Warrior's Edge Read online

  They tried to stare back impassively, but all looked as if they were calculating how soon a rope would drop around their necks.

  The room was dead quiet, as if a spell had been cast. The magician stood there calmly smiling at them like a friend, their only friend in the world who wished them well but might be forced to kill them if Sabda didn't cooperate.

  "They're disposable," Fowler continued. "How long they live depends on what you say."

  "As you wish."

  "Let us begin." Fowler handed the recorder to Sabda, and the imprisoned politician began his second public act, a traitorous speech.

  "This is President Leopold Sabda," he began. "I'm in good health, and I'm speaking of my own free will. Our situation is dangerous, but no more dangerous than that of our country. We're all at risk. That's why I'm holding discussions with Heinrich Fowler…"

  Sabda kept on talking in a calm manner, determined not to risk Fowler's wrath. He was under no illusions that he'd save the people in the room. Despite Fowler's manner, he knew they were condemned to die. All he'd done was to postpone their deaths for a while and perhaps the death of Zandesi.

  4

  Ten miles east of Mont Bataille the shadow of a Lynx scout helicopter flew across the desert, a high-tech hawk with electronic talons readying for the kill.

  The mast-mounted sight of the scout gave the pilot the luxury of zeroing in on the target without having to unmask his presence.

  Shielded by the moat of foothills surrounding the enemy outpost, the raised mast of the Lynx towered above the rotors and kept it safely out of sight.

  The pilot locked his laser sight onto a Stonehengelike formation of rock looming out of the desert. Huge slabs of rock were propped up against one another, some of them supporting oddly angled stone caps that looked like huge sundials and sacrificial altars.

  They were the ruins of a Zandesian kingdom that had flourished in this place thousands of years ago. Picked clean by time and archaeological plunderers, there was little left but barren rock.

  And Desert Knights.

  Less than fifteen minutes had passed since the scout radioed the Serpentine attack force that it had located a column of mercenaries who'd taken shelter at the crumbling redoubt.

  Three fast-moving attack helicopters from Serpentine Force droned above the desert, staying low as they neared the scout chopper.

  Mack Bolan rode in the lead aircraft, sitting in the staggered seat behind the copilot, his M-16 draped over his lap. He glanced out the window at the desert below, a granite-and-sand map of hills, ridges and long flat sand pans.

  There was little down there a man could live on, but plenty he could die from.

  In the cabin behind him crouched a dozen desert commandos with weapons at the ready.

  They were silent, caught in the trance brought on by the rhythmic shuddering of the sun-baked metal cocoon and the knowledge that soon they'd be in the middle of a firefight.

  There would definitely be an engagement, Bolan thought. From the scout aircraft's earlier report it sounded as if the enemy column was large enough to represent a breakout group from Fowler's main force. No civilians or captives were seen, just a group of hardmen who'd fired on the scout ship before the pilot dropped out of sight.

  And Serpentine Force was drawn to them like a magnet. Perhaps drawn a bit too fast, the warrior thought. Before they'd lifted off, Bolan had had a hurried conversation with Martin Molembe about the sudden sighting that diverted them from their patrols in the honeycombed rock fortresses of Mont Bataille.

  Something was a bit off, something that bothered the Executioner. Fowler was reputed to be a good military mind, and by and large his men were supposed to be seasoned pros. So why were they showing themselves while a helicopter was flying a recon of the area? It was either coincidence or something a lot more disconcerting.

  Molembe recognised the situation as a possible setup, but at the same time he felt the troops needed a victory to rouse public attention back in the capital.

  If it was a trap, they were going to spring it.

  And they were going to do it full force.

  Two other attack helicopters flanked them, slightly behind. They were similarly armed, carrying Hellfire missiles, rockets and grenades and a squad of commandos handpicked by Molembe.

  By now Bolan was familiar with most of the faces and names. He knew the core group that Molembe depended upon, the men the Zandesian security chief trusted with his life. Soon Bolan would be doing the same.

  The lead chopper nosed above the circular lip of rock and established visual contact with the scout.

  "Target hand-over." The static-tinged voice of the scout pilot brought an immediate response from the lead attack chopper. The pilot drifted above the ridge again, then fired a Hellfire missile.

  Homed on the target via the laser receiver in the nose of the missile, the Hellfire streaked toward the stone formation, an arrow tail of the fire marking its path.

  The armor-piercing warhead struck the rock, detonating in a cloud of smoke and fire.

  Seconds later another missile blasted into the same area.

  Antipersonnel rockets flew toward the target area when the second attack chopper made its pass, then raked the brimstone clouds settling upon the ruins with five hundred rounds of machine-gun fire.

  The third Lynx provided backup, unloading a barrage of suppressive fire any time Fowler's troops showed themselves and attempted to return fire. The chopper's machine gun and grenade launchers knocked them into oblivion.

  In deadly choreography the assault aircraft droned in toward the target, unleashing explosive strikes and suppressive fire. Warheads rocked the enemy position, followed up by the steady chatter of miniguns.

  The steady pounding took a deadly toll.

  Groaning rock walls and capstones collapsed under the barrage, tumbling downhill to reveal a series of dugout tunnels and fortified trenches that had been hidden by the now-uprooted dolmens.

  Like taking the cap off an anthill, Bolan thought as the helicopter he rode in flew by the stronghold for another pass. Men sprinted downhill from the shattered shelter, firing wildly toward the choppers, but for the most part looking to get out of the trap they'd dug themselves in.

  With the same single-minded fury, the helicopters poured their fire into the redoubt, the explosive charges eroding men and mountain alike in a thunderous barrage while the scout chopper circled the area in search of more pockets of Fowler's hardmen.

  Then the attack choppers swooped down over the uneven terrain to drop off the commandos.

  Too rocky to land the aircraft, the drop-off point was a moonscape of jagged spires and depressions with a protective ridge that kept them out of the line of fire.

  In a matter of seconds the commandos slid down to the ground on nylon ropes that hung like tendrils from the helicopter.

  The moment the Executioner touched down, he moved away from the drop-off point.

  Behind him he heard the grunts and footfalls of several more commandos as they hit the ground.

  The wasplike shadows of the Lynxes blocked out the harsh sun for a few moments, then dwindled rapidly as the helicopters began to circle the outer perimeter of the redoubt like heavy metal carrion.

  They'd softened up the enemy. Now it was up to the commandos to finish the attack.

  From here on in it would be up close and personal.

  Bolan ran uphill in a crouch. After a quick scan of the smoke and thunder that marked the position of the Desert Knights, he crested the ridge, bearing down on them with the grenade launcher up and ready. He thumped a round of smoke into their midst, adding to the chaos and providing cover for the attack.

  Heartbeats later he sprinted straight for the ruins, clambering over the huge slabs of rock that were now scattered over the ground like toppled tombstones.

  To his left he spotted the broad-shouldered figure of Martin Molembe leading a squad of his men. He was standing on a slanting rock, gesturing his troops fo
rward while he triggered a burst of fire from the Colt Commando.

  Enemy fire blindly met the attack.

  Bursts of flame punctuated the smoke and sent a hail of lead clanking down on the rocks at the Executioner's feet, sending him airborne for a moment as he jagged to his right.

  The warrior whipped the M-16 from left to right, triggering a full-auto burst toward the sputtering flashes of enemy fire. The return fire dropped off quickly.

  Molembe's commandos followed suit as they climbed the rock-strewn ascent, now and then dropping behind cover to fire their weapons uphill.

  As Bolan neared the lip of the shattered rampart, a mercenary threw down his rifle and raised his hands overhead. "Don't shoot," he pleaded. "Don't shoot."

  "Don't move," Bolan ordered.

  The man nodded. He looked like a shell-shocked survivor of a nuclear blast. His bald head was red and bleeding, and the fringe of hair on the sides of his head was singed. His clothes were torn, and his body was bleeding from several small wounds.

  The man's cry of surrender was contagious, echoing up and down the line of Desert Knights who found themselves looking up into the smoking barrels of automatic rifles.

  Bolan held his fire, rapidly scanning the line for movement.

  The surrender had taken the Desert Knights as much by surprise as it had the commandos who'd stormed their position.

  But it wasn't quite a total surrender.

  To the left of the first man who'd surrendered, Bolan saw a bearded and bloodied hardguy who was gradually coming out of his kneeling position, the pistol in his right hand slowly inching forward.

  The man wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

  Bolan snap fired from his hip, catching the gunner square in the chest. Blood sieved from the mere's darkened uniform as he dropped to the ground, the pistol flying from his hand.

  It was a dangerous moment.

  Was the surrender in effect or not? The thought passed like lightning through the minds of the defenders. In the uncertainty there was always the danger that the opposition might make a grab for their weapons. Molembe's people might decide to solve the problem the hard way and unload on the would-be prisoners.

  But then Martin Molembe's voice suddenly bellowed down the line. Like a command from Moses on the mountain, he ordered all of the mercenaries to drop facedown onto the ground.

  When all heads turned his way, he continued in a clear and low voice, "Anyone still standing will be shot." Like a stack of soft dominoes falling, the Desert Knights sprawled out on the ground.

  Molembe's men jumped down into the clay-bottomed trench and separated the weaponry from their enemy before they could think twice about their decision. The Zandesian troopers rattled off information about weapons, food caches and the presence of other Desert Knights in the area. According to the hardmen, their group was the entire force.

  They were carefully herded away from the redoubt into the harsh sunlight.

  "So much for their trap," Molembe said when he drifted over toward Bolan. The big Zandesian wasn't gloating. He was eager to claim a victory.

  "Yeah," Bolan said. "We got some live ones this time." He glanced at the prisoners filing away from the shattered cliff-side fortress under their heavy guard. They were a mixture of Zandesians and Europeans, most of them hardly looking like so-called Desert Knights.

  More like serfs sent to war by a medieval baron.

  The Zandesian Intelligence chief caught the skepticism in Bolan's voice. "Yes," he said, "we have a small victory. We have prisoners, and we have casualties on our side. What is wrong with that? Unless, of course, you are a malade imaginaire…"

  "No," Bolan replied, "I'm not looking to see the worst. I'm just trying to see the facts."

  "The facts are right there." Molembe pointed toward the mercenaries who'd never leave their positions, the dead bodies arranged in strange heaps that sported grimaces and looks of surprise, the last vestiges of life before their souls left them behind.

  "Yeah, that's part of it," Bolan agreed.

  While the prisoners were led downhill, the Executioner kept glancing around him, as if he expected to see more resistance.

  Overhead the helicopters reconned the rest of the circular redoubt, covering the terrain sector by sector. Molembe kept in contact with them by a thin headset and mike.

  "The scout chopper's been directing the others," he said. "We've got an all clear from him."

  "Yeah, but I've got a feeling it's not." Molembe nodded. Sweat appeared on his forehead, then dried quickly from the warm winds that drifted up from the desert flats. "We can't run an operation just on your feelings alone."

  "How about yours?"

  "Without doubt," Molembe replied, "I share your sentiments. But I don't know why."

  "It's the same kind of feeling you get when you find out you're walking in the middle of a minefield," Bolan said. "From here on in, each step we take could be our last." As if they were doing just that, Molembe's commandos carefully scoured the area as they climbed the face of rock that had shielded the Desert Knights.

  The area in front of them was secure and there was still no sign of anything amiss, but the gnawing sensation wouldn't go away.

  "Take a good look at them," Bolan directed, gesturing toward the dozen or so survivors who'd been herded off to a small gully by Molembe's guards.

  The security chief looked over at where the prisoners sat cross-legged with their hands folded on top of their heads. "What about them?"

  "They were too green. Almost as if they'd been dropped here for the express purpose of being annihilated."

  "I've considered that," Molembe said. "But if it was a ruse, where's the payoff?"

  The answer came in the form of a loud explosion on the far side of the redoubt where a broad spear of rock jutted out into the surrounding flatland.

  A Stinger missile had streaked across the sky, homing in on the attack helicopter Bolan had been riding earlier. Shards of metal imploded from the blast, opening the side of the helicopter like a tin can.

  5

  The chopper rocked and shuddered, engines sputtering as if turned in midair, and tried to make it back to safety.

  It didn't.

  A second ground-launched Stinger exploded on the pilot's side of the aircraft, blowing out the glass and the pilot all at once.

  The chopper spiraled in an awkward corkscrew pattern before smashing into the ground, pieces of metal flying across the desert floor like confetti.

  Both remaining Lynxes headed straight for the downed chopper.

  At the same time more than a score of armed figures appeared at the base of the rocks and opened up with heavy machine guns at the helicopters while a handful of men zeroed in on them and launched more missiles.

  Both choppers fired flare and chaff dispensers to distract the missiles, flooding the sky with strips of radar-reflective chaff and hot-burning flares. As the aircraft drew back, they fired several strings of antipersonnel rockets at their attackers on the ground.

  After the rockets burst in the air and needled with deadly metal spikes the Desert Knights who hadn't found cover, another wave of mercenaries wearing desert camouflage fatigues emerged from the rocks.

  It was as if an entire army had lain in wait for the express purpose of downing the helicopters.

  That was Fowler's main target. If the Zandesi Air Force was knocked out of action, Fowler's main body of hardmen would be that much harder to dig out.

  Molembe trained his binoculars on the right flank where the mercenaries were spreading out. They moved with split-second timing, taking cover as they swarmed over the rocky terrain and set up wellfortified positions for their Stinger-carrying squads. The entire side of the mountain had suddenly become a well-armed fortress.

  The Desert Knights moved with such precision that it seemed as if they'd known every square inch of ground, as if it had all been carefully rehearsed.

  "Where the hell did they come from?" Molembe asked.

 
"Ask the pilot in the scout chopper," Bolan grunted. "Wasn't he the one who swept that area?"

  "He gave the all clear," Martin said, his voice low and comber, like a judge who'd just issued a death sentence.

  "It looks like we've found Fowler's real fighters this time."

  "Or maybe they found us." Molembe directed a half dozen of his men forward to set up a line of fire and slow the enemy's advance.

  While the commandos prepared to deal with the new force of Desert Knights, Bolan studied the prisoners again. They seemed just as surprised as Molembe's people were to find so many mercenaries joining the action.

  Almost all of them seemed surprised, Bolan realized. His eyes came to rest on a bushy-sideburned man who looked like an Aussie cowboy in a broadbrimmed hat that shaded his eyes. He watched the meres calmly, as if he were aware of their presence and their ability like a director who'd helped choreograph the play a dozen times already.

  He had the aura of a man who thought he wouldn't be a prisoner long.

  Maybe he wouldn't, Bolan thought. When this was over, he and the cowboy were going to have a long talk.

  But right now they had to deal with the Desert Knights.

  The choppers had pulled back and set down on the desert floor safely out of range.

  While the chopper crews reloaded the launchers with missiles they'd carried in the cabins, Molembe's troops were going to move against the Desert Knights to see how many of the missile-carrying meres they could knock out before the helicopters came back.

  "Which way you going to hit them?" Bolan asked, approaching Molembe after the Zandesian had conferred with a trio of his scouts.

  "Over there," the man replied, pointing to a rise that offered a jagged wall of protection and at the same time gave his commandos a clear range of fire.

  "Looks good," Bolan commented, studying the terrain. "Judging from the way things have been going, it looks too good." There was lots of protection, but at the same time, it offered a lot of potential traps. "If we go there, be prepared to find a few meres underfoot."