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Treason Play
Bolan yanked Khan from the car.
Once he had dragged the man a safe distance from the vehicle, he stretched him along the ground. The soldier pulled a small flashlight from a pocket, clicked it on and ran it over Khan’s blood-soaked form. Three bullet holes had pierced the man’s chest.
Khan’s eyes fluttered open. Bolan noticed that the former ISI agent’s gaze looked unfocused. His breath came in shallow puffs. After a second, Bolan’s presence registered with him, and he turned his head slightly to look at the big American.
“Cooper,” Khan told him. “It’s not over.”
“It is for you,” Bolan growled.
“Not for you. Not even close.”
A shudder passed through Khan, and he was gone.
Treason Play
Mack Bolan ®
Don Pendleton’s
I know that there are angry spirits
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason,
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out
Muffled to whisper curses to the night;
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians…
—Lord Byron, 1788–1824
Conspirators lurk in the shadows, biding their time, hiding their faces. I’ll drag the criminals into the light of day and unmask them for all to see.
—Mack Bolan
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PROLOGUE
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Terry Lang pretended not to notice the man following him.
In fact, it was the third man he’d pretended not to see in the past couple of hours. Whoever had taken it upon themselves to track his every move at least had shown enough sense to switch out the agents following him, a small attempt to hide that they were tailing him. But their skill had ended there. The first and the third had fallen all over themselves to not make eye contact with Lang, averting their gazes as if burned whenever he looked directly at them.
Lang stopped and bought a bottle of root beer from a street vendor. Unscrewing the cap, he brought the glass bottle to his lips, drained some of it and resumed walking. After two more blocks he spotted what he’d been looking for, an alley. Slipping inside, he advanced several yards. Along the way, he tipped the root beer bottle and drained its contents onto the cracked asphalt. It made a fizzing noise and welled up in a whitish foam. The odor of garbage cooking under Dubai’s midday heat registered with him and his nostrils wrinkled reflexively at the stench.
He found a recessed doorway and pressed himself inside its shade.
He switched the empty bottle to his other hand, his ears strained as he waited. Surely his tail hadn’t fallen back? He doubted it. They hadn’t followed him halfway across the city just to fall back when he disappeared into an alley. They didn’t strike him as particularly skilled, but they seemed committed.
Sweat beaded underneath his hairline, then rolled down his temples, cheeks and jawline. His pulse quickened. Moments later he heard the soft shuffling of shoe soles brushing against the pavement. The muscles of his legs, arms and torso bunched up as he prepared to pounce. A dark shadow stretched along the ground past his hiding place.
The sound of movement halted.
A small grunt telegraphed the guy’s next movement. By the time his pursuer rounded the doorway, a small, black automatic pistol clutched in his hand, Lang was prepared. He brought the bottle down in a wide arc. The fat end of the bottle exploded into a constellation of glass shards that glinted in the sunlight. Lang’s downward swing continued, the edges of the broken bottle raking flesh, opening crimson ravines in his face.
The man yelped in pain and surprise. He whipped his head away and covered the wound with his hand. Blood immediately seeped between his fingers. In the same instant he started to raise his shooting hand so he could get a bead on his mark.
Lang’s hand snaked out and he caught the guy’s wrist in his grip, squeezing hard. His other hand, the one clutching the neck of the bottle, came around in a horizontal arc. Lang buried the jagged end into his attacker’s eye socket.
The man screamed and wheeled away. His grip on his pistol loosened and the weapon fell to the ground. Lang gave the injured man a hard shove in the chest that sent him reeling.
Grinning, Lang tossed aside the remnants of the bottle. He scooped up the man’s discarded pistol and grabbed a handful of the man’s blood-soaked shirt and yanked him to his feet.
Shoving the guy into a wall, he pressed the gun’s muzzle into the man’s throat.
“Who sent you?” Lang asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The man, his face and neck streaked with blood, spit in Lang’s face. With the back of his fist, Lang wiped the glob of blood and saliva from his forehead.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” he said. “Who sent you? What do you want with me?”
The man’s lips curved outward as though he was ready to spit again. This time Lang drove a knee into the guy’s groin, eliciting a sharp draw of air, followed by a gut-churning moan.
“I can do this all day,” Lang said.
And to prove his point, he kneed the guy a second time. Groaning again, the man sagged and Lang let him crumple to the ground.
The squeal of tires on asphalt caused Lang to spin. A big midnight-blue sedan jerked to a stop at the mouth of the alley. Front and back doors snapped open and four men spilled from the vehicle’s interior, guns drawn, sites trained on him.
“Drop it!” someone yelled in English.
He guessed he could take out one, maybe two, before they killed him. More likely one. And then he’d end up on a slab. He still had no idea what this was all about and it was possible that, since he hadn’t killed anyone, he could talk his way out of this. He knelt and set the pistol on the asphalt. Raising his hands, he came back up to his full height.
A rail-thin man in navy-blue slacks and a white dress shirt broke from the group of shooters and approached Lang. Keeping his gun trained on the American, the small man scooped up the fallen pistol and shoved it into the waistband of his pants. He barked in Arabic—a language in which Lang was fluent—for someone to call an ambulance.
The guy gave Lang a murderous look. In return, he flipped the guy the middle finger.
“No ambulance,” a voice called in Arabic. “This one’s not worth the trouble.”
Lang turned and looked at the new speaker. A flash of recognition immediately morphed into dread.
A Caucasian man with sandy-brown hair, a wide face and flushed cheeks rounded the front of the sedan blocking the alley. He wore a blue polo shirt, tan slacks and brown loafers. If he carried a weapon, it wasn’t visible.
“Hello, Terry,” Daniel Masters said, his British accent obvious.
Lang nodded, but said nothing.
“You’ve caused us some problems,” Masters said.
“Sorry, Daniel,” Lang said. “I didn’t know you were in Dubai. Perhaps we can talk about this.”
If the Englishman was surprised Lang knew his name, he showed no outward signs. Instead, Masters nodded at the man on the ground. By now, the man was tucked into a fetal position, groaning, one hand clasped over his injured eye.
“Think I’ll pass,” Masters said. “I see how you talk.”
Lang shrugged. “Sorry about your man. I didn’t want to do it, but he pulled a gun on me.”
Masters made a dismissive gesture. “To hell with this idiot. You could kill fifty like him for all I care. Maim them, whatever. Best man won, as far as I can tell.”
“Very understanding.”
“You’re tough. For a reporter.”
“Special Forces. Army. Long time ago, but I still have a few tricks I can use. You probably already knew that, though.”
“I did. But I think it goes deeper than that.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
Lang knew where the conversation was going and he didn’t like it. Fear fluttered in his stomach and sweat slicked his palms. His hands closed into fists. Masters was close, but not close enough to take a swing at without taking a couple of steps forward, telegraphing the attack. Because it didn’t fit his cover, Lang didn’t carry a gun, though he thought longingly of the one hidden back in his apartment.
One of the men was moving in a wide circle around Lang, moving behind him. A third had broken away and was approaching from the side. All kept their distance, forcing him to lunge in any one direction if he wanted to strike first. That gave them ample time to put a bullet in his head before he could complete any attack.
Masters apparently sensed the calculations racing through Lang’s head.
“You can’t make it,” he said. “Even if you took one of us, the others would put you down in a heartbeat.”
Lang flashed what he hoped was his best disarming grin. He spread his hands wide. No threat here, his body language said.
“Hey, if this is about something I did, something I wrote, we can talk about it.”
A humorless laugh escaped Masters’s lips. “What you write in your shitty little newspaper isn’t the issue. It’s what you’re reporting elsewhere that’s giving us heartburn.”
“I don’t—”
“Khan tried to shut you down, tried to stop your snooping. It didn’t work. He tried to do it the easy way. Evidently, you’re too damn thick to get the message. So here we are.”
Lang put some steel in his voice. “Khan doesn’t tell me where to go, who to talk to. If he doesn’t like it, he can go to hell.”
“And aren’t you the crusader?” Masters said. “Playing the part to the very end. There’s a good lad.”
He nodded and the men who’d surrounded Lang closed in. Lang figured the charade was over. Lang hoped that because Masters had spent so much time jawboning and getting his men into position, that Masters wanted him alive. If that and Lang’s lack of a discernible weapon caused the men to hesitate even slightly, he’d exploit it as best he could.
If not, well, he probably wasn’t going to come out of this alive anyway. Given the choice of dying now or dying in captivity, he’d just as soon get it over with. The end result was the same.
The gunman closest to him brought his shooting hand up to shoulder level and locked his pistol on Lang. The CIA agent stepped sideways and brought the gleaming blade down in an arc, burying it in the soft tissue of the man’s neck. Yanking the blade, he brought it forward until steel burst through flesh in a spray of crimson. The man’s gun thundered, discharging a round within inches of Lang’s face. The close-range blast caused his ears to ring and disoriented him.
At the same instant something blunt, hard, punched the back of his skull. The impact caused a flash of white light to explode from behind his eyes. His legs turned rubbery and he crashed first to his knees, then to all fours.
Gasping, vision blurred, he only was vaguely aware of a shape that loomed overhead. When the second blow to the head was struck, his limbs went loose and he crashed to the ground. A black veil of unconsciousness settled over him.
CHAPTER ONE
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was the last to arrive at the War Room. When he entered, he found Hal Brognola, his sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, a tattered cigar clenched between his teeth, already seated at the table. Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s honey-blonde mission controller, was also seated at the table. She was setting a coffee carafe on the table, and judging from the steam wafting from her mug had just filled it with coffee. Her full lips turned up in a warm smile, which Bolan returned.
Brognola, who’d been staring into the contents of his coffee mug, his brow furrowed, looked up at Bolan and gave him a tight smile. Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of Stony Man Farm’s cyberteam, shot the big Fed a look. When he spoke, he laced his voice with mock indignation.
“What the hell, Hal?” he said. “You’re looking at the coffee like you expect the Loch Ness monster to pop out of there.”
“I don’t think Nessie could survive in this swill,” Brognola retorted.
“Where is the love?” Kurtzman replied.
Bolan found his seat and, against his better judgment, poured himself of a cup of Kurtzman’s coffee. Once the soldier got settled in, Brognola turned to him, his face grim.
“We’ve got a lot to discuss, Striker,” the big Fed said.
“I expected as much.” Bolan leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. His old friend slid a folder across the tabletop and it came to rest inches away from Bolan. The soldier opened the folder and leafed through the contents, which included several top-secret intelligence reports, several printouts of news stories from newspaper websites and half a dozen or so pictures. Bolan picked up the pictures and scanned through them one at a time. The image of a Caucasian man with ruddy cheeks, blond hair and pale blue eyes stared back at him.
“His name’s Terry Lang,” Brognola said.
“The journalist?”
“Among other things. There’s more to this guy than meets the eye. Lots more.”
“Meaning?”
Brognola turned his gaze in Price’s direction. “You want to field this one?”
Price set down her coffee mug. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and scanned several papers arrayed in front of her before looking up and meeting Bolan’s gaze. “What Hal means is that Mr. Lang has one hell of a freelance gig going on the side.”
Bolan scowled. “You two aren’t making a lot of sense.”
“You’re right,” Price said. “We really aren’t. Sorry.”
“I know Lang is a reporter for the London Messenger. He writes mostly about energy and foreign policy. Occasionally he writes about nukes and nonproliferation issues, too. Works out of the Middle East a lot, I guess because of the energy coverage.”
Price seemed impressed. “When do you have time to read anything other than top-secret dossiers?”
“His articles have been in more than one of my mission packets,” Bolan said. “Occasionally he publishes a clunker or two. But most of his stuff seems to track with what I’ve seen. I always guessed he either had impeccable sources or he was a spook.”
“Give the man a cigar,” Brognola said.
“So he really is a spook?”
Price nodded.
“He works for the Central Intelligence Agency. He operates in a nonofficial cover capacity, and he tracks nuclear proliferation and smuggling for them. Or he did.”
“Did?” Bolan said. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“It gets even worse,” Brognola interjected. “Lang relocated to Dubai several months ago. It gave him a better perch to watch for any illicit shipping of nuclear technology or radioactive materials. Despite all the glitz, the country has become a hotbed for arms and drug smugglers and their fellow travelers. That’s included nuclear smuggling, too.”
Bolan nodded.
“Lang has lots of sources,” Brognola continued. “Some damn fine ones. White hats and black hats. And he could consort with them easily because of his cover. With all that information coming in, he had a lot of irons in the fire, a lot of cases working. The guy dug up loads of good information.”
Bolan arched an eyebrow. “And the problem is?”
“He went missing about forty-eight hours ago,” Brognola said. “Bam, just disappeared. That’s not necessarily a big deal, considering the nature of his cover. But he was supposed to check in with his handlers in Langley and never did. According to the CIA, Lang never, and I mean ever, misses a check-in call. He always made his contacts, except this time.”
“And now everyone’s worried.”
“Yes.”
“He clean?”
Brognola nodded. “Best we can tell. The counterintelligence people are poring over their files. They want to make sure they haven’t missed anything. According to what the President has told me, though, the Agency has yet to come up with anything bad on the guy.”
Bolan considered what he was being told. “You need what from me?”
“Go to Dubai,” Brognola said. “Find out whatever you can. Frankly, there doesn’t look to be any good outcomes here. If the guy has disappeared of his own accord, it’s probably because he’s gone rogue. If he’s vanished because he’s been kidnapped, that could be even worse. Regardless, we need to know what happened to him. You game?”
“How soon can Jack fire up a plane and fly me to Dubai?”
CHAPTER TWO
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
The C-37 jet airplane stood on the tarmac at Dubai International Airport, parked near a hangar that housed government-owned planes. Heat rose from its engines and caused the air above them to shimmer. The craft’s side door popped open and a small stairwell dropped from the plane.
A tall figure, his eyes obscured behind aviator-style sunglasses, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder, disembarked from the craft’s air-conditioned interior. He scowled involuntarily as he collided with a wall of scorching heat. A sheen of perspiration formed on his forehead almost immediately. Dry heat, my ass, he thought.
The Executioner descended the steps, walked onto the tarmac and swept his gaze over his surroundings. The soldier spotted a black sedan parked perhaps a dozen yards away. A short slender man, with hair trimmed down to stubble, stood next to the vehicle, his arms crossed over his chest. Light gleamed off the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses.
When Bolan reached the car, the man bent his head a bit and peered over the rims of his glasses at Bolan.
“You Cooper?” he asked Bolan, referring to the soldier’s Matt Cooper alias. Bolan nodded.
“You Carl Potts?”
“None other,” Potts said. He produced a black wallet, unfolded it and showed Bolan his FBI credentials.
“Special agent in charge,” Potts said. “That means I work ninety hours a week instead of seventy like the rest of my people do.”
“You probably have two alimony payments to prove it.”
“Three,” Potts said, holding up as many fingers. “Fortunately, I think this job will kill me before I get a fourth.”
“We all need a bright spot.”
Potts nodded over Bolan’s shoulder at the plane. “You got more gear?”
“The pilot can take care of it,” Bolan said. “You guys get us a rental?”
“Better,” Potts replied. He nodded toward a gleaming black Mercedes parked next to a terminal building. “Just remember to fill the tank and wash the windows before you bring it back.”
“Nice,” Bolan said.
“Just don’t say Carl Potts doesn’t take care of his friends. Or friends of friends. How’s Mr. Brognola doing these days?”
“Works like a dog.”
Potts shook his head. “Some things never change.” He tossed the soldier the keys for the car. Bolan caught them with his free hand.
“We appropriated it,” Potts said. He made air quotes with his fingers when he said appropriated. “Got it from some Russian gunrunner. He forfeited it.”
“I don’t have the greatest track record with cars,” Bolan said.
Potts scowled and shook his head. “Washington always sends me the prizes.”
THE FBI’S DUBAI OFFICE was located on the top floor of the U.S. Embassy. Bolan was in Potts’s office, seated across the desk from him. The Executioner studied the various certificates and awards on the office wall. He noted that Potts had a bachelor’s degree in international studies from Princeton University and a law degree from Harvard University.
“You didn’t strike me as an Ivy Leaguer,” Bolan said.
“You can see how far it’s gotten me,” Potts replied. “The second wife tried to take the law degree and divorce. She offered me a dog in return. Hell of a deal in retrospect. You want some coffee?”
Bolan nodded. Potts picked up a mug that stood next to the coffeemaker, peered inside it, wrinkled his nose as though he had seen something disgusting. Shrugging, he filled it with coffee and handed it to Bolan. The soldier waited while the federal agent rounded his desk and fell into his chair. Leaning forward, Potts reached into a side drawer, grabbed a folder and set it on his desk. He opened it and picked through the contents, his brows furrowed in concentration. From his vantage point, Bolan could see several pictures mixed in with the paperwork.
Finally, Potts stopped rooting through the dossier. He removed a picture and tossed it across the desk at Bolan, who studied it.
The picture depicted three men. The man closest to the lens, his head topped by a thick, gray mane, was scowling. Bolan pegged him in mid-fifties. The other two men looked younger, with full heads of hair, sunglasses covering their eyes. Bolan guessed they were the muscle even before Potts told him as much.
“The silver-haired devil’s the guy you want. That’s Khan. Just how you get to the guy, I can’t say. He moves around a lot both in this city and throughout the Middle East. There’s rumors that he has body doubles, but I have no idea whether that’s true. A lot of these gunrunners have massive egos. They like to lie to one an other, build legends about themselves. Seems pretty damn silly.”
“So what’s the best path to finding Khan?”
“Funny you should ask, my friend,” Potts said. Shuffling through the folder, he found another photo. This one contained three men. With what appeared to be a black permanent marker, someone had circled the face of a thickset bald man. The guy was cradling an FNC assault rifle and grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s a surveillance shot,” Potts said. “The moron in his natural habitat, I call it. Guy’s name is Adnan Shahi. He’s one of Khan’s lieutenants. If Khan passes gas, this guy probably can tell you what the old man’s been eating.”
Potts paused, sipping some coffee while Bolan studied the photo, memorizing the guy’s face.
“He doesn’t look like much,” Potts said. “That’s because he’s not. But he tends to travel very heavily guarded. He knows everything Khan does. If Khan took Lang, Shahi will know about it. He’ll know which doors to kick in.”
“You have a location for him?”
Potts nodded. “We’ve had him under surveillance for the past several hours, ever since I first got the call from Washington. Like I said, though, if the heat’s on, he’s not going to be calling his BFFs and talking about it. He’s going to stay quiet. He’s a bad human being, but he’s not a moron. Once I heard about Lang’s disappearance, and that Khan might be involved, I wanted to go in and shake down Shahi. Hal asked me to stay cool. Goes against my grain, but I did it anyway. He thought it best that you make the first contact.”
“That bothers you.”
Potts smirked. “Past tense, brother. Now that you’re here, I can see why Hal wanted me to wait.”
“Because?”
