скачать книгу бесплатно
“Hal the politician,” Grimaldi said.
Brognola smiled around his stogie. “Yeah, I’m loving it, too,” he said. “I’d stand naked in Times Square, but it’s a command performance. The Man wants me there, so I’m going.”
“Barb’ll take good care of us,” Bolan said.
“I have no doubt,” Brognola said. “Look, the minute you get a line on Jennifer Kinsey, let us know. If she’s still among the living, we’d very much like to bring her home.”
Bolan nodded. “Feeling’s mutual. We’ll do what we can.”
“No doubt, Striker,” Brognola said. “Just watch your ass. Al-Shoud’s operation may be small, but he’s not small-time. Most of his men are former intelligence agents who’ve pulled some serious black ops in India. Badasses all. If this turns nasty, do your best—hell, do your worst—and come home.”
“We’re on it,” Bolan said. Killing the connection, he and Grimaldi began scanning the satellite images and other intel provided by Stony Man’s cyberteam, preparing themselves for what needed to be a short, precise confrontation.
CHAPTER TWO
Jennifer Kinsey saw the U.S. Embassy compound from about two blocks away. Another block ahead of her, state police armed with automatic weapons had blocked all roads leading to the embassy with wooden sawhorses and officers. She guessed the Marines and Diplomatic Security Service agents also had doubled up their efforts since James Lee’s murder.
A shudder that had nothing to do with the biting cold seized her. Unconsciously she pulled the burqa’s heavy fabric tighter around her, as if doing so would protect her from homicidal bastard that had pursued her now for how long? Three days? Four days?
Underneath the thick black robes, she still wore her navy-blue business suit and white silk blouse, both stained dark crimson by James Lee’s blood. She chewed at her lower lip for a moment as unbidden memories of Lee’s death flooded her consciousness.
Almost immediately, she shook her head to purge the memories. Stay strong, she told herself. If you want to fall apart, that’s fine. God knows you deserve it. But do it after you’ve gotten inside the embassy. Not before. You’ve been through worse and you’ll survive this, too. Just stay strong.
Kinsey bowed her head and started walking. She had bought the burqa from a young woman. It had cost her all the two hundred dollars in emergency cash that she carried in a small belt under the waist of her skirt, but had been a worthwhile purchase. In her right hand, she clutched a .25-caliber pistol that she normally kept strapped to her thigh. She could handle much more substantial ordnance. But the State Department frowned on their people carrying weapons, regardless of what hellhole they sent you to. So, from her way of thinking, carrying a smaller weapon was a compromise of sorts. The stubby weapon was no good at distances, but she knew she could jam it into an attacker’s throat or eye and inflict plenty of damage.
She hoped it didn’t have to go that far.
She began threading through the sea of people gathered outside the embassy. It took a conscious effort to not push past people, particularly men who’d stand in a woman’s way on principle. It rankled her to be so passive, to walk seemingly without a purpose, to yield to anyone. Jennifer Kinsey hadn’t climbed the ranks of the CIA or the State Department by being submissive. She’d fought tooth and nail for every promotion, every letter of commendation.
Now she was fighting for her life.
A man bumped into her, knocking her off her feet. She fell to the ground, banging her knees and skinning her hands. Her cheeks grew hot with anger as she stayed on all fours a moment. The man continued on, not bothering to offer a hand or to apologize. She chewed her lip and took a deep breath to clear her head. Let it go, she told herself. Get to the embassy and tell them what you saw.
Of course, she didn’t expect them to believe it. She hardly believed it herself. That a group of Islamic extremists would attack her and Lee—or any American, for that matter—came as little surprise to Kinsey. Any U.S. diplomat who stepped into the country and expected a warm welcome, needed her head examined. Or at least needed to read a damn newspaper.
But Lee had been slain by a comrade. Not a friend, but one of his own.
Several of his own, in fact.
Hugging her arms tightly around her midsection, Kinsey found herself within forty yards of the nearest police checkpoint. She hurried toward it.
Again she could smell the smoke, hear the voices.
See the face.
It had been sheer pandemonium. The limousine’s front end pinned against the wall, shoved there by another car. When Kinsey first felt the impact, heard the grind of metal on metal, the explosion of radio traffic from the security team, she wondered if they’d been the target of a car bomb.
In some ways it might have been better that way, she thought.
The DSS agents had put up a valiant fight, of course. Stay in the car, they’d said. We’ll call for help, fight these guys off.
A swarm of militants, all dressed in civilian clothes, most armed with AK-47s, faces obscured by hoods, had set upon Lee’s vehicle almost immediately. The DSS agents had given little ground, burning down half a dozen of the bastards in the first few seconds of the fight. They were well trained, well armed, quite simply, the best.
But Kinsey was convinced that a person couldn’t be trained to survive a live frag grenade dropped just out of reach, particularly when an opponent was willing to sacrifice a few of his own men to kill you.
Grabbing an abandoned 9 mm SIG-Sauer, Kinsey had stepped from the vehicle, staking herself as the last line of defense between Lee and his attackers. Old habits died hard, she supposed. And she’d fought like the damn devil to nail a few of the guys, hoping against hope that help would arrive. Her life for Lee’s. It had seemed like a fair trade at the time.
She’d exhausted the SIG-Sauer’s fifteen rounds in no time. With those gone, the remaining militants had set upon her, beating her with rifle butts, fists and feet.
“She goes alive,” a voice had called out. “She’s mine.”
The words had caused Kinsey to freeze, a sensation she was unaccustomed to. Turning her head, she saw a big man standing near the shattered limo. He looked at her as he aimed a Browning Hi-Power at the back of a kneeling Lee’s neck.
“I said, she’s mine.”
Jon Stone. Here, in Islamabad. Killing his former boss.
Why?
She had shuddered at the words then and did so now. He turned his attention to Lee. She kicked one man in the balls, crushed a second’s windpipe and fled. The gunshot that murdered Lee rang in her ears as she’d run away.
She still wondered—no, obsessed was more like it—about whether she’d done enough to save Lee. What she knew for sure was that Stone, a former teammate, had assassinated a government official and probably wanted to do likewise to her.
So she could second-guess the hell out of herself all she wanted—later. After she took care of the job at hand.
The closer she came to the police checkpoint, the less regard she had for maintaining her disguise. Maybe it was fatigue or hunger. She hadn’t slept at all and had only eaten a few scraps of food along the way. Maybe she just wanted the sweet relief of her home territory.
Regardless, she almost missed the warning signs.
A Pakistani man came in close, a blade clutched in his right hand. He grabbed her arm and stepped just a few inches away. He kept the blade pointed into her stomach.
“Come with me,” he snarled.
In response she shoved the stubby pistol into his groin and fired it. Blood spurted over her hand, hot against her cold, chapped skin. With the muzzle shoved hard against him, his body and his clothing absorbed most of the sound. A shocked look overtook his features and he stumbled back.
A glint of steel flashed to Kinsey’s right. Taking a step back, Kinsey caught the faint impression of a man stepping in on her, knife cutting its way to her. She brought her arm down hard, letting her wrist collide with her opponent’s and knocking the jab off course.
The man pressed his attack, swinging the knife blade at her in wide slashes. By now, people had begun to see the altercation and were clearing away, most looking elsewhere. Kinsey sidestepped the knife thrust, bringing her almost face-to-face with the man. Bringing up the pistol, she jabbed it into the soft flesh under the man’s chin and fired it.
As the man folded, she heard a screech of tires as a car came around the corner in a skidding turn. Hooded men stepped from the vehicle and began to rake the air with autofire. People screamed and scattered or dived for cover.
Kinsey tried to use the pandemonium to her advantage, melting into a wave of fleeing people. Looking up, she saw a big Caucasian threading his way through the oncoming throngs of people toward her.
She raised the small handgun to fire. As she did, something struck her skull, causing a white flash of light to explode behind her eyes. She stumbled forward and a swimmy feeling overtook her. She whirled to retaliate and found herself looking into Stone’s dead-eyed stare.
“Hi, Jen,” he said. A massive fist struck her once more in the temple and she sank to her knees. A moment later everything went black.
CHAPTER THREE
Waziristan territory, Pakistan
Crouched behind a line of boulders, Bolan panned his binoculars over the village of mud huts and sized up his adversaries. His breath escaped in white wisps and needles of cold plunged through the fabric of his combat black-suit and into the skin underneath. Three men, two carrying AK-47s, the third an Uzi, acted as sentries for the gateway leading into the walled village.
Craters and shattered stone from past wars dotted the landscape that lay between Bolan and al-Shoud’s stronghold. Bolan watched as one of the men fired up a cigarette, the lighter washing his face in a flickering orange glow. Another sentry, apparently the ranking member, cursed his comrade and swatted him on the arm. The stricken man groused but dropped the cigarette, stomped it under a booted heel and stalked off into the darkness.
A handful of tattered tents stood next to the mud huts and behind it all stood a large, featureless building of concrete brick. No fires for cooking or warmth burned. All the structures, except for the brick building, stood dark. Like Bolan, the three men clung to shadows, occasionally glancing at a dirt road that wound its way into the camp, as if they expected someone.
Bolan had kept the camp under surveillance for hours, but hadn’t yet found anything of substance. If Kinsey was alive—and Bolan wanted to believe she was—it was going to take an intense search to find her.
The Executioner felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Deepening his crouch, he turned and cast a wary glance. A fourth sentry, this man a good three inches taller than Bolan, walked the road heading to the camp. As he marched, the man scanned the area around him, his gun muzzle following the line of his gaze. Bolan’s breath caught in his throat as the sentry’s eyes settled on his darkened form.
The gaze lingered for a moment. The warrior felt his grip on the Beretta harden and his finger curl around the trigger. The man’s next move would determine his fate. To Bolan’s relief, the guard turned his gaze back on the camp and kept moving toward it.
During his hike up the mountain, Bolan had counted three guards and had left all three standing. That had been by design. He knew the events earlier in Islamabad would have al-Shoud’s fighters on edge as it was, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. And leaving a trail of dead bodies in his wake would only prematurely alarm the Executioner’s opponents and give them time to fortify their positions. However, the strategy also forced him to watch his back more carefully than usual.
The guard hurried up the trail and stopped when he reached the others. Bolan heard the muffled tones of the man’s voice but couldn’t distinguish his words. The terrorist warriors nodded their heads as the man spoke, and at least two broke into smiles and clapped one another on the shoulder.
“Striker?” It was Jack Grimaldi.
Bolan keyed his headset. “Go.”
“Spotters caught a chopper coming your way. ETA is seven minutes.”
“You sure it’s coming here?”
“Anything’s possible, but it’s a safe bet. The craft has no visible markings and only minimal exterior lighting. I checked and it’s definitely not one of ours. It could be weapons smugglers or terrorists not associated with al-Shoud. But my gut says you’re about to get visitors.”
“Clear,” Bolan said. “May be the break we’ve been looking for.”
“Understood. What have you got there?”
“Four guards, all armed,” Bolan said. “Three more roaming the grounds. Unknown on how many inside. You ready to swoop if I need you?”
“Right. You said you wanted a fast taxi ride, so here I sit. Just me, a combat chopper, and a strike team of two dozen special ops soldiers who, by the way, are getting a little impatient.”
“Tell them to stand fast,” Bolan said. “They’re here for mop-up, nothing else. This is a situation where the fewer guns we have, the better off we’ll be.”
Grimaldi whistled. “I’m sure that message will play well. If you hear gunshots, you’ll know what happened. Any sign of our lady fair yet?”
“Negative.”
“Al-Shoud?”
“Same.”
“Think she’s still alive?”
“Hard to say. If she is, al-Shoud knows where to find her. Regardless, he and I are going to have a heart-to-heart.”
“My guess is he’s going to do most of the talking.”
“Most likely.”
“Stay hard, Striker.”
“Always.”
Bolan heard the thrumming of helicopter blades in the distance. The guards returned to view and began turning on halogen spotlights, illuminating a flat area that Bolan guessed served as a landing pad.
Within less than a minute the helicopter, a Russian-made Mi-17, swooped in overhead. The whine of its engines pierced the silence. As it settled to earth, rotor wash seized snow, dirt and small stones, and flung them into the guards’ eyes, forcing them to wrap their forearms over their faces. White cones of light emanated from the craft’s bottom as it lit up the makeshift helipad. Bolan slipped deeper under cover to avoid detection and waited for the chopper to land.
A side door slid open and a big Caucasian with thick blond hair stepped from the craft. His booted feet sank several inches into the snow, but he still covered the ground in confident, graceful strides. Camouflage battle fatigues and a rumpled field jacket covered his bulky frame. A Colt Commando hung from a strap looped over his right shoulder.
He turned and his big hands reached inside the aircraft and almost immediately connected with something. Grinning, the man pulled Jennifer Kinsey, an olive-drab field jacket draped over her designer suit, hands bound in front of her by steel handcuffs, out of the craft. As she kicked out to get her footing, the man dropped her into the snow. As she glared at him, he shook his head and laughed.
Bolan studied her through the binoculars. A bruise swelled under her left eye, and she wore a couple of small cuts on her cheeks. But she was alive. For now, Bolan considered that enough.
For now. Soon she’d be free. Or Bolan would be dead. He wasn’t going home empty-handed.
The large man reached down, gathered the fabric of her coat collar in his hand and yanked her to her feet. Bolan saw a satisfied grin play on the man’s lips as he brought her erect and shoved her forward, causing her to stumble. The guards neither laughed nor made a move to stop the rough treatment. Four men all dressed similarly to the big man and brandishing assault rifles stepped from the chopper. They followed Kinsey and her tormenter inside.
Bolan keyed the headset. “Ace?”
“Go, Striker.”
“She’s here.”
“Roger that. You going in?”
“Right. Standby. I’ll call for a pickup.”
Grimaldi acknowledged the radio traffic. Bolan killed the connection. The warrior sheathed the Beretta and unlimbered the sound-suppressed Heckler & Koch MP-5. Bolan came to his feet and, using rocks strewed about the terrain for cover, closed in on the village.
The crunch of hard-packed snow crushed underfoot reached Bolan’s ears. He whirled, spotted a fifth gunner crouched next to a boulder. The man already had locked Bolan in his sights. The Executioner lunged left and crashed into the ground, the icy snow yielding under his weight. Flame blossomed from the sentry’s weapon and bullets pounded the area around Bolan. Small geysers of snow erupted from the ground as rounds chewed a path toward Bolan.
Taking aim, Bolan stroked the H&K’s trigger. The initial burst sailed inches past his target’s head. The guard held his ground and laid down another withering hail of gunfire. Correcting his own aim, Bolan fired two more bursts from the SMG. The rounds drilled into the man’s belly, causing him to stiffen and stagger back before he collapsed to the ground.
Shadows loomed behind Bolan and in the absence of gunfire, he heard more assailants crossing the snow toward him. The Executioner rolled into a prone position, propping himself up on his elbows and clutching the MP-5 in both hands. He tapped out a short burst that chewed into the man’s chest and stomach. Caught by the 9 mm stingers, the man staggered back and his body went limp. Dropping his weapon, he fell to his knees, pitched face-first into the snow.
More autofire flashed around Bolan. Bullets tore at the smooth, snowy surfaces and sparked off exposed rocks. He was on his feet and running for another position. He switched his weapon to full-auto and laid down a sustained salvo for cover as he ran.
He caught motion to his right, whirled and spied a pair of shooters trying to acquire him as a target. Orange muzzle-flashes burst from their weapons and lead sizzled the air around Bolan, lancing between his legs and passing close to his ears and shoulders.
As grim as hell, the warrior brought around his MP-5 and unloaded a burst at the nearest man. The leaden storm ripped ragged holes in the man’s chest, shaking him like a leaf in the wind. As the first shooter fell, Bolan whirled toward the second. Having seen his comrade fall, the man redoubled his own efforts, emptying his rifle in a sustained assault on Bolan.
The Executioner snap-aimed the subgun and loosed a murderous gale of autofire. The onslaught pounded the man’s center mass and drove his battered corpse to the ground. Smoke curled from the MP-5’s barrel, mixing with the clouds formed by Bolan’s frozen breath.
The big American snapped a new magazine into the weapon. Legs pumping, he surged toward the encampment, dropping two more gunners as he continued his death march. More gunfire blazed a trail toward him, forcing the warrior to thrust himself beneath a wooden donkey cart. A shower of hellfire pounded into the ancient vehicle, creating a spray of splinters. Bullets tunneled into the ground around him.
