Lethal Tribute

Makhdoom’s roar shook the rafters. “Yet you have put us under his fist! Do you realize what you have done?”

“I do. What do you believe Hussain would have done had we not cooperated with him?”

Makhdoom spent several long moments collecting himself, then a few more considering the question. His hands fell to his sides as his reason overcame his indignation. “At the very least, Hussain would have raised bloody hell with my superiors over my conduct. Our investigation would have been blown wide open. For having taken you, an American, into the Al-Nouri facility, I could have been stripped of my rank. Regardless of the fate of my career, you would have probably ended up being thrown out of the country, though first you would have been extensively tortured. It is not outside the realm of possibility that you could be shot as a spy. Hussain is a toad, but he walks the corridors of power and he has the ear of the president. Though all he ever whispers into it is the word yes, if I am not mistaken.”

Bolan nodded. “That was my take on the situation. I decided it would be better to stroke the man rather than buck him. I apologize if I acted out of turn or superceded your authority. It was a choice that had to be made on the split second, and I stand by my decision.”

“Your actions were correct.” Makhdoom sank down heavily into his chair and picked up his cup of tea. “I do not like them, and I fear their consequences, but at the time, they were correct. I do not begrudge them.”

Two young men in their early teens appeared in the doorway of the living room. They were dark complected like their father but had the light brown eyes of their mother.

“Ah.” The captain visibly brightened. “My sons. Muhjid, Kaukab, come and greet our guest.”

The two young men entered and stared at Bolan wonderingly. Americans were a source of great debate among the Pakistani people. Most considered them godless, an enemy of Islam and unforgivable allies of the Israeli occupiers of the Holy Land. They were also supposed to be perverted, fabulously wealthy and famous. The two young men were somewhat cosmopolitan because their father had trained in the United States and he told very interesting stories about his experiences. They had also listened to their father roar at the stranger for ten minutes, telling him what an idiot he was.

The two young men nodded formally. “Greetings. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you.” Bolan nodded to Makhdoom. “Fine young men you’ve raised.”

Makhdoom puffed up happily. Zarah beamed. Makhdoom waved them away. “You may go. My guest and I have much to discuss.”

The two young men ran off and Zarah disappeared back into the house.

“Nice family you have.”

“Thank you.”

“Get them the hell out of here.”

Makhdoom glanced up from his tea. “You think they’ll come here.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“I would. We’ve gotten closer than anyone has to them. We bloodied them. They don’t know who I am, but we have to assume they know you. They know we’re after them.” Bolan held up the strange, dully gleaming piece of fabric. “They’ll want this back. They’re coming. Sooner rather later.”

“Muhjid! Kaukab!”

The two young men came skidding into the room at their father’s call. Makhdoom pulled a large wad of notes from his wallet. “Take this money. Take the shotgun. Take the car. Take your mother out of the city.”

The two boys’ eyes widened.

“Do not dally! Evil men are coming. Take care of your mother. Go!”

Muhjid ran to the mantel and took a double-barreled shotgun off the rack and then a box of shells from the chest beneath it. Kaukab ran to find his mother.

Makhdoom rose. “My friend, I want you on the opposite roof. I will give you binoculars and a rifle. When they come, I will be inside and act as bait. When—”

Zarah ran into the room. “There is a car out on the street.”

“What kind of car?”

“A black one.” She glanced fearfully from Makhdoom to his guest. “It is full of men.”

Makhdoom picked up the phone. He clicked the old-fashioned receiver twice and grimaced. Most of Pakistan still used phone lines rather than cell phones. The phone line to the house had been cut. He turned to his boys. “My sons. Take your mother upstairs. Kill anyone either than myself or the American should they attempt to come up.”

Muhjid and Kaukab went wide-eyed, but they hesitated only for a second. They took the shotgun and their mother and ran upstairs.

Bolan polished off his tea and rose. “We need guns.”

General Hussain’s men had demanded they surrender their submachine guns and had not seen fit to give them back.

“Follow me.” Makhdoom strode down the hall and entered his study. Maps of the world covered the walls that weren’t dominated by bookcases. In one corner was a small desk with a computer.

Opposite the desk was a gun cabinet.

He opened the twin glass panels and pulled out a pair of rifles. They were Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifles of WWII vintage. Sporting stocks had replaced the full wood furniture stressed for bayonet fighting. The barrels had been shortened to twenty-two inches and telescopic sights had been fitted. The old battle rifles had been customized for hunting, but both would still hold ten rounds of the powerful British .303 military ammunition.

Makhdoom checked the loads in both rifles and then tossed one of the weapons to Bolan. He removed a box of shells and dumped half of the cartridges into Bolan’s hand, then thrust the rest in his pocket.

They had twenty shots each.

“They’re not coming invisibly this time.”

“No, not during the initial assault.” Bolan flipped on the safety of his weapon. “But they may come sneaking up during it.”

Something struck the front door a tremendous blow. The house shook and wood creaked and splintered. Bolan flicked the safety off of his weapon. “Here they come.”

A heavy piece of pipe rammed the door off of its hinges.

“Here they go,” the captain snarled. They walked to the end of the hall and pointed their rifles across the living room into the foyer. The iron battering ram crushed tile as it was dropped onto the floor and men in long coats waving short automatic weapons spilled into the captain’s home.

The two hunting rifles thundered as one. The first man in shuddered and sagged as Makhdoom’s .303 rifle bullet smashed in his chest. The second man’s head erupted like a melon as it failed to absorb the 2200 footpounds of muzzle energy Bolan delivered into it with the precision of a trained sniper. He flicked the bolt of his rifle and chambered a fresh round. The men in the doorway were screaming in a language Bolan didn’t recognize.

A line of bullets pocked up the wall beside the Executioner as the invaders behind fired their weapons blindly into the house.

“Amateurs,” Makhdoom growled.

“They’ll be coming through the back, as well.”

The captain nodded. “Go kill them. I will stay here and prevent the ones in front from coming in.”

Bolan strode down the hall toward the back of the house. He swept into the kitchen as a man crawled through the shattered window. He perched precariously on the sink, trying not to cut himself on broken shards of glass still in the window frame.

He had a single split second of wide-eyed horror before Bolan blew him back through the window with a bullet through his sternum. The big American flicked his bolt open as the back door to the kitchen smashed inward and charged into the invaders. The throat of the first man in was torn away as Bolan shot him point-blank. There was no time to work the bolt of the ancient weapon for a second shot, but the dying killer had sagged into his companions and clogged the doorway. Bolan swung the butt of his rifle in a brutal arc and shattered the jaw of the second man. The third desperately tried to shove his machine pistol past his broken comrades.

Bolan lunged and rammed his rifle forward in a bayonet thrust.

No blade was mounted on the end of Bolan’s rifle, but the steel muzzle and the front sight of his rifle rammed up through the assassin’s teeth and crushed his upper palate. A muffled mewl of agony bubbled through the shattered remains of the man’s mouth. The assassin’s agony was cut short as Bolan whipped the butt of his rifle around and brought it into the killer’s temple with bone-cracking force.