Plains Of Fire

The Executioner had let his guns remain silent, but he was far from through with the Thunder Lion contingent of survivors. The men gathered into two vehicles, seven men stuffed into the jeeps that hadn’t been hurled into Alexandria harbor by the sinking Russian smuggling ship. Aflaq had taken a moment to put two bullets into each of the other pair of SUVs to cripple them.

Too bad for Aflaq that the bullets went into the radiators of the jeeps. Bolan was able to affect repairs on one of the jeeps by jury-rigging a patch with swatches of duct tape and a flat plate of metal that he’d kicked off a rusted section of fender. With the improvised patch in place, sealing the radiator’s leak, all Bolan required was a discarded soda bottle and water from the harbor to refill the radiator. Aflaq had been in too much of a hurry to efficiently cripple the abandoned vehicles. He’d seen them as nails, and his gun as the only hammer. Had it been Bolan, he’d have manually gone through the engines, slicing apart hoses and tearing out the alternator generator, hurling it into the bay.

Bolan was taking his time, allowing his quarry to move along toward their destination. He spent the time grabbing spare jerricans of gasoline off the second crippled jeep, and removing its battery, loading it into the back of his repaired ride. With the gas and battery, Bolan would be able to devise some high-intensity improvised explosive devices to even the odds when he paid a visit to the Thunder Lions’ safe haven in Alexandria. Satisfied that his preparations were complete, he flipped open his satellite phone. He was connected to Stony Man Farm immediately.

“They have a two-minute lead, Striker,” Aaron Kurtzman said. “They’re moving slow, though. I think they’re trying to make sure no one’s on their tail.”

“Too bad for them that they’re being tailed by eyes five thousand miles above them,” Bolan countered. “I gave Aflaq a real shot of terror and he will keep an eye on his six. He needs to think that there’s no leash. He sees my headlights in his rearview, I won’t have a chance to visit the rest of the militia’s presence in Alexandria.”

“We’re not lying down on the job here, Striker,” Kurtzman said. “I’ve got his path downloaded to your PDA.”

Bolan nodded, patting the pocket where the compact personal digital assistant was tucked away. “Any data processed from Cal’s interrogation of Bashir?”

“Nothing so far. He’s got the camera and mike set up, but he’s still running the interrogation baseline,” Kurtzman replied. Bolan understood the difficulty of a proper chemical interrogation. Baseline truth or false reactions had to be recorded to ensure the veracity of subsequent answers. Bashir would be hooked up to a polygraph machine to not only register unconscious reflexive responses to lying, but to monitor Bashir’s cardiological responses to the scopolamine. If the militia commander was under too much stress from the addition of the “truth serum” to his bloodstream, the stress would show on the polygraph and James would be able to head off a heart attack.

“Bashir must have had some medical difficulty for Cal to take so long in preparation,” Bolan noted. “He probably lost too much blood from his head knock and his pressure was low.”

“I’ve learned not to doubt your deductive skills, Striker. I’ll keep you updated on Aflaq.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Bear.”

Bolan slid behind the wheel and took off, driving parallel to the Thunder Lions’ path. It took little effort to catch up to and shadow the African militia survivors as they limped toward their safe haven in Alexandria. The Executioner let his quarry have their lead, knowing that once they had settled in, their nerves would be less tightly wound. Right now, the Thunder Lions were on edge, and would be alert to his presence. Bolan rarely tried to go against a full-alert security force, preferring to use stealth and surprise as his force multiplier. Thanks to his interference at the arms deal, however, the militiamen would be prepared for any assault. A direct intervention right now would be a steel trap snapping down on the Executioner’s neck.

The Thunder Lions pulled into an abandoned hotel and Bolan stayed back five hundred yards. He picked an apartment building and scurried up the fire escape, crawling all the way to the rooftop. From there, he had a clear vantage point over the militia safe house. He pulled out a monocle, a compact unit that not only had low-light amplification, but was a full ten power magnification. Even from five hundred yards away, Bolan was able to see the faces of grim, edgy militiamen, their eyes sharp and alert for intruders in the area. Following one sentry on patrol, Bolan received a guided tour of the Thunder Lions’ security setup for the evening. All the information that he gathered would be supplemented by downward-looking radar and infrared scans of the hotel, the powerful eyes in the sky Stony Man Farm “borrowed” from the National Reconnaissance Office.

Satisfied with his telescopic intel gathering, Bolan took his sputtering SUV back to the warehouse that he’d set up as his base. The duct tape patch was loosening on the radiator, but the engine wasn’t being stressed by off-road travel or high-speed pursuit. Normal street traffic was still enough to start wisps of steam and smoke to dribble from under the hood. Bolan kept his speed low, nurturing the vehicle until he pulled into the loading dock. The engine finally seized up, overheated.

“This is my nice shiny new ride?” Encizo asked from the doorway. He scanned the road behind Bolan out of ingrained habit. Though the Cuban’s partners in Phoenix Force and the Executioner were all skilled in the art of evading pursuit and tails, complacency was a mind-set that would get him killed. Bolan knew that Encizo’s Heckler & Koch USP pistol was supplemented by an AK-47 propped behind the loading-bay door. Had someone proved stealthy enough to avoid Bolan’s attention, Encizo’s belt-and-suspenders approach to security would have picked them up, and the Phoenix warrior would be ready for battle.

“If you wash it, it’ll shine,” Bolan noted. “But you might want to fix the radiator first.”

Encizo chuckled.

“Got anything interesting from Bashir yet?” Bolan asked.

“We’re taking a short break. Bear let us know you were coming back to us,” Encizo stated. “As it is, we’re held up on Bashir. He’s not healthy enough to handle a full-court press.”

“I figured that Cal might have to shore him up from blood loss.”

“If I didn’t know that you had spoken to Aaron a half hour ago, I’d swear you were psychic.”

Bolan shrugged. “Bashir seemed stabilized when I left him with you.”

“We had to aggravate the cut you put on his forehead,” Encizo noted. “Don’t forget, we’re not the Executioner. People’s bowels don’t turn to ice water when we glare at them.”

Bolan patted his friend on the shoulder, chuckling. “You two can do things I can’t. That’s why I have you on my side. C’mon, let’s go put a little scare into Bashir.”

The pair secured the loading dock, then went to the interrogation room as Calvin James gave Major Bashir a refresher dose of scopolamine. Bashir’s eyes widened at the sight of the Executioner. Bolan’s lips turned up in a humorless grin.

“Please,” Bashir sputtered. “I’m talking as fast as I can.”

“Just keep talking,” Bolan told him, his voice as cold and hard as a gravestone. “I’m happy to listen.”

Bashir sang, desperate to please the Executioner.

Darfur, Sudan

BITTURUMBA KNEW IT WAS early, but he poured himself a tumblerful of brandy, his eyes tracking across the desk to glare at Kedzi Kartennian.

“So we lost the second shipment of canister shells?” Bitturumba asked.

Kartennian nodded.

The general sloshed the brandy around, not caring that he was bruising the body of the liquor. He took a deep swig and grimaced. “To whom?”

“Aflaq called in and said that it was an American. The Russians described him, as well, as someone they feared,” Kartennian stated.

Bitturumba looked over the olive-skinned Turk. “You’re kidding, right?”

Kartennian shook his head. “One man, they said.”

“I sent twenty-four fully armed men!”

“And only seven, including Aflaq, survived.”

“Where’s Bashir?” Bitturumba asked.

“Aflaq said he’s at the bottom of the harbor,” Kartennian said.

Bitturumba sneered. “Where did he get that information from?”

“From the lone crusader,” Kartennian stated. “Who’d disguised himself as one of the Russian smugglers.”

“So Bashir is alive,” Bitturumba mumbled.

“What?”

“Bashir’s alive. I don’t know how well he is, but he’s in enemy hands,” the Thunder Lion chief stated. He took another swig, looking at the big machete lying on his desk. It was a well-worn blade, its edge gleaming and slender from multiple sharpenings, the thick spine displaying a slight curve from countless impacts as it sheared through bone and heavy muscle. He reached out and flicked a speck of flesh from a small crack in the spine.

“Any chance of recovering him?” Kartennian asked.

Bitturumba shook his head. “No worries. Bashir knows where our bases are in the Sudan, but he doesn’t know the actual plan. He’s expendable.”

“And the others?” Kartennian pressed.

“Have them go on soft alert. I’m pretty certain that Aflaq was followed back to the fallback,” Bitturumba stated. “This American’s going to close in on him, and I want to provide a delaying action. Perhaps even expend some of this mysterious warrior’s resources.”

“The American has always been said to fight alone,” Kartennian noted.