Stealth Assassin Read online

  The fort had been constructed of mud and stone, and Bolan thought it had to have once shone a bright yellow in the midday sun. But that had probably been close to a century ago. Years of neglect and sand and wind had etched a pitted surface into the stones and mortar. Several sections of the wall had worn away, leaving piles of jagged and uneven rocks that slowed their progress.

  The grinding noise of a vehicle engine starting mixed with another milder, but continuous, droning that pierced the stillness of the night.

  Bolan raised his fist, signaling a full stop. He listened. The engine caught and settled into a rough idle. The sound was loud and deep, like a truck.

  Voices, speaking in Arabic, were audible among the rumbling piston noise. Twin beams of headlights illuminated the darkness perhaps forty feet away, and Bolan saw the flat, macadamized surface of the winding road he’d seen depicted in the drone photos. The front end of a quarter-ton pickup truck pulled forward from the pillars of an overhang, its headlights washing over the curving dirt road. He raised the night-vision goggles to his eyes and pressed the button to enlarge the image. The bed of the truck was covered by a black tarp, so the contents could not be seen. From the look of it, the vehicle was heavily laden with something. It swung around and began driving away from the fortress. He was unable to tell how many occupants were inside.

  Bolan keyed his mic. “Jack, we’ve got a pickup moving away from the target. Possibly moving southeast toward the seaport road.”

  “Roger that. Want me to light ’em up?”

  “Negative. We’re not sure who it is. See if you can swing back and maintain surveillance.”

  Grimaldi answered with a click.

  The chopper would use up more fuel, so that meant the time factor had just been diminished. Bolan pointed to the entrance and began a rapid, but cautious trek toward the archway from which the truck had come. What intelligence they’d gotten indicated that Sharif had come into possession of a stockpile of sarin nerve gas, most likely from one of the factions in Syria. If he planned to use it again to launch an attack against the Saudis, some or all of it could be in that pickup. Or it could be unrelated. Bolan was willing to bet on the former rather than the latter, and wasn’t going to take any chances. He’d instruct Grimaldi to take the pickup out as soon as they’d finished the interior work. He had to be certain that Sharif was definitely accounted for, if possible, and the sound of a missile taking out the truck would surely sound the alarm inside the fortress.

  He motioned for Johnson and Washington to move down the slope first, angling toward the perpendicular wall of the jutting building that was adjacent to the archway. Bolan then followed with Vargas and Miller behind him. Johnson was at the edge now and took a quick peek. He held up his left hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Bolan stopped behind Washington and patted the man’s shoulder. The ranger repeated the contact on Johnson’s arm and he moved around the corner with Washington taking his place. Once Johnson had secured his position at the next cover point, the others followed, two at a time in rapid, yet stealthy, movements.

  Bolan saw the archway extended a good twenty yards or so along the front of the building, then abruptly ended in an immense pile of stones. He could also see a large opening on the right side that led into the building itself. Light shone around the top and bottom of a long, black curtain that was perhaps twenty feet long. The stuttering, whining sound of a portable generator could be heard within the confines of the structure.

  Bolan took the lead and went to the curtain, crouching and peeling back the edge. It was made of a black, silky material, almost like a dark parachute, and suspended from a metallic pipe wedged in between the stones. Inside he saw a group of ten men sitting around smoking, and drinking from tin cups. A bronze kettle, tea most likely, was on a nearby stove. The generator sat in the far corner, and three large lights illuminated the room. Beyond them the room narrowed into a corridor perhaps twenty feet wide which extended into darkness. A gray forklift was parked off to the side, and next to it stacks of what appeared to be wooden pallets. Bolan recognized one of the men as Ali Sharif. The man rolled a swath of greenish leaves into a ball and stuck it in his mouth.

  Khat, no doubt, Bolan thought.

  He knew the drug was omnipresent in Somalia, and frequently used in Yemen, as well. The substance induced an amphetamine-like energy, but also dulled the senses and could make the user both paranoid and jumpy. Each man had an AK-47 across his lap or within easy reach. This wasn’t going to be a simple extraction after all.

  Two single wooden pallets sat on the floor to the left of the group. Each one contained a braced, vertical row of white-tipped artillery shells with “GB Gas 105 mm” stenciled across the front. That was the NATO designation for sarin gas. Bolan counted the shells. Twenty on each pallet.

  Intel had estimated that Sharif was in possession of between sixty and eighty. This appeared to be half of them. Bolan wondered if the departing truck held the rest, but there was no time to try to verify that. Grimaldi was definitely going to have to knock it out. He moved back and briefed the others on what he’d seen.

  “I’m going to instruct the Black Hawk to take out that pickup in two minutes,” he whispered. “It’s most likely loaded with sarin artillery shells. The rest of them appear to be spread out inside on two pallets. We’ve got no time for any more surveillance, or stealth. Sharif’s inside, third man on the left, and he’s got nine buddies with him. They’re all armed with AKs and are chewing on khat.”

  The faces of the four men remained grim.

  “Ordinarily, I’d flip them a grenade,” Bolan said. “But we can’t afford to set off that nerve gas or we’ll all be facing a very unpleasant end. So you three move to the far end.” He pointed at Johnson, Washington and Miller. “Vargas and I will hit them first. Controlled fire, aim high, avoid hitting those gas shells or it’s all over.”

  “Can’t we just back off and call in an airstrike?” Miller asked.

  Bolan shook his head. “No time.”

  “How about the Black Hawk?” he suggested.

  “He’s got enough to do, and I don’t want to take the chance of his rotors stirring up any gas blowback. It’s up to us to take this stuff out. It’s a binary gas delivery system, so unless the rupture plate inside the shell separating the two gases is broken, the gas won’t be lethal.”

  Miller grimaced, then nodded quickly.

  “What about Sharif?” Johnson whispered.

  Bolan considered that. He had a Taser that they hoped to use to stun the terrorist so he could be brought back alive, as ordered, but his first responsibility was to accomplish the mission and bring his men back safely.

  “Let’s see how it plays out,” he said. “Chances of taking him alive are slim, and I’m not about to announce ourselves and ask him to surrender. If we can, we’ll recover fingerprints and DNA for identification, but our survival and the destruction of the sarin are our first priorities here.”

  The men nodded again and spread out to approach the curtain from either side. Bolan crept back to the right side and adjusted his select lever to full-auto. He waited a few more seconds to give the others a chance to get into position, but then, fate intervened.

  The curtain was ripped back just as Johnson was making his way across. The Arab’s face registered initial shock, but then the man shouted something and his comrades sprang for their weapons. One of them, whose weapon was on his lap, reacted swiftly and sent a deadly spray from his rifle. Johnson twisted in the air and crumpled to the ground.

  Bolan shot the man firing the AK-47 first, and then the one at the curtain. As the guy dropped to the ground, the Executioner kicked his adversary’s weapon away, then ducked back behind cover and sent a short burst into one of the other gunners. Three of the Arabs crouched behind the forklift, and the others attempted to run for the far side of the room, away from the stockpile of gas-filled artillery shells. Using controlled fire and quick target acquisition, Bolan picked off three
more of the fleeing terrorists. That left four more, including Sharif.

  Johnson lay in the center of the gravel expanse. Bolan tapped his helmet directing the others to provide cover fire. He then moved toward Johnson, firing his weapon on full-auto as he ran. The others sent a blistering volley toward the jihadists hiding behind the forklift. As Bolan grabbed his Johnson’s vest handle, several rounds zipped by him. He sent a spray of bullets in the enemy’s direction and began dragging his injured comrade toward the protection of the stone archway. Vargas stepped out and grabbed Johnson’s arm and pulled. More bullets bounced around them as they yanked the man to temporary safety.

  “See how bad he’s hit,” Bolan told Vargas. His voice sounded distorted and far away, despite the specially designed earplugs that blocked all sudden noise in the dangerous decibel range. The Executioner then reloaded and made another assessment. Two adversaries were still crouched behind the forklift. Two more, one of them Sharif, were running down a long corridor into the darkness going deeper into the building. Bolan concentrated his aim on the farthest man by the forklift and fired. The man ducked back, the rounds generating sparking flashes against the metallic cover. The closest man glanced around, then stood up. He raced forward, shouting in Arabic while turning and firing his weapon at the pallets containing the shells.

  “The son of a bitch’s trying to set off the gas!” Miller shouted.

  The other Arab’s eyes widened, and he got up and began to run.

  The Executioner zeroed in on the shouting terrorist and fired. The man’s head jerked back, then he collapsed to the ground. Miller sighted on the back of the running man and squeezed off a burst, sending him sprawling, face-first to the ground.

  Bolan keyed his mic. “Doerr, sitrep.”

  “Still at my post, sir. Looks like a hell of a firefight.”

  “Keep alert for any reinforcements. Johnson’s down. We’re going inside.” Without waiting for a reply, Bolan motioned for Washington to accompany him, leaving Vargas and Miller at the opening. “Set some charges on these shells. We’ll be back.”

  They moved cautiously down the long corridor, cognizant that an ambush most probably awaited them at some point. Bolan took the lead. The residual light from the generator had completely faded, and he flipped down his night-vision goggles again. The area in front of him immediately materialized in a profusion of clear, green luminosity. Scanning the corridor, he saw one man crouching next to a stone abutment on the left aiming his AK-47 at them. Sharif had positioned himself on the other side of the corridor on his partner’s left. He was ensconced behind crumbled sections of large stones. Both men were obviously without night-vision assistance and most likely were relying on sound to locate their next targets.

  Bad mistake, Bolan thought.

  He fired a quick burst and zippered the first gunner’s chest. As the man fell, the Executioner quickly shifted to his left, flattening against the wall and far from the center of the corridor, anticipating that Sharif would fire at the last muzzle-flashes.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  A series of bright wisps of flames ignited in Bolan’s green-tinged viewfinder. Seconds later the definitive green world returned to its previous clarity, providing the Executioner with a clear vision of Sharif’s grimly twisted face. Bolan sent another burst into the man’s chest.

  Sharif’s body jerked like an errant marionette whose strings had been severed, and he crumpled into a heap. Bolan moved forward at an oblique angle, as Washington moved in from the other side, stepping on the barrel of the first Arab’s weapon then pulling it free.

  Bolan rolled Sharif over. Blood poured from the chest wounds.

  “You are too late, infidel,” he said, the blood spraying from his lips as he spoke.

  Bolan said nothing as he watched the dying man.

  Sharif started to say something else, but convulsed several times, and then ceased moving, his eyes no longer focused on anything.

  “He dead?” Washington asked.

  “Yeah, he is.” Shifting his weapon, the Executioner squatted and tossed the AK-47 aside, then began to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing except matches, cigarettes and a wrinkled paper containing more khat. He keyed his mic to call Grimaldi, but got no response.

  “No reception in here,” he said to Washington. “We’re too deep. Go back to the others and get Doerr down here. We’re shoving off as soon as we set the charges.”

  “What about our target?” Washington indicted the fallen Sharif.

  “I’ll get an ID sample,” Bolan said, and took out his KA-BAR.

  Washington shouldered the recovered AK-47, then grabbed Sharif’s rifle. “No sense leaving these behind.”

  “Put them with the artillery shells,” Bolan said. “They can all go up together.”

  Washington looked askance. “I was thinking war souvenirs.”

  He shrugged. “As long as you carry them.”

  Washington grinned and slung the second rifle.

  Bolan straightened the index finger of Sharif’s right hand, flattened it against the stone floor, then adjusted the blade of the KA-BAR.

  Bringing Sharif’s body back with them was out of the question. Some blood and a bit of flesh would have to do. He pressed the blade downward.

  Standing, he placed the samples in a special packet and placed it in his pants pocket. Another glance at his watch indicated that the numbers were counting down rapidly. He jogged back down the corridor, flipping up the night-vision goggles as he got closer to the light. Miller was finishing up. He looked at Bolan.

  “We found a bunch of C-4 and some detonator caps,” he said. “Got everything just about set.”

  Bolan nodded and went to check on Johnson. Doerr was standing alongside Washington as Vargas applied pressure to Johnson’s leg.

  “He needs a medivac,” Vargas said.

  Bolan keyed his mic and called Grimaldi again.

  “Back at ya, Striker.”

  “You still have that pickup in sight?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Bolan paused to smile at his partner’s levity, despite the situation. But that was Grimaldi. Always ready with a wisecrack.

  “Light it up, then come back for us. We’ve got a casualty so we’ll designate with red smoke. Stay clear of this structure. We’re igniting some sarin.”

  “Roger that.”

  A distant burst of fire flickered in the distance. A rumble of sound drifted by them several seconds later.

  Bolan indicated that Doerr and Vargas were to carry Johnson. He checked the wind direction and pointed. “Let’s make sure we stay upwind of the detonation.”

  Miller grunted and said he’d stay until they were far enough away before setting off the blast.

  “We won’t leave without you,” Bolan said, and followed the others down the slope toward the flat expanse of the road, the LZ.

  The stuttering sound of the helicopter moving toward them became audible.

  Bolan keyed his mic. “Blow it.”

  Fifty yards away a yellowish tongue of flames thrust out from the front of the old stone structure, then disappeared into a punctuating rumble of collapsing rocks and mortar. Bolan uncapped the flare and slammed the igniter against his thigh, sending a trail of red smoke upward.

  “Got you, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio.

  The chopping sound of the helicopter grew closer, and Bolan saw Miller running toward them.

  After checking on Johnson, who made a weak thumbs-up gesture, Bolan watched as Grimaldi expertly guided the Black Hawk onto the gravel expanse about forty feet away.

  “Let’s go home,” he said, motioning his team toward the chopper.

  Chapter Two

  Arlington, Virginia

  Warren Novak used his index finger to tip over the black king on the far side of the chessboard. He preferred the tactile pleasure of handling the carved, wooden pieces when playing, even if it was only a solitary game taken from one o
f his many chess problem books. He sighed at the ease with which he’d won, and poured himself another dash of the fine Kentucky bourbon. Novak made a silent vow that if the phone didn’t ring before he finished it, he would give up for the night and go to bed after the conclusion of the evening news. The idiots on television with their pathetic lead-ins had barely touched on the ongoing congressional committee hearings. But then again, those things had become as commonplace as traffic accidents of late.

  Train wrecks would be more appropriate, he thought. No one realized that the fate of the whole damn country was affected by the self-serving antics of the political posers. It was all about getting their faces in front of the cameras. To hell with what was actually good for the country.

  He smiled as he sipped his drink, and felt the burn going all the way down.

  Few things were better than vintage bourbon. If only all his troubles could be washed away with a good drink, but it was never that easy when the politicians, with their hypocritical displays of moral outrage, were clamoring for somebody else to be held accountable.

  The several million dollars in purported research grants, the inflated costs of research and development, the violations of the specifics in the defense contract, the special perks that were being funneled back to the Baron & Allan Corporation—and good old Congressman Eddie Meeks would be held accountable if the congressman from Illinois, the self-proclaimed “conscience of Congress,” got his way.

  Life was like a game of chess. One had to maintain both perspective and control to win. Still, there were other factors to be considered. Meeks, being African American and of the same party as William “Call me Bill” Oglethorpe, would inject a certain amount of reticence in the committee’s investigation. But that wouldn’t last forever, and they’d be standing in line to throw Meeks under the bus when the time came.