Suicide Highway

“Give up,” Bolan said, picking up the sand-covered .44 Magnum pistol. He aimed the tunnellike barrel at the militiaman’s nose.

Eyes wide, the man muttered what sounded like gibberish to Bolan’s ears, and passed out.

Bolan lowered the Taurus, then brought his fingers to his swollen cheek, tears welling in his eyes from the sting.

“Striker!” he heard Tera Geren shout. He looked up and saw her running toward him alongside Laith and two big guys in nomex jumpsuits and boonie hats.

“That’s Colonel Brandon Stone,” Bolan told her.

Geren paused, looking at her allies, then presented her hand. “Theresa Rosenberg.”

Bolan nodded. “And your friends?”

“Staff Sergeants Wesley and Montenegro,” Geren answered. “U.S. Special Forces.”

“Green Berets?” Laith asked.

“Yeah,” Wesley said apprehensively, while Montenegro simply nodded. “You don’t dress like a local.”

“To prevent friendly fire, soldier,” Bolan explained. “He’s my guide.”

“Uh-huh,” Wesley said. “And what’s he guiding you to?”

“All the hottest tourist traps on the map,” Bolan said.

“Tourist traps?” Laith asked. “Oh, Colonel Stone, I’m sorry. I thought you said terrorist traps.” He shook his head. “English is only my second language.”

Bolan rested a hand on Laith’s shoulder. “It was an honest mistake, though I can see now why you suggested bringing a .44 Magnum along to pick up girls.”

Laith shrugged and turned to face the others. “Well, if you don’t mind, we’ll be off.”

Bolan saw Geren struggling to control her laughter, but the Special Forces sergeants weren’t buying it. “We’re taking these men for interrogation,” Wesley said, pointing to the surviving Taliban fighters.

“We were supposed to be snooping and pooping on these creeps,” he explained. “You interfered with that.”

“And what are you doing here?” Bolan asked Geren.

“Protecting truth, justice and a really good kosher pickle,” she replied.

Yeah, Bolan thought. Tera Geren was still a red-hot firecracker.

“Thanks for the update,” Bolan said.

“Let’s not waste a valuable intelligence opportunity,” Geren told Wesley. “We’ve captured people who might lead us to the UN hit.”

“You’re working this too?” Bolan asked.

Geren glanced up at him. “We have to talk, Colonel,” she said stiffly.

Bolan remained silent, answering with only a nod. The atmosphere drained of whatever relief he’d felt at the sight of a familiar ally.

He dismissed his disappointment at being at cross-purposes with Geren. It was an occupational hazard that he’d faced before, all too often. When working with someone who was loyal to and spilled blood for the safety of the land of her birth, there was always the possibility that the people in the field could end up flipping from friends to enemies.

And even if they weren’t enemies, they’d still end up doing their own thing.

A situation like that could get people killed.

MARID HAYTHAM KNEW the woman on sight. She was a member of the Israel’s secret police—one of the accursed enemies who hunted down his allies relentlessly. She was good, but she usually worked alone, almost as if she were a sacrificial lamb no one wanted to be associated with. Some wondered if it was because she was a woman who dared to take on the duties of a man, but Haytham knew better.

Women were present in all levels of Israel’s military. The country was in such a besieged state that women’s liberation was a nonissue, even in the 1950s. If you had two arms and two legs, you were able to fight for your country.

Tera Geren was not very tall, but she had a robust build, probably padded out by the body armor she wore. Still, it presented her as someone substantial.

Haytham was tempted to raise his AK-47, rest the barrel on the door of his car and hold down the trigger, stitching her from crotch to throat, but for once, he was reluctant to take out his fury on a known Jewish agent.

For one part, she had a reputation of not being a hard case who targeted bystanders. Because she worked as a lone wolf, she spent a lot of time alone among Palestinian and non-Palestinian Arabs who lived in Israel. Both groups seemed to consider her, grudgingly, as someone who was sympathetic to their desires to live in peace on land that they owned. She came down hard only on enemies who had killed, and who could fight back.

For the second part, he and his team were in Afghanistan to look for the same men she was seeking.

It was one thing for Israel to launch rockets into Palestinian towns. It was another for them to send in men to slaughter the children and wives of freedom fighters as if they were no more than dogs.

Haytham had his orders.

The men who were responsible for the deaths in the Shafeeq Refugee camp had to die. The blood of brothers, sisters, wives, sons, daughters, nieces and nephews had been spilled by merciless fusillades of bullets. The camp of compassion and tenderness had been turned into an abbatoir by cowardly men who had swooped down on the unarmed, the sick and the starving.

Haytham wanted to pull the trigger and wipe out the Jewish woman, but he knew that for now, she was an ally in that she would have a better chance of tracking down the killers. She had contacts, she knew about hideouts and she would be relentless, if the orders that were intercepted were true.

Haytham frowned.

He hated to admit that the Mossad would actually be interested in hunting down the men he had been ordered to kill. It meant that there were Jews who were actually interested in justice, even for the families of their sworn enemies.

It happened every so often—these moments of doubt. In the young fighter his superiors saw a powerful warrior ready to burst free, but one who was not willing to fight recklessly in the street. Instead of supervising a suicide bombing, he was more likely to be involved in direct conflict with armed Israeli troops.

Hamas needed all types of fighters. As long as Haytham’s dedication was unflinching when it came to facing enemy soldiers, then he had a task.

He was seeking justice against a band of savage killers.

He watched as others assembled around Geren. American soldiers, heavily armed and capable of wiping him out if they detected him, flanked her. They kept the muzzles of their rifles aimed at the ground, but their eyes swept the street as others came out to greet them. Two more men, one an Afghan, the other a tall, lean, grim soldier dressed in black, joined Geren and the American Special Forces troops.

On the street, there were easily a dozen people, all but Geren, the tall wraith in black and the Afghan were toting rifles and handguns. Whatever opportunity Haytham had had to strike a blow against the Israelis and America was gone. Twelve bodies were too many even for the 30-round magazine of anAK-47 on full-auto. He’d cause at least one or two deaths, and several injuries, but the others would dive for cover.

And with that many guns present, Haytham would never have the opportunity to reload.

In a way, the young eagle was relieved.

With temptation cut off, he had retained his window of opportunity. The woman would still be able to provide him with intelligence regarding the killers at Shafeeq.

He hunkered down, watching and waiting.

SPECIAL FORCES CAPTAIN Jason Blake watched as Wesley and Montenegro returned from their surveillance mission with Theresa Rosenberg and the newcomers in tow.

“Care to explain yourself?” Blake asked as the two intruders reported to him. He rose, as a sign of respect for the alleged “Colonel Stone’s” rank, but he restrained a salute. Salutes were more appropriate for safe Army bases stateside. Out in the real shit, such acknowledgment of rank could mean the difference between observation and a sniper’s bullet.

“Not beating around the bush, are you?” Bolan asked.

“I’m waiting for an explanation why a full-bird colonel is running around the desert picking fights with former Taliban enforcers, without alerting me.”

“I didn’t know you had forces in the area,” Bolan answered.

Blake shook his head. “No. Ignorance of my being here shouldn’t be a case. Not if you’re on the ball enough to have the little brother of one of our biggest mujahideen allies guiding him into a hot spot. At the very least, Aleser Khan should have let me know that someone was looking around in my backyard. Right, Laith?”

Bolan looked at Blake, then the young Afghan.

“My brother was sending word to you in the morning, Captain, so as not to disturb your sleep, nor to break curfew,” Laith responded.

“And you broke curfew?” Blake asked in challenge.

Laith smiled confidently. “I was accompanied by an American military officer.”

“An alleged American military officer,” Blake growled. “This guy has ID, but he has no official paperwork or orders. I’ve radioed back to headquarters, and nobody’s heard shit that some colonel was sweeping through on any form of inspection.”

“The expression is ‘need to know,’” Bolan stated.

“I do need to know. I’d like to know if an American, civilian or military, is running around killing locals and stirring up a hornet’s nest of retaliation against my A-Team,” Blake said angrily. “As it is, we had shots fired, and more than likely people saw American soldiers leaving natives, even if they were ex-Taliban, dead.”

“I’m on an investigation. Asking permission would take time I really can’t afford,” Bolan replied.

“And I’m on a peacekeeping mission. Having some wild-assed nutrod running around on a vendetta is something I can’t afford,” Blake said. “I’m going to run some checks on who you are, Colonel Stone. Until then, your investigation is on hold. Hand over your weapons,” Blake ordered.

Laith tensed, but the big American simply rested his hand on the young Afghan’s shoulder. “No need to pick a fight with the U.S. Army, Laith.”

“According to the law, I can keep my weapons as long as ammunition and gun are separated,” Laith said. He pulled the magazines from his pistol and rifle and ejected the chambered rounds. A bullet bounced across Blake’s desk, but the Afghan didn’t bother picking it up. He simply slung the AK and glowered. “Unless you’d like to explain to my older brother why you had me arrested for following the letter of the agreement we made.”

Blake clenched his jaw.

Laith took a deep breath, exhaling hard out flared nostrils.

“I was addressing Colonel Stone,” Blake said, recovering his control of the situation. “And the next time you violate weapons policy in my camp, you will be thrown into the stockade for a very long stay.”

Laith smirked in defiance, but Blake was satisfied he’d made his point. Controlling the young lion wasn’t an easy task, but he was glad to have the youth mollified for the time being. It was the tall, rangy American who gave the Special Forces captain pause.

Even though Stone acquiesced to Blake’s orders, he knew it was only lip service. The stranger no more intended to stay on a short leash and behave himself than Laith did. At least by confiscating the big man’s guns, the captain had managed to slow him down, somewhat.

Blake watched the man unload his arsenal. The pile of weapons grew until finally, almost as an afterthought, a tiny little black, five-and-a-half-inch-long pocket pistol and three slender magazines were placed on the desk.

Blake chuckled. “No, really. I wanted all your guns.” He wondered who this guy could be.

“Keep your knives,” Blake said, picking up the little black pocket pistol. It was a .32-caliber Beretta Tomcat. Not much in terms of firepower compared to the monstrous, eleven-inch-long .44 Magnum Taurus it was placed beside, it was firepower that would mean the difference between being unarmed and helpless and having a fighting chance.

He handed over the Tomcat. “Take your Beretta too. I don’t need to have you completely helpless. But the thing’s so puny, you won’t be assaulting armed gangs of Taliban reservists.”

Bolan plucked the gun and his spare magazines from Blake’s hand. “Thank you,” he said and turned to leave.

“Colonel Stone,” Blake spoke up.

The man in black stopped.

“Please wait to get clearance from me before you continue on. I don’t want administrative shit sliding down my neck because some spook went and got himself killed on my watch.”

Bolan glanced back at the Special Forces captain. “I’m not a spook. You’re not going to catch flak. I’m not going to get myself killed. Have a good evening, Captain.”

4

“If you want, you can borrow my AK,” Laith offered as they walked away from Captain Blake’s office.

“Thank you, Laith, but I’ll make do until I can find a substitute,” Bolan said.

“You had quite a bit of firepower. Did you have any more guns?” Laith asked.

“I kept a grenade in reserve, and didn’t show him my backup folding knife, my impact Kerambit, or my garotte,” Bolan told him. “I also have a spare barrel for the Beretta with an integral sound suppresser.”

Laith nodded. “You plan ahead.”

Bolan simply nodded.

They stopped as Tera Geren sidled up to them. “You boys have a nice visit with Captain Blake?”

“Absolutely charming,” Bolan responded. “He lets you keep your weapons.”

“Because I came and knelt at the altar of interagency protocol, big guy,” Geren said. “You might try it some time. Works wonders.” she grinned mischievously, then took a deep breath. “It’s good to see you again.”

Bolan nodded. He didn’t want to acknowledge their closeness. He glanced over to Laith.

“I need someplace to do a little first aid, and maybe get some food in us,” Bolan said, nodding to his Afghan companion. Geren looked at him, then nodded, her mischief replaced with a more serious look. “I also don’t want to deal with spies, no matter how friendly or well-intentioned they are,” Bolan said.

“I have a place I’m operating out of,” Geren told him. “Two, actually. One that Blake knows about and has under surveillance.”

“The other?” Bolan asked.

She smiled. “We’ll go there when we have to.”

Laith cast a nervous glance toward Bolan, who simply nodded to the younger man. “Not going to mind having me along, Ms. Rosenberg?” Laith asked.

Geren shrugged. “Why? Do you smoke cheap cigars or fart a lot?”

Laith relaxed. “No, ma’am.”

“Oh, God, please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me sound like your mother,” she answered. “Call me Tera.”

“Laith.”

The woman looked to Bolan again, trying to keep her features subdued, but the surprise still crossed her face. Bolan figured that she didn’t expect him to be close friends with Tarik Khan’s nephew. “You really know how to make friends around here. Makes me wonder why Blake stripped you.”

Suddenly, the Executioner caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He lunged, one arm wrapping around Geren, his other hand clutching Laith’s jumpsuit, all three of them crashing to the ground an instant before the night exploded with gunfire.

Assault rifles tore through the silence as Mack Bolan reached for the minuscule Beretta .32 in his pocket. He knew that even if it wasn’t too late, its response would be too little.

ROBERT WESLEY HAD NEVER liked the fact that they were based out of an old office building in the small town of Ghiyath. He remembered the horror stories about embassies and Marine barracks. When he and the others had mentioned this to Blake, the response had been quick and forthcoming.

The four engineering experts in the A-Team, both the primary training and the secondary training sergeants, were put to work seeking the parts of the U-shaped office complex that were least vulnerable to a car bomb. Those areas would be the main HQ for the Special Forces.

Having a car roll up, park and detonate would be impossible. Trip wires, laser and standard wire would raise alerts from the alley behind the complex. A car bomb ramming into the main complex would be blunted by strategically placed cars, mined with high explosives. Anyone trying to ram through would upset the triggers on the blockades and end up with a premature detonation.

Blake took precautions. He didn’t like being hung out to be target practice for dedicated psychopaths, either.

The captain, Wesley noted, was no-bullshit. He might have been hard, but he looked out for his men, and he looked out for the people he was assigned to protect.

Wesley watched as the pair they’d escorted back to the base left Blake’s office, conversing quietly. He wanted to reserve judgment on the big man who had led a charge into a pit of terrorist thugs. Theresa Rosenberg seemed to like him, despite her efforts to seem aloof to the newcomer.

Then again, Theresa didn’t trust Wesley, or the rest of the Special Forces A-Team with her real name. He didn’t blame her; that was just the way the world of espionage and counterterrorism worked.

Wesley frowned as he watched her join Stone and Laith Khan once more.

Maybe it was a hint of jealousy on his part that kept Wesley from truly wanting to accept the black-haired, blue-eyed wraith who had entered the fray. Rosenberg acted more like a woman with Stone in a few moments than she had around the whole of the team for the week she’d been with them.

Wesley dismissed that. Getting jealous and workplace romances in combat situations were the construct of novelists and Hollywood scriptwriters. Bed-hopping games like that were a good way to insure a bullet in the back of the head, or a few moments of hesitation when death came charging down on you like an out of control bull. He would have liked life to be like a movie or a paperback novel, but the truth was, he had too much life to live, and too much job to do.

Wesley looked around. A car was waiting just outside the demarked zone in what the engineers considered to be a safe parking spot. An average-sized sedan parked at that point wouldn’t cause more than a few broken windows if it detonated. If a truck parked inside the same radius, Blake would have his teams swoop on it, kill anyone sitting inside, and check the back for high explosives.

As it was, Wesley activated his LASH mike on the headquarters frequency. “We’ve got a gold-colored Peugeot parked a block away.”

“I’ve been watching it for a couple hours. The guy inside is on stakeout, but other than smoking cigarettes, he’s not causing us any harm,” came the reply from Jerrud, the rooftop sniper.

“He look local?” Wesley asked.

Jerrud grunted. “Nope. First, he smokes way too much. That means he has money to burn on cigarettes. Plus, he dresses too Western.”

“He hasn’t noticed you, has he?” Wesley asked.

Jerrud chuckled. “I’m insulted.”

“Pardon me—” Wesley started to joke.

Gunfire suddenly flashed. Rosenberg and the two newcomers were suddenly on the ground in a huddled lump, but only for a second as autofire raked the air where they once stood.

“We got hostiles!” Jerrud shouted.

“The car?” Wesley asked. Looking, he saw that the muzzle-flashes were far from the Peugeot, which had hit reverse hard. The muzzle of an AKM poked out the window, but it was aiming in the direction of the shooters. Gunfire flashed across the street in both directions, the fender and hood of the gold car suddenly peppered with impacts. The Peugeot spun out and tore off down the street.

Wesley shouldered his M-4, bringing the holographic scope on target to where he saw a couple rifle-toting gunners swinging their attention back toward Rosenberg and her companions. He milked the trigger for a short burst, but knew it was too quick, panic fire that didn’t even slow down the enemy shooters. Around him, other rifles were opening up, and the street was turned into a battlezone.

Wesley felt a lump drop into his stomach as he watched the trio charge toward the enemy gunners.

THE EXECUTIONER WAS ON his feet in an instant. Even as one vehicle downrange was pouring on the steam in full reverse—opening fire on the gunners—he was taking advantage of time in slices that made the beat of a heart seem like an hour.

The .32-caliber Tomcat was in Bolan’s big fist, but there was no way he was going to score fatal hits. The terrorists had picked their battlefield intelligently, well beyond accurate pistol range for most people, and behind cover solid enough to stop even the 5.56 mm rifle rounds of the Special Forces soldiers. With long, ground-eating strides, he pushed hard, knowing his only hope was to get inside the reach of his own weapon. Had he been armed with the Beretta 93-R machine pistol, or his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, he might have chosen to fall back.

Unfortunately, he had a paranoid Special Forces A-team captain to thank for not having much firepower. He was aware of bodies racing behind him. Gunfire popped from his right, the chatter of an M-4 on semiauto. Tera Geren, not disarmed of her weapon, Bolan figured. To his left, he caught the sound of a magazine slamming into the well of another rifle. Laith was going to get into action with his M-92.

“Colonel!” came the cry. Bolan turned and paused, holding out his hands as the rifle was lobbed to him. Laith made the toss and reached for his handgun in the same fluid movement.

Bolan scooped the rifle out of the air, then turned his attention forward as rifle fire bellowed with increased fury. The Green Berets traded fire with the terrorists, but neither side was scoring a hit, as they were all entrenched behind solid cover.

One thug spotted Bolan and whipped his rifle around.

The Executioner didn’t even have time to get a grip on Laith’s rifle. He punched the .32 Beretta forward, opening fire and emptying out the 9-round payload of the little pistol. The rifleman jerked under multiple impacts, his face splashed with blood. Hardly the most powerful handgun on the battlefield, but the soldier remembered that long ago, some of his first shots fired in anger against the Mafia were from a .32. Size and power didn’t matter anymore. They were within thirty yards of the enemy, and the fusillade, even fired on the run, was dead on target.

Bolan tossed aside the empty pistol and got both hands on the Zastava. The muzzle exploded in a blast of flame and thunder. The steel-cored slugs smashed through the slab of plasterboard one terrorist was using for cover. His body jerked back violently, leaving a bloody smear on wall behind him. The corpse slid to the ground in a messy heap.

The Executioner held down the trigger for another short burst, a swarm of 7.62 mm slugs punching the skull of another Afghan rifleman. The gunner was still standing, triggering rounds blindly until a wave of 5.56 mm bullets from Tera Geren slashed open his chest and dropped him.

Cover fire from the Special Forces team members, except for the sniper who had the high ground, stopped. Bolan and his allies were dangerously close to the attackers, and there was a good chance that even the Green Berets would accidentally hit the three people. It didn’t matter to the Executioner.

There were more gunners, about four strong, holed up on the other side of a half-fallen wall. Bolan’s hand found the grenade he’d held in reserve and sent it sailing over the wall.

“Fire in the hole!” he called.

Bolan and companions hit the ground, gunfire raking the air over their heads now that the terrorists were no longer pinned down by enemy gunfire.

The chatter of autofire was cut off as Bolan’s grenade ripped itself apart. The shock wave made the Executioner grunt. A severed arm and other debris landed in a heap right in front of his face.

Bolan looked up and saw one Taliban mercenary staggering. The terrorist struggled to stay upright, holding his weapon one-handed and leveling it at the big man in black.

Bolan fought to claw his M-92 from the pavement and get target acquisition, but the terrorist spun under multiple impacts. By the time his front sight was tracking the dying killer, he was already spilling over the half wall. Bolan glanced back, seeing a figure on the roof of the office complex shift, raising a fist in an “all stop” hand signal.