Armed Response. Don Pendleton
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the building.
The firefight had lasted all of ten seconds so far. Bolan had taken only two steps when a muffled boom brought him up short. Somewhere in the distance there had been an explosion, a large one. He paused for a second, briefly considering what it was before focusing on priorities. Another step. The door of the outbuilding opened. Qutaiba stood there, his AK-47 pointing directly at Bolan’s head.
* * *
THE ACHE RETURNED a few moments after Hakim Haddad had left his room, the constant nagging ache. Qutaiba did his best to ignore it, blinking away the image of the lost photograph. He picked up the notebook, hoping to hide away in the grand plan, wanting to hide anywhere. He flicked through the pages, not really seeing the words or occasional diagram. He should burn the notebook. He would do so in a moment. The trucks would arrive, they would leave in a convoy, reach their destination, take control and use it against the Americans. A thousand things could go wrong, but Qutaiba and the Mullahs had prepared for most eventualities. He considered the class of militants that was supplied to be a liability, but the Mullahs assured him that the men would perform well when the time came, that they would all be welcomed into heaven with open arms. Qutaiba hadn’t believed a word.
And now the time was here. A lasting, painful strike against America. A major target. An act of revenge for those two lives taken from him. He blinked, knowing that he was slipping away again. “Focus,” he snapped out loud. The attempt might fail, he knew, but it would be noted and reported. It would make news around the world. And that would be success enough.
Qutaiba had to have drifted off, because the next thing he heard was excited shouting coming from outside. The thick walls muted what was being said, but it sounded as if the men had found something. Maybe Haddad’s mysterious falling bird. Qutaiba rose to his feet and walked to the door.
Chaos had erupted.
A muffled crump was followed by screams, followed by a lot of shooting.
They had been discovered.
Qutaiba froze for several seconds, unable to believe that the plan was about to fail. Not now. Maybe some of the men were shooting at shadows. No, there was too much chaos. He picked up his AK-47, checked that the safety was off and that the weapon was armed. He opened the door, ready to fire.
A black-clad stranger stood in front of him. Rage engulfed Qutaiba in an instant. The man was the very type of commando who had murdered his family, his dreams. He brought the rifle into play, raising it to his shoulder, pointing it at the intruder’s head, pointing it where the intruder’s head had been a split second before. The commando had dropped to his knees. Qutaiba fired too late, bullets smacking into the wall. He began to adjust his aim, fighting the recoil. Too late. Too slow. He didn’t have time to scream his frustrations. The commando had whipped around his own AK-47, holding it one-handed, firing at Qutaiba’s chest…
* * *
BOLAN FIRED HIS KALASHNIKOV, the first four rounds slamming into Qutaiba’s chest, three more missing altogether. The terrorist flew backward, arms outstretched, his weapon fallen from his hands. Bolan rose to his knees, approached his enemy, his weapon pointing at the terrorist’s head. Qutaiba shuddered as life went out of him. Bolan checked vital signs, making sure he really was dead, then scooped up the fallen AK-47. His own was virtually depleted; Qutaiba’s most likely had a nearly full magazine. He didn’t have time to search the room that Qutaiba had been inhabiting. He could hear an engine in the distance, rapidly approaching. Reinforcements? A small blue notebook on the table caught his eye. Bolan glanced quickly around, making sure that no one was bringing him into target acquisition. He saw nothing, took the chance, darted into the room, snatched up the notebook and stuffed it into one of the side pockets on his combat suit.
Time to go.
He quickly reloaded the AK-47 with his final full magazine; the partially loaded one he tucked back into his combat webbing. Stepping over the corpse, he brought up his gun, ready to fire at anybody standing outside. Nobody was around. He returned to his original position of attack, to see if anyone there was pursuing him, to see if the barracks had disgorged more men. Bodies lay everywhere, none moving. His gear bag lay on the ground, surrounded by the dead, its contents spread around. Bolan would gather it later if he got a chance.
At the top of the village road he observed a truck stopping, braking hard. Three men jumped out of the cab, yelling incoherently, waving their arms in panic. They stopped dead when they spotted the carnage of their fallen friends. Their silence lasted a second, no more. Bolan was bringing his sights to bear when the three split off in different directions. He cursed as he saw one plunge into the garage. He would now have to hunt the three plus the other survivors cowering in the barracks. Bolan ducked back into cover, quickly retracing his steps around the back of the building, passing Qutaiba’s tiny building again. He spun around the corner, rifle ready, only to slam into two terrorists creeping up on his rear.
The two terrorists barreled into him, their mouths open in shock. Bolan reacted without thinking, without allowing surprise to distract him. The Executioner dropped his AK-47, stepped in close, grabbed the left guy by the throat and head butted him full force. The man’s nose collapsed, spraying blood. The guy screamed, hands reaching for his face even as Bolan was swatting away the barrel of the second terrorist’s weapon. With his hand still around the throat of Broken Nose, the soldier brought up his right foot, then slammed the sole of his combat boot down on the knee of the second terrorist. The guy joined his screaming friend as his kneecap shattered. The terrorist fell, all the fight going out of him as he was overwhelmed by pain.
However, Broken Nose wasn’t finished. As he clawed for his holstered handgun, Bolan drew his Desert Eagle. He pushed the barrel into his adversary’s chest, squeezing the trigger, simultaneously releasing his stranglehold on the man’s throat. The gun fired at point-blank range, the muzzle velocity throwing the terrorist through the air, an exit hole the size of an orange in his back. Satisfied that the kneecapped terrorist was no immediate threat, Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and snatched up the dropped AK-47. He had no time to check the dead for ammunition. The thunder of the .50 Desert Eagle would have advertised his position to everyone in the area.
With his AK-47 leading the way, Bolan walked to the end of the village, to the final building, the motor pool. He could hear shouting, panicked voices encouraging one another to seek out the enemy. There were several shots, nothing remotely aimed in Bolan’s direction. They were firing at shadows, hoping to provoke some sort of response from their invisible attackers. Bolan worked his way down to the edge of the edifice, quickly scouting out the situation. The truck was parked in the middle of the street, between the barracks and the garage, blocking his view of the enemy.
Bolan dropped to his belly and peered under the truck. As he suspected, two terrorists were hiding beneath the cab, calling out to the others, one of whom replied from the barracks. When they believed that there was nothing to fear, they would emerge from their hiding places. But Bolan didn’t want to wait that long. The clock was counting down in his head. It was only a matter of time before somebody in America gave the order to destroy the village. Bolan wanted to be long gone before then. He drew the Beretta, holding it two-handed, resting on his elbows, pointing it at the back of one of the terrorists’ heads.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“Mr. President, that isn’t enough time. Striker is still on the ground...Yes, sir...I understand that, but we need more time. The target still has not been confirmed…A firefight does indicate the presence of militants, yes, but…Yes, sir, I’ll inform them.”
Brognola broke the connection to the White House. He looked up at Price and Kurtzman. “The President has been convinced by the Joint Chiefs and other advisers that they need to strike now. The Hellfire missile is going to be fired. The remaining truck will be the target. Striker has less than five minutes remaining.” The big Fed turned his attention to the large screen. “How many terrorists are left?”
“Five,” Kurtzman said.