Aftershock

“Almost everything,” the other said with a chuckle as he looked at Abood.

Makal nodded. “Hold her.”

The two newcomers slung their rifles, and Abood acted instantly. She kicked Makal in the stomach, the toe of her boot knocking the Beretta to the road and forcing the Jandarma captain to stumble backward. Etter paused, then lunged forward, one beefy hand grabbing at her blouse, but Abood reacted fluidly. The heel of her palm caught the Turk between his lip and nose and snapped Etter’s head back. Unbalanced, his legs constrained by his half-fallen pants, the Turk flopped to the road.

She snaked her arm free from one of the soldiers who grabbed at her, but the other latched on to the arm that had knocked their partner onto his rear. Abood twisted and punched the goon in the sternum, but even driving the wind out of the Jandarma soldier didn’t relax the rapist’s grip.

“Fuck you!” Abood screamed, letting the clingy Turk get a face full of her loudest yell. It distracted him from her foot snaking around his ankle and she folded her arm abruptly. The point of her elbow struck the man in the breastbone and he fell to one side, dragging her down with him.

“Whore!” the other two would-be rapists growled, and they rushed forward. Abood twisted and pulled her wrestling partner against her, a shield that took the first brutal swings of their rifle stocks.

It wasn’t much, and they were going to make her pay for her resistance, but she was not going to surrender meekly. She was going to go down fighting.

“Drop the rifles!” a voice suddenly shouted.

The gunmen paused. Abood thrashed free, clawing out into the open.

“They’re trying to rape me!” she shouted.

“Nobody move!” the newcomer shouted. Abood’s eyes cleared and she spotted the man. He was tall, well built, wearing a dark, body-conforming outfit that showed off his rippling arms and chest where his torso peeked through a pouch-laden harness. He held an AK-47 in his hands, and his gaze was hard and stern.

Etter scooped up his rifle and triggered it, but holding the weapon one-handed, his initial burst missed. That was all the man in black needed to explode into action. A fiery lance of gunfire stabbed into the half-dressed rapist, heavy-caliber slugs punching through his head and neck. Explosions of gore and the rattle of automatic weapons spurred the remaining riflemen into action, and they went for their own guns. The tall man took three steps, seeming to weave ahead of the Turkish thugs as they tried to bear down on him. The mysterious avenger’s weapon ripped out another stream of slugs and decapitated one of the riflemen.

Abood didn’t know who he was, but this man was quick and skillful. Still, he was outnumbered, and she saw her Beretta lying in the gravel. She lunged for the pistol and almost got it when Makal’s weight slammed into her, a big hand clawing at her forearm. Abood turned and showed her own claws, fingers raking across the Turk’s left eye. Blood squirted over her fingers as she dug in, and the Jandarma commander’s fetid breath washed over her, accompanied by a wail of pain. Abood punched hard, tagging him in the nose. Cartilage collapsed under the impact, and Makal squirmed to one side, rolling into a roadside ditch.

Abood vaulted forward and grabbed her handgun.

“Get out of the way!” the man shouted as Abood swung toward the Turkish captain, but Abood triggered two shots. Makal twitched as a 9 mm hollowpoint round ripped through his arm. The fireplug-headed goon raced into the woods.

Abood whirled and the tall man lowered his rifle.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Abood brushed her mouth. One corner was swollen and tender to the touch, but the blood flow had stopped. “It’ll be awhile before I play the saxophone again….”

The man regarded her. Though his skin was tanned a deep, rich brown by exposure to the sun, he was most decidedly not a Semitic man. Too tall, too classically Anglo. Abood couldn’t exactly place him by look, and thought if he wore sunglasses to conceal those cold, ice-blue eyes, he could have fit in anywhere from a Marrakech market to a Hong Kong casino.

“It was a joke,” Abood said, her words slurred slightly as right side of her mouth reacted numbly to her words.

“They didn’t do any permanent damage?” he said.

“No. I’ll be okay,” Abood answered. She looked down and saw blood spattered across her torn blouse. “Most of this blood isn’t mine.”

He extended a hand to her. “Name’s Brandon Stone,” Mack Bolan said, using a cover identity.

“Catherine Abood, Newsworld magazine,” she introduced herself. “Everyone calls me Cat.”

A hint of recognition showed in Bolan’s face. “You did an article on a white slavery ring operating in Lebanon last year,” Bolan said.

“Yup. Would I know of your work anywhere, Mr.—”

“Colonel,” Bolan corrected.

“Colonel Stone?” Abood asked.

Bolan shook his head. “Nothing I could confirm or deny.”

Abood nodded. “One of those kinds of guys.”

“Afraid so,” Bolan replied. “We’d better get out of here.”

Abood nodded, and she stepped over to the Jandarma soldier who lay stunned beside her Jeep. She picked up his rifle and grabbed a couple of magazines, stuffing them into the voluminous pockets of her vest. She stuffed her Beretta back into its holster after reloading it. “They took out my equipment.”

Bolan looked around. “What did you witness?”

“They skinned a teenaged boy and lit his hair on fire,” Abood answered softly. She was disgusted at how easily she could repeat the events. “They saw me and chased me down.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t just kill you,” Bolan stated as he headed toward one of the jeeps. “Who were they? Kongra-Gel?”

“Jandarma,” Abood answered.

Bolan stopped and frowned, his hard eyes suddenly troubled. His gaze refocused. “They’re official in this province?”

“Official enough that the government never prosecutes them for excessive force if there’s not enough evidence,” Abood said.

“Like photographs taken by a foreign journalist,” Bolan suggested.

“Right,” Abood replied. “After that, it would be my word against theirs…if I survived.”

“The government wouldn’t have believed your accusations without photographic evidence,” Bolan stated. “I know these types of groups.”

“Intimately?” Abood asked, slightly nervous.

“We’ve butted heads more than a couple times,” Bolan said.

“Yeah,” Abood agreed with a sigh. “You look like a tough customer, but you are definitely not one of these scumbags.”

Abood chewed over his words for a moment. “You’re from New England too. Lost most of the accent, but I can still hear it.”

“Massachusetts,” Bolan replied. “New Hampshire?”

Abood nodded. “Yup.”

“We’ll have old-home week on the way out of here,” Bolan told her. “Right now, I want to get you to safety.”

“I can handle myself,” Abood said, defiant.

“I’m sure you can,” the Executioner answered, no condescension in his tone. “But you were in over your head. Get in the jeep.”