Death Has a Name Read online

  Abba stared at him without speaking. He climbed behind the wheel of the car, Arman bending to the open window. "I want you to lead the operation tonight," he said in Arabic. "It's the only one left after losing the other bases. But if this one works out…"

  "It will," Abba said. "I pledge my life on it."

  "Good." Arman patted the top of the car and took Metrano by the arm. "Come, my friend. If it will please you, we'll return to my quarters by the back way."

  "Now you're talkin'," Metrano said, turning to stare once more at Abba before walking off.

  Abba started the car and drove off. It was all he could do to keep from spitting in Metrano's face. Americans were all soft, squealy pigs wallowing in their own shit. He wanted them all to die, and he knew exactly where to start.

  Metrano wanted Bolan alive, but that would never happen. Of all the people Abba had seen on the urban battlefields of the Middle East, the Executioner was the most dangerous. To allow him to live even one second longer than necessary was worse than stupid. No, as soon as he got to Tel Aviv, Mack Bolan would die.

  And that would be the end of that. Just another dead American.

  He pulled up to the gates and honked, his men hurrying out to move the cars that blocked the exit. He then drove out the dirt road, bumping onto the main highway.

  The Israeli army checkpoint blocked the road two miles away. According to the back-off agreement, two of his own troops also manned the checkpoint, and he was allowed through immediately, his passage radioed back to Rosh Hanikra by his people.

  He was free, traveling the interior of Palestine unmolested. Still, he traded vehicles three times before finishing his journey to Tel Aviv.

  17

  The Executioner was no stranger to pain. In Nam, and in more places than he cared to remember. His body was a road map of his exploits, perhaps the only lasting reminder of how much he had truly given.

  He sat next to Johnny, the harsh light of day brightening the brown paper on the windows. Watching the windows was the only way Bolan could measure the passage of time, for in the place where he took his mind, there was no such thing as time.

  Tony Metrano had worn himself out torturing the Executioner. Now, Mack Bolan willed his mind to conjure up images of a beautiful family life that existed only in his memory. As the painful aftereffects of physical abuse were trying busily to drain him of any humanity he had left, he was thinking now of a world of peace and freedom, justice in the land that had given him birth. Those were the ideals that kept Mack Bolan alive, that gave him the strength to carry on. And, yeah, it was worth it.

  They were waiting through a lull in the torture. Tony, anxious to do it all himself, was resting and having lunch. Bolan had taken most of the abuse. Usually taciturn, he had become talky and insulting when Metrano had started on him. He figured that if he could keep Tony angry enough at him, the man would leave his brother alone. It had worked. It was the least he could do.

  He took stock of his faculties. His face was a mass of welts and cuts, swollen, he was sure, beyond recognition. One of his eyes was shut, his hearing impaired in one ear. Nothing major seemed broken, although Metrano did not seem to have missed any part of his body. But his muscles were tight, his system in peak condition. The knife had done some mean work, and blood trailed from many places, but basically Tony was afraid that too much abuse would kill the man, depriving his father of the pleasure.

  Bottom line — the Executioner was still in working order except for the pain. And in Mack Bolan's life, the pain was a given, anyway.

  "Mack?" Johnny said weakly.

  Bolan turned to look at his brother. He tried to smile, but couldn't manage it. "Guess I lost that round," he rasped.

  "You don't look so good," Johnny said, trying for a smile. "Are you… are you?…"

  "I'll live," Bolan replied, then tried to laugh at his own joke. It came out a racking cough. "How about you?"

  "I hurt. Mack," Johnny said. "But my legs still work. I could run. If only…"

  "We're not through yet," Bolan said, though he didn't know if he believed it. "Hang in."

  "Yeah."

  There was silence for a minute, and Bolan knew that Johnny had something he wanted to say, but couldn't get out.

  "What is it?" the Executioner finally asked.

  Johnny looked at him, his eyes misted. "Did you… come here to die?" he asked.

  Bolan swallowed painfully. He could sure use a drink of water. "I can't answer that," he said.

  "Can't or won't?"

  Bolan slowly shook his head. "I don't know the answer. I sometimes think that maybe I've been looking for death for many years. Sometimes I think I'm… already dead."

  "I'm not ready to die," Johnny said, as if the statement could alter their predicament.

  And the Executioner felt the weight of even more responsibility. Had he thought of everything? Was there something more he could do?

  He heard the door opening, a tiny squeak drawing his attention. There stood a dark man in black. He wore a light windbreaker, and Bolan could see that it covered a shoulder holster. The man's eyes were evil, cold and hard as stone.

  "We meet again," he said softly, and smiled without humor. He walked right up to Bolan, leaned forward in front of his face. "Do you remember me?"

  "Florida," Bolan said. "You were there at the house."

  "You got away from me that time," Abba said, and drew the MR 73 out of its resting place. He took the silencer out of his pocket and began screwing it on. "This time we end the game for good."

  Bolan's thoughts raced. If he didn't do something fast, both he and Johnny would be dead within thirty seconds. Big Tommy wanted the Executioner for himself and wouldn't care to have someone else horning in. That was why the man was being so quiet. Before Abba had finished putting the silencer on his gun, Bolan had reached a decision.

  "Tony!" Bolan screamed. "Tony! Help! Help!"

  "Stop!" the man ordered, whispering harshly.

  Johnny took the hint and started screaming, too. Abba hurried with the silencer and had just aimed his revolver at Bolan's head, when Tony burst through the door.

  "Abba!" he said, pulling the man away. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "Getting rid of your trash," the man returned, trying to jerk himself from Tony's grasp. "Get your filthy hands off me."

  "No!" Tony said angrily. "These two are for my father to handle."

  "You must take care of them now, while you have the opportunity. They are dangerous."

  He was right, Bolan thought. They shouldn't be able to hold him.

  Tony wrestled Abba's gun away, and shoved him back against the wall. "We'll do this the way my father wants," Tony said. "We'll wait."

  "He cannot get away," Abba lied. "He asked me to take care of it for him."

  "He would've told me that," Tony countered.

  "He could not call, the phones are out."

  "What?"

  "He asked me to take care of this matter for him," Abba said. "I am only trying to help."

  Tony faltered, looking at the gun in his hand.

  "Try the phones," Bolan said. "He's lying."

  "Shut up!" Tony screamed at Bolan, pointing the weapon at him. "Or I'll save my father the trouble."

  Abba was reaching for the gun. "Now if you will just…"

  "No," Tony said. "I want to try and call my father first."

  "Are you calling me a liar?" Abba asked.

  Tony brightened. "No. I just figured that maybe the phones are working now."

  The two hoods glared at each other, and Bolan realized that a punk was a punk no matter where he came from. Let the two scorpions eat each other alive.

  "We'll call together," Tony said, and held the gun loosely, but pointing in Abba's general direction. The man got the message and moved out the door.

  They argued loudly as they walked away, and because the others in the house were all Abba's people, Bolan couldn't predict the result no matter what happe
ned.

  It was time to make a move.

  "What now?" Johnny said.

  "Now we get out of here," Bolan replied. "I have a plan, but I'll need your help."

  The Executioner worked his chair over to the nearest wall, then with the tips of his toes began to push himself into a rocking motion. On the third backward movement, he fell to the floor.

  "Mack! What are you doing?"

  "You'll see. Move your chair over to the wall with the back against the wall for support. Then I'll roll over so you can jam down on one of the chair legs with your feet."

  Johnny quickly got the idea and followed his brother's instructions. At first he could not exert sufficient force because of the strictures against his legs. Finally, after three tries, they both heard a muted crack, like wood splitting. The sound echoed in the room as if a gun had been fired. Or so it seemed to Bolan. At once his head swiveled toward the door, and he hoped that no one outside the room had heard it too.

  One agonizing heartbeat later, Bolan rolled onto his back and began to move his legs up and down. Soon the chair's leg began to move inward, under the seat. Bolan could feel his bindings loosening. He worked at it some more, wriggling constantly, then turned onto his stomach. He moved his shoulders, then his arms up and down. Finally the rope fell away and he slipped his arms out.

  He was free!

  He stood, shaky for a moment after his constrained position and the effects of the torture he had suffered at the hands of Tony Metrano. But the Executioner was free.

  He untied his brother, then helped him to stand, supporting him under one arm.

  Mack Bolan had built his resolve to incredible proportions to achieve his freedom, and now all that resolve turned to deep and unquenchable anger.

  It was time to kick butt.

  18

  Mack Bolan's shin was hanging in bloody tatters from his pain-racked arms.

  "Come on," he said.

  "I can't help, I'm still…"

  "Let's go," Bolan said, his voice intense. "I'll carry you if I have to."

  Johnny recognized the directness of Bolan's thinking — and perhaps his anger. It was useless to argue or to plan. He shut his mouth and moved near the door, scared to leave, scared not to. It was all up to Mack now.

  Bolan stood glaring at the closed door, breathing deeply, prepared. He took two steps backward, then bracing himself against the pain, threw his two hundred pounds behind the rush, splintering the door off its hinges.

  They found themselves in a hall beside stairs that wound down two flights, turning back on themselves landing after landing. The stairs formed the center of the small building and were wide open.

  An Arab guard stood wide-eyed in the corridor, staring at Bolan as if he were a demon from hell.

  Bolan snatched the M-16 out of the man's hands, then shoved him through the railing that separated the hall from the open stairwell.

  The man fell, screaming, landing with a sickening thud on the ground floor. Mack grabbed Johnny and immediately began helping him down the stairs as excited voices came to them from the rest of the building.

  They made it almost to the next landing before the stairs were swarming with men. Bolan was ready. In fact, he was anxious.

  Bolan opened up with the M-16 at full auto. He took out three of them at chest level, driving the others back.

  The two brothers reached the landing, Bolan blasting the first door he came to. The lock shattered, and the thin wood paneling splintered under the onslaught. Two more dead men lay behind it, sprawled on their backs.

  He pulled Johnny across the bodies to the next flight of stairs, people now firing at them from above, forcing them against the wall. He stitched the stairway overhead; another body dropped past them to fall atop the other a floor below.

  They were halfway home, but the going was getting rougher.

  The terrorists charged through the doors in groups. Bolan had enough ammo left to fire a short burst in front and behind, and then they were on him from two sides.

  Unable to shoot without hitting each other, they went for him barehanded. He backed Johnny against the wall and flattened against him as they came on. He swung the rifle until he broke it, then he went after them, flailing away with fists and kicks at the never ending stream of men who came for him. And even as he fought, he and Johnny inched farther down the stairs, trying to make the second-floor landing.

  Someone got a hand on Bolan's throat. He leaned forward and pulled his assailant over his head; the man somersaulted in midair over the railing, bouncing a few times before plummeting to the first floor.

  Then a gunshot echoed the halls, an Arab falling away from Bolan, others jumping aside. Abba stood farther up the stairs, smiling, smoke curling from his MR 73. He was going to take out the Executioner even if he had to kill all his own men to do it.

  Everyone backed away, and Bolan did the unexpected. He charged.

  He closed the distance between him and Abba in a second, surprise still on the man's face as Bolan grabbed him and threw him to the next landing.

  Then Bolan threw himself down the stairs, hitting several terrorists while still in flight, his momentum making them fall on top of others.

  Ten people hit the landing in a heap, Abba at the bottom of the pile. Johnny eased away from the wall and moved down nearer the landing.

  Bolan wriggled to his knees in the pile, punching with combat-hardened fists at anything that moved. He saw Abba's face oozing blood.

  Then Bolan jumped up, turning to see Tony Metrano one landing above, leveling a riot gun.

  The Executioner grabbed his brother and threw himself through the rail, just as Metrano's shotgun blasted holes through the wall where they had been standing.

  They fell hard, Mack taking the brunt of the impact to protect Johnny in the fall.

  They had landed on two other bodies. Bolan rolled off quickly and regained his footing.

  One man stood between them and the glass door that led to freedom. Bolan broke into a run, leaping into the air a few feet short of his human obstacle. The flying dropkick caught the Arab square in the chest, hurling him against the door, glass exploding with the impact.

  Jagged shards of glass ripped the terrorist open in dozens of places; Bolan hoisted Johnny over his shoulder and plunged headlong into the hot, Israeli afternoon.

  The streets were filled with people, thousands more jamming the beach across the busy thoroughfare, as the citizens of Tel Aviv prepared for the celebration of Shabbat. They stood openmouthed as a wild man, covered with blood, stormed into their midst carrying another man over his shoulder.

  Bolan forced each step, pushing himself far beyond his limits. He had to put distance between them and Abba's people before he could rest, before he could let the exhaustion and the pain overtake him.

  * * *

  Abba crawled out of the pile, yelling at his men. He looked up to see Tony Metrano coming down the stairs toward him.

  "You imbecile!" he screamed. "I told you to kill him."

  Metrano's eyes narrowed. "Watch it," he said. "I'm the one holding the gun."

  Abba spit blood, his eyes wild, his face bruised and oozing red. He jumped to his feet and ran down the stairs, Metrano close on his heels.

  As he ran through the cafe, he grabbed the M-16 dropped by the man sprawled just outside the door. He primed it, running out into civilization.

  "Bolan!" he shouted. "Bolan!"

  "No, Abba…" Metrano said, trying to get to him.

  But it was too late. Abba opened up on the crowds, firing indiscriminately. Screaming and crying punctuated the staccato cry of the death machine in his hands. And as innocents piled up under the bite of the M-16, he added another sound to the mix — his own hysterical laughter.

  "You're mad!" Metrano shouted at him.

  "Yes!" Abba returned, and the gun, mercifully, went dry in his hands.

  "We've got to get out of here!"

  Abba ejected the magazine and ran back to the bro
ken door. "My friends!" he called into the building. "Take to the streets! We meet in Jerusalem!"

  He turned back to the death scene, smiling at the dead and wounded who lay like scattered leaves all over the street, the rest of the crowd still running.

  "What about Bolan?" Metrano asked.

  "Mr. Bolan will also meet us in Jerusalem," Abba said, slinging the carbine over his shoulder. "We shall settle all accounts then."

  19

  Mack Bolan, bruised and exhausted, hobbled the two blocks to where he had left the Fiat. Johnny was still slung over his shoulder; the burden made movement difficult, and the shoving, panicked crowds nearly knocked them over several limes. But he made it, just as he had made it many times in the past, and he set Johnny down by the passenger door of the small vehicle.

  Johnny sagged against the car, semiconscious since their fall down the stairwell.

  Bolan hurried open the door. "You all right?" he asked, helping his brother into the car.

  Johnny nodded. His eyes were glazed, but clearing. "Did you see…" he began, but Bolan cut him off by closing the door.

  The warrior moved around to the driver's side. "I saw," he said through clenched teeth. "I saw."

  Hundreds of people were still rushing past them, fleeing the pointless carnage at the hotel. Bolan, his key gone, hot-wired the ignition and slid through the crowds and onto Herbert Samuel, the sound of sirens already loud in his ears.

  Several Israeli army vehicles rumbled past them heading toward the hotel, two-and-a-half-ton carriers filled with armed troops. He shook his head. They were probably looking for him.

  His body was drained, his mind running in overdrive, on pure duty. He knew where Abba and his cannibals would be tonight, and he knew what they'd be doing. And he promised himself that their time was coming, bet on it.

  Johnny half lay on the seat, an ugly black burn on his cheek from Tony's cigarette. He faced Mack, his eyes distant. "It was awful," he said in a low voice. "Old men, young girls in bathing suits — gone, just blown away for nothing. I saw a mother and two children…"