скачать книгу бесплатно
Makhdoom’s roar shook the rafters. “Yet you have put us under his fist! Do you realize what you have done?”
“I do. What do you believe Hussain would have done had we not cooperated with him?”
Makhdoom spent several long moments collecting himself, then a few more considering the question. His hands fell to his sides as his reason overcame his indignation. “At the very least, Hussain would have raised bloody hell with my superiors over my conduct. Our investigation would have been blown wide open. For having taken you, an American, into the Al-Nouri facility, I could have been stripped of my rank. Regardless of the fate of my career, you would have probably ended up being thrown out of the country, though first you would have been extensively tortured. It is not outside the realm of possibility that you could be shot as a spy. Hussain is a toad, but he walks the corridors of power and he has the ear of the president. Though all he ever whispers into it is the word yes, if I am not mistaken.”
Bolan nodded. “That was my take on the situation. I decided it would be better to stroke the man rather than buck him. I apologize if I acted out of turn or superceded your authority. It was a choice that had to be made on the split second, and I stand by my decision.”
“Your actions were correct.” Makhdoom sank down heavily into his chair and picked up his cup of tea. “I do not like them, and I fear their consequences, but at the time, they were correct. I do not begrudge them.”
Two young men in their early teens appeared in the doorway of the living room. They were dark complected like their father but had the light brown eyes of their mother.
“Ah.” The captain visibly brightened. “My sons. Muhjid, Kaukab, come and greet our guest.”
The two young men entered and stared at Bolan wonderingly. Americans were a source of great debate among the Pakistani people. Most considered them godless, an enemy of Islam and unforgivable allies of the Israeli occupiers of the Holy Land. They were also supposed to be perverted, fabulously wealthy and famous. The two young men were somewhat cosmopolitan because their father had trained in the United States and he told very interesting stories about his experiences. They had also listened to their father roar at the stranger for ten minutes, telling him what an idiot he was.
The two young men nodded formally. “Greetings. Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you.” Bolan nodded to Makhdoom. “Fine young men you’ve raised.”
Makhdoom puffed up happily. Zarah beamed. Makhdoom waved them away. “You may go. My guest and I have much to discuss.”
The two young men ran off and Zarah disappeared back into the house.
“Nice family you have.”
“Thank you.”
“Get them the hell out of here.”
Makhdoom glanced up from his tea. “You think they’ll come here.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I would. We’ve gotten closer than anyone has to them. We bloodied them. They don’t know who I am, but we have to assume they know you. They know we’re after them.” Bolan held up the strange, dully gleaming piece of fabric. “They’ll want this back. They’re coming. Sooner rather later.”
“Muhjid! Kaukab!”
The two young men came skidding into the room at their father’s call. Makhdoom pulled a large wad of notes from his wallet. “Take this money. Take the shotgun. Take the car. Take your mother out of the city.”
The two boys’ eyes widened.
“Do not dally! Evil men are coming. Take care of your mother. Go!”
Muhjid ran to the mantel and took a double-barreled shotgun off the rack and then a box of shells from the chest beneath it. Kaukab ran to find his mother.
Makhdoom rose. “My friend, I want you on the opposite roof. I will give you binoculars and a rifle. When they come, I will be inside and act as bait. When—”
Zarah ran into the room. “There is a car out on the street.”
“What kind of car?”
“A black one.” She glanced fearfully from Makhdoom to his guest. “It is full of men.”
Makhdoom picked up the phone. He clicked the old-fashioned receiver twice and grimaced. Most of Pakistan still used phone lines rather than cell phones. The phone line to the house had been cut. He turned to his boys. “My sons. Take your mother upstairs. Kill anyone either than myself or the American should they attempt to come up.”
Muhjid and Kaukab went wide-eyed, but they hesitated only for a second. They took the shotgun and their mother and ran upstairs.
Bolan polished off his tea and rose. “We need guns.”
General Hussain’s men had demanded they surrender their submachine guns and had not seen fit to give them back.
“Follow me.” Makhdoom strode down the hall and entered his study. Maps of the world covered the walls that weren’t dominated by bookcases. In one corner was a small desk with a computer.
Opposite the desk was a gun cabinet.
He opened the twin glass panels and pulled out a pair of rifles. They were Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifles of WWII vintage. Sporting stocks had replaced the full wood furniture stressed for bayonet fighting. The barrels had been shortened to twenty-two inches and telescopic sights had been fitted. The old battle rifles had been customized for hunting, but both would still hold ten rounds of the powerful British .303 military ammunition.
Makhdoom checked the loads in both rifles and then tossed one of the weapons to Bolan. He removed a box of shells and dumped half of the cartridges into Bolan’s hand, then thrust the rest in his pocket.
They had twenty shots each.
“They’re not coming invisibly this time.”
“No, not during the initial assault.” Bolan flipped on the safety of his weapon. “But they may come sneaking up during it.”
Something struck the front door a tremendous blow. The house shook and wood creaked and splintered. Bolan flicked the safety off of his weapon. “Here they come.”
A heavy piece of pipe rammed the door off of its hinges.
“Here they go,” the captain snarled. They walked to the end of the hall and pointed their rifles across the living room into the foyer. The iron battering ram crushed tile as it was dropped onto the floor and men in long coats waving short automatic weapons spilled into the captain’s home.
The two hunting rifles thundered as one. The first man in shuddered and sagged as Makhdoom’s .303 rifle bullet smashed in his chest. The second man’s head erupted like a melon as it failed to absorb the 2200 footpounds of muzzle energy Bolan delivered into it with the precision of a trained sniper. He flicked the bolt of his rifle and chambered a fresh round. The men in the doorway were screaming in a language Bolan didn’t recognize.
A line of bullets pocked up the wall beside the Executioner as the invaders behind fired their weapons blindly into the house.
“Amateurs,” Makhdoom growled.
“They’ll be coming through the back, as well.”
The captain nodded. “Go kill them. I will stay here and prevent the ones in front from coming in.”
Bolan strode down the hall toward the back of the house. He swept into the kitchen as a man crawled through the shattered window. He perched precariously on the sink, trying not to cut himself on broken shards of glass still in the window frame.
He had a single split second of wide-eyed horror before Bolan blew him back through the window with a bullet through his sternum. The big American flicked his bolt open as the back door to the kitchen smashed inward and charged into the invaders. The throat of the first man in was torn away as Bolan shot him point-blank. There was no time to work the bolt of the ancient weapon for a second shot, but the dying killer had sagged into his companions and clogged the doorway. Bolan swung the butt of his rifle in a brutal arc and shattered the jaw of the second man. The third desperately tried to shove his machine pistol past his broken comrades.
Bolan lunged and rammed his rifle forward in a bayonet thrust.
No blade was mounted on the end of Bolan’s rifle, but the steel muzzle and the front sight of his rifle rammed up through the assassin’s teeth and crushed his upper palate. A muffled mewl of agony bubbled through the shattered remains of the man’s mouth. The assassin’s agony was cut short as Bolan whipped the butt of his rifle around and brought it into the killer’s temple with bone-cracking force.
The soldier racked the bolt of his rifle and stepped over the men he had taken out of play.
Makhdoom’s house was very typical of the Middle East and East Asia. The front of the house was a nearly blank wall except for a door and very narrow upstairs windows. Beyond the interior living space was a walled courtyard in back.
A man sat straddling the wall shouting into a cell phone and waving a machine gun.
“Igor! Igor!” the man shouted.
Bolan raised an eyebrow.
Igor.
That wasn’t a typical Pakistani name. Bolan sighted and shot the man through the leg he had thrown over the wall. The assassin howled, clutched his shattered thigh and toppled forward into a rosebush.
Upstairs a shotgun boomed.
The fallen assassin was thrashing and howling in the rose thorns. Bolan shot him through the other leg. The man screamed as Bolan slung his rifle and picked up a pair of the fallen weapons of the men clogging the kitchen doorway. The weapons were Kiparis submachine guns. Bolan flicked their selectors to full auto. The man thrashing along the garden wall looked up and screamed as Bolan charged him with a weapon in either hand.
The man shrieked as the soldier vaulted him. Bolan dropped the commandeered weapons on their slings and caught the wall as he leaped. He swung his leg over the top and dropped to the street below.
Bolan ran down the back alley and rounded the corner of Makhdoom’s house. A black Landrover was parked on the street with a man waiting behind the wheel. In one hand he held a cell phone into which he was talking rapidly. The other held a silenced handgun. He was craned around in his seat, and his attention was fixed on the front door of Makhdoom’s residence and the pitched gun battle going on there. He caught sight of Bolan in the corner of his eye and whipped back around.
Bolan raised both machine pistols and held down his triggers. The windshield of the Landrover went opaque with bullets and then splashed red from the arterial spray within. Three men were in the doorway of Doom’s house. A fourth lay dead on the stoop. They were spraying their weapons like firehoses into the house. Bolan raised his left-hand weapon and burned the rest of his magazine into the back of the rearmost assassin. Bolan dropped the spent machine pistol and raised the weapon in his right hand. One of the remaining killers spun, and Bolan walked a burst up from his belt buckle to his brain.
The fourth man leaped into the house as Bolan tracked his weapon on him. Makhdoom’s rifle thundered within, and the man staggered backward out the door again clutching his chest. Doom’s weapon boomed a second time and the killer was smashed off his feet and sprawled in the gutter.
Bolan scanned the street and the rooftops opposite Makhdoom’s house. People were shouting and screaming in the neighboring houses. But nothing appeared to be moving on the street.
It was what Bolan could not see that made him wary.
Bolan approached the Captain’s door obliquely. “Doom!”
“I hear you!”
“You all right?”
“I am!” shouted back the Captain. “You?”
“The street is clear! I’m coming in the front door!”
“Come ahead!”
Bolan stepped across half a dozen dead bodies as he entered the house and entered the living room. The interior of the house was littered with corpses. Most had one or two high-powered rifle bullet wounds in their chests. One lay spread-eagled further in by the foot of the stairs. A shotgun blast had left his head and shoulders in ruins.
“Everyone all right?”
Makhdoom came out from the hallway. “Kaukab!”
The young man’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “We are all right, father!”
“Stay where you are! Do not move from your post until I tell you!”
“Yes, father!”
Makhdoom stared around his bullet-riddled home. “Do you think the unseen ones come?”
Bolan looked around the living room. His eyes fell upon the low table where he had set his teacup. It was also where he had left the length of strange fabric he had cut from his own throat in the warehouse in Rawalpindi.
The fabric was gone.
“They were here, and they’ve left. They took what they came for.”
Makhdoom straightened in shock. “The fabric! You left it out where they could find it!”
“I did.” Bolan nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a three-inch length he had cut from it. “But not all of it.”
“But did they not also come for our lives?”
“That was what the muscle was for. I remember reading in the intelligence report on the Thugs that their religion forbids them to shed blood except in certain ritual circumstances. The goons were for us. But the Thuggees came for the evidence.
Makhdoom’s smile turned feral. “So, they think they have what they came for.”
“Yeah, and I need to get this to my people in the United States ASAP, and without General Hussain knowing about it.”
“That I can arrange.” Makhdoom glanced around again. The corpses piled around his house were just that, corpses. “But it appears we are without leads once more.”
Mujhid’s voice shouted excitedly from upstairs. “Father! There is a man! Thrashing about in mother’s roses!”
“You saved one,” smiled Doom.
“I figured we’d give him to Hussain.” Bolan shrugged. “We have to let the General do something.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
General Fareed’s office
“I understand there was an altercation in your home, Captain.”
“Yes, General.” Makhdoom nodded. “But it was prosecuted to a fruitful conclusion.”
“Yes, very well and good, and congratulations on taking a prisoner.” The General smiled unpleasantly. Along with performing the function as military yes-man for whoever might be occupying the presidency of Pakistan, Hussain was also firmly entrenched in the highest echelons of Pakistani secret police. The prisoner’s two shattered thighs had probably been the least of his discomforts during the night. Hussain’s smile went smug as he regarded Bolan. “Our guest was correct. The weapons used on the attack on your residence were Kiparis OTS-02 submachine guns.” Hussain paused dramatically. “Of Kazakstani origin.”
Bolan met Hussain’s smile. “And your prisoner?”
Hussain glowed with self-satisfaction. “He is of Kazakstani origin as well, as were most of the confederates, as far as we can tell. His name is Yusef Zagari, a gangster involved trafficking heroin from the poppy fields in Afghanistan and Pakistan that flow into the former Soviet Republics and Russia.”
Bolan nodded. “He’s muscle.”
“Yes.” Hussain savored the English slang. “Yusef is drug muscle. It is my belief he and his men are mercenaries, hired by our enemies.”
