Plains Of Fire. Don Pendleton
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through thousands of such encounters.
“More movement on your side, Striker,” James warned over the radio. “Rafe was right, that group swung back to try a different approach.”
Bolan saw the mob of Muslim Brotherhood gunmen approach the lobby door. His FAMAS had been locked empty, and he let it drop on its sling, transferring to the mighty .44 Magnum Desert Eagle on his hip. When the Egyptians made their move, the need for his stealthy 9 mm weapons had ended, and the suppressed weapons didn’t have the same reach and power as the Israeli-designed hand cannon. In a lightning quick movement, he leveled the .44 at the lobby doors, waiting for the right moment.
The first Egyptian through the door stopped cold, as if he’d struck an invisible brick wall, 240-grains of lead smashing violently through his forehead. The heavyweight slug punched out of the back of the dead man’s neck and speared into a gunman behind him, the poor guy screaming as the deformed hollowpoint round lanced into his groin, shredding through muscle to cut his femoral artery. It was a two-for-one shot that Bolan sometimes encountered when firing high-powered weapons at his enemies. It was the kind of bonus that Bolan didn’t want to count on in the field. A jet of arterial blood hosed onto the other gunmen beside him, jolting them in surprise. The Executioner adjusted his aim and triggered two more rounds into the third and fourth terrorists who were trying to charge through the entrance.
The doorway suddenly became an unnavigable mass of bodies as four corpses blocked the way, bodies piled high enough to force anyone behind them to climb up and over the dead. This gave Bolan an opening to draw another fragmentation grenade. He popped the cotter pin and launched the munition past the pile of lifeless Egyptians. It bounced off a corpse’s back and landed at the feet of a clutch of stacked up Brotherhood gunmen. The terrorists weren’t able to go forward because the bodies of their Magnum-mutilated comrades were too high to easily step over, and the men at the back of the group were shoving too hard against them to allow them to haul the bodies out of the way. When the jammed up gunmen saw the lethal grenade arc into their midst, panic seized the group and they tried to force their way back against the crush of gunmen at the rear of their group. The riflemen at the back were unaware of the impending detonation at their feet until it came through.
The M-26 fragmentation grenade disintegrated, unleashing an umbrella of cutting force through the legs of the snarled terrorists, carving through thighs, knees and shins with enough force to rip them from their owners’ bodies. Shrapnel sliced into vulnerable bellies, ripping open abdominal muscles and crushing intestines and lower spines. Bolan took the opportunity to slam a fresh magazine into the FAMAS and clean up the horrific mess caused by his grenade, firing head shots to end the suffering of those who still lived despite their brutal grenade-mauling.
“The Brotherhood’s in full retreat,” Encizo announced. “Ambush broken.”
“Watch yourselves,” Bolan warned. “The Brotherhood might not be too happy with you guys and take a parting shot.”
“They tried to get us before,” James stated. “They’d come up on the roof with us, but we put them back down.”
“Let the survivors run,” Bolan said. “The Brotherhood knows who they came after, that’s why we had nearly a hundred of them show up to fight. By now, they’ve learned their lesson, in spades.”
“The faster these creeps learn that they’re no longer the top of the food chain, the better,” James stated. “These screwheads need to be more scared.”
“Trust me, I’m getting through to some of them,” Bolan replied. “At least one of the Thunder Lions had a significant change of heart.”
“We had a convert up here, too,” James answered. “He won’t be walking too well, but he’s no longer interested in helping out violent insurgency anymore.”
“Wish the ratio of slaughtered to converted was the other way around,” Bolan said. “More good people are always welcome in the War Everlasting.”
“Better than none redeemed,” Encizo interjected.
Bolan returned to Aflaq’s office. The former militiaman looked up from his first-aid efforts on his nephew.
“How’s the shoulder?” Bolan asked.
“You’ll never cow a true warrior for the Prophet,” Anid snarled.
“Is that so?” Bolan returned. “The Egyptians abandoned close to fifty of their dead brothers after we were done with them. Let’s call it sixty true warriors for the Prophet, bleeding their guts out, and forty or so survivors running away through the shadows, all defeated by three men. Three men including me.”
Anid swallowed.
“My quarrel’s not with the followers of Islam, only the jackals who use the Koran’s teachings as a license to engage in rape and murder,” Bolan said. “Tell me how gang-raping children and mass executions bring enlightenment to the people?”
Anid remained silent, his eyes cast down at the wound in his shoulder.
“Search your soul. Who is the truly merciful one here? Who destroyed an overwhelmingly superior force and crushed the fight out of it, then stopped long enough to assist in the healing of your wounds?” Bolan asked.
“You did,” Anid admitted.
“Your uncle saved your life,” Bolan told him. “Pick the right path in your beliefs and actions. The one that the Thunder Lions have chosen only brings them defeat and suffering at my hands.”
Aflaq gave his nephew’s hand a squeeze.
“I’m not telling you two to turn your back on God. I’m telling you that there are ways to be true to your faith that don’t involve murder and pain. As your uncle said, peace be unto you.”
Anid looked up and met Bolan’s eyes.
“Understand?” Bolan asked.
“I do,” Anid answered.
Bolan nodded and left the office.
Cartegena, Spain
SHAVED BALD, YET STILL wearing a thick beard, Igor Sharpova looked uncomfortable as he sidled up to Alonzo Cruz’s table at the café. The midsummer sun raised a sheen of sweat on the Russian’s forehead as Cruz watched the man’s eyes flick nervously behind his sunglasses. The bulk of Sharpova’s chest was further thickened by a concealed bulletproof vest.
“I ordered some iced tea for you, amigo,” Cruz said.
Sharpova sat heavily. He snatched up a napkin and mopped at his wet brow. “I’m used to cooler climes. You do realize that this city comes under considerable scrutiny from NATO, the CIA and Interpol, do you not?”
Cruz chuckled. “Which is why we are talking here. This is a major port, the largest in Spain. Intrigue drips from the walls. Besides, you’re a Russian. Yesterday’s news. It’s the Islamicists that the West fears.”
Sharpova sighed. “So we’re secure.”
“Not if you keep acting so antsy and suspicious,” Cruz replied. “Relax.”
“What happened to the shipment?” Sharpova asked.
“What’s the worst possible thing that could happen to you, Igor?” Cruz responded.
Sharpova grimaced. “You mean that we’ve been found out.”
“I mean that your bogeyman has emerged from the shadows. And he’s become very interested in the Darfur tests,” Cruz told him. “Does he know what truly is going on? Unlikely.”
Sharpova frowned, his jowls hanging, which increased his resemblance to a bulldog. “You don’t understand. This man has derailed countless plots of ours around the world. He is the living doom to any who dare oppose him.”
“Poetic,” Cruz commented with a nod. “This time, however, we have knowledge on our side.”
“Knowledge.