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  “Switching to thermal,” Khandis said, and the image changed to a black-and-white view of a large city.

  “Is that the best you can do?” the major asked, rubbing his cheek with the back of a hand.

  “Not at all,” Khandis replied smoothly, and the image swirled to clarify into a full-color view of the inside of a shopping mall.

  “Amazing,” Nasser whispered, feeling a rush of pride. She cast a brief glance at the man, then quickly looked away before anybody noticed.

  “Indeed, this is much better,” Armanjani said. “Where are these cameras located?”

  “Security feeds, traffic lights and the long-distance views are from the closed-circuit television system at a local college. Their firewall was laughable, and it is just far enough away that there will be minimum distortion from the second effects of the strike.”

  “Excellent! Well done, Kazim,” Armanjani said, pulling an aluminum tube from a pocket.

  Unscrewing the cap, he extracted a slim cigar, and using a pocketknife, he trimmed the end, careful not to bruise the tobacco. Then he lit a match and let the sulfur burn off before applying the flame to the tip. When it was glowing red, he inhaled deeply, and exhaled through his nose, twin streams of dark smoke issuing as from a dragon.

  “Proceed when you are ready,” Armanjani commanded, settling the cigar into the corner of his mouth.

  Grunting in reply, the doctor fine-tuned the controls for a few moments, then activated a series of macro files. Binary commands flowed across the bottom of the screen and a few seconds later a lightning bolt lanced down from the sky to strike the Léon, France, airport fuel dump.

  A writhing fireball expanded across the airport, engulfing airplanes, buildings and dozens of people. The picture was silent, but the grotesque death throes of the burning civilians were painfully obvious.

  “Hit them again,” the major commanded, smiling around his cigar.

  Lightning flashed once more. “The local power grid is down,” Khandis reported crisply as another bright flash appeared. “And there go the telephone lines.”

  “Good. Now take out the main target,” Major Armanjani growled, leaning into the glowing screen. “I want Interpol to die screaming. Do you understand? Die screaming!”

  Standing at the back of the room, Hassan and Nasser said nothing, but Dr. Khandis openly scowled in disapproval of the command. But he still adjusted the delicate controls, his hands flowing across the keyboard like a concert pianist performing on stage.

  Again and again, the terrible white light filled the monitor as lighting bolts slammed down on a large unmarked building. The windows shattered as portions of the structure exploded, bodies flying away in tattered pieces. A prolonged bolt crawled through the parking lot, detonating hundreds of cars, leaving only bubbling lava and melted wrecks in its wake. An armored truck violently exploded, the blast sending the wreck hurtling through the rainy sky, a snowstorm of documents fluttering out of the swinging doors. Lifting off a helipad, an unmarked Black Hawk helicopter raced for the mountains, but lightning hit it in the air, and it vanished, only tiny bits of charred machinery sprinkling down across the dark suburbs.

  “Enough foreplay. Take out their mainframe,” Armanjani ordered.

  With a blank expression, the doctor obeyed.

  The screen flickered and rolled as bolt after bolt slammed into the building, hammering away at the crumpling masonry until its middle section was revealed, a massive supercomputer enshrouded in a swirling white mist. As the next bolt hit, the mist vanished, and a thousand servers visibly crackled with the static discharge before exploding and catching fire.

  As a cloud of dark smoke rose from the decimated supercomputer, dozens of men and women grabbed backup disks and raced for the emergency exits. The technicians died before reaching the doors, lightning blowing off their arms and legs, the disks vaporized.

  Now a prolonged bolt hit, the searing rod of condensed electricity moving through the ruin of the building like the wrath of God. What wasn’t immediately destroyed soon exploded into flames as sheets of static electricity crackled over everything in a horrid display of wanton destruction.

  In the offices, wooden desks simply exploded, metal desks melted, their contents annihilated. Armored file cabinets turned bright orange then white and melted into glowing puddles of steel, the top-secret reports gone forever. Gunracks on the walls jerked about as the stores of ammunition cooked off, sending out a deadly flurry of wild ricochets. Wounded, bleeding, choking on the polluted air, their clothing on fire, screaming people limped toward the gaping holes in the thick walls, only to be met with fresh lightning, bolt after bolt, an endless barrage of hammering fury.

  “Enough! That settles many old debts.” Major Armanjani grinned, blowing a long stream of dark smoke at the monitor.

  “That is only a crippling blow to Interpol,” Hassan stated. “They are far from destroyed.”

  “True, but it is enough for now.” Armanjani chuckled, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. “Now, tell me how the auction is progressing.”

  “We’re ready to go, sir,” Nasser reported crisply. “A suitable venue has been chosen, security is arranged and a decoy auction has been established to confuse anybody trying to find us.”

  “Which of our enemies is still alive even to try?” Dr. Khandis laughed contemptuously.

  “There are always new enemies,” Armanjani growled, rolling the cigar thoughtfully between his fingers. “Lieutenant, create several more fake auctions. Sergeant, double whatever security you already have for the real one. Doctor, prepare a disaster scenario.”

  “Sir?” Khandis asked, confused.

  The major sighed. “Pretend that the American CIA, Russian Special Forces, the Mossad and the British MI-6 have joined forces to attack us in unison,” he explained tolerantly for the scientist. “Then detail a plan to kill them, and for us to escape anyway.”

  “Sir…is such a thing possible?” Khandis asked with a nervous laugh.

  “All of them joining together?” Armanjani stated, shifting the cigar to a more comfortable position in his mouth. “Possible? Of course. Not highly unlikely.” He snorted smoke. “However, the way to stay alive in combat is to plan for disaster.”

  “Yes, I see,” the doctor muttered. “That…makes good sense.”

  “Glad you agree. Now get to work, and make no mistakes,” Armanjani growled, standing to look menacingly down at the scientist. “Because you’re coming with us to the auction.”

  “Me?” Khandis gasped. “Why bring me along?”

  Removing the cigar, the major inspected the glowing red tip. “Why? To make sure your escape plans works, of course,” Armanjani said, returning the cigar to its accustomed place as he slowly walked from the room.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t forget to also hit some American targets!” the major added, opening the door. “Anything will do, even a ship at sea! Just make them bleed! I want dead Americans on the six o’clock news! Understand?”

  “Yes, sir! But what about—” Khandis was cut off as the door closed. Annoyed, he did nothing for a few moments, then returned to his bloody task, and started deciding who would live, and who would die… .

  Devakottai, India

  SOME TIME LATER, Bolan sluggishly woke in a marsh, cold mud seeping into his clothing.

  He felt sore all over, as if every muscle had been individually beaten. His tongue was numb, it was a little difficult to focus his
eyes, his teeth ached and both kidneys throbbed with pain. Those were the classic signs of getting zapped by a high-voltage stun gun.

  Only his years of training had saved Bolan from going down for the count. The instant he realized that he had been shot with darts, he twisted sideways to break any attached wires just in case it was a stun gun. Better safe than sorry.

  It had been a wise precaution, and even then, in spite of his best efforts, Bolan still received a powerful electric shock.

  There were muffled voices in the distance, and bright lights moved through the tall weeds—guards with flashlights hunting for him.

  Summoning what strength he could, Bolan painfully crawled deeper into the marshy runoff, the stinking mud quickly revealing that this was also the garbage dump for the base. The mercenaries had to have been too lazy to dig a pit, and simply dumped their excess refuse into the swamp. Apparently for years, Bolan noted, from the depth of the stained food containers, crumpled papers, tin cans and unrecognizable wads of rotted food. Black beetles crawled over everything, and one of those strange oversized rats sat on a rock nibbling on a chicken bone held tightly in its paws. With bloodred eyes, it watched Bolan struggle by, wary of the man, but clearly not frightened.

  Angling away from the flashlights, Bolan saw some trees to the right. More than a copse, but smaller than a forest, he reasoned it had to be an orchard of some kind. Wisely, he also veered away from that. The orchard would be the first place the mercenaries would check, if they didn’t have guards already stationed there as perimeter sentries. Avoiding the trees would only buy him a few moments, certainly less than a minute of freedom, but every second counted as his body struggled to recover from the massive shock. His thoughts were disorganized and chaotic, memories of childhood, old friends, past battles, baseball games and his first meeting with Brognola, all mixing together into a useless hodgepodge. Utilizing a martial arts technique to manage pain, Bolan concentrated on his breathing and banished everything else from his mind. There was only the mud and his breathing, nothing else.

  Long minutes passed as Bolan crawled behind a rusty stove—only to step back at the sight of an enormous beehive inside. However, there was no buzzing, and he relaxed with the realization that it was an old abandoned hive. Battered, bruised, shocked, shot and surrounded by trained killers, Bolan almost laughed at himself for flinching from getting stung.

  Straining to listen to the advance of the mercenaries, Bolan lowered his head to lap some rain water from a small depression. That eased his sore throat, and helped settle his stomach. The last thing he wanted now was to be sick. Nobody could vomit quietly, so it would be the last thing he ever did. He had to stay silent and keep moving. That was the only hope of survival.

  Moving to another clear pool of water, Bolan drank again, deeper this time, and felt a little of the fog in his mind ease. Okay, back to work. Fumbling to check his weapons, Bolan wasn’t overly surprised to find that the big Desert Eagle was gone, along with his belt knife and EM scanner. There was only the muddy Beretta and a couple of magazines.

  Rinsing the weapon off in the water, the soldier then continued on to a splintery tree stump and rested for a moment amid the tangle of exposed roots.

  Just then, a sharp whistle cut the night.

  “He’s over here!” a man called out.

  Rolling over fast, Bolan saw the murky figure of a man holding a flashlight near the iron stove. Damn, that was less than a hundred feet away!

  With no choice, Bolan drew the Beretta and swung down the front grip of the machine pistol. Holding his breath, he cradled the Beretta in a shaky two-hand grip and snapped off four fast rounds. The mercenary near the stove fell screaming, the flashlight crashing on the appliance and going out.

  Instantly, the marsh became alive with gunfire, assault rifles, pistols and shotguns sounding off.

  Keeping low behind the stump, Bolan counted twenty other people, which meant this was the entire mercenary team. That was both good and bad.

  Knowing what was coming next, Bolan rolled over and over in the sticky mud, trying to cover himself as much as possible. Stopping near a soggy mattress, he grabbed a fistful of reeking garbage, and spread it across his face and chest, then went still.

  Only seconds later there was the sound of a dull thump, followed by a prolonged hiss. Closing his eyes against the glare, Bolan heard the flare detonate in the sky, and saw his eyelids turned red from the bright light. Covering his face with a hand, he blinked several times quickly to get accustomed to the harsh illumination.

  He heard the sound of running feet coming from numerous directions, the boots making sucking sounds as they were pulled free in the garbage field.

  “There he is!” somebody shouted to the left, but the weapon fired to the right.

  “No, over here! I see him!” another man shouted.

  “Go, go, go!” added a third, and briefly their weapons chattered harmlessly into the sky.

  Easing off his boots, Bolan scoffed at the trick when a rain of heavy objects thudded down across the field. He forced himself not to move as something impacted nearby.

  As expected, it was just a rock, not a grenade. This was amateur stuff. Combat 101. Where had these people gotten their training? No real soldier would ever fall for these childish ploys.

  The bright light of the parachuting flare died away, and Bolan stood the instant he was back in darkness. There was always the slim chance that the mercenaries had night-vision goggles, but from the rest of the equipment he’d seen, he didn’t think they had those kinds of funds. The first thing anybody bought was better weapons. Second-rate guns meant that everything else was third-rate or worse. It was a gamble, of course, but he’d bet his life on far worse odds and survived. The trick was speed.

  Briefly, assault rifles chattered, the muzzle-flashes pointed upward. Bolan tried not to smile at that. With the mercenaries spread across the marsh, they no longer had a clear field of fire. If the men shot randomly they would almost certainly hit one another, and that gave him a chance.

  Padding barefoot across the marsh, Bolan made a lot less noise than the mercs in their boots, and reached a toppled refrigerator without getting shot. He had stepped on several sharp objects hidden in the mud along the way, but he ignored the minor pain and holstered the Beretta.

  Two of the mercenaries were sloshing through a deep puddle, holding their weapons high overhead to keep them dry. Bolan let the first one pass unmolested, then charged out of hiding. As the second man came out of the puddle, Bolan lunged forward to grab his head and savagely twisted to the left, then the right. The neck broke with a snap, and the mercenary shuddered into death.

  Grabbing a knife from the belt of the corpse Bolan threw it with all of his strength. Caught in the act of turning, the second mercenary got the blade full in the throat. Gushing crimson, he tried to shout for help, but could only manage a watery gurgle, so he yanked out the blade. Immediately, the man began to convulse, drowning in a torrent of his own blood.

  As he dropped to his knees behind a refrigerator, Bolan moved in fast and recovered the knife. Going behind the mercenary, the soldier reached around to grab his jaw as a guide in the darkness, then rammed the knife into his head directly behind the left ear.

  Instantly, the mercenary went still and died. The Navy SEAL had nicknamed that location in the human skull Death’s Doorway, and there was no faster way to take a human life. However, while Bolan didn’t torture his enemies, this maneuver was done mere
ly to keep the man silent and not reveal his location to the others. Bolan was a soldier, not a saint.

  Easing the warm corpse to the ground, he quickly took a Glock pistol, some spare magazines, a canvas ammunition belt and the AK-47 assault rifle. There were no hand grenades, but he did find two 30 mm shells for the grenade launcher attached under the main barrel of the Kalashnikov, along with a half-eaten candy bar.

  He ate the bar as he checked over the assault rifle for any damage or mud, then thumbed a fat 30 mm shell in the launcher.

  Taking a calming breath, Bolan steadied the assault rifle, then turned fast and emptied the entire magazine into the night.

  Several voices cried out in surprise, then pain, and a couple of the mercenaries started wildly shooting back. Another followed suit, and suddenly the marsh was alive with crisscrossing rounds, tracers stitching through the darkness.

  Dropping low, Bolan heard the weeds patter from the passage of the 7.62 mm rounds, then something white-hot grazed his shoulder, and a another slammed into his back with stunning force.

  Falling face-first into the mud, Bolan jerked back as a shard of broken glass sliced open his cheek. Forcing himself not to speak, the soldier rose to his knees, listening to the bursts of gunfire, gauging distance and directions.

  Furiously, a man shouted something in Hindi, and the shooting stopped. Assuming that was the leader of the mercenaries, Bolan aimed in that direction and sent off a short burst. The same voice cried out in painful surprise, and an AK-47 briefly chattered, the muzzle-flash arching up into the starry sky before terminating.

  Instantly, everybody started shooting again.

  Deciding this was the time to move, Bolan took off to the right, heading for the distant highway. With luck, he could flag down a car and get away before the mercenaries got their act together and started to sweep the marshland in an organized manner.