Suicide Highway Read online

  “That’s logical enough,” Sariz said. “But I still say we’ll get more out of her my way—”

  “If she doesn’t help us willingly, she’s all yours,” Haytham allowed, to dismiss his arguing and get to work.

  The three Palestinians raced to the battered Mercedes. They found Captain Blake and Tera Geren within, both still breathing, both bloodied, but starting to move. Haytham pointed the muzzle of his Uzi at Blake’s face and shook his head.

  “We’re not going to hurt you, but I don’t have time for you to make a scene. Join us in the ZIL, and we’ll get you back to your people,” Haytham said.

  Blake’s eyes blinked slowly, as if covered with a film of gum that impeded their process. He slowly crawled out of the shattered windshield of the car, stopping on his hands and knees at Haytham’s side. Fasood dug his fingers into the collar of Blake’s combat vest, half dragging the stunned Special Forces captain to the ZIL while Haytham reached into the Mercedes again and found Geren, far less responsive, glazed eyes staring dreamily at him.

  “Geren?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  “It only hurts when I breathe,” she answered.

  Haytham gave a soft smile. “You have to be a lot more cooperative, or my people are going to give you hell.”

  “Oh God, did you attack the convoy?” Geren asked.

  “No, but I didn’t want you falling into the hands of Abraham’s Dagger.”

  Geren smiled weakly. “You’re sweet for a member of a murderous terrorist organization.”

  Haytham took her hand and gave a tug. “Did that hurt?”

  “No,” she said, her wince making the answer less than convincing. Haytham pulled her along anyway, helping her get out of the overturned Mercedes, and to her feet. She wobbled, but she was small enough that she wasn’t a burden to Haytham.

  “You drive, Sariz,” Haytham ordered.

  “Why me?” Sariz whined.

  Haytham glowered, staring daggers through the man.

  “All right. But one of these days—” Sariz began.

  “If you finish that threat, you’ll be dead by the time the last word leaves your lips,” Fasood said, leveling his Uzi.

  Sariz glanced between Haytham and his loyal friend and simply got behind the steering wheel.

  It was going to be a real game of diplomacy to keep Captain Blake and Tera Geren alive, Haytham realized, but he knew that it was the right thing to do. It didn’t make the torment whirling and churning in his soul any smoother, but it was something.

  THE EXECUTIONER HADN’T planned on encountering an army in the confines of the underground bunker, and he knew that stealth and guile were, as always, going to have to be his sword and shield in combat with the Taliban mercenaries. To make the most of what tools he had, he’d come up with a plan that had flickered in his mind the moment he’d spotted the air duct.

  Bolan found the vent cover in the darkness, and only a few moments with the screwdriver on his Gerber Multi-Tool was necessary to take off the grille. He gathered up a couple of boxes and slashed them open to form a large square that would completely cover the surface.

  For what he planned, all he needed was a simple duct tape and cardboard cork. He plucked the pins on five of the confiscated riot-gas grenades and hurled the bombs as far as he could down the vent, listening to them raise a ruckus as they bounced off sheet metal with deep, booming tremors. Gas hissed and by the time the fifth grenade was in, fingers of the noxious gas were trickling out around the duct’s opening. Bolan took a couple of deep breaths through his improvised mask, and was pleased to note that his breath and sweat-soaked swab of gauze was blocking the stinging effects of the noxious cloud. Still, he slapped up the panel of cardboard with its duct-tape border and blocked the air vent. He had turned the circulation system into a bottleneck for the expanding riot gas. He heard cries of pain and confusion down the hallways.

  Bolan spun and navigated to the front, filling his hands with the AK-47 just as he reached the entrance to the storage room. Complaints in Arabic carried to his ears, and he paused long enough to use another tear-gas grenade, flipping it into the hallway on a sizzling contrail of pumping irritant. There was a sudden increase in the volume of the complaints, urgency filling voices before they dissolved into choking, coughing and gagging.

  It was a golden opportunity. With his enemy blinded and nauseated, they wouldn’t be able to spot him among them until it was too late. The battle would be fought on a ground where he had the best footing, the best visibility, and even though the CS gas was bringing a salty sting to his nostrils and the tickle of a cough to his throat through his improvised mask, he was far better off than the men whose sinuses were inflamed and whose throats were swollen tight with the scouring, almost paralyzing effects of the irritant smoke.

  Bolan needed a prisoner.

  The Executioner exploded into the hallway, parting the chemical smoke and descending upon the hapless Taliban mercenaries.

  12

  Wael’s eyes stung as he staggered through the hallway, arms up trying to keep the burning clouds from savaging and assaulting his face. It was a futile gesture, and he knew that if he had a mask, it would be easier, but there were no such masks just laying around the well-equipped underground compound. Plenty of supplies had been left behind by the Russian devils when their occupation was broken, but it was a crapshoot as to what was to be found where.

  He had plenty of ammunition for the rifle in his hands, and grenades on his belt and food to fill his stomach. That was what had mattered ten minutes before when the quiet little bunker was just a place for him to rest his head while the strangers from Egypt were assembling his brethren for an assault on the enemies of Allah.

  That was before the gunshots, the alarms, the panicked response to an invader who had penetrated into a supposedly impenetrable bunker.

  Wael’s tearing eyes searched through the haze that filled the half-lit hallways, each breath like sandpaper through his throat and nose. He was amazed that all that came out was thick, clear mucus and not sticky blood, his lungs burned so thoroughly. He paused as a tall form stepped through the fog, AK in hand.

  “Sayed?” he gasped.

  The buttstock of the rifle swung up and hit Wael above his navel, the wind forced up and out of him in a torturing blast of breath. He staggered, folding over the strike, and felt an elbow chop down onto his neck. The floor met his face hard. Light flashed inside his skull like a burst of lightning as he curled on the cold concrete floor. He glanced up at the tall figure, chemical smoke swirling around it like it was the center of a dust devil.

  Wael shuffled back from the big wraith as he spun, lashing out with a long powerful arm to backhand another of his allies, sending him flying into a wall with a meaty slap and a slow slide down brick.

  Two men staggered to grab at him, fingers curled into claws as much in pain as in the need to hook the intruder’s flesh. Instead, their hands groped at empty air, the flickering figure disappearing between them. A long leg snapped up, knee striking the rib cage of the first man, a fist hammered into the back of the second man’s head, knocking off his cap. Both hat and body tumbled forward to land at Wael’s feet.

  Wael wondered desperately why he had proved foolish enough to leave college in Yemen and end up in the hands of a living devil who tossed aside strong warriors for Allah. It was as if they were mice, playthings at the paws of a desert hunting cat. With a cry of horror, he watched the tall monster grab another of the Taliban expatriates and lift and hurl him seemingly without effort down the hall.

  Bones crunched as the man landed, unforgiving stone and gravity combining to punish him. Getting as much of his will to fight as he could, Wael clawed for the pistol in his belt.

  The man whirled, eyes flashing in reflection from the hazy, fogged over lights, then flicked out his hand. Spears of agony plunged into Wael’s shoulder, only a bit of his consciousness recognizing the clatter of the AK-47 bouncing on the floor. All he knew was that his
clavicle now flushed with the lava heat of a broken bone, his body was twisted in pain, his fingers now useless.

  Iron-hard fingers wrapped around his throat, and Wael felt himself lifted.

  “How many of you are there?” the voice said in English.

  “Please—” Wael gasped, drool pouring from his mouth with each ragged breath. “Please, in Allah’s name, I beseech you—”

  Wael felt himself slammed hard into the wall, the weight of mountains falling against his chest with the savage impact.

  “Allah doesn’t care about a rapist and murderer of children!” the man snarled. Wael felt his genitals shrink in horror, his entrails twisting into a tight, cold ball up against his spine.

  “Your only hope is to tell me what you are doing here. Tell me why you are trespassing in the lair of the Russian devils.”

  “We were told to come here by the warriors from Egypt who claim to be the chosen of Allah,” Wael whimpered.

  “We? How many?” the wraith growled, working on the fears of the injured man.

  “There were ninety of us this morning. Now there are but fifteen,” Wael sobbed, tasting his own tears.

  “Where did they go?” the man demanded.

  “Some went to capture a Jewish woman,” Wael said, eyes clenched in fear of staring death in the face.

  “And the others?”

  “They were meant to launch an attack,” Wael answered.

  “Where?”

  “An American base—”

  Suddenly, the weight was off his chest and broken collarbone. He could breathe in deep lungfuls of the noxious gas, which now was as sweet as the scent of flower petals in relation to the horror that loomed in his face. His eyes blinked with gummy slowness, but when he looked around, there was no one standing in the hall with him. With a trembling hand, he clutched his shoulder, bending over.

  He and his brethren had been spared from the full wrath of an angry god.

  For that, he would give thanks to Allah. He looked at the pistol, half drawn, balanced precariously in its holster, then scraped his thigh against the wall, the cursed thing clattering to the concrete. He gave it a kick, casting it away from him.

  No more would he bear arms against the other children of God, because he knew, looking into those glassy, round eyes, his punishment for such an act would strike him down like lightning.

  BOLAN LEFT BEHIND the injured militiaman, realizing that the doomsday numbers were tumbling out of his control. Abraham’s Dagger, realizing enemies stalked its heels, was turning to face its foes head-on. That left Tera Geren vulnerable to a counterattack, knowing that at least one enemy force was out there, knowing who she was, where she was.

  “Capture the Jewish woman,” the man had said.

  Ninety men. Fifteen left behind.

  Bolan couldn’t even begin to figure how many he’d already encountered. Another twenty or thirty at the least. Abraham’s Dagger had to have had an entire army. Passing storage areas, he spotted littered remains of opened crates of weapons, rifles and rocket launchers and grenades discarded next to emptied containers.

  He took inventory on the run, pausing only to toss a CS tear gas grenade ahead of him, or to slash the buttstock of his AK across the jaw of any Taliban mercenary foolish enough to stumble, choking, into his path. The trail of unconscious men grew longer, but the clues ahead of him were shortening to a dread conclusion.

  The assassins had located the mother load of their prey, and they were going to make every effort to eradicate them from existence.

  And Bolan was long behind in the chase.

  Bolan flipped open his phone, but the concrete and earth over his head effectively cut him off from communication with the outside world. He was going to have to get to the surface. That meant getting back to the entrance.

  The Executioner whirled; thundering feet were racing toward him. Once more, the remaining Taliban mercenaries were mustering their forces to repel this invader, and when they cleared the stinging cloud of gas, they’d have a relatively clear view of him. Pivoting on one foot, Bolan ripped the Uzi pistol and the Desert Eagle from their respective holsters.

  Shadows burst through the cloud, hobbling along, some clutching broken jaws, others with their faces contorted in chemical-induced pain, all of them lunging as one single-minded entity. Through their blurry vision they saw a tower of a man, wisps of clouds swirling at his feet, his face an inhuman mask behind a soiled black improvised gas mask with flashing goggles.

  “You have the chance to leave here alive,” he warned them, fingers resting lightly, but securely, on the triggers of the weapons.

  The group paused, the urge to blink away the sting of tear gas dissipating like mist in the sun. A couple glanced at each other, seeking support, seeking advice, trying to decide whether their strength in numbers was enough to overcome the aura of death and dread that surrounded the intruder like a storm.

  “Move aside,” Bolan ordered.

  The group of men parted and Bolan lowered his guns, striding past them. He felt their gaze on him, and though he could smell the stink of his own sweat and breath through the gauze pad, tanged with the extra spice of tear gas, he could smell their fear as well. He’d proved himself to them as something they had no hope of standing against, and in their weakened moment of doubt, they folded completely. Bolan didn’t run, and he didn’t turn back. He strode through the tunnels to where he came in.

  None of the Taliban dared lift a finger to stop him.

  If only it would be so easy against Abraham’s Dagger, Bolan thought.

  ROBERT WESLEY RETURNED to headquarters, realizing that it had grown more crowded by at least twice the number. He also noticed that half the Special Forces team was gone as well.

  “What the hell’s happening?” he asked Warrant Officer Terrence Ogden, the executive officer of the command post while Captain Blake was in the field.

  “Wesley,” Ogden said. “Jesus, things have been going crazy over here. Blake went out to pick up that Colonel Stone last night.”

  Wesley had expected as much, but kept his tongue still, looking around at the newcomers in the command post. From their uniforms, he could tell that they were Marine Corps, and from the lack of name panels and rank insignias, he figured that they were Force Recon or Marine Expeditionary. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head at the presence of the sudden influx of leathernecks.

  “The jarheads came in last night after Blake moved out to talk to Stone,” Ogden explained. He took a deep breath, and lowered his voice, leaning closer to Wesley. “We just got an emergency radio transmission about eight minutes ago. We’re loading up as many people as we can and moving out.”

  “What’s wrong?” Wesley asked.

  “Strap into your combat gear,” Ogden ordered. “Blake and the convoy came under fire. We’ve been trying to raise our people, but there’s been no response so far.”

  Wesley’s face drained of blood. “Good God.”

  He looked among the group. Jerrud and Montenegro had gone with Blake. Those two were particularly close friends of his among the team. “Had they picked up Stone and Rosenberg?” Wesley asked.

  “They reported they were bringing Rosenberg back. Stone flattened Blake and the three guys with him, and took off running,” Ogden reported.

  Wesley tightened his combat vest across his chest and cinched his helmet in place. “This is getting more and more fucked-up.”

  “No kidding,” Ogden responded. “I’m glad you made it. I didn’t want to leave this joint to the Marines.”

  Wesley looked around. “No. We going to have them backing us up on this retrieval?”

  “Yeah. Fortunately, we have a strong GPS transponder signal from one of the Hummers, and there’s an emergency beacon giving us another signal,” Ogden said.

  A red-faced Marine wearing mirrored shades stepped up. “You’re joining this little field trip?”

  “Yeah,” Wesley answered. “Staff Sergeant Robert Wesley. Intelligence and he
avy weapons.”

  “Sergeant John Bannon,” the Marine said, putting forward a big paw. “Good to be workin’ with you.”

  Wesley accepted the handshake, and the two men headed out to the vehicles.

  “How bad is this gonna get?” Bannon asked. “You seem to have an idea what’s got the Marines in bed with the Special Forces.”

  Wesley responded, “Renegade Israelis, Hamas, the Taliban, and to top it all off, a bunch of innocent UN doctors and care workers.”

  The sergeant took a step when something flickered in his peripheral vision. It wasn’t even conscious thought that sent him sailing against Bannon, shoulder striking the man in the chest hard enough to send him flying four feet, both of their bodies knifing through the air.

  A sudden flurry of bullets smashed into the ground, kicking up dirt.

  The Green Beret looked up at the rooftops surrounding his headquarters and spotted a dozen bodies and a dozen rifles, all looming over them.

  “We’re under attack!” Wesley roared as a fresh wave of autofire rained down on the Marines and Special Forces troopers.

  LAITH KHAN WASN’T GOING to sit still. Not when he had the opportunity to do some good. The colonel had explained that he’d get into enough action soon enough, but the young Afghan didn’t think that Stone would mind a noncombat mission of sorts.

  Dr. Mikela Bronson, sitting next to him in the jeep, looked skeptical of the Afghan warrior’s logic, however.

  “Listen, Doctors Koenig and Takeda are going to be fine at Makaki,” she told him.

  “Just like Sofia DeLarroque and a few dozen coworkers and patients were safe?” Laith asked.

  The doctor pursed her lips, her eyes turning to the road in front of them.

  “And let’s not forget your adventures last night at your supposedly safe hospital,” Laith added. “Makaki is a heavily overworked camp, with thousands upon thousands of people living in shanties around it. The camp’s security wouldn’t notice a strike force until their brains were exiting their skulls at over a thousand feet per second.”