Armed Response

Bolan turned sharply at a sudden noise that emanated from the rear of the building. Somebody was moving around by the third UAZ. Bolan drew the silenced Beretta and crept forward. He could now see a faded light beneath the vehicle, a flashlight whose batteries were all but finished. A man was working his way from under the UAZ, yawning. The Executioner moved fast, stepping over to the terrorist. The man saw him, mistook his identity due to the poor light and opened his mouth to say something. Bolan fired a single Parabellum round. The guy’s head snapped against the concrete, the bullet ricocheting out the exit wound in the back of his head. The terrorist died without making a sound.

Bolan ducked behind the second 4x4, waiting for someone to respond to the noise. Nobody did. He rose slowly, weapon ready, expecting trouble. Nobody was waiting for him to appear, no shouts of alarm. Bolan turned his attention back to the UAZs. He pocketed the keys from the first vehicle before approaching the second two. He worked his way around both 4x4s, removing the ignition keys and flinging them as far as he could into the sand.

To counter the chance that somebody would have a reserve set, he returned to the corpse. Placing his AK-47 on the floor, Bolan removed his knife and began cutting chunks of cloth out of the mechanic’s clothing. Then he rolled the cloth into balls, which he stuffed into the tailpipes of the UAZs, pushing each in hard with the tip of his knife. He repeated the procedure several times for both vehicles, wanting to be sure that the engines would choke out on the built-up gases in the event that somebody did manage to start both 4x4s.

The Executioner glanced up from his work and realized that he was out of time. It was now light enough to see by, the sun having risen fast. He finished sabotaging the two vehicles and stood, quickly cutting away the robe. The garment would only hinder him now. He ducked as two terrorists entered the barracks opposite the garage. They paid no interest to the motor pool. Bolan crouch-walked to the entrance and peeked around the corner. Very little had changed in the time that he’d been busy. There were still two groups of terrorists, and it appeared that neither contained Qutaiba. He exited the garage quickly, silently, back up the way that he had come. The sound of raucous laughter reached his ears. The men were too preoccupied to notice anything amiss; all was working to Bolan’s advantage. He reached the space between the second unfinished building and the outhouse, its door facing the opposite building’s wall.

He was about to move between the two buildings when he heard raised voices, recognizing several words.

American! Intruder!

The silent probe was over. It was all about to get noisy. Bolan raised his AK-47, moved to the corner of the second building, observing what the terrorists were doing.

Two new men had arrived, hurrying into the village, talking excitedly, clasping something large between them. The largest knot of men had stood back, allowing the patrol to present their findings to a large, bearded thug. Bolan recognized the type, a man who used his intimidating presence to bully others, killing those who were not in awe of him. The men moved around, trying to get a better look at the discovery, and for a second Bolan saw it, as well.

It was his gear bag, which he had cut loose during the parachute jump.

Bolan cursed softly to himself. He slipped a hand grenade from his web harness, watching as the bearded thug upended the gear bag, tipping the contents onto the sand. There was consternation from the men, then the Beard began shouting orders, pointing in different directions. Bolan pulled the pin on the grenade and let the bomb fly, aiming for the pile of equipment at the Beard’s feet. Bolan ducked behind the corner of the building, counting off the seconds. There were shouts and screams as the terrorists recognized the grenade.

The bomb detonated, a loud crump among the yells. Bolan spun out of his hiding place, his liberated rifle raised to his shoulder. Several men, including the Beard, were on the ground, dead or getting there fast. More were picking themselves up or standing still in shock. Bolan opened fire, the AK-47 on full-auto. Years of experience helped him keep the bucking rifle under control; the muzzle rising only slightly, Bolan swept it from left to right. Men screamed and died as a storm of metal cut through them, sending them to join the Beard in whatever hell awaited them.

Chips of mud brick exploded above Bolan’s head as a terrorist from farther back along the street attempted to return fire. In his excitement his aim was off by at least a foot. There would be no second chances for the man. Bolan fired a quick burst, on target, the shooter shuddering as the high-velocity ammunition cut through him, throwing him onto his back. The soldier released the magazine from his weapon, unsure of how many rounds were left, slammed another one in, arming the rifle even as a group of terrorists tumbled out of the barracks, weapons at the ready, looking for something to shoot. Bolan supplied them with a target as he opened up, delivering a greeting card of death. The three screamed and shook as they were cut down, not having a chance to respond. A fourth man stood in the doorway, clearly seeing Bolan’s position, then ducked back into the barracks. The soldier fired several shots into the open door, wanting to discourage any resistance. A rifle muzzle poked around the base of the frame, firing in his general direction, no hope of hitting anything. Bolan dodged back, preparing to retreat to the motor pool, where he would be able to lob his final grenade into the building.

The firefight had lasted all of ten seconds so far. Bolan had taken only two steps when a muffled boom brought him up short. Somewhere in the distance there had been an explosion, a large one. He paused for a second, briefly considering what it was before focusing on priorities. Another step. The door of the outbuilding opened. Qutaiba stood there, his AK-47 pointing directly at Bolan’s head.

* * *

THE ACHE RETURNED a few moments after Hakim Haddad had left his room, the constant nagging ache. Qutaiba did his best to ignore it, blinking away the image of the lost photograph. He picked up the notebook, hoping to hide away in the grand plan, wanting to hide anywhere. He flicked through the pages, not really seeing the words or occasional diagram. He should burn the notebook. He would do so in a moment. The trucks would arrive, they would leave in a convoy, reach their destination, take control and use it against the Americans. A thousand things could go wrong, but Qutaiba and the Mullahs had prepared for most eventualities. He considered the class of militants that was supplied to be a liability, but the Mullahs assured him that the men would perform well when the time came, that they would all be welcomed into heaven with open arms. Qutaiba hadn’t believed a word.

And now the time was here. A lasting, painful strike against America. A major target. An act of revenge for those two lives taken from him. He blinked, knowing that he was slipping away again. “Focus,” he snapped out loud. The attempt might fail, he knew, but it would be noted and reported. It would make news around the world. And that would be success enough.

Qutaiba had to have drifted off, because the next thing he heard was excited shouting coming from outside. The thick walls muted what was being said, but it sounded as if the men had found something. Maybe Haddad’s mysterious falling bird. Qutaiba rose to his feet and walked to the door.

Chaos had erupted.

A muffled crump was followed by screams, followed by a lot of shooting.

They had been discovered.

Qutaiba froze for several seconds, unable to believe that the plan was about to fail. Not now. Maybe some of the men were shooting at shadows. No, there was too much chaos. He picked up his AK-47, checked that the safety was off and that the weapon was armed. He opened the door, ready to fire.

A black-clad stranger stood in front of him. Rage engulfed Qutaiba in an instant. The man was the very type of commando who had murdered his family, his dreams. He brought the rifle into play, raising it to his shoulder, pointing it at the intruder’s head, pointing it where the intruder’s head had been a split second before. The commando had dropped to his knees. Qutaiba fired too late, bullets smacking into the wall. He began to adjust his aim, fighting the recoil. Too late. Too slow. He didn’t have time to scream his frustrations. The commando had whipped around his own AK-47, holding it one-handed, firing at Qutaiba’s chest…

* * *

BOLAN FIRED HIS KALASHNIKOV, the first four rounds slamming into Qutaiba’s chest, three more missing altogether. The terrorist flew backward, arms outstretched, his weapon fallen from his hands. Bolan rose to his knees, approached his enemy, his weapon pointing at the terrorist’s head. Qutaiba shuddered as life went out of him. Bolan checked vital signs, making sure he really was dead, then scooped up the fallen AK-47. His own was virtually depleted; Qutaiba’s most likely had a nearly full magazine. He didn’t have time to search the room that Qutaiba had been inhabiting. He could hear an engine in the distance, rapidly approaching. Reinforcements? A small blue notebook on the table caught his eye. Bolan glanced quickly around, making sure that no one was bringing him into target acquisition. He saw nothing, took the chance, darted into the room, snatched up the notebook and stuffed it into one of the side pockets on his combat suit.

Time to go.

He quickly reloaded the AK-47 with his final full magazine; the partially loaded one he tucked back into his combat webbing. Stepping over the corpse, he brought up his gun, ready to fire at anybody standing outside. Nobody was around. He returned to his original position of attack, to see if anyone there was pursuing him, to see if the barracks had disgorged more men. Bodies lay everywhere, none moving. His gear bag lay on the ground, surrounded by the dead, its contents spread around. Bolan would gather it later if he got a chance.

At the top of the village road he observed a truck stopping, braking hard. Three men jumped out of the cab, yelling incoherently, waving their arms in panic. They stopped dead when they spotted the carnage of their fallen friends. Their silence lasted a second, no more. Bolan was bringing his sights to bear when the three split off in different directions. He cursed as he saw one plunge into the garage. He would now have to hunt the three plus the other survivors cowering in the barracks. Bolan ducked back into cover, quickly retracing his steps around the back of the building, passing Qutaiba’s tiny building again. He spun around the corner, rifle ready, only to slam into two terrorists creeping up on his rear.

The two terrorists barreled into him, their mouths open in shock. Bolan reacted without thinking, without allowing surprise to distract him. The Executioner dropped his AK-47, stepped in close, grabbed the left guy by the throat and head butted him full force. The man’s nose collapsed, spraying blood. The guy screamed, hands reaching for his face even as Bolan was swatting away the barrel of the second terrorist’s weapon. With his hand still around the throat of Broken Nose, the soldier brought up his right foot, then slammed the sole of his combat boot down on the knee of the second terrorist. The guy joined his screaming friend as his kneecap shattered. The terrorist fell, all the fight going out of him as he was overwhelmed by pain.

However, Broken Nose wasn’t finished. As he clawed for his holstered handgun, Bolan drew his Desert Eagle. He pushed the barrel into his adversary’s chest, squeezing the trigger, simultaneously releasing his stranglehold on the man’s throat. The gun fired at point-blank range, the muzzle velocity throwing the terrorist through the air, an exit hole the size of an orange in his back. Satisfied that the kneecapped terrorist was no immediate threat, Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and snatched up the dropped AK-47. He had no time to check the dead for ammunition. The thunder of the .50 Desert Eagle would have advertised his position to everyone in the area.

With his AK-47 leading the way, Bolan walked to the end of the village, to the final building, the motor pool. He could hear shouting, panicked voices encouraging one another to seek out the enemy. There were several shots, nothing remotely aimed in Bolan’s direction. They were firing at shadows, hoping to provoke some sort of response from their invisible attackers. Bolan worked his way down to the edge of the edifice, quickly scouting out the situation. The truck was parked in the middle of the street, between the barracks and the garage, blocking his view of the enemy.

Bolan dropped to his belly and peered under the truck. As he suspected, two terrorists were hiding beneath the cab, calling out to the others, one of whom replied from the barracks. When they believed that there was nothing to fear, they would emerge from their hiding places. But Bolan didn’t want to wait that long. The clock was counting down in his head. It was only a matter of time before somebody in America gave the order to destroy the village. Bolan wanted to be long gone before then. He drew the Beretta, holding it two-handed, resting on his elbows, pointing it at the back of one of the terrorists’ heads.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_43bacedf-ae27-5f82-85a0-3e6f4e037594)

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“Mr. President, that isn’t enough time. Striker is still on the ground...Yes, sir...I understand that, but we need more time. The target still has not been confirmed…A firefight does indicate the presence of militants, yes, but…Yes, sir, I’ll inform them.”

Brognola broke the connection to the White House. He looked up at Price and Kurtzman. “The President has been convinced by the Joint Chiefs and other advisers that they need to strike now. The Hellfire missile is going to be fired. The remaining truck will be the target. Striker has less than five minutes remaining.” The big Fed turned his attention to the large screen. “How many terrorists are left?”

“Five,” Kurtzman said. “Five and a half. We’ve been tracking this guy here.” With a laser pointer, he indicated a figure moving slowly around the rear of the buildings toward Bolan’s position. “I think that he’s severely wounded by the way that he moves. I doubt that he will be much of a threat to Striker.”

“Where is Striker now?”

“Under the truck,” Price replied.

“Oh, God in heaven! Get out of there, Striker, get out now!”

Yemen

HE TWITCHED. HE GROANED.

Pain washed over him in waves. Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. A tiny voice told him that he was injured, that a hand grenade had exploded, that he was dead unless he moved.

Hakim Haddad groaned again and attempted to open his eyes. He was blind! He couldn’t see! He panicked; his hand shot up to his face. His fingers found his left open eye by accident, causing more pain as he poked it too hard. Wincing, he felt for his right eye. There was nothing there. A hollow space. Gone.

Haddad screamed in terror and frustration. Before he realized it, he had rolled onto his front. His mouth filled with sand and dirt. He stopped screaming and started to gag. Choking, fighting the horror, Haddad forced himself to calm down, take deep ragged breaths.

The infidels had taken his eye!

Trying to remember what had happened took an age. The agony was everywhere. He blinked, finally seeing some light through his left eye. He could see his blackened fingers covered in sand. Sanity was returning. There had been a bag, a soldier’s bag. They had emptied it, turning it upside down. Military equipment had spilled out. Weapons. There had been a clatter, which he had heard above the excited chattering of his men. He watched the grenade roll, thinking at first it had fallen from the bag. But he saw that it had no pin and realized that it had been thrown. He pushed the man closest to him toward the grenade, turning…

Haddad praised Allah for placing an unworthy soul next to him, an inconsequential soldier who should have been glad to sacrifice himself to save his leader. The man had taken the full brunt of the explosion, his body shredding in slow motion, the velocity of the steel ball bearings in the grenade vastly decreasing as they passed through his body and then struck Haddad. He knew nothing after that.

He understood that Allah had saved him, had guided his actions. That soldier would now be feasting in paradise. Hakim muttered a quick prayer. It wasn’t his place to understand what Allah wanted, he knew. But he could guess. Vengeance. Destruction of the attacking infidels.

He closed his eyes—his eye—breathing, just breathing. He attempted to rise. The pain flooded back and Haddad fell onto his face. He pushed himself up onto his knees, rocking back and forth, waves of nausea washing over him. Eye closed, he listened. There was shooting, a lot of it, close by. The infidels were still here. His men were brave, resisting. He would join them. Lead them. Set an example.

Qutaiba.