Читать книгу Suicide Highway - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

“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.

Bolan lowered the rifle, then looked back to Geren, who was holding the earpiece on her headset.

“They want us to stay put. Looking for more bad guys,” Geren said. She quickly reloaded her rifle.

Laith skidded a spare magazine to Bolan.

The Executioner reloaded, keeping a wary eye on his surroundings.

“A little more excitement than you’re used to?” Laith asked.

Bolan looked around. “No.”

Laith wiped his brow. “The old curse bites again.”

Bolan managed a smile. “May you live in interesting times.”

CAPTAIN JASON BLAKE glowered at the man he knew as Colonel Brandon Stone. Stone had handed Laith Khan’s rifle back to him nonchalantly after running a perimeter search for more bad guys.

Blake felt stretched like piano wire, and he was just as likely to cut into someone. He fought the urge to grind his teeth and tried to get some work done. “Good job. You’re bleeding, though.”

Stone touched his arm and came away with fresh glistening blood on his fingertips. A rifle round had to have clipped him. He wiped his fingers on his sleeve and shrugged it off. “I’ll take care of it before it gets too bad. Right now, I want to check the terrorists.”

“I have my team checking them. I have four intel-trained noncoms here, in case you don’t know the set up of a—” Blake was sneering.

“I know the structure and training of a field deployed A-Team,” Bolan said, cutting him off. “You don’t have to treat me like an idiot.”

“No, but I do have to treat you as an unknown quantity, Colonel Stone,” Blake answered. “You might look good on paper, but anyone can fake a good cover. Until you tell me who you really are, I don’t have to do fuck-all except treat you with skepticism and distrust.”

There wasn’t any indignation on Bolan’s face. “Perfectly understandable, Captain,” he said.

“And Laith, make that rifle compliant with curfew laws—now,” Blake growled.

Laith ejected the clip and racked the bolt, all the while letting out a long, tired sigh. He stuffed the top round into a vent pocket and the magazine into an appropriate pouch. The young Afghan slung the rifle, then winked at Blake, pulled his pistol and did the same. “You forgot to warn me about my handgun.”

Blake felt his cheeks grow hot.

“Don’t worry. I remembered myself,” Laith added.

Blake sighed and shook his head. “Find yourselves a place to bunk down for the night. You don’t have to go home, but you’re not sleeping here.”

Laith shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve heard that order a few times before.”

“Kid, you’re starting to get on my nerves,” Blake grunted.

“Then it’s working,” Laith responded. “Because you’re getting on mine. Need I remind you whose nation you’re in?”

Blake took a deep breath, remembering that as a member of the Army’s Special Forces, he was a diplomat of American goodwill as well as a soldier. “No. But I can’t break the rules for you. Otherwise, why have rules?”

“Why not try recognizing who your friends are, and who they aren’t?” Laith asked.

“Take it easy, Laith,” Bolan said. “I don’t suppose this incident has inspired you to lend me back my equipment for self-protection,” the big man asked the captain.

Blake shook his head. “No luck. If you want an escort, I’ll lend you one of my men.”

Bolan frowned, then noticed something, or someone, over Blake’s shoulder. “Fine. I’ll take Staff Sergeant Wesley.”

Blake looked back at Wesley, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Is that fine with you, soldier?”

Wesley gave a curt nod. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Good. You’re going with Colonel Stone and his party, then,” Blake ordered. “Just remember, I want you back here. Alive and in one piece.”

“Sir?” Wesley asked.

“I want you back alive. Even if that means that you have to abandon Colonel Stone. He’s proved he can take care of himself.”

“Sir!” Wesley answered. The man looked conflicted. He didn’t like the idea of letting fellow soldiers on the same side die.

Blake didn’t like it, either. But he had a duty to the men in his team. He ate, slept, and drank, sweated and bled with them. Their lives were important to him, more important than any other soldier’s. It was unit integrity, a knot of loyalty, duty, command and friendship that couldn’t be undone by a few strands. He wouldn’t like having Stone, Rosenberg and Khan die on his watch, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice even the most junior of his noncoms.

“I’ll make sure your man returns to you unharmed,” Bolan promised.

Blake tried to hide his surprise, but couldn’t.

WESLEY WATCHED skeptically as Rosenberg unlocked her safehouse door and let the men in.

“I’m not loving this idea, Theresa,” he told her.

She paused, confusion coloring her features for a moment. “You mean about having two men you don’t know hanging around with me?”

“Seems that since we’ve met this guy, you’ve come under enemy fire twice. And we only met them a couple hours ago,” Wesley said.

“Once an hour, that’s not so bad for him,” she said. There was an impish grin on her face. Those beautiful green eyes sparkled with wit and allure, making Wesley look away, inwardly wincing as he felt himself being dragged in by her beauty. “Robert?” she said.

“I’m sorry. I’m not looking forward to seeing you get hurt,” Wesley answered.

“Who says I’m going to get hurt?” she asked.

“A bunch of really angry goombas we kicked out of power, who are still packing enough rifles to shoot up half the country. That’s who,” Wesley explained.

She sighed. “I’ve had people out to get me before. I’ll live.”

“I’m serious, Theresa.”

“Call me Tera,” she said.

“Tera…sorry…”

“I’m serious, too, Robert.”

Wesley reflexively bared his teeth, then calmed himself. “You say you can trust him, so tell me, is Stone his real name?”

“I can’t confirm or deny that for you. It’s not my place. I can tell you, though, even though we only worked together once, I trust him with every ounce of my being.”

Wesley hung his head. “I see.”

Geren touched his chin lightly, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “I understand you’re worried about me. And I’m worried about you, too. And I would worry about Stone, but he can take care of himself, and he’s taken care of me in the past.”

“He charges in wild-assed—”

“He can be as stealthy or as audacious as circumstances warrant,” Geren said defensively. “And he won’t let me down.”

Wesley sighed. There was going to be no winning this fight.

“Robert, I know you don’t like it, but I also don’t want you involved in our investigation. Stone and I are going after, I think, the same people, and there’s going to be a lot of gunplay.”

“Then have a soldier at your back, at least.”

“Captain Blake wants you back alive. And I don’t want to see you hurt,” Geren cut him off.

“Sorry. He said come back if possible. That was my priority. I’m also supposed to keep an eye on you and Colonel Stone,” Wesley replied. “Don’t try to leave me behind.”

“I don’t see the harm in you tagging along.” A powerful, but subtle voice spoke, startling Wesley. He looked up to see Colonel Stone seemingly appear out of nowhere. He was shaken for a moment.

“Thank you, Colonel, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir,” Bolan replied. “I work for a living.”

He offered his hand. Some of the distrust and jealousy that Wesley was hanging onto evaporated in the face of the gesture. Finally, the Green Beret took the stranger’s hand. “Sorry for being so much trouble.”

“You’re not any trouble. Just please don’t interfere with me getting fresh weapons,” Bolan said.

Wesley looked at Geren, then nodded. “I wasn’t going to have Tera go into harm’s way without someone adequately equipped on her side.”

Bolan smiled. “Good. Captain Blake won’t have a problem with that?”

Wesley looked around. “Captain who? Problem with what?”