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  “Worst thing,” he mumbled.

  “Optimist,” Dostoyevsky replied before leading him to where the others had gathered, a few yards to one side of where the chopper hovered.

  With his cargo now down in one piece, Grimaldi lifted Dragonslayer to a safer height and spun the chopper around. He would head back along his route to the relative safety of a clearing in Georgia, where he would await word from Bolan.

  The solider watched him go, then took in the party who stood waiting for orders. Basayev was sighting by compass. “Town is that way,” he said, gesturing. “How far?”

  “Five klicks, if Jack is as accurate as always. Let’s move out.”

  They set off in file, with Bolan at point. As they trekked over the rocky land, alert for any movement or sign of patrols from the town or from the waiting military, Bolan went over things in his mind. By the time they had covered the distance, it would be the middle of the night, which made it the right time to scout and locate their target. Depending on how much manpower the enemy had in the town, it may even be possible to secure the area and prepare the target for evacuation.

  But that remained to be seen. First, they had to reach Argun-Martan without raising an alarm from either the Russians or the rebels.

  Chapter Twelve

  The tank regiment was roused from their barracks by the commanding bark of General Azhkov. He had grown more and more morose as he and Tankian had sunk their reserves of vodka. He berated his junior for being Armenian rather than Russian, reasoning that he could never understand the Russian mind. What that had to do with their situation, Tankian could not fathom, and he did not hesitate to inform his superior of that. In return, Azhkov patiently explained that the Russian mind alone could explain the manner in which the Russian president had decided to scapegoat a man who had always stood by him. The Russian mind alone would understand what he was now about to do....

  The general went to each barrack room in turn, screaming at his men to get themselves out on the parade ground, and now, unless they wanted to be court-martialed and shot. Hell, not even court-martialed; he would shoot them himself.

  Tankian followed at a distance, drunk from trying to keep up with the general’s prodigious appetite for vodka and slow to react. He watched in amazement as the general lined up his men, berated them for being idiots, slow and lazy, and then informed them that they would be moving out immediately, rather than in the morning.

  “The president thinks we move at dawn. Those scum in the town think we move at dawn. We move now, we take them all by surprise.”

  Despite the way they had been berated, and the fact that they were being directed to move in a manner contrary to their briefing, there was no real reaction from the men. Partly because some of them, figuring they’d had a good night’s sleep ahead of them, were as smashed as the general. Mostly it was because, despite his brusque manner and unfathomable rages, the general was as much like his men as any commander could be. He understood them, and in turn they understood him. They were smart enough to work out that they were being deployed in a stupid manner, and were behind the only man brave enough to give the president the finger and do things his own way.

  Within minutes they were mounting their tanks. Azhkov took his position in the lead vehicle, steady despite the raving voice that betrayed his intoxication. He even deigned to assist Tankian, who was having problems ascending.

  “General, it’ll be dark when we reach Argun-Martan. What can we do at this time of night?”

  Azhkov grinned. It seemed incongruous on his slab-of-meat face. “We can liven things up a bit,” he said before giving the order to depart, his own vehicle leading the way onto the road.

  * * *

  AFTER DINING IN his suite at the hotel, Aleksandr Orlov decided that it would be a good time to pay a visit to the Americans. Since he’d last spoken to them, he had left them billeted in the theater with a light guard. He reasoned that they were alone, far from home and so scared that they would crap their pants rather than try to escape. He had so far been proved correct. Therefore, he was confident that his next assumption—that the discomfort they would be feeling physically and mentally would make them malleable—would also be proved correct.

  Before he left his suite, he looked down on the street below. It resembled the Chechnya he remembered from childhood, rather than the peace of the past few years. The look of a town under siege, armed for defense, was comforting to him. Lurking at the edge of his consciousness, he was aware that that was not the way a born leader should think. He dismissed it from his mind. The scars of childhood could not be erased, but they could be cosmetically eased, and power would do that.

  Turning away from his doubt as he turned away from the street below, he hurried to the room down the hall where he knew Viktor Adamenko would be resting—or as close to rest as his old friend could manage—and banged on the door.

  “Viktor, time to pay a call on our Western friends,” he yelled, hoping to make himself heard over the sound of the TV from within. A noncommittal grunt from within was the only response. Cursing quietly, Orlov opened the door.

  Inside the room, Adamenko was stretched out on his bed, an empty plate by his side and a bottle of vodka in his hand. He took a long pull and indicated the TV screwed onto the wall, which blared in English.

  “See? We are news, but the sly bastard only has it on the English-language channel, not the Arabic one. He does not like Muslims, I tell you.”

  Orlov watched the coverage. Russia Today had an English and Arabic service, to cater for the two religions and languages of business that served each end of the old Soviet Bloc. The giant was watching the English channel, where an expensively dressed woman who looked like nothing so much as a Moscow hooker was berating the rebels while extolling the calm of the president in trying to negotiate with them, despite their noncooperation.

  “You think the Americans actually believe that? Tell me, have we heard from him? No, of course not. Lying bastard.”

  “Viktor, enough for now. You know that will be shit. He will posture and do nothing. What we have is far too valuable for him to risk. That is why we must go and talk to our guests.”

  “We?” the giant asked with interest, lifting himself off the bed and killing the TV with the remote. The sudden silence was welcoming.

  “I want you with me. Don’t bother speaking to them unless I ask you to. I think your presence may be enough. Besides, if they need more persuasion, we don’t need words.”

  Adamenko laughed, a low, vicious growl in his throat.

  * * ** * *

  ACQUERO HAD BEEN doing her best to keep her team together since they had been in the theater, but they had been given only basic rations and no facilities other than a screened area by the side of the stage with a bucket that was emptied a couple of times a day. There were facilities in the theater, but they lay beyond the guarded doors and off the lobby. To place the guard farther back and also secure the facilities would have been no problem. It was obviously psychological warfare, designed to wear them down.

  Only God knew why, she thought as she fingered her rosary. They had been demoralized enough the moment one of them was murdered in front of the others. She had never seen anything like it, and the memory of it made her want to vomit. In the same way, she reasoned that they had been left alone to dwell on the murder as a way of softening them up. The uncomfortable conditions, the lack of information, being cut off from the world outside—it was primitive, and realizing how obvious and basic it was should negate its effect. It didn’t feel that way; it was working, and too well.

  Looking around, she could see that she was not the only one affected. The engineers looked like men constrained, coiled springs that could barely contain their frustration. Leslie and Avallone kept eyeing Leonard with a kind of contempt, wondering when the Company man would show some kind of fight
. She could understand their frustration, but knew that he had no option other than to bide his time.

  As far as she was concerned, he had already saved Freeman’s life by calming him when it looked as though he would boil over. Since then, the younger man had occupied himself by trying to rally Slaughter, who was becoming withdrawn. It wasn’t really working, but at least it kept the pair of them occupied. It was Simmons who worried her the most. He was withdrawn almost to the point of catatonia. He and Callaghan had not just worked together, they had also mostly socialized as a pair. Without his friend, and having seen him murdered, he was on the verge of a breakdown.

  And that was really bad. More than any of the people in the room, he was the one who truly understood the overall meaning of the test results. She knew that Orlov would be coming to see them at some point, and demand that they give him exact details. That, she realized, was a major part of his bargaining plan. If Simmons was unable to give the rebel leader what he wanted, then she was filled with dread for what might happen, regardless of any efforts their government might be making.

  * * *

  “DOWN THERE, RIPE and ready for the taking,” Bulgarin said as he hunkered down beside Bolan on top of the ridge. The team had made good time and it was still before midnight. The town was in lockdown, but there was no curfew evident. Bolan’s Zeiss binoculars were powerful enough for him to get a good impression of the layout of the town from this distance, and to see that pedestrian and vehicular traffic was plentiful.

  “Are you talking about us?” Bolan asked the Russian mercenary.

  Bulgarin shook his head. “You know what I mean. Come morning, and...boom,” he said dryly.

  “That’s exactly why we need to get in and out while it’s still dark.” Bolan stood, moving back from the lip of the ridge as he did so. Behind him, the remaining men were squatting or sitting, conserving energy after the forced march they had just undergone.

  The path from their landing to the ridge overlooking Argun-Martan had forced them to cover a greater distance than if they had been able to travel a direct route. In between the two points lay one of the farms that dotted the region. To circumvent it they had been forced to ascend a steep hill and circle around. The weather had grown cold and windy as darkness had fallen, and the rocks had been treacherous underfoot where they’d been forced to rely on moonlight rather than risk a flashlight giving them away.

  It had been slow progress, but Bolan counted them lucky that their arrival seemed to have slipped as far under the radar as Grimaldi’s flight, and that during the march no one had suffered an injury that would have slowed or incapacitated him. Now, gathered on the ridge overlooking the town, Bolan was able to report his initial recce to the rest of them.

  As he finished, he looked at the skyline. The mountain dipped from behind them toward the town, and a raging river dug a tunnel between their location and the rising rocks on the far shore. This formed a channel that would make it easy for a squadron of fighters to swoop down and pick off not just anything that was on the road, but anything that was on the hillside.

  If they were to extract the survey party and get them to the landing zone, they would have to move them quickly over the terrain or they would be easy pickings for any fighters.

  “We wait until midnight. We move before if the town gets quiet enough. I want someone watching—”

  “I’ll do it,” Bulgarin said. “I will be vigilant. Believe me, I have no desire to hang around these hills when day breaks.”

  Bolan nodded and handed him the pair of binoculars. While the Russian took up position and scanned the town, the soldier gathered his men and outlined the plan of attack, using the schematics of the town on his tablet. They were to divide into three pairs and recce the possible locations where the survey party could be located.

  “We know they were in the hotel. It’s possible that they could still be there. There’s a jail in the town police station, and there’s a theater and a hotel. These are the only three locations where they could easily secure a party of that size. Each pair will check one of these locations and report on your walkie-talkies. We know the rebels can control the input and output of cell signals, so we stick to these, got it?” he said, producing his handset. “Check these now.”

  Krilov frowned. “Never mind that, Cooper. What the hell is making that noise?”

  Bolan stooped and moved toward where Bulgarin was scanning the road into town.

  “I hear you,” the Russian said calmly. “It’s a good thing these glasses have night vision, Cooper, but I’m wishing right now that they didn’t. Come and see.” He held out the binoculars for Bolan, who took them from him and followed the direction of his index finger.

  What is he playing at? Bolan whispered to himself.

  * * *

  DUSK HAD TURNED into dark by the time that the tank regiment had traveled from its barracks to within two kilometers of Argun-Martan. Azhkov gave them the order to slow to a halt, their engines ticking over. He stood in the turret of his tank.

  “When I first drove one of these,” he began, patting the iron of the tank, “there was none of the help you have in them now. No computers and only the very basics of communication. I want you to think about those days. We lived or died on our wits. This is what we are going to do now. Three of us will approach by road. The rest of you will fan out and take any way around the terrain that you can to scatter their fire and to get a better angle when you fire. There will be no bombardment. I want to give them a chance to surrender, to see what they will get if they don’t. I don’t give a damn about what they tell the president, and neither should you. All you should care about is that we are not the stooges in their game. We are soldiers. We are fighters. And we are not fools. Now let’s roll.”

  Retiring inside his tank, where Tankian sat still dazed and bemused by the turn of events, Azhkov settled down with a grunt beside his deputy.

  “Let’s show these bastards what they will get if they don’t see sense.”

  * * *

  ORLOV AND ADAMENKO had reached the front of the theater when word came through from a lookout. Orlov’s cell phone rang, and Adamenko watched his friend’s face darken as the call progressed.

  “What is it?” he asked as Orlov terminated the call.

  The rebel leader frowned. “Maybe nothing. Tanks. I think it is a show of strength to frighten us. You go ahead. Tell the Americans I will be with them and I demand answers. I will attend to this.”

  Adamenko nodded and entered the building, leaving Orlov to make calls to each of his outlying sentry posts.

  The only sign of movement was from the road ahead, and after dispatching volunteers with antitank weapons into the field, Orlov followed the giant, feeling a little more assured.

  Yet at the back of his mind, it nagged him. A tank attack by night would be incredibly stupid. Sighting would be difficult from distance, even with infra-red, and if the objective was to drive them back and not kill them, it was too great a risk. As long as they still held the Americans, any action was too great a risk. Why even make a show like this? Was it a diversion of some kind?

  He dismissed the thoughts as he entered the auditorium and saw the Americans huddling together, as if for comfort, in the middle of the floor, having made a tightly enclosed encampment for themselves. They were almost cringing at the sight of Adamenko as he loomed over them.

  “I think you know why I am here,” Orlov began without preamble. “I have given you time to prepare, and now I need the full details of your findings and an explanation that will make it plain and simple for the cretin I have to deal with. Your futures depend on this.”

  Acquero stepped forward, standing in such a way that she appeared to shield her team. Again, Leonard was impressed and hoped that should they be able to make a break, she would be a strong ally. While this went through his head, what she said
added to his admiration.

  “Listen and listen good. I know what you want, but the truth is that the only man who can give you the kind of explanation you need is in no fit state to do that right now, and that’s because your goon here killed his friend and colleague in front of him. Now, you’re a fool if you think we don’t want to get out of here, but a bigger fool if you think these conditions can get you what you want. I want a doctor for my man, and I want better conditions. You can only get what you want if you give us that.”

  Orlov smiled. It was brave speech, if foolhardy. But, looking at the man she indicated, perhaps she had a point. Perhaps he should move them back to the hotel. Precious jewels weren’t to be kept in a toilet, and if they were his precious jewels in negotiation, then this place was certainly a toilet.

  He was about to speak when the first shell hit home. The screeching sound of ruptured air was punctuated by a deafening explosion, with an impact that made the floor shake beneath them.

  Orlov gaped. The madman was attacking? Why? It could not be; he had not planned for that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the first shell from the tank regiment was fired into the night, Bolan was already moving his men. The strategies he had formed for infiltrating the town had to be changed. With this sudden and unexpected attack, there was no chance of the kind of nighttime quiet he had hoped to use to his advantage.

  However, the confusion and activity that this attack would now cause could give him a whole new cover. His men had been dressed in blacksuits, both for the ease with which they could move and carry ordnance, and also to blend into the darkness around the town.

  In their packs they also carried some clothing that could be used to blend into their surroundings as civilians. In this region, any rebels or fighters usually wore traditional male Muslim dress. The majority of the population was Muslim, and the break from Russia and the old Soviet-era grip was fueled by a return to religion. This suited the mercenaries fine, as this mode of dress was light to carry and allowed them to disguise bulky weaponry if necessary.