Aftershock

He’d only just finished a mission in Azerbaijan, taking out a ring of arms smugglers when he’d heard about the brutal attack in Turkey. Bolan was too late to protect the victims of the Kongra-Gel, an amalgamation of various Turkish Communist insurgent groups. However, a quick conference call with Aaron Kurtzman and Hal Brognola at Stony Man Farm had indicated that the hellish murders were simply a diversion to cover the theft of millions of dollars’ worth of relief supplies, including medications and painkillers meant for the displaced refugees from the incessant civil war waged by these very thieves.

It was a small step up from heroin and opium dealing to flooding the black market with drugs meant for their own countrymen. Bolan hoped to find the missing drugs and supplies before the savage thugs sold them off, and perhaps get them back to work in helping the Turkish refugees. It was the least that the Executioner could do to further the cause of the MOREST lifesavers.

They had been slain in the course of their work to make the world a better place.

Bolan wasn’t going to let their murderers profit from their savagery.

The Executioner paused at the base of the hill and spotted a half-dozen gunmen making their way around the bend. They were out of breath from taking the road and had slowed down, eyes wide and wary against the lethal black shadow who had torn through twenty of their brethren. Rifle muzzles swept the roadside, bodies reacting to the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Bolan frowned as he recognized that they were maintaining their calm. They were alert, not panicked, and weren’t going to waste their ammunition on an uncertain target.

Bolan was running low on major gear and supplies. It had taken him six hours to smuggle himself into Turkey, pick up a couple of handguns along with a smattering of plastic explosives and a battle harness. He’d used up his grenades in a savage firefight against the Azerbaijani gunrunners. That was why he’d made the soft probe against the Kongra-Gel training camp, to scrounge for supplies and intel, and to give the organization’s leadership something to sweat over.

The Executioner knew he’d come in behind the eight ball, but he wouldn’t allow that to hobble him. He wadded up a cube of C-4 and rolled it in a stash of stones and pebbles that an ant colony had built up to secure their nest. The insects fled from the slowly rolling ball as their rocky pile was imbedded into the soft, pliant explosive. Bolan pressed a pencil-sized radio detonator into the round, rocky blob, and let fly with the improvised grenade.

The Turkish rebels spotted Bolan’s movement and one of them fired a short burst toward the tree that he’d been huddled against. Bark splintered as the incongruous bomb landed in the midst of the gunmen. They looked down at it, an ersatz, gray candy apple with a blinking stick poking out of it. Because it didn’t look like a grenade, they were confused by its presence. More of the riflemen opened up, but the Executioner thumbed the firing stud on his detonator.

The explosion tore one of the terrorist thugs in two, a sheet of force pushing a guillotine of rock through the centerline of his body. Another man died as a quarter-inch-wide pebble tore through his right eye and whipped through his brain like a bullet. Another one wailed as his left arm was stripped of flesh all the way to the bone.

It wasn’t much of an advantage, but it would have to do, Bolan figured as he burst from cover, the big Jericho bucking in his fist. The Executioner’s first shot caught a Turkish terrorist on the bridge of his nose and blew a flap of scalp and skull off the back of his head. A second killer leaped wildly for the cover of a ditch, but Bolan caught him with a bullet through his left thigh. Muscle and bone were mangled by the heavy-caliber slug and the rifleman disappeared out of sight, screaming in pain.

The last able gunman, his right side bloodied, uniform torn by shrapnel, snarled angrily and milked the trigger of his AK-47 in an effort to avenge his injuries. Bolan pivoted and leaped forward beneath the stream of autofire, pumping out four shots. One missed, sailing into the distance over the wounded Turk’s shoulder, but his other shots connected with the Kongra-Gel killer’s torso, zipping him from throat to groin.

The wounded rifleman struggled to grab his AK’s pistol grip with his left hand, determined to protect himself when Bolan somersaulted onto the road. The Executioner lashed out with one of his stovepipe legs, his heel catching the rifle. The kick launched the weapon into the roadside ditch, and Bolan leveled his Jericho at the Turk.

“Don’t even try it,” the soldier warned.

The Kongra-Gel fighter froze as he looked down the hole in the end of the massive pistol.

“Run away,” Bolan said, jerking the muzzle slightly. “Live to fight another day.”

The Turk looked over his shoulder, then back at the huge handgun aimed at him.

If he didn’t understand Bolan’s words, he at least understood the intent of his gestures. The Turk cradled his mangled arm and raced off down the road, not looking back.

Bolan scrambled to his feet and dumped the partially empty magazine, reloading with a fully loaded stick of twelve more hollowpoint rounds. He pocketed the half-empty clip and slowly advanced toward the gunman cowering in the ditch.

A burst of automatic fire was the Executioner’s welcome, the swarm of bullets burning hotly, too close for comfort. Bolan dived to the bottom of the ditch and punched two more rounds into the hobbled rifleman before the Turk could adjust his aim. The rounds were fatal, one plowing through the gunman’s groin and smashing his spine, the second tearing into his heart.

The Executioner holstered his pistol and picked up the AK-47 and the dead man’s spare ammo. He walked into the road and pulled more ammunition off the other dead men, inspecting the banana-shaped magazines for damage before loading them into a borrowed bandolier bag. Five of the clips had been mangled by the explosion, and nothing could be retrieved from the torn corpse of Bolan’s first target.

It didn’t matter. He had twelve full magazines, and five more half-filled boxes that he could load to make it an even fifteen sticks for the confiscated AK. The rounds of rifle ammunition would be enough to keep Bolan solvent in his war against the Kongra-Gel and the recovery of the missing supplies.

Two-dozen dead, and one survivor who would take a message to the group’s leadership.

They were no longer the prime predators in southeast Turkey.

The Executioner had arrived, and there was going to be hell to pay. He was going to shake the country and see what rattled loose in the aftermath.

2

Catherine Abood grunted as she was hurled against the jeep’s fender by the Jandarma goon. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, and wasn’t surprised by the bright red seeping across her skin when it came away. She took a deep breath and spit out blood, and glared, dark eyed, at the thugs.

She’d taken pictures of what these creeps had done to a teenaged boy they suspected of knowing members of the Kongra-Gel. Her camera was torn open, its film exposed while another of the rifle-toting thugs crushed her remaining canisters of film.

“We can’t allow this to fall into the wrong hands,” the Jandarma commander, Captain Yuli Makal, told her.

“Since when do you care what the West thinks?” Abood asked as Makal snatched her wrist and pulled her close.

Abood realized that antagonizing these thugs was the worst possible choice she could have made, but her father had raised her to be an independent woman. He’d taught her how to shoot, how to fight, how to protect herself, and encouraged her to break the mold of a demure, soft-spoken Arab woman. She was born and raised an American, a fourth generation New Englander, but by the time she was fourteen, she’d seen most of the world. From Kudu hunts in South Africa to skiing in Switzerland, she’d avoided a sheltered life.

Makal smirked as he felt her waist, then pushed open her photographer’s vest. “You have a gun, young lady.”

“I have a permit for it,” Abood stated. Her cheek and lips felt thick, probably swollen from Makal’s punch. “Your government wants me to have it.”

Makal looked at the 9 mm Beretta Compact, admiring its balance and feel. “But you have the protection of the Jandarma, my sweet thing,” he said.

Makal’s smile split his homely face. His head rested on his broad shoulders like a fireplug topped with curly, thick, greasy hair. A bushy mustache flapped over that yellowed smile. They were eye to eye, and though Abood was tall, at five feet, seven inches, it only pointed out how her willowy frame made her stand out among the Turkish people.

Though her Syrian blood had given her an olive complexion, it was not as sun-and-wind darkened as the natives. She was relatively pale, and her long black hair flowed like silk. Her smile would have been much whiter had it not been for the blood smeared across her teeth from Makal’s punch.

“Who gave you such a fine gun, my sweetie?”

“My father,” Abood answered, her eyes narrowed. She struggled, but she was wary of the trio of riflemen watching her intently. She knew how to fight, how to shoot, how to protect herself, but she also knew that pulling a pistol against an armed force of semiofficial vigilantes patrolling the Turkish countryside would be tantamount to suicide. She bided her time.

“Ah,” Makal said. “Did you add the pretty sights and grips, or did he?”

Abood glowered. Makal’s fist squeezed her wrist, and she felt the bones in her forearm start to rub together. He would keep grinding them until her arm was crippled or he’d gotten an answer. “He did. But that’s why I like it so much.”

“It’s worth money, then,” Makal said as he stuffed the handgun behind the buckle of his belt. Abood resisted the urge to warn him against shooting his dick off, partially because the pistol’s safety was on, and pissing him off would only make things worse for her. Makal rubbed a hard, callused hand across her smooth cheek. “As are you, no?”

“My magazine does not make deals with terrorists,” Abood answered.

The caress turned into a hard slap, and Abood sprawled across the hood of the jeep.

“We are the law in this country,” Makal snarled. “We are justice.”

Abood glared. Her ingrained response had landed her in trouble. Makal adjusted his belt and placed his rough hand over the crotch of his pants. “Usually, we’re not as well compensated for our efforts….”

Abood looked at the trio of riflemen watching her. Their weapons were aimed at the ground and wicked smirks danced across their features. One slung his weapon and began to undo his belt.

“That is Etter,” Makal explained. “He’s our warm-up for these things.”

“Warm-up?” Abood repeated, a chill flashing across her skin like lightning.

“Some women are a bit…tight,” Makal continued. “He loosens things up.”

Etter chuckled, sounding like a mentally deranged cartoon character as he opened his trousers. While the Turk wasn’t a big man, only a couple of inches taller than Abood, he was freakishly endowed. Abood gritted her teeth, knowing she’d better think of something before these bastards had their way with her. Unfortunately, the two men who had been destroying her equipment finished and flanked the group.

“We got everything,” one soldier said.