Throw Down Read online

  As Bolan fiddled aimlessly under the hood, the next car miraculously pulled over onto the shoulder. Loaded with a family of what appeared to be a father and mother in the front seat, and three curious children in the back, they offered their help. They were obviously not the former CIA snitch with whom Kurtzman had communicated, and both Ahmad and O’Melton—who spoke Farsi—convinced the family of would-be rescuers that help was already on the way.

  The second group to stop was not so altruistic.

  The two men in the front seat of the aged Plymouth, and the duo in the back, were dressed in flowing white robes and more colorful outer garments. All four stepped out of the car as soon as they’d parked directly in front of the Dodge.

  Bolan didn’t speak Farsi. But he didn’t need to. Even before the men had uttered a word, he sensed that they were Persian bandits who thought they’d fallen upon a trio of helpless foreigners, whose vehicle undoubtedly contained items of value just waiting to be plundered.

  “Salaam,” Ahmad and O’Melton both said. But Bolan could tell by the tone of their voices that they had sensed the danger, too.

  The four road bandits didn’t answer as they walked slowly and ominously back toward the Dodge. Bolan thought briefly of the Beretta and Desert Eagle concealed in his jacket, just below his feet. If the men from the Plymouth were armed—and they most likely would be—he’d be dead a hundred times over before he had time to unwrap his own weapons.

  As if his thoughts were a self-predicting prophesy, the bandit in the lead suddenly drew a wickedly curved Arabian jambiya blade from beneath his robe. Two of the other men did the same—one coming up with a Persian Pesh-kabz and the other a flamboyant shamshir sword boasting a gold-inlaid steel hilt, whose long, curved kris-style blade he had somehow managed to hide inside his clothing.

  The fourth man was far more modern. A Heckler & Koch 45/USP semiautomatic pistol suddenly appeared in his hand.

  The Executioner didn’t hesitate. None of these men were Ali Mohammed.

  And none planned to leave him, Father O’Melton or Ahmad alive after they’d plundered their vehicle.

  In one swift motion, Bolan drew the North American Arms .22 Magnum Pug and thumbed back the single-action hammer. The man with the H&K was the last in line as the bandits came toward him. But the pistol meant he represented the greatest threat.

  So the first .22 Magnum hollowpoint from the Pug went squarely between his eyes, just above his nose.

  The gunman dropped his pistol to the ground. His body followed a second later.

  The robed man with the Pesh-kabz was just in front of the pistolero, and he turned, scrambling for the fallen gun. While he was busy doing that, Bolan swung his minigun toward the man in the lead—the bandit with the shamshir. As the soldier cocked the little .22 Magnum once more, the swordsman sent a deadly slash toward the side of his neck, hoping to sever his head from his body.

  And had he been a tenth of a second faster, he would have accomplished just that.

  But Bolan’s battle instincts were in high gear, and he sensed the blow coming before it had even started. Ducking low beneath the blade, he felt it pass over his head—actually cutting off a small portion of the hair on the back of his head as it passed by. Knowing that a return slash would follow, Bolan wasted no time, aiming the minigun up from his crouched position and sending his second .22 Magnum slug into the right eye socket of the shamshir-wielding bandit.

  The man who had the Pesh-kabz retrieved the Heckler & Koch from his fallen comrade and snapped off a wild shot in Bolan’s direction. It missed him by a good five feet. But as he raised the minigun once more, he saw the bandit grasp the German-made pistol with both hands and take better aim.

  Bolan’s third round from the five-shot minigun struck the side of the bandit’s face, tearing through his cheek and shattering the jawbone before exiting out of the back of the neck. It caused him to drop the H&K slightly, but did no permanent damage. Bolan’s fourth .22 round, however, angled up into the bandit’s open mouth and into the brain, causing an immediate shutdown of both small and large motor skills.

  The handgun fell to the ground for the second time. And yet another body followed it.

  The bandit who had drawn the jambiya was almost on Bolan, the thick blade of the edged weapon pointed straight at the big American’s heart and about to thrust. Bolan’s final shot hit the man in the chest, causing him to flinch.

  But he continued forward.

  Bolan knew the small caliber bullet would be bouncing around inside his attacker’s chest cavity. It had been a death shot.

  But he also knew one other vital bit of information. Although .22s were often deadly—and .22 Magnums even more so—they rarely killed quick enough to immediately shut down a determined attack.

  The man Bolan had just shot would die. But he had a lot of time left to use the jambiya before that death overtook him.

  Out of ammunition and with no time to reload or go for the guns wrapped in his jacket, Bolan dropped the minigun and jerked out the Spyderco Navaja. With a flip of his wrist, the 3.75" blade appeared in his hand.

  The jambiya began thrusting toward him with the last of the bandit’s breath and strength. Bolan stepped slightly to the side, out of the center line, and tapped the hand holding the blade away from him.

  The Spyderco went straight into the bandit’s throat, and when he felt it stop at the hilt, Bolan slashed in the direction of the edge. A fire hose spray of crimson shot forth from the robed man’s neck as Bolan pushed him even farther to the side to avoid the blood.

  It had taken only a matter of seconds. All four of the Iranian road bandits lay dead on the ground.

  Bolan turned back toward Ahmad and O’Melton. Both had drawn weapons, but neither had had time to join in the battle.

  “I was a Ranger a long time,” O’Melton said in awe. “But I’ve never seen anything quite like that in my life.”

  Ahmad’s mouth hung open, conveying basically the same message.

  “Help me get these Cretins out of sight and back into their car,” Bolan said without further ado.

  One by one, they dragged the dead bodies back to the Plymouth and piled them into the front and back seats.

  A moment later, a Toyota Highlander pulled to the side of the road.

  Only one man was inside the vehicle, and this time, it was the right one.

  Ali Mohammed.

  8

  Situated on a plateau in the northeast of Iran, the Elburz Mountains create a scenic view from Tehran, with the cone-shaped Mount Damavand rising higher than the other peaks. The panorama hadn’t changed in thousands of years.

  But the view was practically the only thing that didn’t change in Iran.

  In the days of the Shah, Iran had become a westernized country somewhat similar to Israel. As a friend of the U.S., it had enjoyed a booming economy and progressive attitude. Iranian military personnel, especially pilots, had been trained in the United States, and even undertaken joint practice operations with American forces. But the Shah had overstepped his power, using his infamous secret police—the Savak—to become a deadly dictator. And eventually, as always happens sooner or later in such cases, the people of Iran had revolted.

  In what seemed like the twinkling of an eye, the Shah had been forced to flee to the U.S., and an exiled Muslim clergyman, the Ayatollah Khomeini, had taken the seat of power. Khomeini had then turned the country into an even more repressive, backward, Islamic theocracy.

  But many years after the Ayatollah’s death, another movement was simmering within Iran. Students in particular were tired of the archaic philosophies forced upon them. And while they had not yet gained the power it would take to return Iran to a democracy, the country was once again split in its attitude toward a government based upon sharia law.

  The mountains were
clearly visible as Ali Mohammed guided the Toyota Highlander the last few miles through the outskirts of Tehran. He and the three men with him had ridden in near silence since disposing of the bodies of the road bandits and entering the vehicle. But Bolan knew it was time to talk. To find out just exactly how this new informant was capable of helping them.

  Not to mention beginning to form an opinion as to whether or not the Iranian could be trusted.

  Bolan rode in the shotgun seat of the Highlander, with Ahmad directly behind him and Father O’Melton behind the driver. They had retrieved the backpacks that had fallen with them from the sky, and stored them in the rear of the vehicle, and Bolan had returned his primary weapons to their hiding places beneath his jacket.

  As the only sounds within the car were those that managed to penetrate the rolled up windows, Bolan turned to Mohammed. “Tell me why you ended your relationship with the CIA,” he said.

  The man wore a white turban with a gold crescent moon holding it together in the center of his forehead, but was otherwise clad in an off-white business suit and maroon necktie. He continued to stare at the road ahead as he answered, “I was double-crossed.” Venom seemed to drip out with the words. “And it nearly cost me my life.”

  Bolan sat quietly for a moment, thinking. He had worked with the CIA many times in the past, and it was certainly not beyond them to expose their informants if they believed it would serve a higher good. But the relationships and work done by both “Company” handlers and their indigenous agents on the ground were extremely complex, and misunderstandings were frequent. So, as much to simply satisfy his own curiosity as to build on the shaky trust that currently existed between Mohammed and his team, Bolan said, “Someone burned you?”

  “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth as he drove on.

  “Who?” Bolan asked. “Your handler?”

  “It is impossible to be sure,” Mohammed said. Manipulating the steering wheel with his left hand, he punched in the cigarette lighter on the dash with his right, then fished through his suit jacket, coming up with a crumpled package of Turkish cigarettes. By the time he had stuck one in his mouth, the lighter had popped back out, ready.

  As the man in the driver’s seat of the Highlander lit his cigarette, Bolan said, “You realize we aren’t connected in any way to the CIA, don’t you?”

  Mohammed took in a deep lungful of the strong smoke, then spoke as it drifted back out of his mouth. “I know that is what you say. And I know that is what I have been told.” He paused and the smoke stream finally ended. “Whether I believe it or not remains to be seen.”

  “Funny,” Bolan said in a deadpan voice. “That’s exactly the way I feel about you.” He turned slightly in his seat to face Mohammed. “Whether you’re actually trying to help us or are leading us into a trap...at this point, I don’t know. So I guess we both need to trust each other as much as we can until we’ve proved our intentions beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “That is the way I see it,” Mohammed said.

  “Tell me something,” O’Melton said, leaning forward in the backseat. “Exactly when did your relationship with the CIA get exposed?”

  Mohammed glanced over his shoulder at the priest, then returned his eyes to the road. They were entering the city proper, and the traffic was becoming thicker. “A few months ago,” he finally said. “I do not remember the exact date.”

  O’Melton glanced at Bolan, then turned his attention back to Mohammed. “That was about the time all the Wikileak stuff started coming out,” he said. “You remember—that guy who hacked into U.S. government secret files, then posted it all on Wikipedia?” He continued to lean forward, his head almost over the seat. “It’s quite possible that that’s how you got burned—that the CIA had nothing to do with your exposure.”

  “I have considered that possibility,” the man said, and Bolan thought he noticed a slight change of tone in his voice. It was as if the Iranian CIA informant wanted to believe his exposure had been a mistake rather than an intentional sacrifice by the “Spooks,” but could never be sure.

  In any case, it left room for doubt. And that doubt provided about as much trust as he, O’Melton and Ahmad were likely to get. At least until opportunities to prove their common interests presented themselves.

  Bolan took a deep breath and the acrid smoke of the Turkish tobacco filled his sinuses.

  “Well, tell me, then,” he said, as the Highlander was forced to slow even more in the thick traffic of central Tehran. “If you don’t trust us, how come you’re doing this in the first place?”

  Mohammed laughed out loud. “For the oldest reason in the world,” he said simply. “The money. A million dollars will allow me to leave this Allah-forsaken country and its seventh-century attitude and government, and live the rest of my days somewhere in peace.”

  Bolan decided to play devil’s advocate. “The money won’t do you much good if you’re dead,” he said. “If you don’t think you can trust the CIA anymore, what makes you think you can trust any Americans?”

  The man in the driver’s seat slammed on the brakes as another vehicle cut in front of him. He leaned on the horn, then extended his right arm into the air, his fist pointed toward the ceiling of the Highlander, and slapped his biceps with his other hand. It was the equivalent of giving someone “the finger.”

  “I am not sure I can trust any Americans,” he said as traffic came to a stop. Outside the car, Bolan could hear the racing of engines and an occasional string of Farsi that sounded very much like curses. “But a million dollars will make a man take chances he would otherwise pass by.”

  Bolan nodded. It made sense. “So,” he said, as they waited in the stalled mass of cars, trucks, bicycles and other vehicles. “Once you were burned, how come the Iranian government—or the al Qaeda cells they sponsor—didn’t kill you?”

  Mohammed was dragging so deeply on his cigarette that is was already halfway down to the butt. “Do not ask me how,” he said. “But I talked my way out of it. They believed me.”

  Bolan sat silent again for a moment. That didn’t seem very likely. Simply denying such allegations wouldn’t make hard-core terrorists accept him again after being told he was a CIA snitch.

  “I don’t think words alone would do the trick,” he said. “They would have wanted proof that you were on their side. And such proof would have demanded action.”

  For a brief moment, Mohammed’s dark brown skin turned a grayish hue. He swallowed hard, his throat looking like a python devouring a chicken. Finally, he said, “I performed some actions, as you say. Actions which proved I sided with Islam instead of America and Israel. I had no choice. If I had refused, I would have been killed.”

  Once again, Bolan sat silently, thinking. In the backseat, he could hear the breathing of O’Melton and Ahmad. The traffic sounds outside the Highlander continued to penetrate the windows and doors, but seemed distant, and somehow added to the loneliness inside the vehicle.

  Bolan knew that these “actions” Mohammed spoke of meant strikes against the United States, Israel, or more likely, both nations. He was sitting in the Highlander next to a man who had committed terrorist acts against Bolan’s own country. Of course they had been undertaken in order to save Mohammed’s life. But they doubtlessly had taken the lives of innocent American military personnel or citizens—or both.

  Could Bolan, in good conscience, work with such a man?

  He stared at Mohammed’s face, noting the thick hairy eyebrows and long brown-and-gray beard. He reminded himself that you didn’t get informants off Sunday school class rolls. In order to know what was going on inside a criminal or terrorist organization, a man had to have been part of that organization. A good snitch—any good snitch—had undoubtedly committed acts for which he should be imprisoned or executed.

  That was what made such a man effective.

 
The bottom line, once Bolan had thought things through, was simple. He could not change the past; there was no way to go back and undo the despicable acts for which Mohammed was undoubtedly responsible. But Bolan did have a certain amount of control over the present and future of his informant and the two men working with him. So he would take things from there. And while he reminded himself that he still needed to keep an eye on both Mohammed and Ahmad, he would use them as much as he could to complete this portion of the mission at hand.

  In any case, it was time to change the subject. “What can you tell us about the weapons of mass destruction Iraq palmed off into Iran before the U.S. invaded Baghdad?”

  The confused mass of vehicles forming the traffic jam they were in began to move slowly forward as Mohammed said, “They are biological weapons. Not chemical like the dictator used on his own Kurdish people, and the Iranians during their war.”

  “Do you know what kind of bioweapons we’re talking about?” Bolan asked.

  “As best I know, they are smallpox and anthrax cultures,” Mohammed said.

  “Do you know where they’re being stored?” Bolan said.

  “No,” Mohammed replied. “I don’t even know if they are in the hands of the Iranian government or al Qaeda.”

  “But you can find out...?” Bolan prompted.

  “I believe so. Given enough time to make it appear I am not directly searching for their location.”

  “Time is something we don’t have,” Bolan said. “We need to find these things, and we need to find them fast. Before they can be unleashed.” He paused and drew in a breath. “Compared to the chemical weapons we got in Syria, the biocultures are small and easy to smuggle just about any place in the world. Meaning America, England, Israel or any other free nation.” He paused once more, then stated, “You’re not a rookie at things like this, Ali. Where does your gut tell you they are?”