Mercy Mission Read online

  Al-Jabir scrambled out the passenger door and fired twice at the trees for cover, then bolted away as a pair of headlights appeared, barreling in his direction. He ran back into the field and felt the headlights sweep across his body with spotlight intensity as the vehicle swerved off the road, tires skidding on the gravel. He heard its engine power it into the field, following hard on his churning heels, and al-Jabir wondered if he’d find a place to lose the thing on terrain like this.

  A small tree less than six feet to his left dissolved into confetti under a burst of murderous machine-gun fire.

  What was that? Al-Jabir had enough experience with man-portable machine guns to know that wasn’t one. He also knew they hadn’t missed. If they wanted him dead, it would have taken a simple sweep of the landscape to cut him down.

  “Stop and drop the weapon.” The order came through a bullhorn and echoed into the night.

  Al-Jabir froze, the scraps of green leaves still fluttering around his ankles, and he let the Glock fall from his sweaty hand.

  2

  Something wasn’t right.

  The man in the shadows knew it when he came upon the altercation at the parked getaway car. The men who tried to arrest al-Jabir didn’t act like cops. The armored SUV that brought the fugitive to the ground, a customized Ford Excursion, definitely was not standard law-enforcement equipment. So who were they? Why were they here? What were their motives?

  He held back, monitoring the situation. He would let the behavior of the newcomers tell him what action to take, if any. If these were agents from a legitimate government agency, then they were welcome to al-Jabir. Let them have the job of returning the fugitive to his cell in the federal penitentiary.

  But the man in the shadows doubted that was their intention.

  Mack Bolan had lived through the hells of war, and the purgatory of more battlefields than he cared to remember. His skills were honed to an uncanny level, but it was his warrior instinct telling him now that things were even stranger than they looked.

  And they became stranger still.

  Khalid al-Jabir was surrounded by three armed men in dark clothing. One of them was the ambusher with the shotgun, the others sported Vektor CR21 assault rifles, and they all kept a healthy cushion of space between themselves and their prisoner. They did not identify themselves. There was no reading of rights. They didn’t even seem anxious to get him into handcuffs. Al-Jabir just stood there with his hands on his head, the discarded Glock inches from his feet.

  “Where are the others?” asked the shotgunner, a man with a heavy build and a bad case of nerves. He looked like an agitated gorilla, pacing, scratching, gesticulating, incapable of standing still.

  “What others?” Al-Jabir feigned ignorance.

  “The ones who sprung you! Don’t play games,” growled the shotgunner.

  “You are the one playing games. You killed those men.”

  “Oh really? When did we do that, amigo?”

  “Only just five minutes ago. Back that way.” Al-Jabir jerked his head slightly back the way he had come.

  Bolan crept through the grass, trying to get close as the heads of two of the men converged. One was Shotgun, who came across as the leader.

  They were in black sweatshirts and sweatpants with black deck shoes—outfits that looked like they were just bought off the rack. The shirts swelled over body armor but the pants clung to their legs. No leg armor. Potentially useful information.

  They never took their eyes off al-Jabir as Bolan moved close enough to hear their quiet exchange.

  “He either killed them himself or they got lucky and got away when we moved in on Khalid at the car,” Shotgun said. “It would be a stroke of luck if he did them.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s another possibility,” the taller, leaner man said. “The others are still in the vicinity. We go hiking around out there, and we’ll be totally exposed.”

  Shotgun shook his head. “Not at all. We have night vision. They don’t. They would have seen no need for it on this jailbreak job.”

  “That’s assuming they didn’t plan on pulling the car off to the side of the road and hiking the last mile. I’m not convinced it was a genuine breakdown.”

  Shotgun rocked from one foot to the other, nodding. “We’ll take the SUV and we’ll all go on thermal, no lights. You drive. Jay will stay at the gun and I’ll walk our friend to the corpses, if there are any. Jay’ll see any warm living bodies before they can reach us, and he’ll swat ⁔em.”

  “You sure it’s worth the risk?” The other man sounded skeptical.

  “Hell, yeah. It makes the hit a lot easier to explain, and that means less likelihood of a full investigation. You gotta know it’ll be the Bureau looking into it.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t care,” Shotgun retorted. “We’re doing it.”

  MACK BOLAN WRESTLED with a list of unusual facts, but every logical structure he tried to make with them collapsed in a mess.

  He had been given a full briefing on al-Jabir. Who he was, why he was in jail, who he really was and why he was important. Aaron Kurtzman, a cybernetic scavenger without peer, had assembled a few meager scraps of information to come up with the background information. One of those scraps was a code name used by a U.S. cell to identify its leader.

  Kurtzman’s network-roaming spiders had come up with an unexpected reference to the code name. The system automatically alerted him, and he read the hacked communiqué with growing dread. He had immediately tried to reach Mack Bolan, the one man who might actually be able to do something about the situation.

  That was eight hours ago. Bolan had been…indisposed, and was unable to respond at once. When his business in Rhode Island was completed, he learned Kurtzman was eager to talk to him. The Stony Man cybernetics master had given him all the details on a jailbreak about to happen, but Kurtzman’s briefing included nothing about an interested third party. Bolan needed to know more.

  He wasn’t going to let them cut down al-Jabir in cold blood, which was what it sounded like they were planning. Not that al-Jabir didn’t deserve to die. It was just that the Iraqi killer had information that Mack Bolan wanted—before he was sent to hell.

  BOLAN MOVED like a shadow after the dangerous caravan that rolled off into the night. First was al-Jabir, hands on his head. It now made sense to Bolan why he wasn’t cuffed. They planned to murder him alongside the bodies of his companions and set it up to look like a fatal fallout occurred among the members of the terrorist cell. Wrists abraded by struggling in handcuffs would be a sign that there was more to the story. Shotgun wanted a nice, neat murder scene, one that would satisfy the FBI with minimal investigation.

  Behind the fugitive walked Shotgun himself, with the big combat 12-gauge pointed unerringly at the sweat-drenched back of his captive. The weapon was the only part of him that stayed still—he was always scratching, wetting his lips, nodding to himself, flipping his bangs off his forehead. He walked just ahead of the Excursion, which had custom exterior styling that did away with any and all brightwork and replaced it with an almost matte black finish. The paint made a token effort at disguising the custom armor body panels. The tires were heavy-duty run-flats. The glass was dark and doubtless bullet resistant.

  The SUV’s most extravagant nonstandard equipment was the oversize moon roof, which slid back to allow a .50-caliber belt-fed machine gun to be elevated out and manned by a gunner standing on footrests. The man Shotgun had called Jay stood there now, protruding from the roof from the waist up.

  If al-Jabir had any thoughts of making a run for freedom, he changed his mind when he got a good look at his escort. The combat shotgun wasn’t three yards behind him. It couldn’t miss, and even if it somehow did, the torrential fire from the machine gun would defoliate the land until it found him and cut him in two.

  Bolan knew precisely where the bodies lay and knew the procession would reach them in minutes, even at their measured pace. He did not have long to act
, but he wasn’t even sure what to do.

  Doubt was an odd sensation for a man like Bolan. He was a veteran of countless interdictions, and was guided by an innate ability to read the hearts of men—at least well enough to identify those worthy of his justice. He was absolutely confident that all of these men were murderers. He wouldn’t hesitate to wipe them out, every one of them, if the situation required it.

  But the stakes were bigger than these four men, and Bolan wanted to know how much bigger. Aaron Kurtzman would want to know too. Bolan was thinking about how to most effectively stir things up. Then Kurtzman could track the disturbance all the way to its source. Then, maybe Bolan would find an opportunity to cut the head off the snake.

  But there was an even more important concern, and as much as it went against his nature he had to make saving the life of Khalid al-Jabir his top priority.

  Al-Jabir knew he would be a dead man as soon as they reached the bodies of his companions, and he was looking for any chance to try to escape, no matter how risky. Al-Jabir had nothing to lose. Bolan knew the fugitive had probably decided that the depression where the bodies lay would offer him the best chance—a place where he just might have enough cover to avoid the gunfire that would come chasing after him the moment he bolted.

  Bolan’s biggest risk came from the machine gunner, who was perched high and wore thermal night-vision goggles that would have made the Executioner stand out in the cool night air. But the machine gunner’s attention was on his prisoner. He never even considered that attackers might come from the rear. Bolan reached the rear bumper unseen and got a handhold, then walked along with the vehicle waiting for the right moment.

  It came seconds later when a rear tire rolled over and crushed a bush with a small bounce. Simultaneously Bolan put his body weight on the big Ford’s seven thousand pounds. The driver never felt the difference. The gunner never sensed the presence of the Executioner and couldn’t quite believe it when somebody spoke right behind him. “Hey.”

  Jay’s head whipped around in time to receive the butt of a heavy black handgun in the temple.

  Bolan caught the slumping body, relieved it quickly of its eye-wear and propped the body on the machine gun, then slithered off the platform into the back seat of the Excursion.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the driver demanded, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Cap’ll ream your ass.”

  Bolan inserted the cold steel muzzle of the Israeli-made Desert Eagle in the man’s neck. “Not if I ream his first.”

  “Who the hell are you?” The driver was disdainful, without a hint of fear in his voice.

  “That’s my question for you,” Bolan said. “You a Company outfit?”

  “Listen, asshole, I ain’t answering none of your fu—” The next sound he made was a combination gag and choke when the cold edge of a heavy blade pressed against his throat. The pressure was strong enough to close his windpipe, and the driver stiffened from the keen edge creasing his skin. He was fully aware that his slightest movement would send it slicing through the flesh.

  The driver lost his attitude.

  “Who?” Bolan said, and released the pressure just enough to allow a squeak of air to pass through the man’s neck.

  “Army. Staff of General Juvenal.”

  “Let me guess—you’re his personal chauffeur, and the clown with the 12-gauge is his secretary.”

  “More or less,” croaked the driver. Bolan could feel the man’s tension under the knife, his body held as motionless as possible while continuing to make the small adjustments to the steering wheel to keep the Excursion rolling over the uneven terrain.

  “Juvenal sent you?” Bolan adjusted the pressure.

  “Not officially,” whispered the driver.

  “So what are you unofficially supposed to be doing?” Bolan asked. “Assassinating Khalid al-Jabir?”

  “Yes!” wheezed the driver, sounding desperate as he fought the rising panic that came from getting not quite enough air to live on.

  “Because he knows about the Seven Scorpions,” Bolan stated.

  The driver’s eyes went wide in the rearview mirror, sufficiently shocked to momentarily forget about the gun pressing into his skull and the knife edge drawing blood against his throat.

  “Seven Scorpions?” The driver’s stammering made him sound unconvincing.

  “The prisoners.”

  “What prisoners?”

  Bolan glared into the mirror. “You’re a bad liar. Thanks for the confirmation. Maybe I’ll let General Juvenal know it was you who implicated him.”

  The driver’s eyes swam in lunatic circles, and his lips pursed to optimize his intake of each tiny breath. Bolan watched the panic bubble swell, then burst. The driver twisted his neck and jerked aside to free it from the blade while twisting the wheel. Bolan’s iron grip on the blade held fast, and the result was suicide—the driver sliced his own throat. Bolan leaped for the steering wheel as the driver went limp, whipping it back on course.

  Shotgun was staring at the misbehaving SUV, and it was quite possible that with all the lights off he would be able to glimpse the events going on inside the vehicle—enough to know something was going wrong. They went from bad to worse as al-Jabir took the opportunity to make a break for it.

  Bolan saw it happen as if in slow motion. The fugitive launched himself into a run. Shotgun spun and raised his weapon to shoot the fleeing man in the back. Bolan had just one course of action, and it was not good enough. But he did it anyway. He yanked the wheel, aiming the big Ford at Shotgun, and extended his reach to shove the limp body of the driver onto the floor, hoping his foot still somehow managed to stay on the accelerator pedal.

  The long shot failed. The Ford did lurch forward unexpectedly and bore down on its target, but by then the combat shotgun had fired into the night.

  Bolan saw al-Jabir vanish into the small depression where the bodies of his comrades lay. The darkness and confusion made it impossible to judge if the man dropped in the instant before or after the 12-gauge blast.

  There was a crunch when the armored front end of the SUV bounced the shotgunner into the night, flopping him into the weeds like a squashed raccoon. Bolan twisted himself into the front seat, manhandled the driver unceremoniously out the door and accelerated toward the weedy depression where al-Jabir had dropped. He flipped on the high beams and braked hard, tearing up the earth under the heavy tons of steel and struggling to control the big vehicle before it went into the hole.

  But his concentration was on what was revealed by the lights—and the gamble paid off. Al-Jabir was crouched in the weeds, blinded by the sudden intensity of light and scrambling away from the locomotive-like thunder of the 300-horsepower V-10 that sounded entirely out of control.

  Al-Jabir was tearing out of the pit when the Excursion halted with its front wheels just over the rim. Bolan dragged it into reverse as the weight of the 6.8-liter engine became too much and the ground crumbled under the front wheels. The tires spun and caught, displacing several cubic yards of sandy soil before dragging the SUV to freedom. Bolan steered it around the pit, pursuing al-Jabir.

  There he was, sprinting cross-country. The high beams showed sparse prairie grass and scrubby bushes, but nothing that would hide the fugitive for the next hundred yards. Bolan bore down on him, forcing him to leap out of the path of the huge SUV. By the time the Executioner had maneuvered the Excursion through a trench-digging 360, al-Jabir was on his feet and running in the opposite direction. Bolan’s tactic didn’t change. He drove at the fugitive’s back until the man dodged again, this time with less agility.

  By the time Bolan had the vehicle turned al-Jabir was on the hoof again, but his weariness was showing. The soldier bore down on his heels and al-Jabir found a burst of energy, suddenly making a last-second sprint for the cover of the trees.

  Bolan tapped the gas and the Excursion slammed into the fugitive, swatting him to the ground, only for him to stagger drunkenly to his feet. His face was a mask of
dirt, and blood splattered from his panting lips. Bolan saw his prey broadcast his next move with his eyes.

  Al-Jabir bolted toward the SUV, intending to run alongside and behind it and get a good head start while Bolan wasted precious seconds making the turnaround. But the soldier did not let it happen. The moment al-Jabir shot toward him the Excursion veered, and they intersected like a baseball bat meeting a rotten tomato.

  Bolan cut the lights and slid out, covering al-Jabir with the business end of the big Desert Eagle. The fugitive had the eyes-wide, bitter look of a man who had been defeated despite exhaustive effort. He panted and tried to see the shadowed face of the man who had run him to ground.

  “Just shoot. I don’t deserve to be toyed with like a rat.”

  Bolan grimaced. “There’s nothing you don’t deserve.”

  Al-Jabir never saw the foot that lashed out at his face and drove him into semiconsciousness, and before he overcame the stunning blow he was trussed up, his wrists bound behind his back in disposable handcuffs, while plastic cords looped around his neck and through the cuffs. His body was lifted off the ground as if without effort. When he tried to stand up straight, he found himself struggling to balance the pain in his arms and throat.

  “My arms are going to break!” he complained. Then al-Jabir saw something curious. The man who had taken him prisoner was backing away and peering into the darkness.

  Al-Jabir abruptly pictured the one with the combat shotgun, who had nearly blasted his skull from his shoulders. The man had been knocked off his feet by the front end of the SUV, but that didn’t mean he was dead. Al-Jabir tried to bolt for the protection of the SUV, but out of the night came a shotgun blast and a hot swarm of pellets tore into his flesh, sending him sprawling to the earth one more time.

  Al-Jabir was in hell, and in hell he was a mongrel dog who got smacked down again and again. And always there was pain.

  BOLAN TARGETED the blast and triggered the Desert Eagle twice, riding out the recoil of the .44 Magnum rounds. After the echoes of the shots receded in his head there was only the rumble of the idling SUV.