Agent of Peril Read online

It felt like a freight train rammed into Geren, and she thought she’d been shot. Gravity released as she went sailing over the branches of a roadside shrub, then she hit the ground, feeling two hundred extra pounds of weight draping on top of her. She struggled, trying to pull free from the grappling arm smothering her, when her vision focused on Kalid’s face.

  “Snipers!”

  Geren went for her gun, but Kalid grabbed her wrist.

  “If we start shooting, we’ll be the only ones with noisy weapons,” he hissed. He glanced up, and Geren followed his gaze. The bush wasn’t much protection against a bullet, but it was concealment, at least for now. “The Egyptians aren’t going to be looking for a sniper with a sound-suppressed rifle.”

  “Did you see them?” Geren asked.

  “No. I just poured on the speed and tackled you.”

  “How pinned down could we be?” Geren asked.

  “I’m not taking that chance, but no follow-up shots came at you. You were an easy target,” Kalid told her.

  “I was just telling myself the same thing,” she said. “Anwar…”

  “He died quick.”

  “He had time to tell me to run.”

  “Damned good advice,” Kalid whispered. “Come on!”

  The pair rushed off down the side street, keeping to the cover of tree trunks.

  BOLAN SWUNG THE RENTED Audi TT onto the street where the hotel was located. He had an explanation for his feeling of dread as he spotted soldiers, their rifles out, surrounding a body facedown in the street. Bolan clenched his fingers white-knuckle tight around the steering wheel as he caught a glimpse of the man lying lifeless on the ground.

  The familiar features of Anwar Fesjad stared at him, but the open eyes would never see anything again.

  “Move for the ambulance,” a soldier said through the open window of the Audi.

  Bolan was jarred from looking at the dead man’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry…I’ve never seen a…” he began, choking. A master of role camouflage, his ability to appear innocuous had helped him often in the past.

  “It is all right,” the Egyptian told him.

  “When…when did it happen?” Bolan asked, continuing to play the role of the innocent tourist.

  “Don’t worry. This was the only man they shot. We think the killer ran off when we came running.”

  “Did you see anything?” Bolan pressed, looking around.

  The Egyptian patted Bolan on the shoulder. “You are safe under the protection of the Egyptian army, friend.”

  Bolan grunted an affirmation, looking in the surrounding crowd for a sign of Kalid and Geren. Nothing. He thanked the soldier and drove off, taking care not to give in to his impulse to tear around the corner and try for their alternate hotel.

  There was no guarantee that the others were heading in that direction. Bolan made a couple of turns and headed down to the park, which was on the way to the dive where he’d sent Rust.

  At the same time, he tore open the diplomatic pouch with his free hand, drawing the Beretta, just in case.

  KALID KEPT CHECKING over his shoulder as they continued along the winding path through the park. Palm trees abounded, as did benches for tourists to sit at as they looked upon scale duplicates of some of Egypt’s amazing wonders. Kalid, from his previous time in the country, knew that the duplicates were there so that tourists wouldn’t have to wade through the garbage-strewed originals, or ride in pickup truck convoys across lung-choking sandy dunes.

  Besides, Cairo wanted to keep money in the city, not out in the wild expanses of wilderness where tribesmen were willing to sell or cut throats for their living.

  “Think we lost them?” Geren asked.

  “I’m not even sure how many we were supposed to be losing,” Kalid answered.

  He was running on fumes right now, disoriented by the fact that one of their own had been blown away. He knew why no subsequent bullets had chased them down, and it wasn’t because he was faster than a speeding bullet.

  Anwar was a security risk, so a bullet was put through him to make sure he couldn’t help them anymore.

  Kalid and Geren, however, were to be kept alive, perhaps even herded along into another trap. The mystery mastermind had to know what they learned.

  Kalid scanned the path ahead, knowing it was too late to turn back. He gripped Geren’s hand tightly, fear clutching his gut like the ice-cold claw of a dead zombie.

  Geren seemed to react to his fears, drawing realizations of her own. She gave Kalid’s hand a squeeze and nodded in the direction of the road parallel to the serpentine path they strode.

  Kalid spotted them. Four burly men, some of the biggest men he had ever seen, were approaching. Kalid was not a small man himself, but he was only one man.

  He swept his gaze over the area, looking for a way out, and saw two more coming from the other side. He tensed and looked at Geren. The noose was being drawn in tight.

  “When I say so, start running, fast,” Kalid whispered.

  “I’m not leaving you behind,” Geren answered.

  “Don’t be stupid. I’ll be kept alive if they catch me. But they don’t need two prisoners.”

  Geren scanned the scene. “We can shoot our way out.”

  “Sixteen, maybe eighteen shots between us? Maybe. But what if they have gunners as backup?”

  “Alex…”

  “Go!” Kalid ordered.

  He whipped the Helwan from his waistband, shoving Geren away. She paused for a moment, and Kalid fired his first round between her feet, the sand kicking all over her sneakers. The woman finally broke and ran, charging between two hulking forms who were trying to sandwich her. Kalid opened fire, his stream of Parabellum rounds intended to make noise and send people scrambling. The Egyptian thugs shied away from the gunfire, giving the tiny form of Tera Geren a chance to slip between them at full speed.

  For someone with short legs, she ran pretty fast.

  Then his Helwan locked empty and Kalid tossed his gun aside, swinging and bringing his elbow up and into the face of an Egyptian muscleman reaching his long brawny arms out to grab him. The man’s face exploded in a splatter of blood from a broken nose, head shocking backward. Kalid lunged at him, riding him between two other thugs. He delivered a hard-edged karate chop to each of them, striking them in the ribs. It didn’t knock them out as if in a cheap martial-arts movie, but it knocked the wind from their lungs and gave Kalid some breathing room. He had managed five long strides when a body slammed into him, arms groping around him. Kalid reached down and sank his fingers into the Egyptian’s crotch, closing his iron grip and twisting.

  A howl pierced his eardrum, making his head hurt even more, but the big man grabbing at him let go enough for Kalid to ram the heel of his palm under the exposed jaw. He staggered. Another hand reached for him, fingers clawing and tearing at his shirt.

  Kalid planted one foot solidly on the ground and brought the other up, smashing the upper chest of his latest assailant, knocking him down. The man clutched his breastbone, his face showing agony.

  Kalid tried to get farther. He swiveled his hips to avoid another tackle and continued his plunge, hoping to draw the crowd of big men with him.

  The ground erupted in a gout of sand, a shock wave slamming into his face.

  Kalid tried to muddle through it, but he was off balance and stunned. Some part of his brain told him it was a stun-shock grenade, but most of his mind was of the general consensus that unconsciousness was a preferred condition.

  Hands grabbed at Kalid’s arms, but he still kept twisting and fighting, trying to cut free. His knee impacted with a stomach, and his toes collided with someone else’s genitals, but it was too little too late.

  The fists began descending on Kalid’s head and chest.

  Blackness swiftly descended.

  GEREN PAUSED AS SHE heard the crash of an explosion in the park. She was filled with dread. That dread took human form when she spotted a pair of the hulking thugs sent after the
m. Without regard for the Egyptian hotel guards, she pulled her Helwan and fired into the chest of the man on the left. He jerked, clutching his rib cage.

  The other man didn’t even pause, instead picking up speed to catch up to Geren.

  She shifted her aim, but then dived to the ground as the angry hardman went sailing over her head. With a twist, she was on her feet again, bringing up her pistol when the guy reversed. A heavy paw clamped down on Geren’s gun hand, driving the muzzle toward the ground.

  Geren folded her legs, letting the big man support her weight for a moment. As he staggered, she straightened her legs again. A hard double stomp smashed into the guy’s foot, and she was rewarded with the sound of snapping bone.

  The big man grappling with her responded with an open-handed swat that caught her on her ear. Geren’s head rolled, eyes jerking in her skull from the impact.

  “Little bitch,” the Egyptian growled.

  Geren wrapped one of her legs around the staggering giant’s ankle and twisted her body. Both of them went tumbling into the grass next to the path. As they fell, Geren managed to maneuver herself so her forearm came crashing down like a guillotine blade on her enemy’s throat. He coughed and sputtered, spit drooling from one corner of his mouth. Geren sneered and gave his eyes a hard rake with the denim wrapped around her forearm. He screeched in pain, finally releasing Geren’s wrist.

  She swung the gun and hammered the steel frame hard into the temple of the man, bone cracking as she made contact. Brain damage or death was the result, and Geren didn’t care whose side this goon was on. He was part of the same force that slaughtered Anwar, and she hoped that he lived with severe head trauma.

  She wasn’t going to stick around to find out his medical prognosis. A blast of gunfire came chasing after her, kicking up divots of sod. Geren got up and poured on the speed, racing toward the street when a green sport coupé came skidding to a halt. More players were entering the dangerous game of hunting Tera Geren.

  She swore to herself she’d give as well as she got. Geren brought up her Helwan when a familiar face stared at her.

  “Get in!” Bolan growled. “And get down.” Muzzle-flashes flickered from the park, bullets pinging against the door.

  Geren didn’t have to be told twice, and she scrambled into the vehicle. Bolan gunned the engine, and the Audi picked up speed, swerving past automobiles. He swung the car into oncoming traffic in order to get cover against the gunmen in the park.

  Geren poked her head up and saw a squirming form being manhandled into the back of a van by a half dozen struggling Egyptians.

  “Brandon!” Geren said. “It’s Alex!”

  Bolan swerved back into the proper lane and screeched to a halt.

  “You drive,” he told her.

  “What’s your plan?”

  Bolan shoved a Desert Eagle into her hands. “I’m going to try to get Alex back. Keep the engine running and ward off anyone who gets too curious.”

  With that, he was gone.

  BOLAN, BERETTA DRAWN, raced toward the black van that Tera Geren said Alex Kalid was in. Every step, he kicked himself for going on a fool’s errand. He could easily get them both killed, but the Executioner long ago vowed that he would never leave a fellow soldier in enemy hands.

  The van started up and a blazing scythe of autofire raked toward him. Bolan dived to the sidewalk, his clothes and skin tearing as he hit the ground.

  Gunfire kept dogging at his heels and Bolan rolled madly, bringing up the Beretta in a furious flurry of 9 mm fire. Bullets slashed along the side of the van and it swerved hard, peeling off down a side street. However, Bolan’s fusillade struck true, and the gunman’s rifle clattered to the street as the van violently swerved.

  Bolan staggered to his feet.

  Geren hit Reverse hard and brought the Audi back to where he could pour his battered form into the shotgun seat. “Let’s go, soldier!”

  “Move!” Bolan answered, piling in.

  Geren showed how deft she was with a pair of good wheels, swinging the Audi down the side street before an oncoming truck blocked their path. Horns blared behind them, brakes squealing as they narrowly avoided becoming a squishy hood ornament. The side street was more like an alley, but Bolan could see the van in the distance. He pulled a spare magazine from his pocket and reloaded the Beretta. He pocketed the half-empty mag for later use.

  “Don’t you have anything bigger?” Geren asked, handing him back the Desert Eagle.

  “Left it all behind in Lebanon,” Bolan answered. “Get us closer, and I’ll try to shoot out their tires.”

  Geren nodded and gunned the Audi, milking more speed from the little roadster. The van swerved right and onto a major six-lane street, delaying Bolan’s return of fire. Traffic was chaotic, however, and the van was slowed by ancient trucks and cars, horses and camels.

  “What kind of country lets goddamn camels on the road?” Geren asked in frustration, trying to get the Audi around a grunting dromedary.

  “As long as they don’t start a firefight with all these people around, we’ll be…”

  Bolan should have known better than to tempt the gods of war against him. The back door of the van was kicked open, and two burly Egyptians were raising Kalashnikovs. Bolan leaned out the window, bringing up his Desert Eagle in a desperate race to get off the first shots.

  Bolan hit the trigger first, and one gunman’s face and chest were obscured by sprays of gore from twin .44 Magnum hits. The killer went crashing back into the van while his partner sprayed a long burst at the Audi. Bolan winced as a hot round punched through the windshield, grazing his hip.

  Half-exposed, Bolan wasn’t going to remain a sitting duck for long and he swung around the Desert Eagle. Two more .44 Magnum talons clawed apart the torso of the second rifleman, and Bolan sank back into the car. Blood was already running down the leg of his jeans, and he looked at Geren who was wiping blood from her face.

  “Tera?”

  “Glass cut my forehead. No bullet wounds,” she responded tersely. “This job sucks.”

  The gunfire had its intended effect, however, and cars and livestock were suddenly veering to make room for the growling black van. Geren started forward again when a flock of sheep suddenly came racing in front of the car. She hit at least one before she could apply the brakes. A herder shouted at them, waving his stick.

  “I think I killed a sheep,” Geren said, her voice quavering.

  “Get it together,” Bolan answered.

  “I killed one sheep, and the rest are too much to drive over or through and that van’s getting away!” Geren shouted. She leaned out her window and opened fire, trying to track the speeding vehicle with her pistol. Bolan knew it was useless, but he, too, opened fire, knowing the range was too great. The van swerved away, disappearing into the maze that was Cairo. Sheep parted crazily, but other vehicles were filling in the road ahead of them.

  One camel lazily clopped in front of them, droppings plopping behind it and covering the road in front of them as Geren tried to get the Audi to do more than inch forward.

  The sheepherder had been scared off by the irate little woman with the 9 mm gun. Bolan looked her over.

  “I couldn’t have driven through this mess either,” he said.

  “Camel shit,” Geren answered. “That’s all we’re left with here.”

  14

  J. R. Rust didn’t hide the MAC-10 as he watched the Audi pull up in front of the room. A dent in the front and bullet holes marking the side showed that enemy action had occurred. Apparently the big soldier’s instincts were right, judging by the looks of the incoming survivors. He watched as only two people exited the car, worn and haggard.

  “Rough day at the office?” Rust asked.

  “Enough with the wisecracks. Anwar was murdered. Alex was kidnapped,” Bolan said.

  “Kidnapped? Why?” Rust asked.

  “To find out what we know about this conspiracy,” Bolan answered, moving to the bed and sitting. “
That’s not much, and we’re on a countdown now.”

  “So finding Mr. Tank Dealer is top priority,” Rust said. “I’m narrowing it down among—”

  “We find Tofo.”

  Rust felt himself cut off cold. Geren was deadly serious.

  “He’s going to be tougher to find. This guy actually had hard contact with you,” Rust said.

  “I don’t give a crap,” Geren replied. “Tofo is the name we have, and we’re going to pull Alex’s location out of him, shred by shred.”

  Rust looked at Bolan, who showed all his mileage on his face. The soldier nodded.

  “You two are insane. Tofo is a cold-blooded murderer. And a professional. He’s not going to stick around for you to look him up for a friendly chat,” Rust told them.

  “Give me what you know. It’s time to start shaking some cages here,” Bolan answered. “They’re using Muslim Brotherhood agents too. I can lean on them, make them squeal if you give us a few locations.”

  “You don’t speak enough Arabic,” Rust said.

  “I do,” Geren said.

  “IS THAT YOU, J.R.?” Major Jake Marlboro asked over the cell phone.

  “No, it’s Larry Hagman. Have you seen my Jeannie?”

  “Funny. What do you need?”

  Rust tried to weigh his request and just let slip. He wasn’t usually so blunt, but subtlety in getting information from his Cairo contacts wasn’t a luxury he could afford.

  “I’ve got a man missing. He’s been grabbed by the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  “I’m sorry. We’ll send flowers.”

  “Fuck that, Jake,” Rust said.

  “Listen, we hear things at embassy security about the Brotherhood. They’re bad news. They’ll pull a guy’s eyeball out just so they can watch him squirm and bleed. Your guy’s a write-off.”

  “I don’t have a pen and paper big enough to write him off. I need a handle. A location. A hangout. Anything.”

  “J.R., you’re not going to bully or intimidate the Brotherhood into giving up one of their own.”

  “No, I’m not, but I know someone who will.”

  There was silence on the line as Marlboro chewed over his choice of response. “Who do you have?”