Читать книгу Aftershock - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Catherine Abood grunted as she was hurled against the jeep’s fender by the Jandarma goon. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, and wasn’t surprised by the bright red seeping across her skin when it came away. She took a deep breath and spit out blood, and glared, dark eyed, at the thugs.

She’d taken pictures of what these creeps had done to a teenaged boy they suspected of knowing members of the Kongra-Gel. Her camera was torn open, its film exposed while another of the rifle-toting thugs crushed her remaining canisters of film.

“We can’t allow this to fall into the wrong hands,” the Jandarma commander, Captain Yuli Makal, told her.

“Since when do you care what the West thinks?” Abood asked as Makal snatched her wrist and pulled her close.

Abood realized that antagonizing these thugs was the worst possible choice she could have made, but her father had raised her to be an independent woman. He’d taught her how to shoot, how to fight, how to protect herself, and encouraged her to break the mold of a demure, soft-spoken Arab woman. She was born and raised an American, a fourth generation New Englander, but by the time she was fourteen, she’d seen most of the world. From Kudu hunts in South Africa to skiing in Switzerland, she’d avoided a sheltered life.

Makal smirked as he felt her waist, then pushed open her photographer’s vest. “You have a gun, young lady.”

“I have a permit for it,” Abood stated. Her cheek and lips felt thick, probably swollen from Makal’s punch. “Your government wants me to have it.”

Makal looked at the 9 mm Beretta Compact, admiring its balance and feel. “But you have the protection of the Jandarma, my sweet thing,” he said.

Makal’s smile split his homely face. His head rested on his broad shoulders like a fireplug topped with curly, thick, greasy hair. A bushy mustache flapped over that yellowed smile. They were eye to eye, and though Abood was tall, at five feet, seven inches, it only pointed out how her willowy frame made her stand out among the Turkish people.

Though her Syrian blood had given her an olive complexion, it was not as sun-and-wind darkened as the natives. She was relatively pale, and her long black hair flowed like silk. Her smile would have been much whiter had it not been for the blood smeared across her teeth from Makal’s punch.

“Who gave you such a fine gun, my sweetie?”

“My father,” Abood answered, her eyes narrowed. She struggled, but she was wary of the trio of riflemen watching her intently. She knew how to fight, how to shoot, how to protect herself, but she also knew that pulling a pistol against an armed force of semiofficial vigilantes patrolling the Turkish countryside would be tantamount to suicide. She bided her time.

“Ah,” Makal said. “Did you add the pretty sights and grips, or did he?”

Abood glowered. Makal’s fist squeezed her wrist, and she felt the bones in her forearm start to rub together. He would keep grinding them until her arm was crippled or he’d gotten an answer. “He did. But that’s why I like it so much.”

“It’s worth money, then,” Makal said as he stuffed the handgun behind the buckle of his belt. Abood resisted the urge to warn him against shooting his dick off, partially because the pistol’s safety was on, and pissing him off would only make things worse for her. Makal rubbed a hard, callused hand across her smooth cheek. “As are you, no?”

“My magazine does not make deals with terrorists,” Abood answered.

The caress turned into a hard slap, and Abood sprawled across the hood of the jeep.

“We are the law in this country,” Makal snarled. “We are justice.”

Abood glared. Her ingrained response had landed her in trouble. Makal adjusted his belt and placed his rough hand over the crotch of his pants. “Usually, we’re not as well compensated for our efforts….”

Abood looked at the trio of riflemen watching her. Their weapons were aimed at the ground and wicked smirks danced across their features. One slung his weapon and began to undo his belt.

“That is Etter,” Makal explained. “He’s our warm-up for these things.”

“Warm-up?” Abood repeated, a chill flashing across her skin like lightning.

“Some women are a bit…tight,” Makal continued. “He loosens things up.”

Etter chuckled, sounding like a mentally deranged cartoon character as he opened his trousers. While the Turk wasn’t a big man, only a couple of inches taller than Abood, he was freakishly endowed. Abood gritted her teeth, knowing she’d better think of something before these bastards had their way with her. Unfortunately, the two men who had been destroying her equipment finished and flanked the group.

“We got everything,” one soldier said.

“Almost everything,” the other said with a chuckle as he looked at Abood.

Makal nodded. “Hold her.”

The two newcomers slung their rifles, and Abood acted instantly. She kicked Makal in the stomach, the toe of her boot knocking the Beretta to the road and forcing the Jandarma captain to stumble backward. Etter paused, then lunged forward, one beefy hand grabbing at her blouse, but Abood reacted fluidly. The heel of her palm caught the Turk between his lip and nose and snapped Etter’s head back. Unbalanced, his legs constrained by his half-fallen pants, the Turk flopped to the road.

She snaked her arm free from one of the soldiers who grabbed at her, but the other latched on to the arm that had knocked their partner onto his rear. Abood twisted and punched the goon in the sternum, but even driving the wind out of the Jandarma soldier didn’t relax the rapist’s grip.

“Fuck you!” Abood screamed, letting the clingy Turk get a face full of her loudest yell. It distracted him from her foot snaking around his ankle and she folded her arm abruptly. The point of her elbow struck the man in the breastbone and he fell to one side, dragging her down with him.

“Whore!” the other two would-be rapists growled, and they rushed forward. Abood twisted and pulled her wrestling partner against her, a shield that took the first brutal swings of their rifle stocks.

It wasn’t much, and they were going to make her pay for her resistance, but she was not going to surrender meekly. She was going to go down fighting.

“Drop the rifles!” a voice suddenly shouted.

The gunmen paused. Abood thrashed free, clawing out into the open.

“They’re trying to rape me!” she shouted.

“Nobody move!” the newcomer shouted. Abood’s eyes cleared and she spotted the man. He was tall, well built, wearing a dark, body-conforming outfit that showed off his rippling arms and chest where his torso peeked through a pouch-laden harness. He held an AK-47 in his hands, and his gaze was hard and stern.

Etter scooped up his rifle and triggered it, but holding the weapon one-handed, his initial burst missed. That was all the man in black needed to explode into action. A fiery lance of gunfire stabbed into the half-dressed rapist, heavy-caliber slugs punching through his head and neck. Explosions of gore and the rattle of automatic weapons spurred the remaining riflemen into action, and they went for their own guns. The tall man took three steps, seeming to weave ahead of the Turkish thugs as they tried to bear down on him. The mysterious avenger’s weapon ripped out another stream of slugs and decapitated one of the riflemen.

Abood didn’t know who he was, but this man was quick and skillful. Still, he was outnumbered, and she saw her Beretta lying in the gravel. She lunged for the pistol and almost got it when Makal’s weight slammed into her, a big hand clawing at her forearm. Abood turned and showed her own claws, fingers raking across the Turk’s left eye. Blood squirted over her fingers as she dug in, and the Jandarma commander’s fetid breath washed over her, accompanied by a wail of pain. Abood punched hard, tagging him in the nose. Cartilage collapsed under the impact, and Makal squirmed to one side, rolling into a roadside ditch.

Abood vaulted forward and grabbed her handgun.

“Get out of the way!” the man shouted as Abood swung toward the Turkish captain, but Abood triggered two shots. Makal twitched as a 9 mm hollowpoint round ripped through his arm. The fireplug-headed goon raced into the woods.

Abood whirled and the tall man lowered his rifle.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Abood brushed her mouth. One corner was swollen and tender to the touch, but the blood flow had stopped. “It’ll be awhile before I play the saxophone again….”

The man regarded her. Though his skin was tanned a deep, rich brown by exposure to the sun, he was most decidedly not a Semitic man. Too tall, too classically Anglo. Abood couldn’t exactly place him by look, and thought if he wore sunglasses to conceal those cold, ice-blue eyes, he could have fit in anywhere from a Marrakech market to a Hong Kong casino.

“It was a joke,” Abood said, her words slurred slightly as right side of her mouth reacted numbly to her words.

“They didn’t do any permanent damage?” he said.

“No. I’ll be okay,” Abood answered. She looked down and saw blood spattered across her torn blouse. “Most of this blood isn’t mine.”

He extended a hand to her. “Name’s Brandon Stone,” Mack Bolan said, using a cover identity.

“Catherine Abood, Newsworld magazine,” she introduced herself. “Everyone calls me Cat.”

A hint of recognition showed in Bolan’s face. “You did an article on a white slavery ring operating in Lebanon last year,” Bolan said.

“Yup. Would I know of your work anywhere, Mr.—”

“Colonel,” Bolan corrected.

“Colonel Stone?” Abood asked.

Bolan shook his head. “Nothing I could confirm or deny.”

Abood nodded. “One of those kinds of guys.”

“Afraid so,” Bolan replied. “We’d better get out of here.”

Abood nodded, and she stepped over to the Jandarma soldier who lay stunned beside her Jeep. She picked up his rifle and grabbed a couple of magazines, stuffing them into the voluminous pockets of her vest. She stuffed her Beretta back into its holster after reloading it. “They took out my equipment.”

Bolan looked around. “What did you witness?”

“They skinned a teenaged boy and lit his hair on fire,” Abood answered softly. She was disgusted at how easily she could repeat the events. “They saw me and chased me down.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t just kill you,” Bolan stated as he headed toward one of the jeeps. “Who were they? Kongra-Gel?”

“Jandarma,” Abood answered.

Bolan stopped and frowned, his hard eyes suddenly troubled. His gaze refocused. “They’re official in this province?”

“Official enough that the government never prosecutes them for excessive force if there’s not enough evidence,” Abood said.

“Like photographs taken by a foreign journalist,” Bolan suggested.

“Right,” Abood replied. “After that, it would be my word against theirs…if I survived.”

“The government wouldn’t have believed your accusations without photographic evidence,” Bolan stated. “I know these types of groups.”

“Intimately?” Abood asked, slightly nervous.

“We’ve butted heads more than a couple times,” Bolan said.

“Yeah,” Abood agreed with a sigh. “You look like a tough customer, but you are definitely not one of these scumbags.”

Abood chewed over his words for a moment. “You’re from New England too. Lost most of the accent, but I can still hear it.”

“Massachusetts,” Bolan replied. “New Hampshire?”

Abood nodded. “Yup.”

“We’ll have old-home week on the way out of here,” Bolan told her. “Right now, I want to get you to safety.”

“I can handle myself,” Abood said, defiant.

“I’m sure you can,” the Executioner answered, no condescension in his tone. “But you were in over your head. Get in the jeep.”

“Who’ve you been butting heads with over here?” Abood asked, climbing into the shotgun seat.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for interviews,” Bolan stated as he started up the vehicle and tromped on the gas.

“It’s not an interview. I just want to know what’s gotten you spooked.”

Bolan sighed as he performed a hairpin turn. “Kongra-Gel.”

“The bombing in Van,” Abood said. “I was investigating that when I ran afoul of the storm troopers back there.”

Bolan looked in the side mirror.

Abood looked over her shoulder and saw what had caught the big man’s attention. “Shit.”

“Yeah. The one you winged just waved down some buddies,” Bolan said as he looked at the trucks in the distance. He gunned the engine, squeezing more speed out of the vehicle.

“No wonder you were in a hurry,” Abood said, settling down in her seat.

“Hang on tight. This is going to get a little bumpy,” Mack Bolan told the reporter as he swerved around a bend in the road.