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  His fingers found a jagged piece of rock, sticking out of the ground. He snagged it, bringing his momentum to an arm-wrenching stop. Stones continued to cascade down the slope. He groaned. His whole body hurt: his legs, his buttocks and his back were battered and bruised. His left ankle was also sore but didn’t feel twisted. He slowly sat up and removed the rifle to examine it and cursed. The magazine was gone, lost on the hillside having come loose during the slide. There would be one bullet in the chamber, but he could no longer count on the rifle’s reliability.

  The sound of the subsiding rubble died away as the mini avalanche came to a rest. It remained to be seen if anybody had heard the commotion.

  From up above, several automatic rifles opened up, answering the question for him.

  * * *

  XIBLINTI CRESTED THE HILL, followed closely by some of his patrol. The soldiers were nervous. The shooting prowess of the American had clearly spooked them. Xiblinti snorted. The American had been lucky, nothing more, and he was clearly being lucky again—his hiding place was empty. The soldiers shuffled, agitated and afraid. One of the men approached, looking everywhere and nowhere, wondering if the American would appear out of the sky or if the next shot would be the fatal one. Xiblinti recognized him as the one that had suggested a retreat earlier. He bunched his fists, ready to strike if the man again suggested cowardice.

  “The American has gone. Should we…should we wait until morning before continuing?”

  Xiblinti allowed his fists to relax. The question was not unwarranted. It was even sensible. The American could not get far in the darkness. There was nothing around for miles, only their own military camp and…

  Xiblinti smiled with elation as he realized where the spy was going. It was the only logical thing to do. Where else could he go in the middle of a wasteland? He spun on his heel, half running, half climbing to the top of the hill. A few miles down the valley burned the fires of the rebels. And the camp was full of American mercenaries. Would the spy seek refuge among his own kind? Would the mercenaries help? Or would he double back after all, wanting to rescue his friends? Xiblinti made a mental bet that the spy would run to the mercenaries. He heard his men approach from behind, wondering what their leader was thinking.

  All of Xiblinti’s questions were answered for him. From several hundred feet below came the sound of a large rock fall. He grinned.

  “It is the American. He has tripped over his feet. Open fire!”

  * * *

  BOLAN COUNTED EIGHT muzzle-blasts emanating from the top of the ridge. Almost all of the bullets went wide, the Djiboutian soldiers making the error of shooting at the sound of the avalanche rather than compensating for Bolan’s movements. Several ricochets came close but not too close. Bolan slipped away into the darkness knowing that Xiblinti would not be far behind.

  “WHAT DO YOU make of it, sir?”

  Former Major Streib lowered his binoculars and considered Krulak’s question. What indeed.

  “Obviously they are hunting somebody or bodies who have upset them, and that somebody is heading in our direction. I would surmise it’s Bouh’s men doing the shooting, judging by the way they’re waving their rifles around. The question is, who are they hunting?”

  Streib raised his binoculars again. “I don’t like this, Krulak. Not at all. Make sure the sentries are alert. Wake our men. We’re moving out. And do it quietly. I don’t want Bouh’s ruffians to be spooked and turn against us.”

  Krulak turned away. Streib regarded the situation on the hill again. The muzzle-flashes had stopped, and he thought he could see movement on the slope, which indicated that Bouh’s soldiers were advancing on their enemy. But who was their enemy? Streib felt a sinking sensation that he hadn’t felt since Iraq. A sensation telling him everything was about to go to hell. It was definitely time to move out. The only real question was how much time did they have?

  * * *

  MACK BOLAN WAS a shadow among shadows, keeping to the base of the hill to make the most of the provided darkness. The moon had slowly emerged from behind the other hills, illuminating the surrounding desert. Glancing back, he could see Xiblinti’s remaining men descending. They made no attempt at stealth. There wasn’t much need, and the lunar light was like a second sun. Several slipped, sliding down in a similar fashion to Bolan. The Executioner moved away, the shadows his only ally. He had a ways to go before he reached the outer perimeter of the camp, and he didn’t want to be observed by either the camp sentries or Xiblinti. Speed was of the essence. The night would last only so long.

  * * *

  XIBLINTI CURSED TO HIMSELF. There was no sign of the American, and his men seemed to be becoming more incompetent by the minute. Part was out of fear of what the spy had accomplished, part out of fear of reporting failure to General Bouh. Xiblinti observed the camp with interest, certain that the American was heading there. He was still uncertain if the mercenaries would offer aid. They probably would. Their contempt for him and the general had been thinly disguised. They deserved their fate. What Bouh had planned for them would be shown around the world.

  The rebel trainees wouldn’t lift a finger. They were as disloyal and temperamental as only Eritreans could be. Many would kill their own mothers—some probably had—so there would be no assistance for the spy there. But the mercenaries were a very different matter. He would have to reach the camp before the spy did. If that was possible. If not, and if the Americans decided to join together, then he would rouse the Eritreans. The Americans would quickly be overwhelmed. Bouh would not be pleased with that outcome, but plans could be changed. It was that or failure. Xiblinti made his decision.

  “Follow me,” he whispered. “We will advance on the camp and capture the spy there.”

  * * *

  BOLAN OVERWHELMED THE first sentry easily. The African, dressed in shorts, T-shirt and what appeared to be flip-flops on his feet, was paying more attention to the raucous laughter in the camp than to what was happening around him. Not that he would have spotted his attacker anyway. The apparition that came from behind quickly rendered the man unconscious. Lowering the unfortunate guard to the ground, Bolan quickly relieved him of his FAMAS rifle and a spare magazine, leaving his defective one with the sleeping sentry. Another FAMAS F1. Bouh had to have had a stash hidden away somewhere. Bolan had the feeling that the whole operation had been in the planning for a very long time.

  He checked his six, trying to spot Xiblinti and his troops. They were difficult to find, but they were there, in the distance. He wouldn’t have much time before they arrived at the camp. The only thing delaying them was the fear that he might be hiding in the shadows, waiting to pick them off one by one.

  Bolan turned his attention back to the camp. From his current angle it was impossible to tell where the mercenaries were. All he could see were rebels. He began to work his way around the perimeter, aware that the doomsday numbers were falling, that time was running out. At least he had more ammunition.

  Bolan found the mercenaries five minutes later. The camp layout was pretty obvious. The rebels were at the southern end, partying or fighting among themselves; it was impossible to tell. At the northern end, separated by wide space, were the mercenary tents, laid out in a professional manner. This part of the camp should be better guarded but not impossible to penetrate. He had faced far more challenging infiltrations in the past. The jeering from the rebels would mask his approach.

  Bolan watched as several mercenaries moved purposefully around the tents and the two APCs, parked farther back. He thought that he could make out more vehicles behind but wasn’t sure. What intrigued him was that the men were loading kit bags into the back of the personnel carriers. It appeared that they were abandoning the camp, and the rebels knew nothing about it. And if they knew nothing about it, then Bouh would know nothing, either. A double cross? Did the mercs have their own agenda?

  As Bolan watched, two of the mercenaries walked past a tent as a third man emerged. The two walkers began to sn
ap a salute before stopping and quickly lowering their arms. Old habits died hard. These men were all ex-military and probably served together in the same unit. He needed to get into that former officer’s tent as quickly as possible.

  Rather than waste time and try to sneak in, Bolan decided to use role camouflage instead. It would be risky, but with Xiblinti about to arrive any minute, Bolan didn’t feel that he had much choice. During the Mafia Wars he had infiltrated the Mob a number of times, playing the role of a Black Ace assassin. He had walked among terrorists on numerous occasions, always playing the part that they expected. This one should be a piece of cake, despite his dirty appearance.

  Bolan stood tall, slung the rifle over his shoulder and marched toward the officer’s tent, looking as if he belonged there. He walked past one hurrying mercenary, who didn’t even glance at him. Within moments he was at the tent. He make a quick check to make sure nobody was observing him, then he lifted the flap, slipping inside.

  The tent contained a standard-issue military cot and a matching desk and chair. A kit bag lay on the bed, next to a pre–World War II, MAS 36 bolt-action rifle. The only illumination was from the glare of the moon, shining through the canvas. Bolan was about to examine the kit bag when he heard a noise outside the tent. He took a step to the side, slipping his rifle off his shoulder as he did so. A hand pulled back the canvas flap, and a man stepped inside.

  * * *

  STREIB KNEW THAT he wasn’t alone the moment he stepped into the tent. The smell of sweat, gravel and cordite was unmistakable. The cold muzzle of a weapon pushed against his ear before he had time to react. He froze and waited.

  “Don’t try anything, and you might get to live,” a man murmured in a voice as chilling as a grave. Streib didn’t twitch. A dozen thoughts raced through his mind. Was this the man being hunted? It had to be. Could he overpower the intruder? Had anybody witnessed the intruder enter his tent? Was Krulak approaching? His presence had been requested. Streib had to have tensed because the muzzle pushed even harder into his ear.

  “Don’t even think about it. It won’t get you anywhere.” The voice was ice-cold.

  “You think you can get away with this?” Streib whispered. “My men are former US Marines. You don’t stand a chance.”

  “I’ve heard it all before. Sit on the bed, legs apart, hands on knees. Move.”

  Streib walked slowly to the military cot and sat. He had made no move toward his sidearm, and the intruder had made no mention of it. He was also sitting next to the loaded MAS 36 rifle. A sign of carelessness from the intruder? Streib wasn’t sure, but he fully intended to take advantage of it.

  “I let you keep your weapons. You may need them soon.” The iced voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “What are you? A fucking mind reader?”

  “No, just experienced enough to know what you were probably thinking. Your men are moving out. Why?”

  The intruder was a dark silhouette against the side of the tent, the FAMAS pointing between Streib’s eyes. Streib could tell from the man’s posture that he was a professional, that he could handle himself in a fight and that he was American, judging by his accent. Streib decided against action for the moment, wanting to know what the stranger was here for. Besides, Krulak would be arriving any second to find out what was keeping his commanding officer.

  “And you are?” Streib asked.

  “I asked first. You answer first. That’s how it works. Your men are moving out. Why? And, who are you?”

  Streib considered his options. It wouldn’t hurt to humor the stranger. It would buy some time. Where the hell was Krulak?

  “Major Victor Streib, one-time US Army. That’s all you need to know.”

  “You know Bouh is about to betray you. That’s why you are slipping away in the dark, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. It would take a foolish man to trust Bouh. And that man wouldn’t live long.”

  “Yet I presume Trenchard paid you to stay the course.”

  Streib snorted. “Trenchard can keep his money, minus expenses. I’m not hanging around for…” Streib stopped, hoping that he had not said too much.

  “Bouh has set up both you and Trenchard. There is no oil. It was a coup, pure and simple, and you have been designated to take the fall. Even as we speak Bouh’s men are closing in on your position.”

  “So, who are you?” Streib still wanted to know.

  “Mike Blanski. Journalist.”

  “Bullshit. You’re no journalist. You’re US Army, I can smell it. What are you now? CIA? Some other alphabet-soup guy? What are you here for? Me? Why?”

  Streib watched as the stranger slung his FAMAS over his shoulder, took two steps to the side, reached down and grabbed hold of a dark object that was poking its way into the tent. A second later Krulak somersaulted into the middle of the floor, disarmed, landing at Streib’s feet. Krulak jumped up ready to resume his attack, when his PAMAS G1 pistol, a French copy of the Beretta 92, landed at his feet. It was enough to give him pause. Streib had also drawn his pistol but hadn’t yet had time to point it in Blanski’s direction. He, too, stopped at the sudden reappearance of Krulak’s handgun.

  “Call your man off, Major,” Bolan growled. “I’m not after your head. I wasn’t joking about Bouh’s men approaching, and I wasn’t joking about you being double-crossed. Bouh has set you up to be the fall guys when his coup takes place. You’ll be tried and publicly executed. I don’t have time to explain any more. I need your help.”

  “Major?” Krulak was spoiling for a fight.

  Streib hesitated for a second. “Stand down, Sergeant. Is Bouh approaching?”

  “Yes, sir, at least his scarred bodyguard is just outside the camp, asking for you. I said I would see if you would speak to him. I don’t think he noticed that we’re packing up. What are your orders?”

  Streib never got a chance to answer.

  At that precise moment, shots were fired.

  And all hell broke loose.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Xiblinti cursed his luck at not being able to catch up before the spy reached the camp. They had formed a skirmish line, once they had stopped sliding down the hill, in the belief that if the American was hiding then they would discover him. But no, the spy was gone, making for the camp. Xiblinti had his confirmation. They had discovered the unconscious sentry, his weapon missing, a broken rifle lying nearby. Xiblinti slipped a knife between the man’s ribs, through the heart, as punishment for his slack guard duty.

  Now the American was here, pleading and begging for aid and a hiding place. Even as the thought flashed through his mind, Xiblinti dismissed it. The spy would not plead and beg. He was too strong for that. No, he would appeal to the mercenaries’ sense of patriotism, something that Americans wore on their sleeves. He doubted that the mercenaries would do anything to aid the spy. They were interested only in money. Xiblinti chuckled. Wouldn’t they be shocked when they were captured, put on trial and executed all on the same day? That would show them what they could do with their patriotism.

  They were challenged and stopped before they could get too close to the mercenary camp. The Eritrean Afar Adaemara part of the camp was loud and rowdy, un-disciplined despite the training that the Americans had given them. They were the scum of the earth as far as Xiblinti was concerned. He spit in the general direction of the raucous rebels. Several of his men, those hailing from the Somali side of Djibouti, did the same. All of his men hated the Eritrean vermin and would gladly shoot the scum when the time came. And that time was fast approaching. Most of them would be dead within the next few days. Xiblinti looked forward to disemboweling a few himself.

  He smiled at the thought, then turned his attention back to the sentry who had challenged them. One of the mercenary leaders was already approaching. Xiblinti struggled to remember the man’s name. It was difficult; the word failed to spring to mind. Krulaa? Kruloo? He dismissed it. The man was Streib’s dog and unimportant. He, too, would be dead soon, hanging from one o
f the large cranes in the harbor.

  “What is it you want? Why are you here? Is General Bouh with you?” Streib’s dog barked at Xiblinti in a disrespectful way. His men would not understand the English, but they would understand the tone.

  Xiblinti felt anger rise but forced himself to remain calm. The general needed this man alive for another couple of days. Then he would take his machete to the dog. Typical Americans. Insolent, bullying, demanding and arrogant, believing that they owned the world and the world owed them a favor. Gutting the mutt would be extremely enjoyable.

  “Major Streib. Now,” Xiblinti rasped.

  “And just what is your business with the major?” the dog demanded to know.

  “Major Streib. Now. Please.” Xiblinti riled at having to be polite, but maybe the dog would show some obedience.

  The American paused, studied Xiblinti hard for several seconds before finally nodding. “I’ll go and see if the major is available. Wait here. Please.” The American turned and marched away before Xiblinti could respond.

  A soldier in his patrol coughed and said, “Captain?”

  Xiblinti turned to look. They were gathering an audience. The Eritreans had noticed them standing, waiting, had seen the confrontation between him and the American dog. Like sharks, they could smell blood. The majority seemed to be high on khat or something similar. Either that or they were drunk. Or both. It didn’t matter. They didn’t appear to have firearms, but their sheer numbers made them dangerous. His men shifted uneasily. They had started out with thirteen in the patrol. Now they were down to nine. Nine against the more than hundred here in the camp. The sentry who had challenged them backed away, disappearing into the shadows.

  Some of the Eritrean Afars took several steps closer. Maybe twenty meters separated the two groups. Their eyes shone yellow in the moonlight; the hate for the Djiboutian Issa soldiers was written on their faces. Xiblinti could feel the fear of his men, could feel them getting nervous, knew their fingers were tightening on triggers. They were here for the American spy. These animals would be dead within a few days. His men could take as many potshots as they wanted. But not yet. The general had plans.