Suicide Highway Read online

  Blake felt stretched like piano wire, and he was just as likely to cut into someone. He fought the urge to grind his teeth and tried to get some work done. “Good job. You’re bleeding, though.”

  Stone touched his arm and came away with fresh glistening blood on his fingertips. A rifle round had to have clipped him. He wiped his fingers on his sleeve and shrugged it off. “I’ll take care of it before it gets too bad. Right now, I want to check the terrorists.”

  “I have my team checking them. I have four intel-trained noncoms here, in case you don’t know the set up of a—” Blake was sneering.

  “I know the structure and training of a field deployed A-Team,” Bolan said, cutting him off. “You don’t have to treat me like an idiot.”

  “No, but I do have to treat you as an unknown quantity, Colonel Stone,” Blake answered. “You might look good on paper, but anyone can fake a good cover. Until you tell me who you really are, I don’t have to do fuck-all except treat you with skepticism and distrust.”

  There wasn’t any indignation on Bolan’s face. “Perfectly understandable, Captain,” he said.

  “And Laith, make that rifle compliant with curfew laws—now,” Blake growled.

  Laith ejected the clip and racked the bolt, all the while letting out a long, tired sigh. He stuffed the top round into a vent pocket and the magazine into an appropriate pouch. The young Afghan slung the rifle, then winked at Blake, pulled his pistol and did the same. “You forgot to warn me about my handgun.”

  Blake felt his cheeks grow hot.

  “Don’t worry. I remembered myself,” Laith added.

  Blake sighed and shook his head. “Find yourselves a place to bunk down for the night. You don’t have to go home, but you’re not sleeping here.”

  Laith shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve heard that order a few times before.”

  “Kid, you’re starting to get on my nerves,” Blake grunted.

  “Then it’s working,” Laith responded. “Because you’re getting on mine. Need I remind you whose nation you’re in?”

  Blake took a deep breath, remembering that as a member of the Army’s Special Forces, he was a diplomat of American goodwill as well as a soldier. “No. But I can’t break the rules for you. Otherwise, why have rules?”

  “Why not try recognizing who your friends are, and who they aren’t?” Laith asked.

  “Take it easy, Laith,” Bolan said. “I don’t suppose this incident has inspired you to lend me back my equipment for self-protection,” the big man asked the captain.

  Blake shook his head. “No luck. If you want an escort, I’ll lend you one of my men.”

  Bolan frowned, then noticed something, or someone, over Blake’s shoulder. “Fine. I’ll take Staff Sergeant Wesley.”

  Blake looked back at Wesley, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Is that fine with you, soldier?”

  Wesley gave a curt nod. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Good. You’re going with Colonel Stone and his party, then,” Blake ordered. “Just remember, I want you back here. Alive and in one piece.”

  “Sir?” Wesley asked.

  “I want you back alive. Even if that means that you have to abandon Colonel Stone. He’s proved he can take care of himself.”

  “Sir!” Wesley answered. The man looked conflicted. He didn’t like the idea of letting fellow soldiers on the same side die.

  Blake didn’t like it, either. But he had a duty to the men in his team. He ate, slept, and drank, sweated and bled with them. Their lives were important to him, more important than any other soldier’s. It was unit integrity, a knot of loyalty, duty, command and friendship that couldn’t be undone by a few strands. He wouldn’t like having Stone, Rosenberg and Khan die on his watch, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice even the most junior of his noncoms.

  “I’ll make sure your man returns to you unharmed,” Bolan promised.

  Blake tried to hide his surprise, but couldn’t.

  WESLEY WATCHED skeptically as Rosenberg unlocked her safehouse door and let the men in.

  “I’m not loving this idea, Theresa,” he told her.

  She paused, confusion coloring her features for a moment. “You mean about having two men you don’t know hanging around with me?”

  “Seems that since we’ve met this guy, you’ve come under enemy fire twice. And we only met them a couple hours ago,” Wesley said.

  “Once an hour, that’s not so bad for him,” she said. There was an impish grin on her face. Those beautiful green eyes sparkled with wit and allure, making Wesley look away, inwardly wincing as he felt himself being dragged in by her beauty. “Robert?” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not looking forward to seeing you get hurt,” Wesley answered.

  “Who says I’m going to get hurt?” she asked.

  “A bunch of really angry goombas we kicked out of power, who are still packing enough rifles to shoot up half the country. That’s who,” Wesley explained.

  She sighed. “I’ve had people out to get me before. I’ll live.”

  “I’m serious, Theresa.”

  “Call me Tera,” she said.

  “Tera…sorry…”

  “I’m serious, too, Robert.”

  Wesley reflexively bared his teeth, then calmed himself. “You say you can trust him, so tell me, is Stone his real name?”

  “I can’t confirm or deny that for you. It’s not my place. I can tell you, though, even though we only worked together once, I trust him with every ounce of my being.”

  Wesley hung his head. “I see.”

  Geren touched his chin lightly, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “I understand you’re worried about me. And I’m worried about you, too. And I would worry about Stone, but he can take care of himself, and he’s taken care of me in the past.”

  “He charges in wild-assed—”

  “He can be as stealthy or as audacious as circumstances warrant,” Geren said defensively. “And he won’t let me down.”

  Wesley sighed. There was going to be no winning this fight.

  “Robert, I know you don’t like it, but I also don’t want you involved in our investigation. Stone and I are going after, I think, the same people, and there’s going to be a lot of gunplay.”

  “Then have a soldier at your back, at least.”

  “Captain Blake wants you back alive. And I don’t want to see you hurt,” Geren cut him off.

  “Sorry. He said come back if possible. That was my priority. I’m also supposed to keep an eye on you and Colonel Stone,” Wesley replied. “Don’t try to leave me behind.”

  “I don’t see the harm in you tagging along.” A powerful, but subtle voice spoke, startling Wesley. He looked up to see Colonel Stone seemingly appear out of nowhere. He was shaken for a moment.

  “Thank you, Colonel, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir,” Bolan replied. “I work for a living.”

  He offered his hand. Some of the distrust and jealousy that Wesley was hanging onto evaporated in the face of the gesture. Finally, the Green Beret took the stranger’s hand. “Sorry for being so much trouble.”

  “You’re not any trouble. Just please don’t interfere with me getting fresh weapons,” Bolan said.

  Wesley looked at Geren, then nodded. “I wasn’t going to have Tera go into harm’s way without someone adequately equipped on her side.”

  Bolan smiled. “Good. Captain Blake won’t have a problem with that?”

  Wesley looked around. “Captain who? Problem with what?”

  Bolan nodded and gave Wesley a clap on the shoulder.

  5

  Tera Geren shooed Wesley away to settle in the safehouse before turning to Bolan.

  “I’ll need a medical kit to take care of things,” he said casually.

  Geren threw her arms around his shoulders and squeezed tight. “I missed you, big guy!” She felt him tense for a second, then he relaxed slightly. She broke off the hug and smiled at him. “I’m sorry. It’s just go
od to see a friendly face.”

  “I can tell,” Bolan answered her. “And I can sympathize.”

  He dropped his battle harness to the ground, the forty pounds of kit banging on the wooden floor like a bag of hammers. Geren crooked an eyebrow at the payload, then noticed he was peeling out of his blacksuit’s top.

  “Where’s the rest of your stuff?” she asked. “We can probably swing by and pick it up sometime tomorrow.” She glanced out the window, and saw the graying of the dawn. “Make that today.”

  “And how do you know I have more stuff?” Bolan asked.

  “You gave up your guns too easily,” she responded. “Plus, I know you’re prone to having more than just the shirt on your back.”

  “We had spare ammo and grenades in a car not far from where we met up,” Bolan admitted. “Trouble is, I didn’t bring spare firearms. I had planned to replenish my stocks from what we got from the enemy.”

  When she turned, she saw him stripped down to the waist, fresh bruises and the gunshot wound on his arm standing out against the tracks of toned muscle, bronzed skin and crisscross of scar tissue that made up his torso. The crosshatch of whitened, smooth lines of healed skin were a road map of a life lived in danger. The bloody smear dripping along one biceps came from a slash that would be yet another streak.

  “I’ve got some painkillers for the stitching.”

  “I’d prefer to do without,” Bolan said.

  “Not even local anesthetic?” she asked.

  “Do you have that?”

  She rooted through the kitbox for a moment. “Not really.”

  “Then why offer what you don’t have?” Bolan asked.

  Geren took a deep breath and rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to make you feel more comfortable. You’ve got a gunshot wound, and you’re just sitting there, all expressionless, and expect me to dig a needle into your skin and sew your arm shut.”

  Bolan shrugged, then winced at the movement of his injured arm. “I deal with the pain.”

  “It doesn’t hurt?”

  “I’m not that numb. I just don’t let it get to me. If I’m taking painkillers, I can’t tell when I’m pushing my injuries too hard. I also don’t like having my head all cloudy,” Bolan told her.

  Geren shrugged and began closing the slash. With the last suture pulled shut, six in all, she wrapped his arm in paper tape to keep the stitches from shifting under the skin. Bolan moved his arm, checking his range of motion, and seemed satisfied with it.

  THEIR PRIORITIES WERE being taken in order. After rest and recuperation, Bolan and his allies were sufficiently recovered from their hectic night at the start of afternoon. Medical care and some sleep had the Executioner feeling at least back in battle condition.

  Bolan filled his empty stomach with a half loaf of bread and some dried beef jerky. A handful of multivitamins would handle the rest of his nutritional needs. It wasn’t perfect, but Bolan did what he could with what he had. Food was fuel, and no matter what he laid his hands on, when he had the opportunity, he topped himself off.

  “Next order of business,” he said to the assembled crew, “we’re going to need some guns.”

  “I think that’s directed toward me,” Geren spoke up.

  Bolan gave her a friendly nod. “Blake didn’t disarm you. That means he eventually got tired of trying to.”

  “Golly, Batman. That’s scary when you show that kind of deduction,” Geren quipped.

  Bolan just shook his head. “I’d prefer you gear up from Tera’s stash too, Wesley,” he said.

  “I’m not going to risk leaving behind clues that Green Berets are on a search-and-destroy mission, not when I’m supposed to be keeping out of the fighting,” Wesley answered. “I’ll gladly trade in for someone else’s gear.”

  “Good,” Bolan said. “Laith, do you have any problem with working with the Mossad?”

  Laith gave Geren a glance, his face screwed in an indecipherable expression. Geren squirmed uncomfortably.

  “You don’t have a problem working together,” Bolan said.

  “The Khans have been the Mossad local contacts for operations against the Taliban and al Qaeda in Afghanistan for a long time, Colonel,” Laith admitted finally. “My family isn’t too interested in a bunch of foreigners thinking they can murder, rape and otherwise bully people in our homeland.”

  “They give us intel, safehouses and storage points for us to make excursions into Pakistan,” Geren told Bolan. “The Kashmir might be a reason for a nuclear war between Pakistan and India, but those nukes could also quite easily be used in support of a terrorist operation against Israel.”

  “I won’t tell,” Bolan said. He looked to Wesley who was staring off into space.

  The young captain jerked back to attention as he realized the others were looking at him. “What?”

  “I don’t think he heard anything that would result in his brakes failing on a mountain road in his future,” Geren quipped. “I’m not naive enough to think that we haven’t been watched. It’s just that the Pakistanis shouldn’t ever find out about anything.”

  “I’m not telling Pakistan jack shit about anything but how to sit and spin,” Wesley answered.

  “Good. We’ll gear up and start hunting again come sunset,” Bolan explained. “Any good leads?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure they’d have ditched the car by now, but there was a gold Peugeot that got shot up during the ambush back at HQ,” Wesley said. “The driver seemed to be paying close attention to you three. Most likely you, Tera.”

  “We saw him peel out and take off,” Laith said. “He didn’t seem too friendly with the Taliban guys.”

  “He was an Arab. But who and why?” Bolan asked.

  Geren cast her eyes to the floor, avoiding contact with anyone.

  “You think he’s Palestinian?” Bolan probed.

  She stayed motionless. Not even a flinch. But even the absence of a reaction is a reaction. She’d steeled herself against a direct question.

  “Tera, you never explained your mission,” Bolan said.

  “She told us she was investigating the murder of an Israeli national who was in the relief group that got hit,” Wesley answered.

  “It’s a good story, but they wouldn’t have sent her. They’d have sent a small army, and they’d be tearing up the countryside with relative impunity,” Bolan explained.

  “What are you implying, Striker?” Geren asked.

  “You work by yourself. You’re pretty much a sheet in the wind. Sure, you’re a full-fledged agent, but you get thrown into situations where Tel Aviv wouldn’t want someone scrutinizing its actions. You’d either have to be a crusader with an agenda or a pariah to be stuck on solo missions. You’re one or the other to get the jobs you get.”

  “Which one are you,” Geren countered. She tried to look upset, but her anger was as much reflecting inward as toward the Executioner.

  Bolan smiled at Geren. The fireball wasn’t going to wither with just a gentle breeze. “I’m a man doing my duty,” he said.

  “A little of both, then,” she answered.

  “And your job?”

  “Not going to ask me why they think they can leave me running around on my own? Why they think I’m expendable?” Geren said angrily.

  Bolan shook his head. “It’s not our concern now. The Mossad is worried about the killings of a UN relief worker, but I don’t think they’re as interested in the murder of one of their nationals as to who caused the murder.”

  Her eyes flashed with emerald anger again. Bolan had her, and he frowned. He was not enjoying peeling away her cover story, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. She stared at him, the anger melting away as she noticed his own growing guilt.

  “Tera, we need to know what we’re up against, and you keeping your mouth shut—” Bolan said.

  “They call themselves Abraham’s Dagger,” Geren admitted. “At least that’s what they claimed once we found out who they were.”

  “What did they
call themselves before they got exposed?” Wesley asked.

  “Mossad agents and Israeli soldiers,” she grumbled. “It was an organization that was on both sides of government sanction in the administration. Private citizens and officers, troops and politicians, from all walks of life, all pushing the government toward harsher and harsher measures against the ‘Palestinian problem.’”

  “And you got caught in the middle of this?” Sympathy filled Laith’s voice.

  Geren shrugged. “It’s a job. Just a job. Most of the people I work with don’t like the fact that collateral damage happens when we go up against scumbags like Hamas or hard-core Palestinian thugs. Using an F-16 to blow up an apartment building and a bunch of sleeping children just to get one guy isn’t the way we pride ourselves on taking care of business. We’re pros, we get the job done, we take care of the guilty and we leave the innocent unhurt.”

  “Abraham’s Dagger would rather go the easy route,” Bolan said.

  “You know vigilantes,” she answered.

  Bolan felt that shot as sure as if she intended it for his gut. The Executioner had long walked the line between being a man on a mission and being a cold-blooded murderer. He chose his battles, doing so when he felt the law wouldn’t take a hand, or was powerless to act.

  Bolan limited himself in his war plans, however. He would never accept civilian losses. He risked his life to save people from the spillover of his conflicts against Animal Man. When he struck, he was always dead certain of his prey’s guilt. Most of the time, if there was any doubt, he tried to cut and run, preferring to continue the battle on his own terms later on. There had been a few exceptions, and those few instances left scars seared across his soul far worse than the streaks of whitened flesh on his skin.

  It would have been easier, even safer, to wage his war like the tactics of Abraham’s Dagger Tera was describing.

  But he would never give in to that type of battle.

  Jaw locked, Bolan nodded. “I know vigilantes.”

  “They’ve gone too far. For the longest time, they almost stepped across the line. People were willing to ignore them when they made their own punitive strikes against terrorists and their families. The dead child of a terrorist was at least someone who wouldn’t grow up to be a terrorist,” the Israeli woman said.