Armed Response. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ moved fast, stepping over to the terrorist. The man saw him, mistook his identity due to the poor light and opened his mouth to say something. Bolan fired a single Parabellum round. The guy’s head snapped against the concrete, the bullet ricocheting out the exit wound in the back of his head. The terrorist died without making a sound.

      Bolan ducked behind the second 4x4, waiting for someone to respond to the noise. Nobody did. He rose slowly, weapon ready, expecting trouble. Nobody was waiting for him to appear, no shouts of alarm. Bolan turned his attention back to the UAZs. He pocketed the keys from the first vehicle before approaching the second two. He worked his way around both 4x4s, removing the ignition keys and flinging them as far as he could into the sand.

      To counter the chance that somebody would have a reserve set, he returned to the corpse. Placing his AK-47 on the floor, Bolan removed his knife and began cutting chunks of cloth out of the mechanic’s clothing. Then he rolled the cloth into balls, which he stuffed into the tailpipes of the UAZs, pushing each in hard with the tip of his knife. He repeated the procedure several times for both vehicles, wanting to be sure that the engines would choke out on the built-up gases in the event that somebody did manage to start both 4x4s.

      The Executioner glanced up from his work and realized that he was out of time. It was now light enough to see by, the sun having risen fast. He finished sabotaging the two vehicles and stood, quickly cutting away the robe. The garment would only hinder him now. He ducked as two terrorists entered the barracks opposite the garage. They paid no interest to the motor pool. Bolan crouch-walked to the entrance and peeked around the corner. Very little had changed in the time that he’d been busy. There were still two groups of terrorists, and it appeared that neither contained Qutaiba. He exited the garage quickly, silently, back up the way that he had come. The sound of raucous laughter reached his ears. The men were too preoccupied to notice anything amiss; all was working to Bolan’s advantage. He reached the space between the second unfinished building and the outhouse, its door facing the opposite building’s wall.

      He was about to move between the two buildings when he heard raised voices, recognizing several words.

       American! Intruder!

      The silent probe was over. It was all about to get noisy. Bolan raised his AK-47, moved to the corner of the second building, observing what the terrorists were doing.

      Two new men had arrived, hurrying into the village, talking excitedly, clasping something large between them. The largest knot of men had stood back, allowing the patrol to present their findings to a large, bearded thug. Bolan recognized the type, a man who used his intimidating presence to bully others, killing those who were not in awe of him. The men moved around, trying to get a better look at the discovery, and for a second Bolan saw it, as well.

      It was his gear bag, which he had cut loose during the parachute jump.

      Bolan cursed softly to himself. He slipped a hand grenade from his web harness, watching as the bearded thug upended the gear bag, tipping the contents onto the sand. There was consternation from the men, then the Beard began shouting orders, pointing in different directions. Bolan pulled the pin on the grenade and let the bomb fly, aiming for the pile of equipment at the Beard’s feet. Bolan ducked behind the corner of the building, counting off the seconds. There were shouts and screams as the terrorists recognized the grenade.

      The bomb detonated, a loud crump among the yells. Bolan spun out of his hiding place, his liberated rifle raised to his shoulder. Several men, including the Beard, were on the ground, dead or getting there fast. More were picking themselves up or standing still in shock. Bolan opened fire, the AK-47 on full-auto. Years of experience helped him keep the bucking rifle under control; the muzzle rising only slightly, Bolan swept it from left to right. Men screamed and died as a storm of metal cut through them, sending them to join the Beard in whatever hell awaited them.

      Chips of mud brick exploded above Bolan’s head as a terrorist from farther back along the street attempted to return fire. In his excitement his aim was off by at least a foot. There would be no second chances for the man. Bolan fired a quick burst, on target, the shooter shuddering as the high-velocity ammunition cut through him, throwing him onto his back. The soldier released the magazine from his weapon, unsure of how many rounds were left, slammed another one in, arming the rifle even as a group of terrorists tumbled out of the barracks, weapons at the ready, looking for something to shoot. Bolan supplied them with a target as he opened up, delivering a greeting card of death. The three screamed and shook as they were cut down, not having a chance to respond. A fourth man stood in the doorway, clearly seeing Bolan’s position, then ducked back into the barracks. The soldier fired several shots into the open door, wanting to discourage any resistance. A rifle muzzle poked around the base of the frame, firing in his general direction, no hope of hitting anything. Bolan dodged back, preparing to retreat to the motor pool, where he would be able to lob his final grenade into 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…

      * СКАЧАТЬ