Cold Judgment Read online

  The Executioner caught nothing of the swift exchange in Arabic, might not have understood the words if they were speaking English, but he recognized the sentry's panic, felt it strike a responsive chord in his interrogator. Something had occurred that demanded Arrani's presence elsewhere in the castle, and without delay.

  Arrani barked an order to Amal, and Bolan braced himself, determined not to scream as he was torn to shreds. When nothing happened after several heartbeats, Bolan peered through slitted eyelids, studying Arrani's face.

  "Your friend has chosen to resist," the sheikh's second-in-command said, frowning. "He will join you soon, if he survives. Perhaps you will be privileged to see him questioned for a time before I must return to you."

  "Don't do me any favors."

  "Rest assured that I will not. Before I finish with you, death itself will seem a favor, and it will be slow in coming."

  Bolan forced a smile, despite the pain, his mental clock already running down the calculations. Sooner than you think, he thought.

  * * *

  "Listen!"

  Sarah froze and waited for the sound to be repeated. When it came, there was no room for doubt; the distant echo, barely audible, was automatic-weapon fire.

  Beside her, Mari tensed and took a tighter grip on her rifle. "What is happening? What does it mean?"

  Sarah had no answers, just a driving sense of urgency that would not let her linger in the corridor. "We have to hurry," she responded. "There is no more time."

  But as she moved along the tunnel, ready with her own Kalashnikov to take out any opposition, Sarah could not drive the haunting questions from her mind. If Belasko was in custody, then who were the Assassins firing on? And who was firing back? If his companion had escaped Arrani's dragnet, then they still might have an ally who was prepared to help them free the American.

  Except that Belasko's accomplice would not know they were his allies. At a glance, they would be simply harem girls with guns, no less a danger than the sentries in the tunnels who were hunting him. A sudden meeting could be deadly, and while Sarah had no wish to kill the man she had seen but twice, and briefly, she did not intend to let him kill her, either.

  "This way!"

  They had reached a major intersection in the labyrinth, and Sarah led her comrades to the left, in the direction of the cellars. The underground layout of the castle had been filed away in detail in her mind, different sections memorized and studied over seven months. She knew their only hope of freedom lay behind them, but she would not allow herself to cut and run without at least attempting to deliver the American from the hands of his interrogators.

  Forty yards, more or less, until the tunnel branched again, and they must once again bear left. From there, it was approximately fifty yards to the staircase that would take them into the bowels of Alamut. Despite her dedication to the defense of Israel, years had passed since Sarah had accepted literally the tenets of her faith. She could understand the Christian's concept of hell, and if hell did exist, she could think of no more fitting epicenter for it than the dungeons of the Eagle's Nest.

  They were proceeding to the turn at a rapid pace when half a dozen guards appeared from nowhere, moving toward them on a hard collision course. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. One of the Ismaili riflemen had seen them, confused at first, then galvanized by the peculiar spectacle of harem girls with automatic weapons in their hands. He barked a warning to the others, hit a combat crouch and swung up his AK-47, prepared to fire.

  Sarah hit him with a burst that cut his legs from under him and bounced him off the stony wall, a rag-doll figure folding to the ground. His comrades scattered instantly, some of them diving prone, others huddling in doorways, flattening themselves against the wall, returning fire. The corridor became a shooting gallery with human targets ranged at either end and no-man's land between.

  Already prone and wriggling toward the cover of a doorway, Sarah was surprised to see Michelle still crouching in the middle of the corridor and blazing with her pistol, features locked into a mask of grim determination. As a European, she had suffered much from the Ismaili pigs at Alamut, and now she seemed intent on evening the score. As Sarah watched, Michelle dropped one man, then another, twisted figures squirming on the floor as she continued squeezing off in rapid-fire.

  Suddenly the action of Michelle's weapon froze, locked open on an empty chamber, lazy smoke curls rising from the breech. She squeezed the trigger once or twice without result, then jettisoned the empty magazine and fumbled at her waist for another.

  Downrange, a rifleman popped out of hiding to release a short precision burst. The bullets stitched a line of bloody holes across her midriff, and she sat down hard, a stunned expression on her face. The eyes she turned toward Sarah had the glassy look of rapidly approaching death.

  A second burst made tatters of her filmy blouse and sequined vest, erasing any hint of life and pummeling her body backward to the floor. Half blinded by her sudden and unwelcome tears, Sarah squeezed off a burst that dropped Michelle's murderer, left him writhing in his death throes while his two surviving comrades went to ground.

  The odds were even now in terms of numbers, but the numbers scarcely told it all. The two Assassins had been trained to kill, indoctrinated to the point where they would welcome death in battle as a boon, a sweet reward. While Sarah's combat training might surpass theirs, her comrade, Mari, had no training whatsoever, and the rounds she had fired so far had threatened only ceiling-mounted fixtures.

  They were still effectively outnumbered, and every passing heartbeat meant the possibility of reinforcements, more Assassins joining the ranks of their beleaguered brothers — even creeping up to take the women from behind. The sudden thought made Sarah glance across her shoulder, and she very nearly missed the charge of the Assassins when it came.

  A thinking man would certainly have held his place, pinned down his enemy and hoped for reinforcements, but the two Assassins had been stung by near-defeat at female hands, and they were confident of their ability to take the women now. With planning, with a bit of stealth, they might have pulled it off, but chauvinism and an overdose of confidence dictated that the riflemen would make their play with absolute disdain of their opponents.

  Sarah snapped a warning to Mari and sighted down the barrel of her weapon as her adversaries broke from cover. Firing as they ran, the two men sprayed the corridor chest-high, unmindful of the fact that their opponents had already gone to ground. Their rounds went wild, caroming off walls and spraying chips of stone before they whispered along the corridor.

  Holding down the trigger of her AK-47, Sarah caught her target at the waist and dropped him, his body twisting, jerking with the impact of the slugs. Across the hallway, Mari's man was down and dying, but he still had strength enough to use his Uzi submachine gun, and the probing rounds were falling closer to their mark. A short burst took his head off, and the Uzi coughed a final spurt of death downrange before his finger slackened on the trigger.

  Rising, Sarah moved among the dead, relieving them of ammo magazines, that she immediately tucked inside the waistband of her pants. There was no point in checking Michelle; the second burst had killed her outright, and her sightless eyes were open, as dull as fractured marbles in the artificial light.

  "Let's go!" she snapped at Mari.

  "But Michelle…"

  "Is dead. We're not. We still have work to do."

  "For the American?" There was a hint of bitterness in Mari's tone.

  "For us. We need him if we're going to get out of here alive."

  "All right, then."

  Sarah led the way and wondered how much truth her words contained. Could Belasko help them get out of the Eagle's Nest alive? Was he alive, or had they come too late? Did it make any difference in the long run?

  Doubts and questions spinning in her mind, the lady from Mossad struck off along the corridor. The hour was late, and she had nowhere left to go but down.

  * * * />
  Hafez Kasm heard the anxious voices just ahead and knew that he was coming to the cellar stairs. There would be guards, of course. He had been counting on it. But it would be helpful if he knew their number, their position in the corridor beyond his line of sight. A blind assault was a double risk, and he could not count on taking out all his enemies before one had a chance to bring him down.

  The corridor curved gently, and Kasm would be within their range of vision if he took a few more steps — too far away to rush them with any chance of success, near enough for them to fire on him when he showed himself. It was a hazardous position, either way. He could hear troops hot on his heels, men intent on tracking down the gunner who had killed their comrades.

  His situation made the choice, removed it from his hands. It would be suicide to stand and wait, to allow the enemy to catch him in a pincers, pin him in a cross fire with no hiding place. If he was bound to die, at least he could initiate the contact, take a number of Assassins with him when he fell, instead of waiting to be slaughtered like a bullock in the charnel house.

  He tucked the AK-47 beneath one arm and removed two frag grenades from his cartridge belt. He yanked the pins on both, his fingers holding safety spoons in place, and edged his way along the curving tunnel, halting when he caught a glimpse of his assailants at the limit of the curve.

  It was a tricky shot, left-handed, and he wouldn't have a second chance to get it right. If either hand grenade fell short, rebounded on him, he would have to scramble for his life, directly toward his angry pursuers.

  He pitched the first grenade, a looping underhand, and saw it strike the wall, bounding toward his enemies. The second followed in a heartbeat, and he dropped to a crouch, clutching at his rifle as the hopeless warning shouts erupted just beyond his line of sight. The patter of scrambling feet, and then the shock wave of a double detonation rocked him on his heels, a roiling haze of smoke obscuring his advance.

  There had been five of them, at least, and three were down, two of those writhing, clawing at their wounds. He concentrated on the men who were on their feet and knocked them over with the AK-47, short precision bursts designed to clear his way without expending too much precious ammunition. He would be needing it before the night was over, and he didn't have a round to spare.

  The stairwell leading to the cellars lay open before him, seemingly unguarded. He had made it this far, but he was not ready to descend. Not yet.

  Angry voices swelled behind him and drew inexorably closer, trackers answering the sounds of battle, homing on the kill. They would expect to find him dead or dying, their comrades avenged, but he would have a small surprise in store for them when they arrived.

  He unhooked the last frag grenade from his belt and freed the pin, his fingers tight around the lethal egg as he crouched to wait. The hunters were approaching rapidly, were almost on him now. Kasm imagined he could smell them in the corridor, which reeked of smoke and death. Soon…

  The first Assassin blundered into view, and the Syrian let fly with the grenade, deliberately lobbing it behind the man. He swung up his rifle before the high-explosive charge touched down and was already firing, bringing down the first live targets, when another smoky thunderclap ripped through the tunnel. Two or three of them were moving, struggling to rise, and he dispatched them swiftly, emptying the rifle's magazine and ramming home a fresh one as the echoes of annihilation died away.

  There would be others, but they would take some time to reach him. In the meantime, he was ready to hit the cellars.

  Hafez Kasm offered up a prayer, and without a backward glance he started down the stairs.

  19

  At first, the sounds of battle came to Bolan like a dream, a hint of muffled thunder in the distance. When he tried to turn his head the effort sent a bolt of agony along his neck and down his spine, and he became conscious of his precarious position.

  They had left him on the rack, limbs rigid, hips and shoulders straining, almost at the breaking point. It was impossible for Bolan to relax his posture, rest his back or buttocks on the rough-hewn wooden bed.

  The soldier clenched his teeth and concentrated on the sound of automatic-weapon fire. Clear-headed now, he recognized that it was louder, closer, than he had initially believed. The sound of an explosion had roused him, and now a second went off nearby.

  Grenades?

  He had lost track of time, admittedly, but if Grimaldi and his strike force had arrived, their thunder would have shaken down the palace walls instead of merely echoing along a corridor and down the stairs.

  He thought immediately of Hafez Kasm — still at large, according to Tahir Arrani — and the urgent summons that had drawn Arrani from his toil. There was a possibility that the Syrian had escaped the hunters, armed himself somehow… but why would he be fighting near the dungeon? Bolan's orders had been terse, explicit: if their cover was destroyed, Kasm should do his best to save himself, escape and carry word of the Assassins to his contacts in the Company. The Syrian had grudgingly agreed.

  But had he kept his word?

  Bolan recognized the telltale rattle of an AK-47. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, but his position on the rack would not permit a clear view of the staircase. He was braced for anything as boot heels clomped across the stony floor, relief disarming Bolan as he recognized the visage of Hafez Kasm.

  "You're supposed to be long gone," he growled, but without conviction.

  "I was unavoidably delayed."

  Kasm attacked the buckles on the cuffs, and Bolan let himself go limp as tension on his spine and shoulders was released. He ached from head to toe, but a preliminary shakedown told him there had been no lasting damage. If he could manage to stand and keep himself in motion, he should be all right.

  Kasm had knocked the pins out of the shackles, and the soldier flexed his aching legs, allowing circulation to return before he sat upright, swung his feet over the edge of the rack. He stood, tottered for an instant, caught himself and took a few exploratory steps to gain his balance.

  "Here."

  The Syrian had found Bolan's clothing, and he waited as the soldier dressed, supporting him when the warrior staggered while slipping on his trousers. When his combat boots were laced, the Executioner stood tall and tried to loosen up with a few tame calisthenics. Rapid visuals confirmed his first suspicion that no weapons had been left at his disposal.

  "We should go now."

  Bolan frowned. Kasm was right, of course; they had no choice. But he didn't enjoy the thought of roaming through the tunnels empty-handed, bumping into hunting parties with no means of self-defense. There was the Tekna, but he had no realistic hope of getting close enough to stab his enemies.

  "I feel a little naked."

  "Here, take this," the Arab offered, holding out his own Kalashnikov. "I'll find another on the way."

  "No, thanks. I'll bag my own. Let's roll."

  He turned back toward the stairs… and froze. Amal was watching from the bottom step, his submachine gun trained in their direction, almost casually. He muttered something to Kasm and wagged the stuttergun for emphasis.

  "We are commanded to surrender," the Syrian told him simply, lowering his rifle until it was pointed at the floor.

  "No way. We've got to take him down. On three."

  "I am not certain…"

  "One."

  Amal was scowling at them, glancing rapidly from one man to the other.

  "If I miss him…"

  "Two."

  The enforcer barked another command. There was murder in his eyes, as he raised the Uzi to his shoulder.

  "Three!"

  As Bolan pivoted and hurled himself away, intent on drawing the squat Assassin's fire, he knew that he was betting heavily against the odds.

  The roar of automatic weapons buffeted Bolan's ears and followed him down.

  * * *

  Following the beacon's homing signal, Phantoms holding tight formation on his flanks, Grimaldi prayed that everything was on sch
edule at the target. Obviously Bolan had been able to secure the homer, but that told Grimaldi nothing of the big guy's present situation, his ability to bail out of the dragon's lair before the sky came crashing down around his ears.

  At their present air speed, it would take less than fifteen minutes to reach the target. The strike would be dead on schedule, the jets coming in beneath the coastal radar, avoiding major population centers as they skimmed across the rocky landscape. Dead on schedule, and Grimaldi knew that he couldn't delay the strike for Bolan's sake, not even by a moment. It was do or die, and Bolan knew the rules by heart. Hell, he had written many of the rules himself.

  The rules said that every soldier was expendable; no individual was more important than the mission of the moment, and combatants in the field were expected to sacrifice themselves, if necessary, to ensure the operational success of their assignment. Simple, right.

  Until you got to know the soldier, one-to-one. Until you recognized Mack Bolan as a friend, the man who turned your life around when it was going nowhere fast and kept you on the track until you found yourself again. When friendship was involved, where righteous love came into play, the game plan wasn't simple anymore.

  But Jack Grimaldi knew his role, and he would play it out, whatever the result. He knew he'd grieve if the warrior bought it, but he would not allow the loss to break him down. He knew, as well as Bolan, that the war they fought was constant, everlasting, and a midnight raid in Syria would no more constitute a final victory than it would guarantee world peace.

  But it would be a start, another holding action won against the savages, and in the last analysis, a transient victory was all that they could hope for. While the human race included savages and sadists, venal men and venomous fanatics, there would always be another field of conflict, one more battle to be joined. And if the Syrian excursion closed the file on Bolan, finally, then Jack Grimaldi would be standing by to help take up the slack.