Plains Of Fire

By evening, thirteen hundred corpses were being shoveled into the bottom of a grave dug up by bulldozers. The World Health Organization resources sent to respond to an unprecedented outbreak of a new form of Ebola arrived just in time to see all but a handful of bodies turned to ash by concentrated streams of burning gasoline.

It was a preview of hell, Tanya Marshall thought. She took pictures of the carnage, documenting the destruction of the infected victim bodies in the pit.

CHAPTER TWO

Alexandria, Egypt

The three men moved quietly across the Egyptian docks, night enveloping them in a cloak of darkness that aided their stealthy approach. Rumor and gossip had brought the trio to this outlet on the Mediterranean Sea, clad in combat blacksuits and armed to the teeth.

When Mack Bolan contacted Stony Man Farm for help, the men of Phoenix Force usually stepped forward. But in this case only Rafael Encizo and Calvin James answered the call. David McCarter, Gary Manning and T. J. Hawkins had sustained various gunshot wounds, pulled muscles and ankle fractures that kept them anchored in the Blue Ridge Mountain headquarters.

James and Encizo had lost sight of Bolan, but they had no worries about the man known as the Executioner. Though more than six feet tall and carrying two hundred pounds of lean, well-honed muscle, Bolan was one of the stealthiest human beings on the planet. Moving with the sure-footed stride of a stalking panther, the Executioner was the embodiment of a ghost, flitting between shadows in the blink of an eye while creating no more sound than an errant breeze.

This night’s probe was tracing a cache of Cold War–era biological delivery systems—germ warfare shells—to Alexandria. The shells were being delivered by the Russian mafiya, and all indications from Bolan’s investigation led him to believe that they were earmarked for use in the Darfur ethnic cleansing sessions. Bolan had been intending to make his presence known in the region, to bring down the horde of madmen who engaged in wanton murder and almost ritualistic rape to destroy the non-Muslim population sharing western Sudan. The State Department across multiple presidential administrations had been handicapped by a desire not to offend Islamic governments by interfering with the Sudanese government.

Mack Bolan, however, wasn’t a tool of U.S. international policy. He was driven by the need to protect the victims of corruption and terrorism. Husbands, fathers, brothers and sons were executed brutally, while wives, mothers, sisters and daughters were raped and mutilated by the Janjaweed forces. The Darfur crisis, and the Rwandan slaughter a decade before, were symptomatic of an international apathy in regard to Africa. The jungles and deserts of the continent, once Colonial prizes of the European governments, were considered lost causes, a realm where white people had no business interfering. Bolan’s brow furrowed at the thought.

Skin color didn’t enter into the Executioner’s equations of justice. What did come to mind was the fact that Europeans had run roughshod across Africa, creating a powder keg. After stripping whatever resources they could, they left disenfranchised millions behind without a workable governmental infrastructure. The jackals who did move in took their lesson plans from their predecessors and fostered a culture of corruption and tribal retribution that helped them keep their wallets fat and their enemies cowering in fear. As long as ancient tribal feuds raged, no one would be able to accumulate enough power to unseat their corrupt rulership.

It would require an outside force to even the odds, and the Executioner and his allies were that outside interference. The fact that the Thunder Lions were the militia acquiring the lethal weapon systems put the Darfur crisis right at the top of Bolan’s priorities.

Mack Bolan was just one man and he did what he could. And when he set his mind to a task, few things could deter him. However, a sentry on patrol was about to notice that his partners, Encizo and James, were preparing to slip into the water from the end of the dock. The guard was a hardened warrior, moving with precision, his mind focused on systematic scanning of the pier. It would only be a matter of moments before he saw the Phoenix pair as they took to the water on their mission of sabotage.

Bolan stalked the Russian ex-special forces man walking patrol. He recognized the man’s Spetznaz pedigree, having encountered hundreds of them before. His disciplined military bearing, Slavic features and the scent of cheap Turkish tobacco that the Russian commandos seemed addicted to were unmistakable in combination. Add in the fact that the black-market weapons were on a Russian ship, owned by the mafiya, and it was plain to Bolan that the man was a trained commando. The muzzle of his rifle was held at waist level, finger off the trigger, but resting against the guard, ready to snap down and rip off a burst of autofire with a reflexive action.

The Executioner knew that it would only be a moment before the ex-military mob enforcer noticed the presence of his partners, or feel that Bolan was on his trail. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Executioner rose from the shadows. One of his hands clamped over the Russian’s mouth, while the other speared a hard-knuckled fist deep into the base of his adversary’s skull. The punch connected with the knot of neurons where the spine met the brain, causing an overload that paralyzed the patrolling sentry. With a savage jerk, Bolan yanked his insensate opponent back into the shadows, his arm snaking under the stunned Russian’s chin. He flexed both of his arms, and with the power of a full-grown python, he broke the unconscious man’s neck. The moment the sentry would have recovered a fraction of his senses, he would have mustered the strength to pull the trigger on his rifle, alerting the rest of his allies. Given that the guard was ex-military and working for organized crime, Bolan could live with the fact that he most likely had sent a murderer to justice.

A quick glance around the dock told him that the rest of the Russians on the outlaw freighter hadn’t noticed their guard disappear. Moving swiftly, Bolan peeled the corpse out of its jacket, then the red-and-white-striped sailor shirt, pulling them both on. He’d used a small utility knife to cut slashes in the side of the dead man’s T-shirt to allow himself access to his battle harness and shoulder-holstered Beretta, while still concealing his blacksuit and war load from casual inspection. He tucked the Russian’s cell phone and hand radio into his jacket pocket.

“Took out the snooper, continuing his patrol pattern,” Bolan said softly into his throat mike as he stepped out onto the dock.

There was the sound of two clicks, Encizo and James responding nonverbally to his transmission. The two men were underwater now and wouldn’t have seen Bolan take down the sentry and appropriate his clothing. They pressed the transmit buttons on their radios, the only way they could communicate with him while just below the waves, breathing through snorkels. Secure in the knowledge that his allies wouldn’t mistakenly target him, Bolan followed the guard’s regularly scheduled route.

“Guys,” a voice called over the radio in Russian. “Pull back in. We have the headlight signal.”

“Affirmative,” Bolan grunted in Russian, keeping his voice low. The Executioner made an about-face and returned to the freighter. Riflemen were posted on the railing, but their attention was on the burning pairs of headlights rolling down the back streets. In the shadowy light of the dock, neither of the sentries would have been able to see each other, which was an advantage. The men on the pier would be hard to target by any incoming force. The lack of light was no disadvantage to a Spetznaz commando.

Bolan could see the shadowy outline of the other Russian who had been patrolling the pier. He bracketed the other side of the gangplank, his eyes fixed on the newcomers.

“Anatoly,” the man whispered, “I heard that the stupid bastards used some of our shells last night.”

Bolan shrugged.

“I don’t like it,” the guard continued. “If we get caught with the rest of their shipment in our hold, we’ll bring down a shit storm.”

Bolan nodded.

The Thunder Lion convoy rolled to a halt, its headlights off. Bolan counted six vehicles, four of them SUVs, two of them two-and-a-half-ton trucks, which were workhorses and more than capable of carting off enough bioartillery to render Central Africa a lifeless wasteland. The members of the Thunder Lion crew were all tall, strong men with black skin and grim expressions. They assembled in front of their vehicles, all of them packing high-tech French FAMAS rifles.

One man stepped forward. If the clusters of medals on his left breast hadn’t set him apart from the rest of his crew, the broad smile on his lips did. Bolan searched his mental mug book, comparing the African to known members of the Thunder Lion hierarchy, finally deciding that the commander was Major Antoine Bashir. The major had a particularly notorious reputation, having started his career as the chief muscle for a Corsican arms dealer.

That explained the presence of French rifles and sidearms. A quick examination of the SUVs in the darkness reinforced the link between the Thunder Lions and the Union Corse. The four off-road vehicles were top-of-the-line Peugeot designs. They sat low on their wheelbases, betraying their armored status, meaning they’d “fallen off a shipment” meant for the French military.

“Cheer up, lads,” Bashir said, clapping Bolan on the shoulder. “You’ll be back floating to the Baltic, rotting your guts out on vodka before dawn.”

Bolan held his tongue, keeping an eye on the militiamen spread out in front of him. All it would take would be a step back and he’d fall off the pier and into the waters next to the ship, taking him out of harm’s way for a moment. He had no doubt, though, that the rifle fire from the railing would punch through the old docks and into the water after him. The AK-107 in his hands was a modern update of the highly successful AK-47, right down to the powerful 7.62 mm ComBloc round. The only changes were synthetics replacing wood, and modern metallurgy increasing the old design’s already rock-solid durability and reliability. The other Russian smugglers were similarly armed.

Encizo and James were only carrying pistol-caliber machine pistols. This was supposed to be a stealth infiltration, meant for sabotage. The addition of a platoon of militiamen to the mix was unexpected.

“Hull ripper charges set,” Encizo’s voice said through Bolan’s earpiece. “Give the word.”

Bolan looked at Bashir strolling up the gangplank. The militia officer would provide the Executioner with a wealth of information. However, plucking him from between his own armed soldiers and the paranoid Russian gangsters would require a major distraction.

“Fire ’em up,” Bolan said out loud. He whirled and charged up the gangplank toward Bashir.

The Thunder Lion riflemen jerked in reaction to Bolan’s sudden movement, their FAMAS rifles rising after a second of hesitation. On the railing, the Russian smugglers, already on edge, simply had to pull the triggers on their own rifles, spraying the militiamen.

The freighter shook violently as spiderweb-shaped charges, strung along her hull, erupted. Detonating high-explosive cord cut through the sea-weathered steel at high velocity, shearing half a dozen five-foot breaches in her belly. The sudden influx of hundreds of gallons of water disturbed the balance of the freighter.

The gangplank bent deeply, buckling as the weight of the old steamer shoved on it. Finally the wooden walkway splintered, but not before Bolan snaked an arm around Bashir’s neck and yanked him over the guide rope. The Executioner and his captive hurtled through the darkness toward the rapidly fluxing gap between the ship and the pier.

Bashir grunted in response to the sudden capture attempt as the two of them sliced through the air, dropping past the guillotine formed by the freighter, and the pier snapped shut. Planks splintered under the impact of thousands of tons of upset steel, the jolt knocking both Russian and African gunmen off balance. Their weapons chattered, but the jarring lurch of the ship against the dock kept either side from maintaining any semblance of accuracy.

Under the churning surface stirred up by the suddenly sinking ship, Bashir thrashed wildly in Bolan’s grasp. While the Executioner had been ready for the daredevil dive, filling his lungs on the way down, the African militiaman was not so prepared, aspirating water. Bolan kicked along, trying to escape the currents formed as six holes in the belly of the ship provided a direction for the water to go. If he didn’t keep pushing toward the surface, he’d be yanked into the ruptured hull and trapped.

Bashir’s hand lashed out, clawing at Bolan’s face. The Thunder Lion’s thumb raked across the Executioner’s eyelid, the nail scratching skin. Bolan grimaced, and tightened his grip on Bashir’s throat, the choke hold jolting his captive. Instead of going after his adversary’s face, Bashir struggled with the arm snaked under his chin.

It would have to be enough, Bolan thought as he used all the power in his legs and his free arm to drag himself and his captive toward the surface. Rushing water pushed in the opposite direction, but the Executioner was a strong swimmer. Years of warfare had given him the physical prowess necessary for him to breach the waves and fill his lungs with a lifesaving gasp of air.

Then it was Bashir’s turn, Bolan rolling on his back and shoving his face up into the air. The militia commander gurgled, vomiting up a lungful of water and sucking down a fresh breath before Bolan folded his body, knifing into the depths again. On the surface, the big American had heard the chatter of automatic weapons as the Russians and Africans engaged in a firefight. He was certain that James and Encizo were batting cleanup, making sure that neither side received an advantage. Their suppressed MP-5s enabled them to snipe with impunity, as autoweapons produced flash and noise. Invisible amid the roar of enemy rifles and the burning flares at their muzzles, the Phoenix Force warriors could fire from cover and concealment. It would make up for the reduced range and power of their machine pistols.

Bolan’s powerful limbs pulled him under the water, and he swam with his captive until they reached a jetty twenty yards from the stern of the lurching craft. He reached up and anchored himself on the low-slung dock.

Bashir had recovered enough of his senses to break loose, hammering Bolan in the stomach. The African had intended to knock the wind out of the Executioner, but his fist’s power was blunted by rock-hard abdominal muscles. Instead of catching Bolan while both of his hands were occupied and he was off balance, Bashir only elicited a sudden surge, Bolan snapping the African’s forehead against the hard edge of the jetty. The water-worn wood met Bashir’s skull with a stunning impact, splitting the skin on the man’s forehead.

Stunned, blood pouring down his head and stinging his eyes, Bashir was a docile charge that Bolan heaved up onto the planks. With a kick, and the power of both of his arms, Bolan launched out of the water and knelt next to his stunned captive.

Bashir wiped his eyes free of the blinding blood and began to sit up when he noticed the massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle leveled at his nose.

“Don’t move,” Bolan ordered. He planted his knee into Bashir’s chest, then looked toward the gunfight between the smugglers and the Thunder Lions. Broken planks and dented hull were fused together, and the Russian and African factions had ceased their mutually destructive battle to escape being sucked under the water by the sinking ship. The Peugeots and the transport trucks lurched and slid off the dock, creating fountaining splashes as they hit the water.

Bolan looked back down to Bashir. “Roll over and place your hands at the small of your back.”

“Don’t kill me,” Bashir begged, his face a glistening mask of blood.

“Do as I say, and you’ll live at least another day,” the Executioner promised.

Bashir glanced at the carnage, watching men scrambling across railings and broken piers and splashing helplessly in the dock waters. In the space of a few seconds, his captor had turned a major arms deal into pure mayhem. He rolled onto his stomach and assumed the position of surrender.