Dead Reckoning Read online

  Kabeer thought he would call them later on that night, have them make reservations for the following day on the first flight they could catch from Yemen to Geneva, and arrange the rest accordingly. If they came now, when danger might be hanging over them, he worried that the danger would fly with them and disrupt his grand, apocalyptic plan.

  If that threat was ephemeral, he lost nothing by waiting to transmit the order. On the other hand, if it was real...well, he might lose three more of his soldiers, but the trail should end in Yemen. There would be no time for enemies to track him down, well covered as he was in his Swiss hideaway, before Kabeer had struck his killing blow against the top Crusaders of the West.

  Feeling a little better now, Kabeer poured himself a tall glass of wine. Surely God would overlook one small transgression by his loyal disciple on the eve of holy war.

  Lahij, Yemen

  IT TOOK LONGER to find a crane and clear the N1 highway than expected. By the time bodies had been extracted from the smoking wreckage and the blackened hulk was hauled aside, discarded in the desert for someone else to remove at leisure, more than two hours had passed. Grimaldi felt frustration mounting in him, but he tried to cover it by feigning sleep, his cap pulled low over his eyes. Bolan had switched off the Toyota’s engine, saving gas, but that had killed the air-conditioner, as well. They made do with the windows down, sweating like everybody else waiting in line, until the sluggish wrecker crews arrived to do their job, clearing the way.

  For just a second, Grimaldi imagined what would happen if the Yaris wouldn’t start when Bolan turned the key—stranded halfway between Aden and Lahij, with the two of them obstructing traffic now, an arsenal behind them in the backseat, barely covered by a blanket—but the engine started instantly, and they were off, the welcome air-conditioning roaring into life again with force enough to chill Grimaldi’s face.

  Better.

  He had agreed with Bolan on the need to stop off here, tie up “loose ends” before the title match in Switzerland, but Grimaldi was having second thoughts now. Nothing serious, the kind of nagging little voice that might cast doubt on any personal decision, great or small. If anything went wrong on this lap of their journey—if they both went down for dirt naps, say—would Stony Man be able to pick up the pieces in Zermatt, before Kabeer and his remaining troops pulled off another stunt? Maybe the summit meeting in Geneva?

  If they did, would it be Grimaldi’s fault, Bolan’s or a simple twist of fate?

  Lahij was disappointing, after what he’d seen of Aden. With Bolan at the wheel, the pilot took in palm groves, houses made of stone, and side streets paved with more. The central feature of the town appeared to be a mosque standing beside a graveyard where the stones were placed erratically, some of them leaning in obeisance to age and gravity.

  The N1 skirted Lahij to the west, or left, of town, but the address they had extracted from Nour Sarhan lay to the east, beyond the main drag access road that branched off from the N1 south of town and then rejoined it to the north. That took them past more shops and market stalls, their wares including fruit, clothing, hand-beaten copper implements, curved daggers and more guns. The shoppers eyed them with a mix of curiosity and frank hostility, likely believing they were tourists passing through en route from Aden to Ta’izz.

  As for cops, Grimaldi hadn’t seen one since they put Aden behind them, but he knew that Lahij was the main city within a district of the same name. Bolan had advised him that, since May, Yemeni troops had been involved with the police, pursuing terrorists in the vicinity, but showing poor results.

  Maybe their stop would be a wake-up call.

  But knowing Bolan’s self-imposed restrictions when it came to dealing with the law, Grimaldi hoped they could avoid official contact.

  Otherwise, he thought, this grubby town might be the last one that he ever saw.

  Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building, Washington, DC

  IT WAS BROGNOLA’S turn to make a call. He’d thought about it for a while, considered skipping it and waiting until he had the final score, but knew the Man was waiting for results and taking heat from his opponents who found fault with every move he made—or, in this case, as they imagined, didn’t make. Brognola had observed the ritual as it was reenacted time and time again in Washington. Whatever happened in the city or the world at large was his fault, automatically attributed to the man in the White House. Paying more for gas today than last week? “Illegals” crossing from the south as they had done for generations? Ups and downs on Wall Street? Mayhem in the Middle East? Let’s blame the President!

  The funny bit, if you could call it that, was when the opposition killed their own pet legislation, just because the White House had endorsed it. Brognola imagined that the Man could wipe out gridlock if he told the country drinking poison was a bad thing. Overnight, a fair percentage of his enemies might kill themselves, to prove him wrong.

  But that was wishful thinking. At the moment, Brognola had real news to deliver—with a plea that it be held back from the media until the final act played out.

  That would be problematic, sure. Washington lived on leaks, and keeping secrets was the hardest job in town.

  Brognola made the call, after he’d doused the acid in his stomach with a couple of pills, waiting while his private line rang through. There was no operator on the other end. The Man was either in, or he was not.

  Three rings, then the familiar voice answered. “So soon?”

  “There is some news, sir,” the big Fed replied, a leap into the deep end. “But I’d like to offer it with a proviso.”

  “News first, then provisos.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was no point cutting off the call. He would have Secret Service agents at his door before the antacid kicked in. “The good news is, we’ve taken three more players off the board.”

  “Sudan? You mentioned that.”

  “Yes, sir. And I have men en route to three more as we speak, in Yemen.”

  “That’s a tough one,” the Man replied. “They claim to be cooperating, but it’s always touch and go. One little drone strike on al-Qaeda, and you’d think that we were in there attacking the government.”

  “This should be deniable,” Brognola said.

  “Should be?”

  “Will be, unless you choose to take it public, sir.”

  “And that, I would presume, is your proviso? You want me to keep it quiet for...how long?”

  “That’s part of the proviso, Mr. President. There’s more.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “We have one more stop to make—at least one more—before we have this all cleaned up. Unfortunately, sir, that stop appears to be in Switzerland.”

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. It may just be coincidental, but with the intel we have, I can’t discount the possibility God’s Hammer may be looking for a big win in Geneva at the summit.”

  “Damn it!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wrap it up, Hal. Pedal to the metal. What else can I tell you? Setting up this meet has taken six months of negotiation, and we haven’t even started in on the agenda topics yet. It will not—I repeat, will not—be canceled. Not for any reason short of Armageddon. Get it?”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “The next report should be an all-clear. Work your magic, Hal. I’m counting on you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brognola said, as the dial tone drilled into his ear.

  Lahij, Yemen

  “THAT’S IT?” GRIMALDI ASKED.

  “Unless Sarhan was feeding us a line of bull.”

  “It’s not likely.”

  “No. I didn’t think so, either,” Bolan agreed.

  The safe house looked as if it had been constructed fifty or sixty years ago, at least. Its stone walls needed chink
ing, and its roof of corrugated metal—likely not the first—was rusted through in spots. Its front door was a slab of faded wood, its lower panels gray from water damage, facing on a street riddled with potholes, where the elements and passing traffic had eroded paving stones.

  “This is the worst dump yet,” Grimaldi said.

  If it’s the right dump, Bolan thought, but didn’t let his mind pursue that course. If Nour Sarhan had managed to deceive them, then their time in Yemen was a total waste, and Bolan didn’t want to think about that with a doomsday clock ticking inside his head.

  Two days remained until the VIPs began to gather in Geneva, and if Saleh Kabeer passed up that golden opportunity, when he was only one hundred fifty miles from target acquisition, there was something seriously wrong with God’s Hammer.

  Something other than religious mania, political fanaticism and a thirst for blood, that was.

  “One time around the block,” Bolan said. “Eyes peeled.”

  “Roger that.”

  They’d scoped the safe house to the highest definition possible on Google Earth, before it blurred out to obscurity, and come up short on likely access routes. The door in front was obvious, and Bolan’s cruising circuit found another at the rear as he’d expected, but the roof was out, too thin and rusty for a stealth approach of any kind.

  When they were back on neutral ground, a street with no direct view of or from the safe house, Bolan parked and asked Grimaldi, “Do you want to flip a coin?”

  The Stony Man pilot shook his head. “I took the front last time. Might as well switch it up.”

  “Suits me,” Bolan replied.

  The street was empty as they stepped out of the Yaris, made adjustments to the weapons slung beneath their raincoats and secured the car. It didn’t seem that odd to Bolan, no one stirring in late afternoon, with men still working and their wives preparing meals that he could smell from where he stood, cooking in houses up and down the street. At any other time, the mixture of aromas might have piqued his appetite, but Bolan wasn’t hungry at the moment.

  He was in a killing mood; no need to question any of the targets they had come for, though it might be helpful if he got the chance, unlikely as that seemed. Unfolding circumstances would determine how much time they had to spare, and Bolan guessed it would be slim to none.

  “I’ll see you,” he told his partner, and heard its echo—“See you”—as Grimaldi turned away, taking his own path to the killing ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Naseem Damari was about to die. He knew that, and despite the hours of torture, wishing that he could die sooner, now his mind rebelled against surrendering the final spark of life. He calculated that the terrorists would shoot him where he was, bound to the straight-backed wooden chair, the concrete floor beneath him speckled with his blood. But if they tried to move him first, he was resolved to fight with whatever pathetic bit of energy remained to him.

  At least, he’d told the interrogator nothing, chiefly because he had nothing to tell. His lieutenant had assigned him to patrol a portion of the weapons stalls in the market, alert for any customers he deemed suspicious—which of them were not?—and making futile inquiries about arms sales to terrorists, as if a vendor in his right mind would admit to such a thing. It had been a foolish, time-wasting assignment, and now it had wasted the rest of Damari’slife.

  It shamed him that he would have told his captors anything to stop the pain they were inflicting on him. Thankfully, pure ignorance had spared him from that last humiliation. If his superiors had known—or truly cared—where foreign terrorists were buying weapons, they could easily have gone directly to the source and shut it down. Futile assignments to the lower-ranking officers presented an appearance of activity without result.

  The interrogator was returning, telling one of his companions, “Yes, I know. Don’t rush me.” As he stepped into Damari’s field of vision, the policeman instantly discovered that the man had removed his latex gloves.

  There was to be no further contact, then. This was indeed the end.

  “You’ve disappointed me,” the man said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Damari replied, fairly certain he would not be struck bare-handed. And if he was wrong, what of it? He could bear another bruise or two before he died.

  “I give you credit for your courage,” the man said. “Naturally, I cannot release you.”

  “Naturally.” Somewhere deep inside, Damari found the strength to force a smile, despite the pain it cost him from his split and swollen lips.

  “You’re not afraid?” the man asked.

  Of course Damari was afraid, but he was not about to let this bastard see it in the final moments of his life. “Get on with it,” he said, doing his damndest to project contempt.

  “So be it.”

  As Damari watched, the man reached around behind his back and drew a pistol from his belt or some concealed holster. Damari recognized it as a SIG Sauer, although he could not guess the caliber or model number. This one’s muzzle was a half inch longer than the usual, and threaded to accept a silencer. No great surprise, then, when the man drew one from his left hip pocket and attached it to the gun with three swift twists.

  “Any last words?” the man asked him, smirking.

  “None that I would waste on you.” Damari answered.

  “Good. Defiant to the end.”

  The man raised his pistol, aiming at Damari’s forehead. At the last second, the policeman closed his eyes—well, one of them—deciding that he would not try to watch the bullet hurtling toward his face. Perhaps it was a lapse into cowardice, but—

  When the shot came, it was loud, a great surprise considering the silence, and yet it seemed to issue from some other room nearby. Damari’s one good eye snapped open, and he saw the man turning to face the source of unexpected noise.

  “Khalid?” he called out, through the open doorway to his right. “Yusuf? What—”

  The explosion swallowed whatever the man meant to say or ask his friends. Its shock wave rattled through the house and tipped Naseem Damari’s chair, slamming his body to the bloodstained concrete floor.

  * * *

  GRIMALDI HAD CIRCLED around behind the house, watching for neighbors all the way and seeing none. No dogs announced his presence as he left the pavement, moving on to private property. Half crouching, doing what he could to make himself obscure in unforgiving daylight, he eased the AK-47 from under his raincoat and thumbed off its safety, ready to rip when Bolan gave the word.

  Default instructions for a backdoor entry were to wait and see what happened out in front, unless an order came to change it up. Based on their last experience with God’s Hammer, in Kassala, there was no way to predict how many shooters might be hiding in the house. Collecting local radicals or mercenaries might be standard operating procedure for this bunch, and while they hadn’t been in Lahij very long, money and tough talk had a way of drawing thugs.

  So he would hope for three and try to be prepared for three or four times that many once the party started. They would have to hit and git, identify as many of the fallen as they could for a report to Stony Man, and then get out of there before police or soldiers made the scene. Above all else, in Grimaldi’s mind, was the need to stay alive.

  He stood at the back door of their target, waiting for the Bluetooth earpiece to announce his next move.

  “Knocking now,” Bolan said. They’d agreed a somewhat casual approach was better than a smash-in from the street side of the house, and now that theory would be tested.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Bolan told him, barely whispering.

  “Ready on this side,” the Stony Man pilot replied.

  Grimaldi had his index finger on the AK-47’s trigger, muzzle pointed at the door before him. Arabs didn’t seem to care for peepholes in their doo
rs, a quirk that pleased Grimaldi as he stood exposed, rifle in hand, waiting to make his move. There were no windows near enough for anyone to glimpse him without leaning into the backyard, and so far the pilot had seen no ripples in their curtains.

  This would have been the time for praying, if he’d been religious, but Grimaldi had no time for dusting off old rituals that hadn’t made much sense when he was learning them the first time, back in catechism class. Whatever happened in the next few seconds, he’d be going it alone, no one but Bolan standing by to help him.

  “Going...now!” Bolan announced, and Grimaldi picked up the sounds of scuffling through his earpiece. When the first shot echoed through the house, he recognized a pistol’s bark, nothing at all like the Kalashnikovs he and his partner carried.

  “Coming!” Grimaldi advised his headset, just before he kicked the back door open and charged into hell.

  * * *

  TAREQ TALHOUNI LANDED on his left side when the world tipped on its axis and upended him. His shoulder made a cracking sound on impact with the concrete floor and drove a spike of pain into his upper chest, but he kept a firm grip on his SIG Sauer pistol as he fell. The clatter of a chair falling behind him warned Talhouni to make sure his prisoner was still secure, and while the move cost him some pain, he was relieved to find Damari still bound, hand and foot.

  A relatively small explosive charge had caused the blast, maybe a hand grenade, preceded by an unmistakable gunshot. He’d been prepared to blame one of his cohorts for the first noise, clumsy as they were, but why would either of them be handling a grenade, much less removing its pin?