Читать книгу Suicide Highway - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

The sound of AK-47s going off was Rosenberg’s signal to get up and charge toward the squat hovel that the Taliban suspects had chosen to call home. She recognized one of the two men making the assault on the thugs inside, and even though she had watched him battle a mine complex full of heavily armed killers, she couldn’t sit idly by and watch him risk a chestful of rifle fire in conflict with a room full of hashed-up terrorists.

On her heels Sergeant Wesley was grunting and huffing as he tried to match his long strides with her short, pumping legs. Over her LASH headset, she listened to Montenegro shouting about rules of engagement and Captain Blake.

There was a time to play by the rules, she thought.

And there was a time to play it like the man she knew as Striker.

Usually, that time came the moment the big mystery soldier strode onto the scene, making his presence felt like a herd of bison crashing across a plain.

A firefight was blazing inside, but nobody was making a break for it. She reached the front in time to see a figure fly backward out the door, his rifle blazing as the canvas draping the entrance fluttered closed. She struck the wall beneath the window, crouching. She watched as Wesley, not even pausing, bent and scooped up the lithe young form with the rifle and dragged him away from the doorway in time to avoid a hail of gunfire punching through the curtains.

“What?” she heard the fighter say as he realized he was being handled like a rag doll.

The thunderous sound of gunshots filled the air from the other side of the opening. A heartbeat later, a tall lean figure burst through the curtain, pistols in each hand. The compression wave and its subsequent debris cloud chased the diving form of the man as he somersaulted away from the doorway.

He came up, almost like a snake in his speed and agility, leveling two long-barreled guns at her, but only for a heartbeat before raising the muzzles skyward.

“I figure at least two gunners are making a break for it out the back,” he said. “We need someone to interrogate in case nobody survived the explosion.”

Rosenberg watched him in amazement for a moment, then pressed her throat mike tighter to her voice box. “Sergeant Montenegro, we need suppression fire. No fatalities.”

The Special Forces weapons officer had quit complaining about rules of engagement and answered with a terse “Affirmative.”

The night lit up as in the distance, Montenegro’s Squad Automatic Weapon spewed a line of heavy fire across the darkness. Rosenberg looked back and saw that the warrior was gone, vanished like a shadow.

“Go get ’em Striker,” she whispered.

MACK BOLAN’S EYES FOCUSED on the grenade in an instant, the bouncing hellbomb grabbing his attention in an almost fatal stranglehold.

Almost.

The grenade’s pull ring and spoon were still locked in place, despite the rolling jumps it was making toward him. Bolan had used a similar tactic many times in the past, throwing a grenade with the pin still in it to flush out an enemy into shooting range.

Instead, Bolan held his ground. He fisted the Taurus as he got up from all fours, and lowered his hand to scoop the RPG-1 grenade as it came to him. Throwing himself against the near wall, he thumbed the pin loose from the miniblaster and launched it back where it came from.

Gunfire erupted wildly in the main room, and the Executioner caught a glimpse of Laith in full retreat, blasting away. His voice, almost smothered by the roar of his rifle blazing in full fury, was shouting warnings. The body of one Taliban supporter jerked violently under a salvo of savage strikes, fatal impacts driving the dead man’s corpse into two of his allies.

The Executioner straight-armed the Taurus. He drew the NP228 with his free hand and pumped the triggers of both handguns to lay down a wall of bullets that crashed into the disorganized gunmen while their backs were still to him. He plunged through the room, the mighty .44 Magnum empty but still clicking as he pulled the trigger, the 9 mm weapon still spitting its quiet payloads of death. He was out the door just as the grenade went off. The fatal blast radius of the grenade was ten yards, and Bolan wasn’t sticking around to be sliced to ribbons by hurtling shrapnel.

The whole event took moments, and Bolan dived into a shoulder roll, tumbling so as to reverse himself and not present his back to the enemies he knew were behind him.

What he didn’t expect was the sight of two soldiers out front. A lightning quick assessment showed one as a U.S. special operations trooper of some sort, and the other was a woman, dressed to keep up with the American soldier. As he raised the muzzles of both pistols to defuse any thought of a standoff, he made out the face. Even partially shaded by her helmet, he picked up some recognizable features, though it was too dark for him to be certain. His gut instinct told him that she was a friend, and he went with it.

“I figure at least two gunners making a break for it out the back,” he told her. “We need someone to interrogate in case nobody survived the explosion.”

She touched her throat mike, and as he heard her voice, he confirmed who she was.

Tera Geren, a gutsy Israeli agent Bolan had worked with before.

He didn’t stick around to hear what she was saying, and he guessed that the machine gun fire in the distance was more American special operations ordinance, a SAW by the sound of it.

Long legs eating up the ground in effortless strides, Bolan swung around the building and spotted a quartet of men racing in the distance. They dropped to the ground, cowering from the sizzling onslaught of autofire raking all around them, but the gunner wasn’t firing for effect. Bolan paused, fed a fresh speedloader into the Taurus, slapped a fresh clip into the NP228, then continued his charge.

The SAW fire let up, and the Taliban lackeys slowly got to their feet, looking to where the onslaught came from, firing wildly from their AKs. Marksmanship was an illusory skill that the gunmen thought they possessed, and having fully automatic weapons instilled in them the delusion that they didn’t have to aim. Whoever the gunner was, he was safe. The pathetic riflery skill of the Taliban killers was barely enough to spray the broadside of a street cafe. Against real soldiers who took cover, conserved ammo, and watched the front sight, they were standing sacks of meat ready to be plucked by a short burst.

The distraction of the Taliban fighters bought the Executioner a few seconds, enough time to close to hand-to-hand range. With a savage snap, he hammered the butt of the Brazilian revolver hard across the jaw of the first man he ran into. The punch, backed by four pounds of stainless steel, felled the thug.

The second man was turning, but not nearly fast enough to avoid Bolan’s boot rocketing into his groin. The mercenary for the former occupational government folded over, head dropping to where the Executioner slashed his elbow down mercilessly like his namesake’s ubiquitous ax.

Two down, one to go, and Mack Bolan’s free rein over his enemies ended.

Too close to bring up his rifle and fire, the last man merely swung the barrel hard at the Executioner. The front sight hooked Bolan’s wrist, wrenching the revolver from his grasp. Bolan brought his NP228 around to shoot the guy and be done with him, but the fighter wasn’t finished swinging. The pistol grip of the AK crashed off Bolan’s cheek and left his head reeling.

Bolan dropped back, dazed. The rifle slashed out again. The soldier brought up his left hand to block the next chop and felt his forearm go numb. The Chinese pistol sailed from his grasp.

The Executioner wasn’t standing still. He kicked the guy in the knee, a dead center blow struck with his steel-toed combat boots. With a cry, the rifleman staggered, letting go of his weapon and windmilling his arms to maintain his balance. Bolan didn’t allow him any mercy, launching two right jabs with pistonlike speed. The Taliban fighter’s nose exploded, rivers of blood streaming down into his mustache and beard. Another step forward, and Bolan folded his opponent over his knee. A hammering fist dropped savagely on the back of the thug’s head and with a savage twist, Bolan hurled the half-conscious man over his hip.

“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.”