto the smooth tarmac of the highway.

“Head north for now,” Salim said. He was hunched in his seat, keeping his head low, cradling his broken finger. Bolan had allowed him to go to a local drugstore to purchase a bandage to bind it. Coming out, Bolan had spotted rack of long-billed baseball caps and bought one.

“Are you expecting to be recognized?”

“If you expect the worst, it isn’t so much of a surprise when it comes.”

Salim was left to figure that one out.

THEY STAYED WITH THE HIGHWAY for an hour before Salim directed Bolan off-road. The flat Jordanian desert stretched out on all sides, wide and dusty, with little vegetation. The afternoon was hot. What wind there was blew gritty dust across the parched land. It hissed along the Range Rover’s sides and peppered the windows. According to Salim they were moving in a northeasterly direction. Bolan activated the sat-nav and the screen flickered into life. The readout pinpointed their position and when Bolan ran a check he found they were on a northeasterly setting.

“You did not believe me,” Salim said. “I do not need machines to tell me where I am.”

“I guess not,” Bolan said.

Salim fell silent. He kept looking in Bolan’s direction, but said nothing. The only time he spoke was to direct Bolan’s line of travel.

When it became dark Bolan slowed. The sat-nav would keep him on course but he didn’t want to risk hitting some unseen pothole or deep depression. After a couple of hours, the moon rose and bathed the landscape in a cold light. Bolan finally stopped. He was ready for a break after almost five hours driving. Beside him Salim sat up, staring around.

“Why have we stopped? Is someone out there?”

“I need a break, is all,” Bolan said, taking the key from the ignition.

He opened his door and climbed out, working the stiffness from his body. The desert spoke in its eternal whisper. The movement of the wind stirred the sand, rattling the sparse and dry grass. In truth the desert was never silent. It had a voice all its own and it was the same voice that had spoken for a thousand years. Bolan moved away from the Range Rover, feeling the still warm wind tug at his clothing. He felt Salim at his side, the man gazing out across the empty place.

“What do you hear?” Bolan asked.

“It is the song of the desert,” Salim said. “The sound that draws men to this place. They say it can bewitch a man. Make him follow the sound until he is lost. Did you know, American, that the desert is a woman? She has the power to lure men into her heart and turn them mad with her song. Do you believe that?”

“I believe a man could get himself lost out here. And be lonely. Put those together and a man could start to hear things. Maybe see what wasn’t there.”

“You see. I was right. The desert is a cruel mistress.”

Bolan understood the man’s feel for the desolate space. At the same time beautiful and indifferent, it had the timeless appeal of all great empty places. With no distractions, barely any sound, the desert could cast its hypnotic spell and isolate a man. Cut off from the reality of normal existence it would be easy to start imagining things. Bolan pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the present, where he needed to stay alert. He smiled to himself. Maybe he had been letting Salim’s desert get to him. An all too easy condition to submit to. But not one he could afford to give in to.

His mission in Jordan wasn’t to admire his surroundings, but to locate the isolated camp being used by Razihra’s group. He had a job to do. It was his priority. His focus had to be on that and nothing else.

Bolan turned to see that Salim was inside the vehicle, leaning back in the seat, his head resting against the window. The man was a strange one. Hard to figure, except in the respect that Bolan didn’t trust him fully. Salim had already changed sides once. Why wouldn’t he do it again if the opportunity presented itself? Bolan considered that and figured he had it just right. The man had no loyalty, except to himself. He was of that breed who worked one against the other. Salim would never tread the middle ground. Both sides of the street were fair game. He could only be bought for what was the current rate. If the pay went up in the opposite camp, Salim would choose to step over the line. Bolan had no doubts on that.

He climbed back inside the Range Rover, taking the rear seat so he could watch Salim. The man made no signs he had heard Bolan return to the vehicle. He was either a heavy sleeper, or a good actor. Bolan went with the second option and played along. He settled in the corner of the seat, making a play of taking out the Browning and cocking it. Now he sat with the pistol resting in his lap, the muzzle pointing at the back of Salim’s seat.

THEY MOVED OUT AS SOON as it was light. Bolan had dozed lightly, always conscious of Salim’s presence. The man had stirred a number of times during the night, perhaps in sleep, or to test Bolan’s response. Each time the man moved the soldier had responded by making sure the Browning could be seen. Eventually, Salim had slept soundly.

Bolan splashed water from a canteen on his face and drank a little. He allowed Salim the same privilege, but the man only swallowed a little of the water before resuming his seat. He seemed to have lapsed into a sullen mood, speaking only when he needed to offer directions, and Bolan had little he wanted to say to the man.

Midmorning Salim indicated they should stop. Bolan guided the Rover into a low, dry wadi and switched off the engine.

“Are we near?”

“Close enough that we should leave the vehicle here and walk.”

“How long?”

“Maybe two hours.”

“We’d better fill those canteens in back,” Bolan said.

He climbed out of the vehicle and followed Salim to the rear, then stood back, the Browning in his hand. Salim stared at the weapon.

“What is this? Suddenly you need to keep a gun on me?”

“You never know who might be waiting over the next rise. I’m just being cautious.”

“Then you should watch me in case I poison your water.”

“I will.”

They moved out, Salim in the lead, stopped to fill the canteens hanging from his shoulders. Bolan, his baseball cap pulled low to cover his face, walked a few paces behind. The Browning was tucked into his belt.

The first hour went by quickly. After that their pace slowed and even Salim seemed affected by the heat. He trudged to a near stop until Bolan caught up and prodded him.

“Yes, yes. You do not have to push me. Am I a camel?”

“A camel would be better company.”

“Ha, ha.” The exclamation was harsh, the derogatory meaning clear.

“Just keep moving, Salim.”

“And what if I refuse to go farther? What then? Could you find this place without me?”

Bolan’s silence made Salim turn. He saw the big man looking at the sky, his right hand resting on the pistol in his belt. Despite his curiosity Salim still managed to persist in his question.

“What now? Have you not heard my words? That you will never find the camp without me?”

“I have a feeling your time as a guide could be over. My guess is I don’t need to be shown where the camp is. I think they just sent us an invitation. And a ride.”

Salim followed Bolan’s gaze and saw the dark shape coming at them from the empty sky. A shape that rapidly formed into the outline of a helicopter.

Salim picked up the distinctive beat of the rotors. The sound grew in volume as the aircraft swept toward them, the rotors stirring up great clouds of dusty sand that peppered them with its gritty hardness. The helicopter made a firm landing. Bolan recognized it as a Westland Lynx. By its faded, dun color it was an ex-military aircraft, much used but still serviceable. The side hatch slid open and armed figures jumped out, covering Bolan and Salim. A lean figure dressed in khaki shirt and pants, and wearing a checkered kaffiyeh, came forward, raising a hand in Salim’s direction.

“Salaam aleikum, my brother. I see you have brought our guest safely this far.” The man turned to Bolan. “Novak? You have changed greatly since the last time we met. I am Yamir Kerim. Do you not recognize me?” Kerim was smiling as he spoke, amusing himself at revealing Bolan’s ploy. He looked at the pistol in Bolan’s belt and reached out and took it. “You will not be needing this. I would not want you to come into our camp armed. It would be looked on as an insult. You understand that some of the men are not as worldly wise as we. They live by the old rules of hospitality, you understand.”

“We wouldn’t want to upset them then. Would we, Mr. Kerim.”

Kerim’s face hardened. He heard the coldness in Bolan’s words. Saw the contempt in the blue eyes. “Your arrogance defines you as an American. Only one of your kind would dare to try and walk into my camp and then insult me as if I was nothing but an ignorant Arab. Isn’t that how you see us? All of us from this region? Dirty, ignorant Arabs? You class us all as one type. Perhaps, American, you need a lesson in the geography of where you are.”

“And you’re the man to teach me?”

“Perhaps I am.” Kerim nodded in agreement. “Yes, perhaps I am.”

CHAPTER SIX

The flight was short and, as far as Bolan was concerned, one of the roughest he had ever experienced. Kerim’s men had manhandled him to the helicopter. He had been thrown inside, the men using their boots to force him to the deck. Bolan hadn’t fought back. That would have resulted in far worse injuries than those he did receive. During the flight, he was dragged upright and subjected to a beating that left him bruised and bloody. The assault only stopped when the helicopter made its landing and Bolan was hauled outside. He was dragged by a couple of the men as they followed Kerim to the largest of the tents that formed the camp. He was pulled inside and thrown to the sand floor.

Kerim stood in front of a wooden desk, arms folded, waiting for Bolan to climb to his feet. Salim stood to one side, trying to appear relaxed. His eyes told a different story. Even in his dazed condition Bolan realized things had moved a little faster than even Salim had expected.

“So,” Kerim began. “We know at least that you are not Novak. So who are you? Or should I be asking, what are you? Obviously some kind of undercover operative working for…?”

“This could be a long day,” Bolan said.

“He would not tell me his real name,” Salim said eagerly.

Kerim shook his head. “His name doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we have him. Oh, I forgot, American, an old friend is here to see you, too.”

Someone moved out of the shadows at the far end of the tent and into the light. Bolan saw Yusef, Salim’s driver. His broken arm was encased in a plaster cast. His face was badly swollen and bruised where Bolan had hit him. It explained how they had known he was coming.

“Forgive Yusef if he does not express much pleasure at seeing you,” Kerim said. “He is still in great pain. Though he says little, he does hold a grudge.”

Bolan remained silent. He realized he wasn’t going to gain very much by getting into a vocal trade-off with Kerim. His prime concern now was to get himself out of their hands and make his attempt to destroy their nuclear cache before it could be moved on. To antagonize his captors was to invite the threat of an early death. Bolan had no plans for that to happen, so it was time to tread lightly until he could make his break.

“Contrary to what you might believe, we are not stupid. Since your involvement with our affairs suggests you work for one of the American agencies, it is important to us that we learn about you. Agreed?”

Bolan remained silent.

Yusef leaned forward and spoke softly into Kerim’s ear. Kerim raised a hand and nodded. “Yusef asks if he may be included in your interrogation. I understand his motive. He wants to hurt you. Tell me, should I accede to his wishes?”

“His risk.”

Kerim smiled. He turned and spoke to Yusef. The big man lunged at Bolan, his good arm flailing as he lashed out. Bolan attempted to step back but the armed men behind blocked his movement and the heavy blow rocked his head, knocking him to the ground. Yusef went after him, slamming his powerful fist into Bolan’s side. The blows came hard and on a regular basis, sending shock waves of pain through Bolan. He could hear Yusef’s ragged breathing as the man expressed his rage through the assault.

Kerim finally put a stop to it, the guards intervening to push Yusef back. Bolan stayed on his knees, sucking in breath through clenched teeth. He could taste the blood in his mouth from where Yusef’s first blow had cut his lip. A command from Kerim and the guards hauled Bolan upright and back to where he had been standing before Yusef’s attack.

“So, Yusef is at risk? Yes?”

“He won’t do that again.”

Kerim seemed to find this amusing. “You are extremely confident, American. Or very naive. You are aware of your position here? I am in control. You are the captive. Yet you prefer to see it differently by giving me ultimatums.”

“It kind of makes you wonder.”

The man’s face lost all of its humor. “Enough of this. Time to give me the answers I require. As in, who do you work for? How much information have you gained concerning our operation? Believe me, you should be advised to tell me what you have sooner rather than later. Holding out will only prolong your suffering. I am indifferent to that. In the end we will only kill you, so believe me when I say this place is where you end your days. There is no going back from here.”

Just behind Kerim, the impatient Yusef was making an effort to hold himself back. From the expression on his bruised face he wasn’t doing a very good job. His free hand was clenching and unclenching. Bolan knew he couldn’t take the kind of punishment the man handed out indefinitely. Yusef’s interrogation technique was crude, but effective. If he was allowed free rein he would eventually beat Bolan to death. A simple fact. Inescapable but true. Kerim wanted answers. If he kept Yusef on the interrogation, he might lose Bolan altogether. The soldier had nothing to tell the man, but Kerim had no way of knowing that. He would keep Bolan alive for as long as he thought necessary.

Kerim noticed Bolan’s glance in Yusef’s direction. He made up his mind and flicked a hand to motion Yusef forward, speaking to him quietly. Yusef nodded and moved in Bolan’s direction.

“Keep him away from me,” Bolan said.

“Or?”

“Or you’re going to need a new dog to bark for you.”

Kerim translated Bolan’s words for Yusef, which galvanized the big man into action. He came at Bolan in a rush, his uncoordinated lunge avoidable. The Executioner didn’t step away this time. He waited, tensed, and as Yusef loomed large, he struck.

His first blow was a savage strike at Yusef’s throat, the crushing jab collapsing the man’s cartilage and windpipe. Yusef came to a sudden halt, gasping as he vainly attempted to inhale through his ruined airway. He was still trying when Bolan’s second blow landed, coming up from his waist, the upturned heel of his right hand impacting with Yusef’s nose, driving bone shards into his brain. A gush of blood from the shattered nose spread out across Yusef’s face as he toppled back, dying even as he fell. His body curved in a single spasm before he lay spread-eagled at Kerim’s feet.

Bolan stepped back, his gaze fixed on Kerim’s face. For an instant there was a gleam of respect in the man’s eyes. He recovered quickly, snapping his fingers at the two guards.

“Enough of this. Take him away. Put him with the other prisoner and they can convince each other it will be best they cooperate. I will talk to him later.”

Kerim’s dismissal was complete. He turned away to deal with other matters as the armed guards escorted Bolan from the tent.

Walking just in front of the guards Bolan took the opportunity to look around the camp. Tents and parked vehicles. The helicopters on the slight rise beyond the main area. A couple of stone buildings, one, just beyond a low stone wall, well guarded. He was taken away from the tents to a single stone building with barred windows and a heavy wooden door. The door was opened and Bolan pushed inside. A filthy passage led down to another door, which was barred from the outside. While one man covered Bolan with his rifle the other freed the door and held it open. The muzzle of an AK forced the big American in through the door. He was given a final push, sending him to his knees in the middle of the cell. Behind him the door was slammed shut and the bolts rammed home.

Bolan heard a slight movement on the far side of the cell. He glanced up and realized he wasn’t alone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bolan pushed to his feet and checked out his cell partner.

The man was of medium height, with wide shoulders and lean hips. He was clad in torn, stained black clothing that was covered by a loose robe. His neat black beard framed a light brown face that had undergone recent hard treatment. Bruises and bloody cuts marked his flesh and his hooked nose was badly swollen. Dried blood crusted his mouth. He regarded Bolan with a fierce stare. His dark eyes held an undiminished gleam that his rough treatment hadn’t dimmed.

“Do you speak English?” Bolan asked. “I ask because my Arabic is not good.”

“Of course I speak English,” the other replied in a tone that suggested he was talking to a child. “Do you think I am just another desert savage?”

“No, I was hoping to make conversation with a fellow warrior.” Bolan had recognized the configuration of the man’s dress. The black garb and flowing robes, the Jalabiyya, of a Bedouin. His head was covered by the traditional Arab kaffiyeh, the black cloth held in place by the double-corded agal. The man’s interest brought him closer, examining Bolan’s own black attire. “You are a warrior, too?”

“So I’ve been told, though I would never class myself in the same league as a true Bedouin.”

The man straightened, staring into Bolan’s eyes. His expression showed approval. His stance, though regal, wasn’t from vanity. The Bedouin tribes, though much decimated, were men of enduring pride in their long and noble history. Monarchs of the desert lands, they had once been many, ruling their dusty kingdoms with a fierceness little could equal. Reduced to dwindling numbers and with many of their kind having deserted the almost barren terrain, the few who remained close to their roots upheld the nobility of their past and retained their customs.

“You are American?”

“Yes.”

“They know of the Bedu in America?”

“Men of wisdom and influence know of the Bedouin. Of their history. Their great deeds.”

“Good. I am Ali bin Sharif of the Rwala.”

The Rwala, Bolan recalled, were one of the Bedouin tribes who wandered the dusty terrain of Syria and Jordan and the northern parts of Saudi Arabia.

“Then I am in good company,” Bolan said.

“How are you called, American?”

“Cooper is my name.”

Sharif spoke the name to himself, nodding as he registered the strange word.

“If they have brought you to this pigpen, Cooper, then you must be an enemy of these dogs, as I am.”

Bolan smiled at that. “No doubt about that, Ali bin Sharif. I am their enemy.”

“Then we are allies.”

“How did you come to be in this place?”

“Two of my fellow warriors and I stumbled across this place. We rode in asking for water and we were attacked. My friends were shot down in front of me even though we came in friendship.”

The Bedouin had moved to stand and stare out through the tiny square in the wall that served as the only window in the cell. Bolan sensed he was stifled within the confines of the room, longing to be back in his wide, clean desert.

“If we stay, they are going to kill us,” Sharif said as he turned, reluctantly, from the window. “I know this. They took great delight in telling me I would die when they poison me with the weapon they plan to use against the Israelis.”

Bolan tensed. “Tell me what you have heard, bin Sharif. It is important that I know.”

“Did you see the stone building standing on its own? Just beyond the wall?”

When he had arrived Bolan had made a silent appraisal of the camp’s layout. Recon was important when it came time to effect an escape, something always at the forefront of Bolan’s mind whenever he found himself disadvantaged. Thinking ahead and formulating an escape route could make the difference between staying free—or failing completely.

“Look beyond the window,” Sharif said. “At the eastern edge of the camp. Do you see the wall?”

Bolan nodded. “And the square stone building thirty feet out?”

“Yes. In there they store weapons. Guns and ammunition. Explosives. And the weapon they will kill the Jews with. Those Iraqi dogs who yapped at Hussein’s heels showed me. They delivered it here for the Iranians to use. They said it would make me scream like a child as I died. Ha, they must not be aware I am Rwala, of the Bedu.”

“What did this weapon look like? Liquid? Was it gas in cylinders?”

“In round glass balls. Big enough to fill my palm. Inside was a green-colored liquid. One of those Fedayeen laughed in my face when he told me one drop would spread all across my body and eat me alive.”

A reactive bioagent that became active when it made contact with living tissue. Bolan had heard about the varying strains of biological weapons, created in labs by men to use against other men. Another of the vile products of the endless search man immersed himself in to destroy his own kind. He wondered briefly where the Iranians had gotten hold of this particular strain. Not that it mattered right now. The where could come later.

“Did they say where it would be used in Israel?”

He shook his head. “If they send it into Israel it will set this whole region alight. Iraq. Iran. Why cannot these fools be satisfied with what they have? When will they be content? Only when we are all fighting each other? Or dead and the desert is rid of us all?”

“Ali, we can stand around all day discussing the worst. Or we can get out of this place and stop what these men are planning.”

The Bedouin thought about it for only a moment. “You are right, Cooper. So what is your wonderful plan that will release us from this miserable dung pit?”

“The truth?”

“Always.”

“I have no plan.”

Sharif smiled, stroking his dark beard and said, “Then we must do it anyway.”

“Do they feed you?”

Sharif laughed. “If you can call it food. I believe it is the slop that even the camp dogs refuse to eat. But they say I must eat to keep up my strength. So that when they use their chemical I will be strong and resist better.”

“That suggests they’re not sure of its power. They need to test it.”

“Is that good?”

“It means they may not have worked out how to use it. So there might not be a date for attacking Israel. It gives us an edge.”

Sharif frowned. “An edge?”

“Time to destroy the cache.”

Sharif grunted, deep in his own thoughts. “If we could break free and gather my brothers, we could return and attack this place.”

“My own thoughts exactly.”

“You have seen the helicopters they possess. They would track us.”

“The Bedu aren’t afraid of helicopters,” Bolan said.

Sharif slapped him on the shoulder. “Of course not. If you believe that then I am not the only mad one in this cell.”

They waited. According to Sharif, midday was when his food was delivered. Bolan’s watch showed they weren’t far from that time.

He sank down on his heels, his back to the wall, and let his body relax, conserving his energy. He still hurt from the punishment he had received from Yusef. The only good thing to come from his recent confrontation with Kerim was being locked up with Sharif. Kerim deciding to delay his interrogation might yet prove to be Bolan’s way out of his current situation. While his body rested, his mind was busy, evaluating the information he had gathered since becoming fully involved in the convoluted twists of the mission. There was a repeated strain of deceit embedded within the relationships he had come in contact with. Mistrust permeated every strand. No one was comfortable with the next in line. It loosened the secrecy that should have knit the whole thing together, allowing Bolan to extract information with less effort than he might have expected. It also meant those involved were acutely nervous and liable to hit out unexpectedly. Sudden violence was chosen as the swiftest way of resolving problems. Bolan was always aware of that during mission time so he never took anything for granted. There were still times when even his keen awareness failed him. He had only to look around the cell to confirm that.

“Cooper.”

Bolan glanced across at Sharif. The Bedouin nodded in the direction of the cell door. He picked up the soft whisper of footsteps moving in the direction of the cell, a murmur of voices.

“We have a choice. Die of poisoning from the execrable food they are bringing, or the cleaner death from a bullet.”

Pushing to his feet Bolan lounged against the rough wall, head down, and he remained in that position as the door was unbolted and pushed wide. Sunlight streamed into the cell, bright, with swirling dust motes in the hot shafts. Then the fall of light was partially blocked by a man carrying an AK-47. He paused to check the position of the two prisoners, then stepped aside to let a second man enter. This one carried two wooden bowls of steaming food. He bent and placed them on the floor.

Sharif began to berate the two guards in wild, explosive Arabic. Bolan didn’t know what he was saying, but the tone and phrasing suggested he was delving deep into his knowledge of his language’s obscenities. The unexpected outburst delivered in a ringing volume caught the guards by surprise, if only for a fraction of time. In those scant seconds each man turned his startled gaze on the ranting Bedouin.

With only the briefest opening Bolan moved, powering himself away from the wall to launch a blistering strike at the guard with the rifle. His sweeping kick drove the toe of his combat boot into the guy’s groin, producing a shocked grunt. The guard began to double over, tears welling from his bugging eyes. Bolan slammed his bunched right fist into the exposed throat, feeling flesh and bone cave in under the unrestrained power of the strike. The choking guard fell back against the open door, wide-open eyes seeing nothing. He offered no resistance as Bolan stepped in close, snapped an arm around his neck and yanked the guy off his feet. As they dropped, Bolan spun the helpless guard back across his knee and snapped his spine. The guard uttered a final gurgle of agony as his entire body became limp.

As Bolan took the AK-47 from the dead guard, Sharif went for the second man as he grabbed for the pistol holstered on his belt. The Bedouin moved with the speed of a striking snake, one big hand clamping over the guard’s pistol, preventing him from lifting it, the other driving full-force into the man’s face. The solid impact of the blow was accompanied by the sound of breaking bone as the guard’s nose was crushed into a bloody pulp. Without pause Sharif hit the guard again, this time delivering a hefty punch that drove the target’s lips into his teeth and snapped his head back. Sharif snatched the guard’s heavy weapon from his belt and used it to hammer the guy’s skull, driving him to the floor.

Following Bolan’s lead, the Bedouin dragged the downed guard away from the door and deeper into the cell. Bolan crouched beside his man and checked him for additional weapons. He was going to have to be content with the AK. The 30-round magazine had a second taped to it for quick reload.

“Tell me about this gun, Cooper,” Sharif said, thrusting the pistol at the American.

Bolan checked it out. It was a 9 mm Glock 17, with an extended 31-round magazine. He made sure the safety was off, then handed it back to Sharif.

“Just aim and pull the trigger,” he said. “Thirty-one bullets in the mag.”

“Like this one?” Sharif asked, showing Bolan a second magazine he had pulled from the guard’s belt.

Bolan nodded. “When the magazine is empty the slide will lock back. Press here and the empty mag drops out. Snap in the fresh one, release here and you’re ready to go again.”

Sharif nodded. “I understand.”

They left the cell and moved down the passage to the main door. Bolan eased it open so he could check outside. Their most likely mode of transport was one of the dusty trucks.

“See the trucks?”

“Yes.”

“That’s our way out. We break for them.”

Sharif considered the suggestion. “But the weapon they have stored?”

“If we can get clear, we reorganize and come back.”

“If we can reach my camp, there are others there who would help.”

“Let’s do it, Ali.”

BOLAN MADE A FINAL SCAN of the camp, seeing the tented area off to the right, the parked vehicles across to the left. Between the lockup and the vehicles the ground was open, uneven, a rocky stretch that would offer little in the way of cover. It was far from ideal but there was no alternative. If he and Sharif were going to make their escape they needed a vehicle. On foot they would be an easy target if one of the helicopters came looking for them.

The only thing in their favor was the fact that being the middle of the day, the occupants of the camp had retreated to the comparative coolness of their tents. Bolan silently thanked the collective thinking that had created this siesta-like observance. Apart from an unfortunate sentry on the far perimeter and a second man standing in the shade provided by one of the helicopters, there was no sign of the camp occupants.

“Ready, Ali bin Sharif?”

The Bedouin shrugged, a fatalistic gesture that expressed his feelings. “As ready as I will ever be.”

“We won’t have a better opportunity. Go.”

Bolan slipped out through the door, picking up the pace as he moved away from the lockup. The black-clad figure of Ali bin Sharif stayed close behind him. The ground beneath their feet offered minimal resistance and they made little sound as they made their dash for freedom. Bolan made frequent checks on the two sentries, hoping neither glanced in their direction.

They traversed a low rise of ground, skirting one of the tents, dust rising from their passing, over the top of the rise and along the final stretch, closing in on the parked vehicles.

As always, it was the unexpected that posed a challenge as Bolan angled in on the truck he had chosen. A lean figure in khaki pants and shirt, wearing a long-billed baseball cap, stirred from his resting place in the rear of the truck. As he sat up, the man saw the approaching figures, mouthed a few words and fumbled for the AK-47 resting across his lap. He leveled the weapon and opened fire. His instincts were sharper than his aim—the stream of 7.62 mm slugs pounded the ground yards away from his targets.

Bolan came to a dead stop, raising his own AK. He targeted the shooter who had raised himself to a kneeling position, finger stroking the trigger, sending a single shot into the guy. It cored deep into his chest, spinning him sideways. He struggled to stay upright but a second shot from Bolan’s rifle laid him flat.

“Get him out of there,” Bolan called to Sharif as he climbed behind the wheel.

The Bedouin dragged the body out of the rear of the truck, commandeering the man’s rifle, and scrambled into the passenger seat next to Bolan. The engine burst into life as the soldier pressed the button. He worked the stiff gears, released the handbrake and floored the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward, dust billowing as Bolan swung it away from the camp and headed for the desert beyond.

“Any suggestions on our direction?” Bolan yelled above the howl of the engine.

Sharif pointed. “To the north for now. That way.”

The crackle of autofire rose over the engine noise. Slugs snapped through the air, some clanging sharply against the metal sides of the truck.

“I think we have upset them,” Sharif shouted, his face creased in a smile.

Bolan concentrated on driving. The truck had little in the way of sophisticated suspension. Every bump and ripple in the ground was transmitted through the vehicle’s framework. Bolan had to fight the shuddering wheel as they bounced and lurched across the uneven terrain. His arms and shoulders began to ache. There was nothing else he could do but keep going, using whatever cover he could find. He gave up that maneuver when he became aware of the rising dust trail they were creating. It hung in the hot air long after they had passed.

“If they get those helicopters into the air, we will be spotted easily,” Sharif said.

“Tell me about it.”

Minutes later Sharif twisted in his seat, searching the sky behind them.

“I see one,” he said.

“Has he picked us up yet?”

The Bedouin studied the distant aircraft. “I think he is turning this way, Cooper.”

“If he starts firing, we abandon this vehicle. Understand?”

Sharif nodded. “I understand.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“I want them dead. No questions. No excuses. Track them down and kill them. That American has caused us too much trouble already. I can’t afford to have him running around wreaking more havoc.”

Kerim’s tone warned his men he was in no mood for compromise. They retreated from the tent, checking weapons and communication equipment, heading for the remaining truck to take up pursuit. One of the helicopters had already taken to the air.

“Do you think they will catch them?” Salim asked.

Kerim caught the light taunt in the other man’s tone. “Yes, they will, because if they fail, they will know not to return. Do not underestimate us, Salim. My brothers do not play the fool’s game.”

“The thought was not on my mind, Kerim. Forgive me, my friend.”

Kerim shrugged off the apology. He turned back to his deliberations, mulling over the charts spread across the table. There was so much to deal with. The upset caused by the American had left Kerim with a bad feeling. Not of defeat, more of a sense of being made to look weak within his own camp, the secret place that the Jordanians had promised him would be safe. Now even that sanctity had been broken and one man—one man—had already killed three of his loyal fighters.

The sting of embarrassment made him lose his concentration. He found he could barely make any sense of the information spread out before him. Kerim concealed his bitterness, not wanting to exhibit it in front Salim. He was aware that Salim had drawn his own conclusions from the incident. Like it or not, Kerim had been made to look foolish. He couldn’t trust that Salim would keep the matter to himself. The man had a loose mouth. Though he had proved useful during negotiations, acting as a go-between, the man had always struck Kerim as slightly untrustworthy. Salim had a way about him that indicated he was forever on the look-out for himself. There was that slyness about him that Kerim had always found disagreeable. And knowing his greed when it came to money, Kerim didn’t doubt he would be prepared to offer what he knew about the incident at the camp.

Loyalty wasn’t a word Salim understood, apart from loyalty to himself. He wouldn’t hesitate to let Razihra know what had happened if the chance came up. One mistake could ruin Kerim’s future, maybe even threaten his life. Failure, in any form, was frowned upon and the camp fiasco wouldn’t be seen in a favorable light. It would matter little to Razihra that Kerim had been strongly instrumental in setting up the camp by making a deal with the Fedayeen and their Jordanian sympathizers. He had also helped to broker the deal with the Russians to obtain the consignment of bio weapons. Kerim, not Salim—nor even Razihra—had done any of that. Their contribution had been to supply the cash, then sit back in safety and let someone else do the work. There was a bitter irony for Kerim when he thought about Ayatollah Razihra gathering all the praise if the operation was a success. He knew without a doubt that Razihra would claim it all as his own work. That realization had become apparent to Kerim quite some time ago.

Kerim glanced across the tent at Salim’s back. The man was lighting a cigarette, his actions slow and deliberate as he sat gazing out through the open tent flap. So calm and all-knowing. Kerim felt his anger rise. Why should his word have so much influence? Enough that it could destroy all that Kerim cherished. There was no one with as much loyalty to the Ayatollah’s cause. No one. And it could all be wiped away by idle gossip. Salim’s whispered words would be carefully chosen so as to lay full blame on Kerim. The reprisal would be swift and without mercy. Kerim had no doubts as to that. He had seen it happen to others under Razihra’s command.

Without turning his head Salim said, “It would be a pity if my bringing the American here came to nothing. At great personal risk. Would you not agree, Kerim? A chance to find out who had sent him and what he might already have learned. Now we may never know.” Salim paused, letting his words hang in the silence. “I am sure the Ayatollah wouldn’t be pleased if he was to hear of this. Of course I am only thinking of you, Kerim. The Ayatollah holds you in great esteem. My own small part in this is insignificant against your position of great authority.”

Kerim had been waiting for that. The thinly veiled threat of exposure to Razihra. No doubt, if told by Salim, the error would be exaggerated out of all proportion. And once primed with this, Razihra would do his own search for what had happened. Kerim saw this as nothing more than a threat against his very life. If he waited, Salim would reach out the hand of friendship, pledging to help Kerim bury the matter. However, there would be certain matters to be dealt with and money would need to change hands.

So it comes down to one life against another, Kerim thought. If Salim speaks with the Ayatollah, I am finished. It will be as if he had pulled the trigger himself.

His life was under threat. When that happened was not a man allowed to defend himself against the perpetrator? Kerim turned and picked up the AK-47 that was resting against the leg of the table. He raised it, turning the muzzle in Salim’s direction as he snapped back the bolt to arm the weapon. Salim heard the sound, pushing up off his chair and turning. He stared at the black muzzle, eyes suddenly glistening with unconcealed terror.

“Kerim? What is this…?”

“Self-preservation,” Kerim said, and pulled the trigger.

The burst hit Salim in the chest, throwing him backward. As he fell, Kerim followed his body, still firing, the muzzle rising up to Salim’s throat and head. Kerim kept firing until the AK fell silent, its magazine exhausted.

Armed men crowded the tent opening, staring down at the bloody, lacerated form at their feet. The savage volley had reduced Salim’s head and upper torso to a bloody wreck.

“Get that thing out of here and bury him,” Kerim shouted, seizing the moment. “He spoke treason against Ayatollah Razihra. He wanted us to turn against him. To betray our brothers and the cause. This I will not stand from any man. Now drag the dog out of here and bury him with no marker. Let him lie in a traitor’s grave.”

One man pushed to the front, confronting Kerim.

“They have spotted the truck,” he said.

THE HELICOPTER MADE A LONG, low sweep, approaching the truck from the side. Bolan threw a swift glance in its direction and spotted the stubby pod attached to the lower fuselage.

Missiles.

“Ali,” he yelled, “missile incoming.”

The Bedouin followed his gaze and saw what the American meant. There was a sudden whoosh of sound as the slim missile erupted from the pod. It began an erratic flight that looked as if it might terminate at the truck. Bolan swerved violently, the missile slipping by and exploding yards ahead.

Not a heat-seeker, Bolan realized.

The helicopter zoomed in behind the truck, the pilot realizing his error. His second shot was fired at minimum range.

“Jump!” Bolan yelled.

They exited the truck together, hurling themselves clear of the vehicle and hit the dusty ground, rolling and staying low.

The missile impacted against the rear of the truck. The explosion threw up a mass of sand and rock, tearing the vehicle apart in a searing flash of fire. Smoke followed, billowing thick and acrid. The explosion sent out shock waves in a rippling effect that battered at Bolan and Sharif, shoving them farther across the ground. They were lost in the dust and the rain of debris that dropped back to earth.

THE LYNX HELICOPTER SURGED closer, rotor wash swirling the dust and smoke in eccentric spirals. The pilot stayed high until the explosion faded, then dropped to a position where the scene below could be examined. The truck was a blazing wreck, torn apart by the missile, blackened and skeletal, tires smoldering and sending out black, bitter fumes.

“Where are they?” The question came over the pilot’s headset from the door gunner.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe the missile blew them into little pieces.”

The gunner grunted. “I’m sure I saw them jump clear just before it struck.”

Easing the helicopter down, the pilot cut the power, reaching for the AK on the deck at his feet. “We had better make sure. If we go back and say we think they’re dead, Kerim will make it hard for us.”

The gunner’s sigh was audible over the headset. “I know.”

They exited the helicopter and walked to view the wrecked truck.

“They went out on the far side,” the gunner said, checking his AK again, nervous and hoping it didn’t show.

The thick smoke from the wrecked truck had laid an opaque curtain across the immediate area, denying them a clear view beyond the vehicle.

“The blast could still have hit them. Knocked them unconscious.”

It was a hope; one the pilot was depending on.

IN THE MIDST OF THE SWIRLING smoke Sharif was slapping at his scorched robe, trying to put out the smoldering fire. In any other situation it might have offered a moment of light relief, but Bolan had picked up the sound of the descending helicopter and knew for certain that the attack was far from over.

“Ali, the chopper is coming in for landing. They’re still looking for us.”

The Bedouin snatched up his assault rifle, checking the action to make sure it hadn’t been clogged with dust. “Then I hope they find us.”

“Go around that way,” Bolan said. “I’m taking the rear of the truck.”

He moved out quickly, conscious of the helicopter engine winding down now that it was on the ground. He used the smoke as an effective shield, hiding his movements until he was able to determine he was well clear of the demolished truck. As the smoke began to thin out, Bolan moved forward, seeking his targets, and in a few seconds when the hot breeze dispersed the smoke he saw one of two figures turning in his direction, registering Bolan’s presence. The man tried to gain target acquisition, but the Executioner took a swift two-step to one side, crouching slightly as he brought his AK in line, finger already pressuring the light trigger. The assault rifle jacked out its deadly fire, and the other man shuddered as the 7.62 mm slugs struck him in the chest. He fell back, making an attempt to push to his feet. Bolan cut him down with a second burst that ripped into his left side, shattering ribs and spinning the man facedown into the bloody sand.

More autofire caught Bolan’s attention. It came from the area Sharif would have been approaching. Bolan sprinted around the wrecked truck, eyes searching for the Bedouin. He spotted him moments later. The man was bending over his downed target, taking the man’s weapon from him and removing the magazine. He glanced up at Bolan’s approach.

“These are not fighters,” he said. “Any Bedu child would defeat these idiots.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Ali.” Bolan glanced at the helicopter. “Could you guide us to your camp from the air?”

“You can fly this thing?”

“I’m no ace, but I can make it stay in the air.”

Sharif grinned and said dryly, “Then, indeed, Cooper, we will take your Western magic carpet.”

Telling himself he would have to buy Jack Grimaldi a drink, in fact a couple of drinks for the flying instructions he had given, Bolan settled in the pilot’s seat and went through the routine of adjusting the controls, boosting the idling power up to speed. He watched the instrument panel. His takeoff was steady, with only a little side slipping as he worked the controls.

“One thing about the desert,” Sharif said. “At least there are no tall buildings in the way.”

Bolan wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or passing a genuine comment. He closed his mind to Sharif’s muttering and concentrated on getting the chopper on an even keel.

“So which way do we go?”

“Toward those hills,” Sharif said.

Bolan’s handling of the helicopter settled down within a few minutes. His confidence grew, familiarity allowing him to keep the aircraft on an even keel and maintain height and speed. He promised himself an intensive refresher course once he returned to Stony Man and got Grimaldi on his own. Even Sharif relaxed, ceasing to grip the frame of the seat so tightly. He began to scan the terrain below. Some minutes into the flight he leaned to peer through the side canopy.

“We are being tracked, Cooper. It looks like one of the trucks from the camp.”

Bolan took a look. He could clearly see the vehicle following them. The configuration of the truck matched that of the ones at the camp.

“How far before we reach your people, Ali?”

“Less than an hour.”

“We need to deal with that truck. I’m not going to risk leading it right into your camp.”

“Then send a missile. Like the one that hit our truck.”

Bolan checked the missile configuration. The readout told him the pod was empty. “No more missiles, Ali.”

“Can you fly this machine lower? Close enough to bring the machine gun back there into range?”

“Just make sure you use the harness. I’d hate to lose you now.”

Sharif clamped a strong hand on Bolan’s shoulder as he clambered out of his seat. “I have faith in you, my friend.”

“And put the headset on so I can talk to you.”

While Sharif made his way through to the cabin section Bolan pulled on the pilot’s headset. He began to maneuver the helicopter in a wide circle, intending to come up on the truck’s rear, at the same time losing some height.

“Cooper? Do you hear me?”

“Ali, you don’t have to shout. That microphone is sensitive.”

Sharif lowered his voice. “Is that better? Good. I am ready. The machine gun is loaded and also ready.”

Bolan leveled off behind the truck. The driver had anticipated what Bolan intended and had started to swing the truck, removing it from a direct line of travel. The soldier heard the door-mounted machine gun as Sharif fired a test burst. His volley fell well short. His second was better, still off target, but closer.

“Can you not keep this machine steady?” Sharif yelled into the headset.

Bolan settled the controls and managed to hold the chopper on a smooth line. This time Sharif managed to lay down a burst that tore at the truck’s rear body section. Even Bolan saw the debris that flew out from the damaged area.

“Steady enough for you, Ali?”

All he received was a flow of what he took to be Bedouin curses. Then the machine gun crackled again.

The line of slugs hammered the truck cab and the vehicle swerved. Sharif then hit it with an even longer burst that punctured the driver’s door and window and blew out the windshield from inside the cab. Sharif’s final volley sent slugs through the hood into the engine and it began to die.

In the same space of time someone opened up from the canvas-topped rear of the truck, a stuttering volley from a lighter SMG. The moment he heard the clatter of shots Bolan banked the chopper away, but not before he heard the metallic clang and ping of bullets striking somewhere along the helicopter’s fuselage. As the chopper pulled up and away, the truck lurched to a jerky stop.

“Cooper? Did I hear bullets hit us?” Sharif’s tone was urgent over the headset.

“I think so, Ali. You’d better come up front and strap yourself in.”

By the time Sharif strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat Bolan had the helicopter back on track. He had already become aware of a slight, irregular beat to the sound of the engine. Adjusting the power he coaxed the aircraft along, keeping the helicopter at a lower altitude than before.

“Is this bad, Cooper?”

“I’d be happier without it.”

“Will we reach my camp?”

Bolan smiled. “Time will tell, Ali.”

CHAPTER NINE

The helicopter quit on Bolan just as night started to spread across the desert. He had been aware of the increasingly uneven sound from the engine and discovered that power was reducing. He tried to compensate but it made no difference.

“Looks like we get to walk the rest of the way,” was his only comment on the situation.

“Then it is providential I know how to reach the camp,” Sharif said.

Bolan took the Lynx down. Before he and Sharif left the aircraft, Bolan ripped out the wiring from beneath the control panel and did the same after he had raised the engine cover. Disabling the machine would reduce its use against Bolan and the Bedouin.

“Perhaps one day we will come back and salvage what we can,” Sharif mused. “The Bedu are the best traders in the area.”

He led the way into the dusk, sure of his path, walking steadily without pause. Bolan followed, making frequent checks on their back trail. It was almost 8:00 p.m. by Bolan’s watch when Sharif signaled for him to halt. Bolan joined him and they looked down a long, sandy slope to where a small camp had been set up around a well.

“Your people?”

“Welcome to my camp, Cooper,” Sharif said, and made his way down the slope, calling out as they neared the camp.

Bolan saw the erected tents. A short way off tethered camels grumbled softly to themselves. Glowing cook fires glowed in the shadows and robed figures, alerted by Sharif’s voice, moved out to meet him.

There was much conversation, hands slapping Sharif across the shoulders once he had been recognized. Bolan stood to one side, waiting to be invited into the camp. The Bedouin were a proud people who clung to the customs of their past, and he had no intention of offending them.

Eventually Sharif himself turned and gestured to the American. “I welcome you to join us, my friend. Welcome to the home of the Rwala.”

It was obvious that the Bedouin had regaled his brothers about Bolan and what he had done. The members of the group clustered around the tall American, greeting him in their own tongue and parting to allow him to pass. Sharif watched him, nodding his approval as Bolan acknowledged his invitation with small bows of his head, to the delight of the Bedouin tribesmen.

“Tell your brothers I am honored to be invited into their company.”

“Tell them yourself, Cooper,” Sharif said. “They all understand some English.”

Bolan repeated his gratitude. It was greeted with a chorus of approval, his words translated for those who had difficulty understanding. With Sharif at his side and slightly behind, Bolan was escorted into the camp. A rug was spread before one of the tents and Bolan was invited to sit. While the majority of the group sat in a semicircle around him, others brought utensils and placed them in the warm sand. Bolan watched as coffee was prepared in smooth worn copper pots over a small fire of red-hot glowing embers. The rich brew, spiced with cardamom, was served in small ceramic cups.

Bedouin custom decreed the first cup be tasted by the host, to satisfy the guest he wasn’t being offered anything suspect. When Sharif had done this, he indicated that Bolan himself pour the next cup and taste it. On the third filling Bolan was allowed to drink the full cup. Bolan raised his cup to his hosts before he drank. Rich and spicy, the coffee burned its way down into Bolan’s empty stomach.

At his side Sharif spoke quietly. “They greet you as a brother warrior. The coffee is their way of acceptance.”

“I have been told the Bedouin are great warriors,” Bolan said to the assembled group. “Now I see that their hospitality is as justly praised.”

Bolan’s words were well received. There was much talk then, some of it directed at Bolan. He kept his replies short and respectful.

“Now they will bring food, Cooper. What is ours is yours. We apologize it is not as sumptuous as we would like to offer you, but as you may see, this is a small group. We were on a hunt for food when my brothers and I stumbled into the hands of those dogs.”

Bolan had observed the way the Bedouin settled themselves to eat. Left leg tucked beneath them and the right raised so the arm could rest on it. He adopted the same position as his hosts, and remembered the custom he had read somewhere that the Bedouin ate with three fingers of the right hand only.

The food when it arrived on a circular flat dish consisted of a deep layer of rice cooked in samn, a form of clarified butter. It was accompanied by roast mutton. Around the edge of the dish was a sprinkling of pine nuts. There was also cooked bread made of flour, dates and samn. The dish was placed centrally and Bolan felt all eyes on him. As the guest he was given the first choice from the communal dish. He obliged, taking rice and mutton in his fingers, tasting the spiced food and nodding in appreciation. Once Bolan had made the first move it was open for the gathering to join in. Bolan ate along with the Bedouin, listening to their conversation, sometimes in Arabic, while English was also used as a gesture of respect to their American guest. He joined in when a question was put to him. The Bedouin were excellent hosts, making Bolan feel at home in their midst. When the meal was over and more coffee was passed around, the business became serious.

“I have explained to them about the camp where we were captive,” Sharif said. “About our murdered brothers and the terrible weapon those criminals intend to release on the Israelis.”

Bolan was aware of the silence that had fallen as Sharif spoke.

“I have to go back, Ali. One of the reasons I came here was to destroy whatever the Iranians and their Fedayeen allies have stored. Now that I’ve learned about the chemical, it is even more important I stop them.”

Sharif nodded. “This I understand. And what I said before I will honor. I will go with you.”

“And I,” called one of the gathered Bedouins.

His offer was picked up by the others.

“We have a duty also to avenge our slain brothers,” said another.

“It is Bedu tradition that those who are wronged must be avenged. It has always been this way. We would be betraying our own if we did nothing,” Sharif explained. “You understand this?”

Bolan nodded. He understood only too well.

“We will leave in the morning. Tonight we rest. Will you share my tent, Cooper?”

“Thank you, Ali.”

THEY ROSE EARLY, THE BEDOUIN leaving Bolan as they said their morning prayer. Breakfast was dates and Bedouin coffee, following which the camp was broken up and packed on two camels. The Bedouin then prepared their weapons, checking and loading the assault rifles they carried. Bolan noticed they were all armed with AK-47s. Sharif explained that the weapon was the common denominator in the region. It was readily available wherever they traveled and could be purchased easily. The Soviet Union military complex, if it was remembered for little else, had sustained a legacy that would survive forever. Some of the men carried handguns and they all, to a man, wore sheathed knives.

Sharif was leading Bolan across to the camel herd when the American paused, looking in the direction of the slope that had brought them into the camp. There had been a single Bedouin on sentry duty since first light. The man had gone.

“Ali, has the guard been relieved from the ridge?”

“Of course not…” Sharif said. He followed the line of Bolan’s gaze, stared at the empty spot, and was immediately galvanized into action, shouting orders to the others.

Bolan had already picked up the rising throb of an approaching vehicle. “They found us.”

The truck appeared above the rim and swooped in toward the Bedouin. The crackle of a machine gun sounded, flat and brittle, sending a line of hot slugs that chewed at the sandy ground then hit a couple of the tethered camels. Blood sprayed the air as the animals staggered, bellowing in pain as they fell. The action galvanized the tribesmen into movement, some turning to reach for their weapons, others running in shocked panic. The firing continued as the truck sped down the sandy slope, the heavy burst ripping into flesh. Two men went down, spinning in stunned agony, disbelief in minds unable to grasp the reality of what was happening.

Sharif stumbled as he neared the cover of the trees, his anger making him turn to see what had happened. On his knees he fumbled with the AK-47, his dark eyes fixing on Bolan.

“You see what these dogs are doing to my people? This will be slaughter.”

Bolan was watching the circling truck, his unwavering gaze fixed on the vehicle. “Maybe not,” he said quietly.

“What are you thinking, Cooper?” Sharif asked. “To attack that truck?”

Bolan’s next act gave Sharif his answer as the tall American moved quickly around the stand of palms, taking cover by the thick trunk of the last in line. He leaned around the palm, settling the AK-47 as he tracked in on the moving truck. He made no indication he had noticed when Sharif joined him, watching in silence as Bolan studied his intended target.

The armed truck spun wildly as the driver worked the gears. The machine gun opened up again, the barrel sweeping back and forth, raking the area with further blistering bursts. The weapon was swung out at an angle, flexible on its universal mount, allowing the gunner plenty of latitude when it came to widening his field of fire. There was a cold efficiency as he targeted more of the Bedouin’s camels. The helpless animals were cut down ruthlessly.

Sharif sighed in despair. The camel was a prized possession within the Bedouin tribes. They allowed the roving tribes to move whenever and wherever they wanted, providing them with far-ranging freedom and independence. Killing them was a direct insult to the Bedouin, showing contempt for them and their age-old traditions.

A half-strangled scream of defiance came as one of the tribesmen ran into view, shaking a clenched fist at the attackers. The robed figure took a stance, raising the assault rifle he carried to his shoulder and opening fire. It was a pointless exercise. The man fired without aiming, allowing his anger to dictate his actions rather than employing cool logic to the situation. All he did was waste his ammunition and present himself as an easy target for the truck’s gunner. There was a chill finality in the way the gunner eased his weapon around, lining up on the Bedouin. The machine gun crackled briefly, directing a white-hot stream of 7.62 mm slugs into the Arab. His body jerked awkwardly as the bullets hammered into him and tore open his yielding flesh.

Bolan fired, taking his cue from the slowing truck as the driver watched the gunner’s handiwork. The AK’s 7.62 mm slugs hit the windshield, shattering the glass. The driver threw his hands up at his pierced face, screaming as keen shards penetrated his eyes. The out-of-control truck made a sudden turn, spilling men from the rear. Bolan raked the hood, sending slugs into the engine compartment, and the vehicle stalled as the power was cut.

The dazed men were hastily climbing to their feet, reaching for dropped weapons.

“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped.

Sharif realized Bolan’s intention, and though he responded quickly he was steps behind the big American as Bolan ran toward the truck, the AK tracking and firing. His first burst took down two of the strike team, knocking them off their feet in bloody disarray. Others returned fire as they found themselves caught by the autofire from the rest of the Bedouin. Bolan kept moving forward. There were enemies to deal with and there was no other way than to maintain the advantage.

One of the attackers got behind the machine gun and swiveled it around to track Bolan’s advancing figure. The moment the Executioner saw the weapon move he dropped to a crouch, bringing him below the immediate trajectory of the muzzle. Before the gunner could realign his weapon Bolan opened fire, burning off a volley that clipped the edge of the truck before locating its human target. The would-be gunner was thrown back, bloody debris exploding from his chest. Bolan angled away from the truck, coming in from the side and caught the next man as he dropped from the vehicle. The warrior’s burst hit the guy in mid-jump, knocking him sideways and dropping him bloody and squirming into the sand.

Sharif gave a warning yell as a second man pushed to his feet from the bed of the truck, clutching a hand grenade. He had pulled the pin when Sharif fired, his burst rippling across the man’s chest. As he fell he dropped the activated grenade. Seconds later the truck was the center of the explosion. The grenade set off stored ammunition and extra fuel cans, and the vehicle vanished in a burst of shivering fire and smoke.

Bolan had a split second to drop to the ground as the truck blew. He buried himself in the sand, hoping that Sharif had done the same. He felt the slap of flying debris across his prone form and sensed the wash of heat from the explosion. Something hard and sharp scored a searing line across the back of his left shoulder. As the heat died away the rumble of the blast began to fade, leaving Bolan with diminished hearing. He shook his head against the effects of the explosion, pushing to his feet, sleeving stinging smoke from his watering eyes.

He was on the periphery of the blast area. Burning chunks of wreckage were strewed around the former camp. One of the Arabs was slapping at a smoldering robe. Within the blast circle scorched bodies lay on the blackened sand. One man was still on his feet, stumbling blindly, clothing and flesh still burning, blood soaking through his clothing. Sensing Bolan, the man turned in his direction, pained eyes pleading from the grisly, burned-raw face, his lower jaw blown away. He raised an arm in Bolan’s direction, not realizing he had lost the limb below the elbow. The sound that issued from his heat-scorched throat was less than human. Bolan raised the AK and laid a short volley into the torso, a mercy burst that ended the man’s suffering.

“It speaks well of a man that he treats his enemy with compassion,” Sharif said from where he stood at Bolan’s side.

“No man deserves to suffer that way.”

Sharif considered the American’s words. “Some of my people might question that. Perhaps we are not as civilized as you might expect us to be, Cooper. Remember we are only a tribe of roving Bedu. What do we know of compassion and justice?”

Bolan glanced at the Arab. He had noted the sardonic tone in Sharif’s voice, and he knew the man was teasing him, seeking to clarify the American’s opinion.

“Small in number, perhaps, Ali. But the reputation of the Bedouin is known throughout the world. And that isn’t a small reputation. The Bedouin are known for their courage, compassion and their sense of honor.”

Sharif nodded slowly. His brown features quickly became a mask of quiet pride.

“The camp where those dogs came from? It is still your wish to go back?”

“Yes, Ali, this is still my wish.”

Sharif nodded. “Today you have fought with us as a true Bedu. So as a brother of the Rwala, your wish is ours.” The Bedouin looked into Bolan’s face. “Have we not found a common enemy, Cooper?”

Bolan indicated the burning hulk of the truck. “What does that tell you, Ali? They came to slaughter your people, simply because you stood against them. Because you and I know they are planning to attack across the border into Israel. They will release their poison on women and children. They want to create fear and distrust that will spread all across the Middle East. Turn brothers against each other and soak the desert with blood.”

Sharif considered the American’s words. “True, I have no great love for the Israelis. But they have stayed within their borders and the Bedu have had little dealings with them. Even so, these damned Iranians and their Fedayeen have set up camp on the land of the Bedouin and they chase us away if we venture near. And now—” he gestured dramatically with his arm “—they have dared to strike at us at our own well.

“The Bedu are few now. Our times of ruling the great desert lands are well past. But what we have left we guard with our lives. Our pride is all we have, Cooper, so we will go with you to this place and we will show these foreigners it does not pay to camp on Bedu land without permission.”

CHAPTER TEN

The dead and wounded were tended to. It was decided that they would be returned to the main encampment in the far desert. The survivors would have to share camels because of the loss of a number of animals during the attack. Sharif and twelve of the Bedouin would accompany Bolan for the strike against the Iranian-Fedayeen camp. Apart from their weapons and ammunition they took little with them except for water skins and a little rice and bread.

One of the Bedouin had cleaned the bullet sear on Bolan’s back, smearing it with cool ointment then covering it. Before the group moved off in the direction of the main camp, they presented Bolan with a black Bedouin robe and a headdress.

“Your Western clothes will not be good enough. These Bedu robes will protect you from the desert,” Sharif said as he helped Bolan put on the clothing. “And Allah the compassionate will do the rest.”

SHIMMERING HEAT WAVES DANCED across the silent desert. To Bolan it was a featureless landscape with little to show one mile from the next. His Bedouin companions rode with the confidence of a people in total accord with the hostile terrain.

Bolan’s Bedouin companions had instructed him how to sit on the curved, padded saddle on his camel, showing him the way to hook his right leg around the high saddle horn and tuck his foot beneath his left knee. It helped support him as the plodding camel created a swaying motion. Bolan was aware they were watching him as they set out. He adjusted to the motion after a time. Once he had mastered the art of sitting on the saddle, he found it to be more comfortable than he had imagined. Sharif showed him how to handle the reins, patiently advising the American and nodding in satisfaction at Bolan’s ability to take the advice on board and put it into practice.

“You see, it is not difficult. Even for an American,” he said loud enough for the others to hear, and eliciting a round of amiable laughter.

“You are as good a teacher as you are a warrior,” Bolan returned.

“This one has also been listening to Ali’s words, as well,” one of the Bedu said. “His praise slides off the tongue like honey from a bee.”

There was more laughter from the group and the Bedouin rode their camels around Bolan, bowing and saluting him with great affection. Later, as they strung out again, moving silently across the desert, Sharif moved his camel alongside.

“You have become one of them. What you did back at the camp will be long remembered. The Bedu respect courage and loyalty and above all they honor friendship, Cooper. You will always be welcome in the camps of the Bedu.”

“Thank you, Ali. I will treasure that above all else.”

TOWARD NOON OF THE following day they came within sight of the camp. Sharif had brought them to a place where they could sit concealed by sweeping sand slopes and ridges. A hot desert breeze sifted fine sand across their path, drifting in fine clouds, and they pulled the folds of their keffiyahs over their mouths to protect themselves.

“Cooper, come with me,” Sharif said, dismounting.

Bolan followed him and they climbed to the top of the steep ridge, going prone and looking across the open stretch of sand that led up to the campsite.

Sharif produced a battered pair of binoculars. The outer casing showed extreme wear and the original leather carrying strap had been replaced by a hand-braided cord.

“These are English glasses. My family acquired them from a British officer during the Second World War. Since then they have been passed down through the generations of my family.”

The Bedouin raised the glasses and focused on the distant camp.

“Three vehicles. The helicopter. I see much activity, Cooper.”

Sharif handed the binoculars to Bolan. The magnification was impressive. As he brought the camp into sharp relief, Bolan saw armed figures taking down the tents and loading equipment onto trucks. Even as he watched he saw a third truck move up to park near the stone building housing the weapons cache.

“Looks like they’re moving out,” Bolan said, “and taking the weapons with them.”

“Then we have little time to wait,” Sharif said. “We must strike now.”

Bolan had the same feeling. If they allowed Kerim to leave, it would prove difficult to deal with the group banded together to protect their cache of weapons. Kerim would also have his armed helicopter as his main deterrent. Machine guns and missiles would present a deadly threat to Bolan and his mounted allies.

As they returned to where the other Bedouins were waiting Bolan saw their main chance lay in a fast strike. Sweeping in out of the desert they might gain the advantage and inflict heavy casualties before the terrorist group could retaliate. It was a calculated risk, which was accepted by Sharif’s Bedouins when the suggestion was put to them. In battle there was no such thing as a cut-and-dried victory. Any plan, no matter how carefully set out, could change during its execution. Mack Bolan, better than any of them, could agree to that. He only had to recall the times when intended soft probes of an enemy had turned hard, more often than not when a small change kicked in the warning alarm. Simple things, incidental to the big picture, but happening at the wrong time in the wrong place. Risk came with the job, Bolan knew, and this time would be no different.

“Did you see the ridge that curves in around the east side of the camp?” Sharif asked. “If we ride behind this ridge, we can bring ourselves close to the camp before we show ourselves.”

“I saw the ridge and had the same thought. But remember, Ali, they have automatic weapons, too. And they’re not about to stand by when we hit them.”

“If Allah decrees some of us must die, then it is written and will be so,” one of the Bedouin said.

“Then it will be my honor to fight beside you,” Bolan said.

Sharif placed a hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “My friend, if you had darker skin I would believe I had just listened to a Bedu speaking.”

Weapons were given a final check and spare magazines placed for easy availability. Bolan’s own check was done automatically, his mind on something else.

The bioweapon.

Conventional weapons were one thing. The very presence of the bioweapon notched up the threat rating. It needed erasing fully. Bolan could only see a single, reliable way to achieve that.

Fire. The cleansing power that would consume and nullify the terrible weapon.

Bolan’s first thought was fuel. There had to be some kind of fuel dump within the camp. Gas for the vehicles and the helicopter.

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