Warrior's Edge

  Annotation

  A small African nation comes under siege when its president and his cabinet are kidnapped by a band of ruthless guns for hire. Their leader is a glory-seeking, modern day Teutonic warrior who yields a machine pistol instead of a sword.

  The Desert Knights cut a grisly path of slaughter through city streets and swirling sands, forcing the U.S. to take an arm's-length approach by sending in Mack Bolan.

  With freedom and justice hanging in the balance, the arm becomes a hammer as the Executioner escorts the Desert Knights on a brief tour of hell.

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  Don Pendleton's

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  Don Pendleton's

  The Executioner

  Warrior's Edge

  It is a fearful thing to lead this great peaceful people into war… But the right is more precious than peace, and we shall fight for the things we have always carried nearest our hearts for democracy, for the right of those who submit to authority to have a voice in their own government.

  Woodrow Wilson August 19, 1914

  I'd be the first to say that armed aggression rarely solves anything. But when a tinpot despot seeks to destroy the tender beginnings of the democratic process, it's time to stand up and strike a blow for freedom.

  Mack Bolan

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Rich Rainey for his contributions to this work.

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  The battered cap lay flat on the sand, its torn brim stained with sweat and blood. There was no sign of the owner, no tracks. The dust storm that had swept over the Harana Desert for the past hour had seen to that. It looked as if the legionnaire had been swallowed by the desert sands.

  Bolan's lean shadow blocked the cap from the hot afternoon sun as he approached and crouched beside it. The warrior felt parched and baked, his entire body sandpapered by stinging grit from the dust storm that had come up suddenly and separated him and his companions from their quarry. It had forced the two-man hunting teams to take shelter for the duration of the storm. Like crabs they'd burrowed into the sand and clay until the whirlwinds died down.

  The storm had hit at the worst possible time, almost as if the outlaw mercenaries had someone up above looking out for them.

  But Bolan knew that the man who led the mercenary army was no Moses. The only deity looking out for Heinrich Fowler was the god of war. Not that Fowler was a god-fearing man. The only higher power he believed in came from the end of a gun power he and his Desert Knights exercised at every opportunity.

  Bolan scanned the area. Other than the kept, there was no sign of human traffic. But at least they were on the right track. The outlaw meres were still moving east.

  The Executioner walked back to the last steep sand ridge he'd traversed. As he neared the crest, he crouched and looked toward the horizon, seeing nothing but dry desert terrain, ridges of dustblanketed rock and, now and then, small green islands of scrub brush.

  He shouted once.

  Nothing.

  He shouted again, and the sand took shape about fifty yards away from him.

  Martin Molembe's sand-colored camouflage form gradually rose above the horizon, silhouetted for a brief moment as he came over the dune.

  Like Bolan, he'd rolled his sand-colored bandanna into a sweatband beneath the brim of the desert cap that shielded his regal face from the sun.

  Molembe was an expert tracker, but he was more than just a hunter. He was also a man used to command.

  As the current head of the Zandesi Intelligence Service ZIS Molembe had been one of the pillars of the new government, putting his life on the line so that free elections could be held in the West African country of Zandesi.

  Unfortunately the new government had been literally stolen by Heinrich Fowler the last of a clan of petty tyrants who refused to give up what he'd gained through murder and fear and was a government in involuntary exile, hidden somewhere in the desert.

  Molembe had personally coordinated the two-man search parties, making sure he was teamed up with Bolan.

  The Executioner was under no illusions.

  Though Molembe said he wanted to work with the American operative, there was another reason. He also wanted to watch him. To Molembe, Bolan was an unproved commodity who could be just as treacherous as the mercenaries they were pursuing.

  Bolan shielded his eyes and watched the tall Zandesian approach, his heavy weight moving gracefully across the shifting sand.

  Ever since the two men had resumed their search, they'd been drifting in and out of each other's sight, but they always stayed within hailing distance.

  It was the same way all the way down the line.

  Several other two-man units were patrolling the area, spread out in search of the Desert Knights. It was hard going on foot, but the trackers had no choice. They had to leave their Land Rovers at the edge of the huge sand pan that the fleeing meres had driven straight into.

  Their jeeps and flatbeds had cracked through the thin crust and into the mud below.

  Tombstone radiators stuck out of the sand, mired until some heavy equipment could pluck the mercenaries" vehicles from the harsh desert cemetery.

  Then the meres had continued on foot.

  By the time the trackers had caught up to the sand pan graveyard, Fowler's men had a good head start into the Zandesian wasteland.

  The previous year's drought had turned most of the Harana Desert into a patchwork of dried riverbeds, dunes and desert plains.

  Only a few permanent water holes remained.

  Between rainy seasons it was as hospitable as Mars. But if they wanted to find the Desert Knights and the captive president of Zandesi, the trackers had to traverse that alien environment.

  "What have you found?" Martin Molembe asked as he neared Bolan, his rhythmic steps pistoning through the sand.

  The African's angular face was covered with sweat, but he showed no signs of fatigue. He was the kind of man who would go full bore every step of the way until it was physically impossible to take another step. And then he'd drop.

  Bolan uncapped his canteen and wet his lips slightly, then nodded toward the kepi in the sand.

  "You found John Bandu," Molembe said, a touch of hope coloring his heavy bass voice.

  "Not unless he shrunk and hid under that hat," Bolan replied. "Take a closer look. My guess is that there won't be much of him left to find."

  The ZIS chief stepped down the ridge, the hissing sand shifting from his mountainous weight, and crouched beside the kept. Then he saw the blood. "It's John's," he said. "Head of the presidential bodyguards."

  Former head bodyguard, Bolan thought. "How do you know who it belonged to?"

  "The rest of the president's men wore plain clothes, but John always wore his uniform. He was always on guard. Always ready to give his life…"

  "Looks like Fowler took it." The Executioner saw no need to mince words.

  Unlike the lush tropical environment along Zandesi's West African coastline where most of the population lived, the desert was punishing.

  It took a lot out of a man, made small things crucial.

  Life often depended on the slightest change in temperature. The endless sun and sand could drive a man mad.

  The Executioner had to see how the Zandesian reacted to death under these circumstances, which could well determine whether the two men went on living. If he was a hothead given to maniacal rages, then Bolan would go it alone. If not, maybe they could work together.

  But
Molembe kept his emotions in check, though it pained him to realize that his friend's chances of survival were slim.

  The broad-shouldered tracker shook his head, then dropped the kepi back onto the sand. His face hardened and his eyes narrowed.

  Then he moved on without saying a word.

  They scoured the stretch of flat land that lay before the next ridge, their weapons leading the way as they approached the rise.

  They moved slowly and quietly, the sun blazing down on them and casting mirage lines on the horizon.

  Eventually they found John Bandu.

  He was waiting for them just past the next ridge, lying flat on his back, sprawled out on the slope. His wrists were tied by thick cords of twine that bound him to the sparlike remains of a bleached acacia tree. Bloodred holes crisscrossed his body, carved by merciless volleys of automatic fire. The wounds were legion, his legs, hips, chest and arms reduced to a sickening rubble of bone and blood. Only his face was intact, although his forehead was bruised and bloody.

  His eyes stared skyward, totally devoid of moisture.

  It had been a slow death.

  "The bastards used him for target practice," Bolan growled.

  "It's no surprise," Martin said, kneeling beside the dead man. With a flash of steel he cut him free from his bonds. Then he touched his palm to his forehead while speaking softly in the French patois common in West Africa.

  Like a final benediction he lowered his hand to Bandu's eyes. The eyelids were dry and rough, but finally they slid down.

  "He goes to a better place," Molembe stated.

  "What kind of men are these?"

  The Zandesian looked hard at Bolan.

  "Colonials," he finally replied. "White warriors who come here like gods to treat other men like cattle. Or use them for sport." The man spoke matter-of-factly, his deep voice holding a careful measure of controlled rage that stemmed from years of living under colonial-backed regimes. He'd never accepted that corrupt rule, but he'd survived it. Just as he'd survived Heinrich Fowler's backstage reign. Now, unless they recovered the presidential party, he might have to survive it again.

  Bolan hadn't really expected a response.

  The answer was all too clear. The mercenaries they pursued were outlaws. As long as there were no witnesses, they figured a gun was a license to kill. A license they exercised at every opportunity.

  Though he'd never seen Heinrich Fowler in the flesh, he'd seen him in spirit often enough.

  The mercenary world was full of his kind.

  Bolan had gone against them in every part of the globe.

  The warrior gestured toward the body. "The men responsible for this might turn on the president at any time."

  "No," Molembe replied. "Fowler's a beast, but he's a cunning one. He has plenty of others to take out his fury on. If need be, he'll start killing his own. But he won't hurt the president. Not yet."

  Bolan nodded. He knew of Fowler only by reputation and by his briefing from Hal Brognola. Molembe knew him personally, and his deeds were imprinted on his memory.

  They studied the terrain. Ahead of them was a dried riverbed, and beyond lay a hard-crusted valley ringed by plateaus, ridges and small mountains. There was no sign of the meres, but that was to be expected. The mountain range held limitless places to hide.

  Molembe gestured toward a rocky peak in the shape of a buttress.

  "They're probably heading for Mont Bataille. For years it has been the refuge of outlaws. A natural fortress, almost impregnable to assault once they get in place."

  "Just as hostile to its inhabitants as its invaders."

  The African looked surprised. "You know its history?"

  The Executioner shrugged. "I'd be a fool not to."

  Brognola's briefing had given him sufficient background on the West African country.

  Mont Bataille had been a battleground since ancient times, when the tribes first worked out their spheres of influence. Those on the outs invariably went into the mountain strongholds, fighting guerrilla wars until they could take over the lusher lands and the ore-laden mining zones.

  In turn the new rulers would face attacks from the mountain groups.

  That pattern continued until the Europeans arrived to refine the rites of repression. The French and Germans, the British and the Belgians had all staked their claims.

  Slave labor gave way to work crews, but the lot in life changed little. Men with money owned the Zandesian rank and file, while a few Zandesians grew rich on the arrangement.

  The world wars changed things slightly, but not much. After Germany was defeated both times, its grip on the government loosened and its holdings decreased, though there were always a few holdouts like the Fowler clan, who would survive no matter who ruled.

  Now French and English were the most common languages spoken in Zandesi, the languages of commerce and conquest. Each nation left its legacy, a colonial past that was never too far from the Zandesian mind.

  Neither was war, which seemed almost like a natural condition.

  Bolan fielded the glasses and scanned left and right, picking out a few more two-man teams on both flanks who were cautiously nosing forward in search of the meres.

  The slow but steady pace would keep them alive, but probably wouldn't give them time to cut off the hardmen before they entrenched themselves in the mountain fortress.

  Fortresses, Bolan corrected himself. The ancient ruins ahead of them had been used as hideouts and strongholds for two thousand years. Castle facades carved from cliff-side rocks. Caves.

  Trenches. It was a formidable redoubt.

  "I'd say it's time we called in a taxi," Bolan said. Turning, he saw that the Zandesian security chief was literally on the same wavelength.

  Molembe had already lowered his radio pack and was cradling the handset. A few moments later he contacted Serpentine Force, the ten-unit chopper squadron that made up about fifty percent of the Zandesi Air Force. The remaining air force crafts were a mixture of old cargo planes and fighters, which were usually grounded for repairs since many of the ancient parts were hard-to-find prized artifacts.

  Bolan listened while the security chief spoke with the commander of Serpentine Six, the lead copter scouting the Harana Desert.

  "They're on their way," Molembe said after breaking contact. "What's left of them."

  "What's the damage?" Bolan asked, still scanning the horizon through the glasses.

  "We lost contact with two choppers. A third got caught in the dust storm and crashed. All this and the fight hasn't even begun."

  "It has now!" Bolan lurched to the left, grabbed the Zandesian's shoulder and flung him off his feet. Molembe tumbled to the ground, his eyes wide with surprise as Bolan hit the dirt next to him.

  The first shot zipped into the sand where Bolan had been standing a moment ago, the second and third digging into the ground where Molembe had been positioned.

  The cracks of rifle fire accelerated as the Desert Knights opened up with everything they had, unleashing a blizzard of metal rain from their riverbed position. Muzzle-flashes sparked, running up and down the narrow trench formation formed by the dead watercourse.

  Echoes of the first barrage gradually faded away, with isolated shots cutting the air around them as Bolan and the Zandesian tracker inched across the sand toward cover.

  "We found the devils!" Molembe shouted, dropping behind a pedestal of hard clay and scrub.

  "Yeah. We almost found them the hard way." Only the sudden flurry of movement he'd seen through the binoculars had kept them from joining the slain legionnaire on his eternal exodus.

  Face close to the ground, Bolan belly-crawled across the ridge, hands and feet pushing at sand and stone until he reached a low, flat altar-shaped sheet of rock.

  Lead hail chinked into the other side of the rock, then thudded up the ridge. The gunners weren't sure where Bolan and his companion were or if they'd been hit.

  As the sporadic fire flew overhead, Molembe pushed aside his
pack and lay flat on his back, holding his Colt Commando across his chest.

  He looked over at Bolan. "Any ideas?"

  "Two. We can play dead until they come looking for us, or we can take it to them."

  "The problem with attacking is this," was the African replied, raising the Colt Commando. "Unless I get lucky, they're out of my effective range."

  "They don't know that. You can lay down some covering fire, and I'll give them something to think about."

  Molembe nodded. Like most of the other men pursuing the meres, he carried the short-barreled Colt. Ideal for special-forces ops and in-close fighting, the weapon gave up a lot of accuracy past sixty yards.

  The Desert Knight rear guard had taken position about three hundred yards away.

  Bolan was equipped for infighting and for sniping. For shorter range he had his Beretta 93-R in a shoulder holster. He also carried an M-16-A2. With a five-hundred-yard range he could easily reach the riverbed, although every time he looked, the meres were keeping out of sight.

  He was prepared for that, too. The M-16 dual purpose weapon was fitted with an M-203 pump-action grenade launcher.

  Bolan pumped the aluminum barrel of the launcher and locked in a 40 mm high-explosive round. "Okay, guy," he said, "let's do it."

  The Zandesian tracker sprang to his left and opened up with the Colt Commando. He hosed the air with a full-auto spray, then dived behind shelter again.

  The mercenary force reacted instantly, several of their rifles nosing out of the trenches.

  Bolan had edged to the right of the rocky shield and sighted in on the riverbed, triggering the M-203 as soon as the meres appeared.

  Three seconds later the grenade struck the far side of the riverbank, ripping into rock and clay and sending a fiery torrent of high explosives onto the ambushers.

  As the volcanic geyser showered the meres, Bolan loaded another HE round and fired it to the right, where some of the thunderstruck mercenaries had moved. While they were still recovering from the first assault, the Executioner launched a smoke grenade that provided scattered wisps of cover.