Suicide Highway

“That they succeeded so well leaves the taste of ashes in my mouth, Colonel,” Aleser stated. “We would hunt them down ourselves, but your military commanders tell us that it is their job to insure the peace.”

Bolan frowned. “They mean well, but sometimes they tie the wrong hands. Mine, however, are free.”

“Tarik Khan spoke of your willingness to step outside the laws thrown in your path. What others consider walls, you step over as scratches in the dirt,” Aleser stated. “Ask what you will, and I shall give you anything.”

Bolan was already well-armed, thanks to the generosity of Khan. He didn’t want to risk the lives of any others in his crusade. All Bolan needed, and asked for, was information—a handle on his enemy so he could work his way up the chain of command. Aleser responded totally. Though disappointed the request was so simple, and that he would do no more than act as a pointer, the Afghan warrior not only gave Bolan a handle, but a road map of potential Taliban targets, from desert training camps untouched by the U.S. military to urban cells nestled in towns, hiding under the noses of their enemy.

“It is the same information I have given many in your government,” Aleser said, dejectedly.

“Let me guess. Nobody acted on any of it,” Bolan replied.

Aleser shook his head, a deep melancholy in his leonine eyes. “And now, unarmed healers and caregivers lay dead at their hands. Only say the word, Colonel, and I shall assemble fifty of my best men, and we shall descend upon them and slay them all.”

“It’s tempting,” Bolan stated, “and I am honored by your offer. I cannot risk, however, our forces mistaking you for the enemy. If you are armed for war, and lurking around our area of control…”

Aleser nodded.

“I look like one of them, at least. And one man can disappear more easily than fifty,” Bolan explained.

“Then if you wish stealth and a low profile, you will need more than one man.”

“I cannot—” Bolan began.

“You cannot speak our dialects fluently. You come seeking information, and you will undoubtedly come across more in your quest,” Aleser replied. “My younger brother, Laith, he speaks English as well as I do, as well as half a dozen local dialects. He moves like a hunting cat, is good with a gun, but will follow orders.”

“Are you sure?” Bolan asked. “I’ve been assigned young bucks in the past.”

Aleser smiled and put a reassuring hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “Laith’s enthusiasm has been long since tempered. The wilderness does not suffer many fools.”

Aleser gestured toward the newcomer entering the tent, a young man just inches short of six feet, with short, curly black hair and light brown eyes that flickered golden with the reflected lamplight. He looked out of place in the Afghan camp, and for a moment, Bolan wasn’t sure if it was one of the mujahideen, or perhaps a Green Beret assigned to the area.

The newcomer was dressed not in the traditional robes of an Afghan warrior, but in a green coverall that Bolan recognized as a Nomex jumpsuit, used by American pilots and Special Forces soldiers alike. Over the flight suit was a black vest festooned with tool and magazine pouches. One of the pouches had been improvised into a holster for a handgun. While the outfit was relatively clean, Bolan saw signs that this wasn’t original GI issue for the young man.

The jumpsuit showed wear and tear, weathering except for patches just below the youth’s elbow and kneepads. The previous owner, having worn similar joint protection, kept those parts of the garment looking newer. The cuffs on his wrists were turned in, and the young Afghan wore no gloves, a mainstay of U.S. operators in either full or fingerless form for the past decade. The final clue was the lack of shooting glasses.

Bolan aside, no active American special operations trooper as young as this man would be caught without a set of protective eyewear.

Laith Khan looked Bolan over, evaluating him, but not challenging. Apparently the Executioner met the young man’s standards of approval, because Laith took a step forward and extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet the man who saved my cousin and my uncle.”

“I am honored by the hospitality of your tribe,” Bolan answered, shaking hands. The kid’s grip was strong, and his fingers not quite so callused as his older brother’s. The almost golden eyes held his stare for a moment, then the young man stepped back, hands at his sides, head tilted just slightly, watching Bolan studiously. His body language was calm and observant, even more so than Aleser. While Aleser did his best to show the strength and power of a commander, Laith staked no claims of dominance. Bolan looked slyly to Aleser.

“You anticipated me?” he asked.

Aleser nodded. “You were regarded as a wise and skilled man. Such wisdom is written that a man has to know his limitations, and the wisest of such men is truly intimate with his limitations and accepts them.”

Bolan caught Laith’s slight smile. His shoulders straightened and he untilted his head. It was the first show of pride he’d noted in the younger Khan, and it was a subtle one.

“Come on, Laith. It’s time to go hunting,” Bolan said.

ROBERT WESLEY CROUCHED behind the wreckage of the burned-out Volkswagen, casting a nervous glance back at the woman in fatigues he was supposedly guarding. From everything he’d seen of Theresa Rosenberg, she needed a bodyguard like a pit bull needed a switchblade.

It wasn’t that she was particularly rough or hard around the edges. She had a flinty gaze, but that was due to alertness, and her round face was soft and attractive, with full lips. Staff Sergeant Welsey couldn’t explain it. While she didn’t look anything like a soldier, she looked exactly like some of the best soldiers he’d ever met as a Special Forces A-Team member. Not in appearance, but the way she moved, the way her eyes were always in motion, never settling on any one thing.

Theresa Rosenberg had the warrior mentality, and Wesley doubted she could have gained it easily. You got that kind of alertness only by having walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and proving yourself one bad mother.

Wesley idly wondered if you could refer to a woman that way, but then movement outside the collection of battered buildings drew him back into the moment. He had been silently complimenting the Israeli woman on her ability to be one with her surroundings, and he nearly let his attention wander fatally.

“Couple more guards, side one, moving toward side four,” Staff Sergeant Luis Montenegro spoke up through their LASH radio set. The terminology was developed by the LAPD long ago, side one being the front, and turning in a clockwise manner. In a situation where north and south were confusing, people could determine which side was “front.” And front was always the place to start.

“We see it,” Rosenberg whispered. She slid prone, resting on her elbows. The stock of her M-4 carbine pressed her left cheek. Only now did Wesley realize that she was a southpaw.

Odd details bubbled to the surface when the adrenaline hit the bloodstream, and Wesley remembered the term called tache-psyche syndrome. In some instances, it meant that time seemingly slowed down for people. In others, people could count the ridges on the front sights of their pistols. At its most dangerous, peripheral vision blacked out and noises and speech sounded like they were trying to pierce pillows stuffed over the ears.

The Green Beret took a few deep breaths, oxygenating his blood. His fingers tingled despite the fact that he had them crushed down hard on the pistol grip and forearm of his Special Operations Modification M-4 carbine. The SOPMOD was outfitted with all kinds of things to make a firefight easier, from big holographic dot sights, recoil-reducing muzzle brakes and forearm pistol grips to flashlights, lasers and infrared illuminators. Wesley’s rifle was painted in desert camouflage patterns.

The Israeli woman, on the other hand, had her carbine wrapped with burlap and twine. Sand and dust caked into the weave of the heavy cloth, making it better camouflaged than the sleek lines of the heavily customized rifle Wesley had. Rosenberg’s only concession to “modern” technology was an Aimpoint sight.

“They haven’t noticed us, yet,” she said finally. She spoke without any hint of an Israeli accent.

“Only a matter of time,” Wesley answered. “Hush the chatter.”

She glanced over at him, then gave him a wink, her emerald green eyes twinkling. She took a breath to speak, then paused, thinking better of it, and just nodded.

Wesley loosened his grip on the SOPMOD, laying it down gently. Through binoculars, he scanned the men walking around the corner. They looked woozy and were leaning against each other. One passed the other a pipe, and he took a deep hit from it, holding in his breath for a long time before streaming white smoke out of his nostrils. Wesley shook his head and swept the binoculars over to the front of one home. Amber firelight spilled through the portal, backlighting two men standing out front. One shook his head with the same disbelief Wesley had at the two pipe smokers.

The Green Beret took these two men seriously. The AK-47s they held were all business, and at only one hundred yards out, he was well within range of those deadly, efficient man killers. Too many American soldiers, from Vietnam to the streets of Tikrit had learned how dangerous those weapons were, even in the hands of rag tag thugs.

According to Rosenberg, these weren’t just ragtag thugs. They had connections with a Middle Eastern group and had received training, weaponry and funding. Wesley had asked who. He was in intelligence and operations, after all. Knowing who they’d be up against could be vital, life-saving information. Rosenberg kept those cards close to her vest. She said it was suspected that they might be Syrians. Rich, powerful, well-armed and willing to share all kinds of training…

“We have movement coming in from side four,” Montenegro’s voice whispered over the LASH. “Two figures.”

Wesley brought his binoculars back to the two pipe smokers. Hashish, heroin or marijuana, he didn’t know what the pair was smoking, but they were not so buzzed as to fail to react to a pair of shadows rising from the scrub brush that reclaimed shattered town roads. As the Green Beret was about to take action, he watched the two smokers stiffen, jerking in response to silent, but lethal impacts. For a moment, he could have sworn he’d seen the flicker of reflected steel and the red-pencil flare of a suppressed handgun’s muzzle-flash. The hashed-up thugs collapsed into lifeless piles of limbs and robes. As quickly as the shadows had appeared, they were atop the dead men.

The smaller man wrenched something wicked, curved and metallic from one corpse while the other covered him with a large pistol, a suppressor on the muzzle.

“Are they friendlies?” Montenegro asked. Perched atop the M240 light machine gun, even with the barrel shaped and steel-drum tough ECLAN scope atop it, he was watching all the action from the cheap seats.

Wesley glanced at Rosenberg, whose mouth gaped with surprise. Then she smirked.

“Get ready to watch a show,” she whispered.

MACK BOLAN WAS IMPRESSED with Laith Khan’s stealth and skill with a thrown blade, but he didn’t let it get in the way of going about the grim and silent business of bringing death and getting prisoners. Laith’s skills simply reinforced the Executioner’s confidence that Aleser had given him a reliable backup.

They slipped quickly around the corner and Bolan put away his pistol, exchanging it for the head weapon for this assault. Entering Afghanistan with his faithful signature weapons was a task that would have required more official support than the Executioner wanted for this mission. He’d opted for a low profile, at least in terms of ties to the West. A diplomatic pouch for his Beretta and Desert Eagle were out of the question, and a war bag full of larger weapons, grenades and ammunition was impossible.

Instead, Bolan set down with nothing more than his Applegate-Fairbairn folding knife, a .32-caliber Beretta Tomcat hidden inside the guts of a camera and plenty of spending money to give to the Peshwar gun dealers in Pakistan.

Bolan’s silenced pistol was a NORINCO NP228, a Chinese knockoff of the 9 mm SIG-Saur P-228 autoloader. He also managed to get a Taurus Model 44 with a 6.5-inch barrel and a 6-shot capacity. It didn’t reload as fast or hold as many shots as his Desert Eagle, but it was accurate, and more importantly, it was with him.

The head weapon was a severely cutdown version of the AK-47 called the Zastava M-92. It was chambered for a rifle round, the 7.62 mm COMBLOC, and was no larger than most submachine guns. It gave Bolan an incredible power advantage in a small package. While recoil didn’t bother Bolan, the muzzle-flash of such a short-barrel rifle would give away his position, so the only modification was a segment of PVC pipe over the muzzle that provided room for the superhot, flaming gases to disperse while only adding minimal length to the agile little gun.

Bolan was counting on speed and audacity to get his work done. The Zastava was suited for such action. He stuffed the muzzle through the canvas curtains over the doorway, using it as a spear to cleave his way into the firelit room. Men rose, scrambling and crying out at the sight of the Executioner, tall and fearsome with his hands and face smeared black with grease paint, clad head to toe in black clothing and black military gear.

“On the ground now!” he shouted in Arabic, repeating the sharp command that Laith had taught him.

Some dropped at the sound of his bellowing voice, but others weren’t buying orders, even from Death himself.

One robed thug was scrambling for a rifle in the corner, but a more immediate threat was a second man, pulling his knife and charging, letting out a shrill scream of challenge. Bolan swung his weapon around and stroked the trigger. A blistering salvo of slugs smashed into the attacker, ripping him from crotch to beard, sending him flying backward. In the enclosed space, the roar of the short rifle was staggering.

The guy reaching for the rifle stopped short at the thunderstorm that signaled the gore-splashed demise of his comrade, shock widening his eyes. Bolan tracked the PVC-piped muzzle of the Zastava around to catch the gunner, but the Taliban rifleman got his weapon and dived into the next room as bullets smashed the wall where he had been moments before.

“Laith, keep these guys honest,” Bolan shouted, pointing to the prisoners.

There was a moment of conflict in the younger man’s face as he watched the doorway through which Bolan’s quarry disappeared. The Executioner respected that the Afghan fighter acknowledged his responsibilities over glory. There still was the danger that the moment Bolan left the room, his presence would no longer cow the trembling Taliban supporters face-down on the floor.

Bolan didn’t envy Laith’s task should a melee take place. He plunged through the doorway, hit a shoulder roll and kept tight to the ground. His low-down approach kept him alive to fight another day as not one but three muzzle-flashes lit up the hallway, bullets chewing into the door frame as he tumbled past it. Throwing himself on his stomach, the Executioner brought up his rifle and triggered off four short bursts, sweeping the darkness where he remembered the muzzle flashes originating.

Only one cry of agony answered Bolan’s hellstorm of fire. The soldier cursed, knowing that he was in the open, his position given away by the harsh flare of his rifle’s muzzle, and flat on his belly with his hands full. A shadow swung around the corner, and wild gunfire ripped all along the hallway, still at chest height as the enemy muzzle-flash bobbed up and down as if to the beat of some macabre sing-along. With a hard shove, Bolan pushed himself to one side in time to avoid a blast of slugs that chewed along the floor he was slumped on. He abandoned his rifle and watched as impacts propelled the weapon down the hall.

Bolan’s hand had dropped to his thigh, grabbing for the holstered .44 Magnum Taurus when, over the ringing in his ears, he heard the metallic thunk of a canister bouncing off wood. Looking up, he saw the unmistakable shape of a fragmentation grenade thumping toward him.

3

The sound of AK-47s going off was Rosenberg’s signal to get up and charge toward the squat hovel that the Taliban suspects had chosen to call home. She recognized one of the two men making the assault on the thugs inside, and even though she had watched him battle a mine complex full of heavily armed killers, she couldn’t sit idly by and watch him risk a chestful of rifle fire in conflict with a room full of hashed-up terrorists.

On her heels Sergeant Wesley was grunting and huffing as he tried to match his long strides with her short, pumping legs. Over her LASH headset, she listened to Montenegro shouting about rules of engagement and Captain Blake.

There was a time to play by the rules, she thought.

And there was a time to play it like the man she knew as Striker.

Usually, that time came the moment the big mystery soldier strode onto the scene, making his presence felt like a herd of bison crashing across a plain.

A firefight was blazing inside, but nobody was making a break for it. She reached the front in time to see a figure fly backward out the door, his rifle blazing as the canvas draping the entrance fluttered closed. She struck the wall beneath the window, crouching. She watched as Wesley, not even pausing, bent and scooped up the lithe young form with the rifle and dragged him away from the doorway in time to avoid a hail of gunfire punching through the curtains.

“What?” she heard the fighter say as he realized he was being handled like a rag doll.

The thunderous sound of gunshots filled the air from the other side of the opening. A heartbeat later, a tall lean figure burst through the curtain, pistols in each hand. The compression wave and its subsequent debris cloud chased the diving form of the man as he somersaulted away from the doorway.

He came up, almost like a snake in his speed and agility, leveling two long-barreled guns at her, but only for a heartbeat before raising the muzzles skyward.

“I figure at least two gunners are making a break for it out the back,” he said. “We need someone to interrogate in case nobody survived the explosion.”

Rosenberg watched him in amazement for a moment, then pressed her throat mike tighter to her voice box. “Sergeant Montenegro, we need suppression fire. No fatalities.”

The Special Forces weapons officer had quit complaining about rules of engagement and answered with a terse “Affirmative.”

The night lit up as in the distance, Montenegro’s Squad Automatic Weapon spewed a line of heavy fire across the darkness. Rosenberg looked back and saw that the warrior was gone, vanished like a shadow.

“Go get ’em Striker,” she whispered.

MACK BOLAN’S EYES FOCUSED on the grenade in an instant, the bouncing hellbomb grabbing his attention in an almost fatal stranglehold.

Almost.

The grenade’s pull ring and spoon were still locked in place, despite the rolling jumps it was making toward him. Bolan had used a similar tactic many times in the past, throwing a grenade with the pin still in it to flush out an enemy into shooting range.

Instead, Bolan held his ground. He fisted the Taurus as he got up from all fours, and lowered his hand to scoop the RPG-1 grenade as it came to him. Throwing himself against the near wall, he thumbed the pin loose from the miniblaster and launched it back where it came from.

Gunfire erupted wildly in the main room, and the Executioner caught a glimpse of Laith in full retreat, blasting away. His voice, almost smothered by the roar of his rifle blazing in full fury, was shouting warnings. The body of one Taliban supporter jerked violently under a salvo of savage strikes, fatal impacts driving the dead man’s corpse into two of his allies.

The Executioner straight-armed the Taurus. He drew the NP228 with his free hand and pumped the triggers of both handguns to lay down a wall of bullets that crashed into the disorganized gunmen while their backs were still to him. He plunged through the room, the mighty .44 Magnum empty but still clicking as he pulled the trigger, the 9 mm weapon still spitting its quiet payloads of death. He was out the door just as the grenade went off. The fatal blast radius of the grenade was ten yards, and Bolan wasn’t sticking around to be sliced to ribbons by hurtling shrapnel.

The whole event took moments, and Bolan dived into a shoulder roll, tumbling so as to reverse himself and not present his back to the enemies he knew were behind him.

What he didn’t expect was the sight of two soldiers out front. A lightning quick assessment showed one as a U.S. special operations trooper of some sort, and the other was a woman, dressed to keep up with the American soldier. As he raised the muzzles of both pistols to defuse any thought of a standoff, he made out the face. Even partially shaded by her helmet, he picked up some recognizable features, though it was too dark for him to be certain. His gut instinct told him that she was a friend, and he went with it.

“I figure at least two gunners making a break for it out the back,” he told her. “We need someone to interrogate in case nobody survived the explosion.”

She touched her throat mike, and as he heard her voice, he confirmed who she was.

Tera Geren, a gutsy Israeli agent Bolan had worked with before.

He didn’t stick around to hear what she was saying, and he guessed that the machine gun fire in the distance was more American special operations ordinance, a SAW by the sound of it.

Long legs eating up the ground in effortless strides, Bolan swung around the building and spotted a quartet of men racing in the distance. They dropped to the ground, cowering from the sizzling onslaught of autofire raking all around them, but the gunner wasn’t firing for effect. Bolan paused, fed a fresh speedloader into the Taurus, slapped a fresh clip into the NP228, then continued his charge.

The SAW fire let up, and the Taliban lackeys slowly got to their feet, looking to where the onslaught came from, firing wildly from their AKs. Marksmanship was an illusory skill that the gunmen thought they possessed, and having fully automatic weapons instilled in them the delusion that they didn’t have to aim. Whoever the gunner was, he was safe. The pathetic riflery skill of the Taliban killers was barely enough to spray the broadside of a street cafe. Against real soldiers who took cover, conserved ammo, and watched the front sight, they were standing sacks of meat ready to be plucked by a short burst.

The distraction of the Taliban fighters bought the Executioner a few seconds, enough time to close to hand-to-hand range. With a savage snap, he hammered the butt of the Brazilian revolver hard across the jaw of the first man he ran into. The punch, backed by four pounds of stainless steel, felled the thug.

The second man was turning, but not nearly fast enough to avoid Bolan’s boot rocketing into his groin. The mercenary for the former occupational government folded over, head dropping to where the Executioner slashed his elbow down mercilessly like his namesake’s ubiquitous ax.

Two down, one to go, and Mack Bolan’s free rein over his enemies ended.

Too close to bring up his rifle and fire, the last man merely swung the barrel hard at the Executioner. The front sight hooked Bolan’s wrist, wrenching the revolver from his grasp. Bolan brought his NP228 around to shoot the guy and be done with him, but the fighter wasn’t finished swinging. The pistol grip of the AK crashed off Bolan’s cheek and left his head reeling.

Bolan dropped back, dazed. The rifle slashed out again. The soldier brought up his left hand to block the next chop and felt his forearm go numb. The Chinese pistol sailed from his grasp.

The Executioner wasn’t standing still. He kicked the guy in the knee, a dead center blow struck with his steel-toed combat boots. With a cry, the rifleman staggered, letting go of his weapon and windmilling his arms to maintain his balance. Bolan didn’t allow him any mercy, launching two right jabs with pistonlike speed. The Taliban fighter’s nose exploded, rivers of blood streaming down into his mustache and beard. Another step forward, and Bolan folded his opponent over his knee. A hammering fist dropped savagely on the back of the thug’s head and with a savage twist, Bolan hurled the half-conscious man over his hip.