Desert Fallout. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ there’s an intruder in the compound,” his security chief, Kamau, announced. The Somali guard was well over six feet tall, and Masozi often imagined that there had to have been the blood of giants in his background.

      “How long has he been here?” Masozi asked. He pulled his French MAB-15, flicking off its safety.

      “We had a group encounter with a white man out on the docks. Two had gunshot wounds, and the other four were scared witless,” Kamau said. The muscles on the big African’s forearms swelled as he clenched his huge fists. “They arrived about fifteen minutes ago, and we’ve been securing the compound.”

      “A white man,” Masozi said with a grunt. His brow furrowed at the thought of the stranger who had hit the mining camp in Liberia. “How did they describe him?”

      “They said he was big, almost tall as me. Black hair, blue eyes.”

      “It can’t be a coincidence,” Masozi replied. “That’s the one I told you about.”

      Kamau nodded.

      “What one?” Mubarak asked.

      “An American agent was harassing the diamond mine we have in Liberia,” Masozi explained. “More than six feet tall, approximately two hundred pounds, all lean muscle. Fights like twenty men.”

      Mubarak’s caramel-colored features paled. “Oh, hell.”

      “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Masozi said.

      “It’s the man they call the soldier,” Mubarak whispered breathlessly.

      “That’s a myth. A story spread to make us afraid of Americans now that they’re too lazy to send their Marines and Army,” Kamau replied.

      “He’s real,” Mubarak said. “He’s been active in Egypt.”

      “And there were rumors that this bogeyman took out another faction of pirates a little farther up the coast a while back,” Masozi said. “So what?”

      Mubarak looked at the crate and its two jars of seed. His hands trembled. “You said your soldiers returned fifteen minutes ago?”

      “I’ve heard the stories,” Kamau said. “The man is a ghost, and he could hide, even among black men, as one of their own.”

      “Why did you come to me just now?” Masozi asked.

      “We found one man, his neck broken, but positioned as if he were still on guard duty,” Kamau explained. “This was about two minutes ago, and he hasn’t been dead longer than ten minutes.”

      Mubarak licked his lips and fumbled a pistol out of his belt. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

      Masozi turned to see what had panicked the Egyptian so badly, when something metallic clattered onto the floor under a side window of the storehouse. He couldn’t get a clear look at what was on the ground as Kamau picked him up as if he were a rag doll. The Somali giant carried him several feet, behind the cover of a stack of crates, instants before a fragmentation grenade detonated with a roar of doom. The Shabaab leader’s ears rang in the aftermath of the detonation. Kamau shook his shoulder, mouthing words that didn’t penetrate the sonic haze of aching eardrums.

      Mubarak, or more precisely what was left of him, was a ragged floor mat of bloody, crushed flesh.

      “We’ve got to move!” Masozi bellowed.

      Kamau rolled his eyes at the Shabaab commander’s statement, and Masozi realized that was probably what the security chief was saying. The Uzi submachine gun in the big man’s fist looked as if it were a mere toy as he poked it over the top of the crates and raked the area around the window.

      Masozi didn’t need to hear to know that Kamau was going to cover his exit from the storehouse. Fortunately, the hand grenade hadn’t damaged or detonated the crated rocket launchers, otherwise the explosion would have caused far more than temporary deafness.

      Everything was going to hell.

      MACK BOLAN WAS disappointed when he saw that his grenade had blown the panicky Egyptian into chopped meat. It wasn’t a total disappointment, since Mubarak’s face was intact and he could get the answers he needed from other sources, but it would have been easier to interrogate the Egyptian to get the lowdown on exactly how the man had gotten his hands on jars full of seed that could be turned into a powerful toxin. Now, he would just have to rely on established intelligence databases to identify Mubarak and the faction of terrorists he worked for.

      Masozi would likely provide those answers, if Bolan weren’t forced to kill him. Either way, he had recorded the men’s conversation on an MP3 file thanks to the compact PDA, and a wire-thin high-audio-definition microphone built by Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz of Stony Man Farm’s domestic antiterrorism squad called Able Team. Bolan would be able to transmit the conversation back to the Farm, and the computer staff would run through analysis on what was being said.

      Bolan’s efforts at delaying the compound’s hard force from finding him, leaving a trail on the far side of the complex, had given him the opportunity to spy on the two men and their meeting. Normally the Executioner would have immediately begun dismantling the terrorist headquarters, but the sight of the vehicles parked inside the compound had tipped him off to the possibility of a larger conspiracy. This was confirmed when he identified a trio of Arab men armed with compact machine pistols, obviously bodyguards for a visitor from far to the north.

      The big American dropped to the floor and moved to the ragged corpse. A few quick snapshots with his digital camera recorded Mubarak’s features for future identification. Another moment was spared to get the man’s fingerprints on a strip of plastic-topped adhesive that the warrior had kept in his war gear for such identification processes.

      It wouldn’t take long for Kamau to arrange a counterattack, sending sentries into the storehouse to clear it out. Bolan scooped up the dead Egyptian’s pistol and spare magazines, adding them to his web belt. The soldier hadn’t been able to bring his customary Desert Eagle with him across various borders. Its ammunition had been depleted and he couldn’t get more .44 Magnum rounds to feed it here on the Horn of Africa. Mubarak had been armed with an Egyptian army–issue Beretta 92-F. The spare magazines would feed Bolan’s own machine pistol easily.

      He also had the FAL rifle slung across his shoulders, but after listening to Masozi and Mubarak’s brief argument, he knew that he’d need something to give him equal footing with dozens of heavily armed pirates.

      A solid kick snapped open the container for the stolen Carl Gustav rocket launcher. The meter-long weapon was heavy, but still remarkably handy. He took the time to stuff a variety of 84 mm shells into a bandolier provided for them, and went back to the window he’d entered through. The front of the storehouse suddenly erupted as AK-47 rounds tore through the front door and wall.

      Bolan didn’t bother to slither through the window. He leaped, the butt of the rocket launcher leading the way, crashing through the glass. The chatter of a dozen rifles covered the noise, and his sudden appearance stunned the two guards sent around the back. The Executioner had seen them through the window, and laden with nearly seventy pounds of extra weaponry, his weight was enough to plow through the two Somali pirates, shoving them to the ground hard enough to stun them.

      Bolan jammed his elbow into the throat of one of the gunmen, collapsing his windpipe. He reached out with СКАЧАТЬ