Suicide Highway Read online

  Geren rushed at him.

  “Make it look good,” she said as she took a swing at him, her fist bouncing off his freshly redressed biceps.

  Bolan winced at the sloppy punch and returned one of his own, regret filling him for the fact that he had to lay out four soldiers on the same side. Geren went down with the punch, but he wasn’t aiming to hurt her.

  “Sorry,” he repeated, again as genuinely apologetic as he was to Blake for disrupting his operations. He scooped up his war bag and grabbed a smoke grenade from its depths.

  The Executioner pulled the pin and rolled it out the door, watching the thick, choking mist spit out the top of the canister, the heavy smoke spreading quickly along the line of its path. Once it obscured enough of the area between the door and the car, he plunged into the cloud, heading directly for the Land Rover, remembering exactly where it was parked in relation to the door. Bolan’s mental map was correct. He arrived at the big vehicle’s door, threw his gear inside and got behind the wheel. The windshield puckered as a bullet went through it, and the Executioner dropped his head, tromping on the gas as he spun the Rover in reverse.

  More gunfire chased him, but the Green Berets outside weren’t aiming to kill, only to force Bolan to surrender. By the time they realized that they needed to cripple some of his ride’s major systems, the Executioner was already spinning toward the road, kicking up dirt to further obfuscate the vehicle’s escape. Slugs whined off the ground and the skin of the Land Rover, finding little chance to punch through to a tire or the engine.

  He sped away, looking in the rearview mirror as one Green Beret shuffled out of the smoke cloud, waving dust and chemical smoke from in front of his face. He started to bring up his M-4, and if it had been his intention to kill Bolan, then the ride would have ended right there. Instead, he lowered the muzzle of the rifle in frustration, watching the Executioner do what he did best.

  Escape from those who meant to curtail his War Everlasting, and return to the business of hunting down the enemy.

  10

  Laith Khan’s voice was cheerful over the telephone after Bolan told him about the brief scuffle with the Green Berets.

  “Sounds like it was fun,” Laith said.

  “I thought you liked Americans,” Bolan said.

  Laith chuckled. “I don’t like sticks in the mud.”

  Bolan sighed. “I don’t think there’s enough mud in this part of the country for Blake to get stuck in.”

  “Figure of speech, big guy,” Laith replied.

  “Just try to remember, he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t care,” Bolan answered. “He’s trying to do a job, and his hands, unlike ours, are tied.”

  “Sorry,” Laith apologized. “You’re right.”

  Bolan scanned for enemies on the roads or on rooftops. “You’re forgiven. Any word on the gold Peugeot?”

  “Aleser had a couple of runners come into town to look for it, and they’ve been reporting in,” Laith answered. “You’re not going to go meet with Haytham and his boys by yourself, are you?”

  “Don’t worry, Laith. You’ll get as much action as you can handle if my reckoning is right,” Bolan explained. “Besides, Dr. Bronson needs someone to watch over her. You’re it. I’ll go through some of the alternate hideouts for the Taliban holdouts you gave me,” Bolan told him. “Something might shake loose if I rattle hard enough.”

  “And if not?” Laith asked.

  Bolan measured his response for a moment. “Consider it incidental pest control.”

  THE TOP LEVEL of the old Soviet military base had been burned, blasted and looted dozens of times over in the years since the Russians’ withdrawal from Afghanistan. The lawless aftermath of the occupation had left those facilities vulnerable to savage assaults. Whatever still stood was so thoroughly defaced by an angry, liberated people that the Executioner barely recognized the facility at first.

  Only one building still stood after the hammering of RPG shells and grenades and whatever explosives looters could find to try to pierce the walls. The squat little bunker entrance was pockmarked with the remaining rage of an impotent horde trying to crack open the reinforced concrete and steel frame of the building. Bolan had always admired the old USSR’s ability to make cheap and easy items that also could stand up to untold amounts of horrific abuse.

  Nothing short of a nuke going off right on top of the bunker would have made a dent. Instead, the Executioner looked for an alternative entrance. The Soviets would not have allowed themselves to be trapped in an underground cavern without at least a secondary exit, one that was well concealed, but still easily accessible to someone who knew his way around such a facility. Bolan had seen his share of such dens of secret warfare across the course of his career. He also knew that without much variation, the architecture of such underground tunnels was a set pattern. Perched on a hill overlooking the burnt-out old Soviet war base, he mentally tracked a spiral out from the central blockhouse, sweeping the ground for the back door.

  He spotted a pile of stones that was just a tad too regular to be the natural result of the landscape. It was outside the perimeter of the old base, and had one broad, flat stone large enough to cover a hole a man with a full pack could slip through. Bolan stuffed his binoculars away and shrugged into his battle gear. He tested his arm, the dressing and stitches holding this time. He wouldn’t have help dealing with the injury should someone open it up again, not with the immediacy that he’d had at the hospital or with Tera and her first-aid kit.

  Crossing the distance to the entrance, he took a quick mental inventory of his situation, not so much in guns and gear, but in what he really had going for him. The Desert Eagle and the Uzi pistol were known quantities, and he had enough ammunition to get him through all but the fiercest of firefights. What Bolan really wondered was whether this side trip was a wild-goose chase or stalking a solid intelligence source. He knew that behind him, bridges burned all along the way, he’d left what little intel the Green Berets had, even though Sergeant Wesley had given him as much as he’d known.

  It was a godsend to have Wesley on hand. Bolan was glad the young staff sergeant had been easily convinced to head back to report to Blake on his own before the captain came to chase him down. Not having the young man on the scene had made it easier for Bolan to successfully fight his way out.

  It was over now. Bolan was a hunted man, with all hands against him. He wasn’t a part of the system and pretending that he was brought him in too close to others, threatening their lives all too often. When it came time to stalk, he preferred to fight alone, no matter how much easier it was to have someone at his back.

  Bolan’s musings ended as he knelt next to the concealed entrance of the underground bunker. Sure enough, a sheet of almost flat rock was attached to a hinged steel plate. His fingers found the latch. It would have to be a simple mechanism, though sturdy. He down to get a better look at it, illuminating it with his filtered flash. It wasn’t locked, but it was secure. It took some effort to get the lever to operate for him, and he skinned his knuckles, but he ignored that and continued on. A few abrasions were nothing compared to the aches and pains he’d been put through over the past couple of days.

  He found a darkened tunnel leading down into murky depths. His L-necked flashlight sprayed a pool of red light into the blackness, but there was nothing to see except the rungs of a ladder. Bolan swung his legs over the edge and crawled down onto it, pausing only to examine, then close the hatch behind him. No wires were attached to the hinges, and no alarms sounded below. If there was an electric eye, then his presence would have tripped alerts throughout the complex.

  If it was even occupied.

  Bolan finally reached the floor. He dropped soundlessly, crouching. Ahead, around the corner, faint light brushed across a wall, a dim glow that made it possible for him to navigate the hallway, cluttered with old crates, drums and cardboard boxes. Stepping carefully to avoid tripping and raising a clatter, he snuck toward the hallway’s inters
ection, ears straining for the sound of any human presence. His fingers screwed a sound suppressor on the threaded barrel of the Uzi pistol with an unconscious, trained ease.

  Any gunfight going on in the narrow confines of the underground tunnels would make the one in the stairwell with the Abraham’s Dagger terrorist seem like a cakewalk. The suppressed machine pistol would keep his hearing from being temporarily overloaded in a fight. It wouldn’t guarantee stealth, he realized, but it was better than nothing.

  No sounds reached his ears, and Bolan swung around and continued into the half-lit halls.

  The scent of cigarettes and food hung heavily in the air. A thick cloying garlic scent that stung the back of Bolan’s nose informed him that people had been here recently. The looters who had thrown themselves impotently at the trappings of their former oppressors were not likely to have come down here, but the more patient Taliban would have found the way, especially with information brought over by rich expatriate Arabs and Yemenis who would have bribed former Red Army engineers who knew the inner workings of such sanctums.

  The smell of a cigarette grew fresh and sharp. The pungent odor assaulted Bolan’s senses and he slowed. The murmur of two men talking wafted to him on the trail of the scent. It was coming from a doorless room on one side of the tunnel, twenty-five feet down. The Executioner flexed his hand around the Uzi pistol, making sure the grip safety was fully depressed, the chatterbox ready to rip out its payload. It was a faster gun than Bolan would have chosen, but he was an expert at using such machine pistols, and knew how to tap off a short spurt of lead instead of burning off half a magazine with a single pull of the trigger.

  Bolan was eight feet from the opening when he heard a chuckle from within, and a shadow fell across the entrance. A soldier in BDUs, with a full beard, puffed on a cigarette. He stepped out, laughing and adjusting his pants. He turned away and walked with purpose. Bolan figured the man was heading to empty a full bladder in the bathroom, leaving his partner or partners alone.

  The mercenary paused and started to turn back just as Bolan reached the archway.

  Their eyes locked.

  The Taliban militiaman’s hand dived for the pistol on his hip, and the Executioner ripped a slashing line of 9 mm slugs across his torso, knowing that stealth had been blown to hell.

  IT WAS LATE at Hal Brognola’s office at the Justice Department. He was the official liaison between the President and Stony Man Farm, the country’s top covert antiterrorism operation.

  A phone call broke Brognola’s concentration on some paperwork laid out in front of him. He took the receiver off the cradle and was greeted by a familiar voice.

  “Hal, I need to talk to you.”

  Brognola knew the drill when the Man called. “Not over the phone,” he replied.

  “Of course not,” the President said. “My driver’s waiting out front for you.”

  Brognola felt his stomach twist. He poured a handful of antacid tablets into one palm and swallowed the chalky mass after chewing them for a minute. He grabbed his coat, knowing full well that when the President asked to see him in person, it meant that there was some snag out in the field. He thought of the missions of Able Team and Phoenix Force, and knew that nothing they were working on should be cause for a quick high-level debriefing.

  By the time he’d shrugged into his coat, he was at the front door, briefcase in hand, and saw the limousine driver waiting for him.

  The driver handled the D.C. traffic with a silky smooth ease, but Brognola expected nothing less. The limo glided through the rear security access to the White House, and the driver rolled up to the set of out of the way doors that Brognola had long ago named the Civil Servants’ Entrance.

  The Secret Service guards relieved Brognola of his Glock 23, his snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson and the Buck pocketknife folded in his front pocket. Although he was a regular fixture at the White House, Brognola never took offense at being disarmed when meeting with the President.

  Some people had to do their jobs all the way, or they couldn’t do their jobs at all.

  Mack Bolan was one of those people. Few things would ever stay his hand, and Brognola was glad for that.

  “Hal, whenever I see you, you always look so lost in thought,” were the first words he heard upon entering the office that was reserved for their briefings. It was small, sparsely adorned, but most importantly, it was secure from prying eyes of all forms.

  “Part of the job, sir,” the head Fed answered. “Is there anything wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” the chief executive responded. “Have a seat.”

  Brognola sat, not quite comfortable seated before one of the most powerful men in the world. It wasn’t a matter of being overwhelmed by the importance of the office, or the Man himself. But when things came face-to-face like this, it meant something was shaking and rattling through halls of power that Brognola could only hint and guess at.

  “Do you have anything going in Afghanistan?” the President asked.

  Brognola’s poker face didn’t quite kick in fast enough. He’d promised Bolan that he wouldn’t interfere in his mission to take out the murderers of a group of relief workers, and now, he was going to be taken to task for something that was starting to break out of control. “There’s no official Stony Man presence in Afghanistan,” he said.

  “But Striker isn’t an official part of Stony Man,” the President stated.

  “I can’t lie to you about that. He is his own man,” Brognola explained. “When he sees something that has to be done, he doesn’t play around with sanction. He steps in and takes whatever action needs to be taken.”

  “And that generally involves putting a lot of, how do they say it these days, boot to ass?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The Man leaned back, rubbing his thumb across the point of his chin, eyebrows furrowed in intense concentration. “Have you been keeping track of what Striker has been doing?”

  “He’s been keeping off the radar as far as I can tell,” Brognola answered truthfully. “He’s under no obligation to report to me. Why?”

  “Because I have two complaints about a situation going on over there.”

  Brognola felt like he’d been punched in the gut, but a gentle hand was raised to wave off any recriminations. “Nothing that might compromise the Farm, Hal.”

  “Then what?” Brognola asked.

  “The Joint Chiefs have been bickering with the CIA over the presence of an operative in the area, interfering with peacekeeping efforts in northeastern Afghanistan, along the Pakistani border. The CIA is claiming innocence in the matter, and for once, I’m inclined to believe them. The style of this alleged interference doesn’t fit a Company operative,” he explained.

  “Lots of dead terrorists, with little or no collateral damage?” Brognola offered.

  “You know Striker better than I do, but even that much was obvious to me.”

  “The military isn’t going to accept any last-minute legitimization I can pull out of my hat,” Brognola replied.

  “I don’t think Striker will be wanting that any time soon. It seems that a Special Forces captain tried to throw him in the brig.”

  “He’d better have brought the whole A-team with him,” Brognola said.

  The President laughed. “No. Only half a team, according to the report that crossed my desk.”

  “Why would this have come to your attention? Aren’t there people lower on the totem pole who could be unruffling feathers between the Pentagon and Langley?” Brognola asked.

  “There are, but I also have someone who is working for me helping unruffle another set of feathers,” the Man answered.

  “Whose?”

  “The United Nations was asking for help in the investigation of who killed a bunch of their people over there in a refugee hospital. The CIA is trying to stall having the FBI add their brains to the investigation, the military says it’s keeping things under control and doesn’t need any help, and the provision
al government is too busy worrying about warlord infighting to give much concern to a bunch of Westerners blown up by a squad of kooks,” he explained. “It’s a Gordian knot over there, Hal.”

  “I figured that much,” Brognola responded. “And one where Striker is all alone.”

  “He appeared to have an entourage of allies on the scene. And he’s disappeared now, with an all-points bulletin out for his arrest,” the Man said.

  “Good luck to them if they want to catch him. He’s eluded far more skilled hunters before. He’s eluded the entire U.S. intelligence apparatus on his own,” Brognola replied.

  “You don’t have to remind me. I’m under pressure to do something to satisfy the UN, without stepping on a lot of tender toes out there, Hal.”

  “You’re going to make Striker your official response to the hospital attack?” Brognola asked.

  “Do you have a better idea? I can tell the UN representative, quietly, that I have someone already on hand,” the Man said. “And I can help him out…”

  “Striker won’t want help, and if you have to start applying pressure to agency heads and generals, the UN will wonder about what you’re doing,” Brognola said.

  “So…”

  “Keep everything confidential. The murderers will be brought to justice.”

  “You act like that’s a given,” the Man answered.

  “Striker will keep fighting to his dying breath to stop those savages,” Brognola told him. “You have my assurance this will be settled.”

  “And everyone else?”

  Brognola stood, collecting his briefcase. “Sir, if they get in his way, then I feel sorry for them. I truly do. If they’re killers, they won’t last a moment. If they’re well-intentioned good guys, he’s still going to steamroll over them and make them feel embarrassed and bruised.”