Plains Of Fire

“Setting off a bomb in an Egyptian harbor isn’t the style of the CIA,” Grigorei noted. “And there isn’t another crime organization with the kind of reach to touch us here.”

The Russian’s eyes narrowed as he saw a shadow in the distance. “That idiot.”

Aflaq followed the Russian’s line of sight and saw a man running down the street toward their position. His arm hung uselessly at his side and his pale features were twisted into a mask of terror and pain.

“He’s leading the enemy to us!” Grigorei snapped. “Everyone! Harden up!”

Aflaq’s hand tightened around the pistol grip of his rifle. “You’ll frighten off our adversaries, yelling like that.”

Grigorei glared at the African. “If we do, then we’ll live another day.”

Aflaq shook his head in disbelief at such a naked display of cowardice on the Russian’s part. Still, there was the evidence of nine men shredded into lifeless sacks of meat in the length of a minute. It was possible that it could have only been three-to-one odds, but none of his men had survived long enough to estimate the size of the force that had killed them.

Could it have been one man, utilizing psychology and stealth to strike at the forces who outnumbered him when they were at their weakest and most underprepared?

If so, then Aflaq counted the men around him. Adding in Grigorei and himself, he had twelve gunmen total. Thirteen if the bewildered, wounded fool jogging frantically toward their position recovered his wits long enough to utilize the handgun he wore on his belt. For someone who’d snuffed out nine men in under sixty seconds, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

“Flashlights!” Aflaq ordered. “Get some lights on the shadows! A herd of elephants could walk by in this murk!”

He received a nod of approval from the surviving leader of the Russian smugglers. Cones of light splayed out, slicking apart the darkness, seeking out the lone opponent who’d turned their arms deal into a wash of carnage.

Yuri Grigorei swung his rifle, following the diameter of light thrown off by one of his men. He wanted to be on the spot to take out the bane of this evening.

Aflaq watched in disbelief as three explosions erupted on the side of Grigorei’s head, geysers of gore vomiting out and spraying his face as he looked at the Russian’s dying shudders. More bullets flew, striking only at the Russians, all except for the wounded, terrified man who simply folded into a fetal position when he saw his friends shriek and die under a hail of silent, brutal death.

Aflaq’s own Thunder Lions were untouched.

“Captain Aflaq,” a voice said from Grigorei’s radio.

Aflaq looked down at the corpse, the small electronic device speaking his name.

Bolan’s voice cut over the airwaves. “Pick up his radio. He won’t have any use for it.”

Aflaq picked up the radio. “Hello?”

“Captain. I’m giving you a courtesy call. Tell General Bitturumba that if he was trying to seek my disapproval, he found it,” Bolan said. “The predatory scum among you who call yourselves Muslim militiamen know who I am. I am God’s wrath for your twisting of the path he laid out for you. Surrender and retirement will save your life, once you send my message to Bitturumba.”

“He would surely kill me,” Aflaq answered.

“Then phone him. And hide,” Bolan retorted.

Aflaq looked around. “Are you…?”

A bullet smacked violently into Grigorei’s slack face, the round exploding through flesh and bone.

“Small talk is over. You have my message,” Bolan said.

Aflaq listened to the static on the other end of the line, feeling the darkness of the dock grow deeper and colder as he waited for another act of wrath.

But the Executioner had moved on.

There were other matters to attend to before the sun rose.

CHAPTER FOUR

Alexandria, Egypt

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.

Bitturumba smirked. “If he even exists. It’s a psychological ploy. He has backup, and he has resources. We lay a trap for him. Call your friends in the Muslim Brotherhood. We won’t let Aflaq know that he has backup. I want a ring of fire and steel ready to collapse on the American and his allies when he goes after the backup base.”

“Why would he go there?” Kartennian asked. “He knows that we’ll be ready for him, and that we might even call in additional support for our people.”

“I’ve heard this man’s legend. He is nothing if not thorough,” Bitturumba stated. “He will visit flame and death upon our organization. He will destroy our forces in Alexandria, leaving their corpses as a signpost to our inability to maintain our security.”

“To send a message to us,” Kartennian mused.

Bitturumba nodded. “He’ll wait a while, so we have time to marshal a force to bolster the remaining men. Let Aflaq know that this is to be a scorched-earth defense. No amount of sacrifice is too much.”

“He told me that you’d say something like that,” Kartennian relayed. “He told me that he was willing to die for the cause. We will cleanse our lands of the unbelieving scum, praise God.”

Bitturumba looked at Kartennian, then mechanically muttered, “Praise be unto him.”

The burly militia commander paid lip service to the Muslim Turk’s utterance. While he’d been raised by a moderate Islamic mother, Bitturumba had no real stake in any organized religious faith. He put on the facade of one of the faithful, however, only because those fanatics threw their support behind him. Bitturumba used their blind insanity to bolster his climb to power, creating one of the most powerful militias in Africa. The Prophet, however, held no sway over Bitturumba’s decision-making, no more than the Christian Messiah held any sway over his half brother Alonzo Cruz.

There was only one god that Bitturumba surrendered himself to, and that was himself. As the Thunder Lions grew in power, so did he. Many in the militia had transferred their worship from the Prophet to the African thunder god who wielded a hammer that would rock the entire world. His half brother, a European sorcerer who had forged an even more powerful thunderbolt for him to wield, was the Loki to his Thor. It was only fair that the two gods would unite to begin their own pantheon. Bitturumba was the embodiment of war, Cruz the master of misery and suffering. Together, their intellects and resources combined were far more powerful than they were alone. Bitturumba didn’t mind. He loved his sibling, and knew that the sum was greater than the parts, power growing exponentially from their united effort.

Kartennian was one of Cruz’s gifts to Bitturumba. The Turkish rebel had branched out, bringing about the hardcore Wahabite teachings of radical, extreme Islam to the rest of the world. Bitturumba was familiar enough with the Koran and the Hadritha to walk rings around the Turk in a theological debate if he wanted to. The only thing that the Prophet had accomplished that impressed the African warrior was the sheer terror he’d inflicted on the Middle East, decapitating thousands of enemies, and enjoying the lamentations of their women and children.

“Praise be unto him,” Bitturumba repeated.

Kartennian looked at the brandy remaining in Bitturumba’s glass. “You really should not drink.”

Bitturumba looked down. “I am a warrior, embarking upon a battle that will shake the world. Did not the Prophet allow for true believers to partake of hashish in order to gird their will?”

“But…”

“Did he not?” Bitturumba asked. “And yet, where is your gift to me, the warrior who will bring God’s will to this continent?”

“Alcohol is the devil’s tool,” Kartennian mentioned.

Bitturumba tapped the glass. “Then Satan’s swizzle is pretty damn transparent.”

Kartennian managed a laugh.

“My mind and heart are clear. Satan has placed no words in my mouth,” Bitturumba told him. He wrapped his beefy paw around the glass bottle. “I hold the wick of the devil and control it.”

“Peace be with you,” Kartennian stated with a nod. “I shall speak with our Egyptian brothers.”

Bitturumba dismissed the Turk with a smile. Naturally, Kartennian’s communications would be monitored.

One did not become a god of thunder and war without keeping an eye on even those who’d claimed to be allies. If Kartennian betrayed him, his head would be mailed back to his family with a grenade jammed in the neck hole.

“Praise be unto that, you idiot fanatic.” Bitturumba spit, tossed back another swig of brandy, then planted the glass upside down on the table next to his machete.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

AARON KURTZMAN SAW the flagged communication pop up on his monitor. There was no secret that Unit 777 of the Egyptian military kept a close eye on the Muslim Brotherhood. The elite counterterrorist organization gathered its own intel on the renegade extremists who threatened the cold peace between Egypt and Israel. Stony Man Farm and the Executioner had allied with the highly trained commandos in the past, so tapping their information was hardly an intrusion.

In this instance, Bolan had informed Kurtzman to keep an eye on the rogue Egyptians. If the Thunder Lions were going to seek backup in Alexandria, it was going to come from the Brotherhood. Kurtzman opened the communication socket and took a close look at the conversation captured by Unit 777’s electronic intel.

“Our brothers in the Lions require assistance in Alexandria,” a Turkish-accented voice said. Brognola took the recorded snippet, copied it and fed it into the known voice database of international terrorists for identification. As each voice had its own unique signature and frequency, the match would be a definitive means of finding out who was assisting Bitturumba.

“How much assistance?” a Muslim Brotherhood named Zambron asked.

“As much as possible. The one we dare not name has arrived in Alexandria,” the Turk said.

There was an audible gulp. Kurtzman allowed himself a grin. Even though Mack Bolan, the Executioner, was officially dead, a myth that was supposed to have faded into antiquity, the terrorist world was fully aware that a superpredator stalked the shadowy alleys of the world, hunting down insurgents and criminals. It wasn’t the same as when Bolan was still officially alive, hunting the mafiya in his one-man crusade against organized crime, mainly because various terrorist organizations had different names for the Executioner, but the legend still existed. It was just another tool in the warrior’s arsenal, a means of cowing the thugs.

“I have four score men assembled,” Zambron replied. “Where to?”

“Our hotel,” the Turk stated.

“How many allies can we count on?” Zambron inquired.

“There are twenty left among our soldiers,” the Turk explained. “He has given us a terrible rout.”

“Undoubtedly.” Zambron sighed. “I’ll have them ready. When?”

“We believe he will strike tonight,” the Turk said.

“Count on our assistance,” Zambron promised.

Kurtzman made another copy of the conversation, forwarding it to Bolan, Encizo and James. The three of them would have to change their plan of action, but the Stony Man cyberwizard remembered the Executioner’s order of battle. Drawing out the enemy while making them think he was the victim of their trap was one of Bolan’s most successful tactics.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” came a quick e-mail response from the Executioner.

It was an efficient, almost flippant response to the knowledge that a terrorist army was waiting in the wings to pounce on him.

Kurtzman smiled.

Now he was positive that the Executioner was counting on extra backup for the Thunder Lions, and wasn’t slightly concerned.

Kurtzman felt a pang of guilt for the doomed terrorists who thought they had their prey dead to rights.

CHAPTER FIVE

Alexandria, Egypt

The cliché “forewarned is forearmed” was a vital part of Mack Bolan’s arsenal. Clichés endured because of their veracity. With the Executioner, every bit of knowledge was a tool to be used. Now that he was aware that the Thunder Lions’ compound was a trap, the raid had the potential to double its rewards. Bolan had crossed swords with the Egyptian terrorist organization known as the Muslim Brotherhood before, and the opportunity to strike a blow against their membership was irresistible.

“I’d rather be on the ground backing your play, Striker,” Calvin James said over the hands-free radio.

“Yeah, you’re the best sniper of the three of us,” Rafael Encizo added. “We’re the close-quarters types.”

“Cal’s an excellent long-distance marksman,” Bolan countered. “He’s been Gary’s backup sniper on hundreds of occasions, taking out sentries simultaneously with him. And the both of you are Phoenix’s designated grenadiers. I need you two to be my force multiplication. The Brotherhood will bring everything they can, and the two of you can plant a 40 mm shell into their lap accurately and quickly.”

Bolan couldn’t help the feeling of gratitude that the two Phoenix Force commandos were willing to take his place directly in the line of fire. They stopped their complaints, seeing the wisdom of Bolan’s strategy. James and Encizo were skilled and capable and the Executioner couldn’t have asked for better backup, save the aforementioned Gary Manning, Phoenix Force’s sniper and a long-distance rifleman who rivaled Bolan’s own skills.

“We’ve got your back,” James said. “Put some boot to ass.”

Bolan remained silent. He was in the strike zone and had a sentry in his sights. Not literally, because right now Bolan had only a knife with a black phosphate blade in his hand, and the suppressed MP-5 machine pistol cinched over his shoulder. He was prepared for close-quarters combat, falling into the profile that his prey were told to expect. As long as he was only going against the Thunder Lion militia, James and Encizo were to hold their fire. Their guns were reserved for shattering the spine of the Muslim Brotherhood ambush.

Bolan lunged at the Thunder Lion sentry, his black-bladed Cold Steel Recon Bowie knife driving deep into the guard’s sternum, piercing the abdominal wall and spearing into his heart. The African’s dying cry of pain was strangled and trapped in his throat, cut off by Bolan’s forearm crushing into his windpipe. The kill was over in the space of a heartbeat, completed with no more noise than the rustle of a bird’s wings as it took flight. Bolan hauled the corpse into a set of decorative flower bushes, stowing him out of sight. He took the dead man’s rifle and his bandolier of ammunition to bolster his firepower for the coming battle.