Death Has a Name Read online

He spun, men charging from all sides. He finished the clip with two one-second bursts, the parabellums taking the legs right out from under several of them, heaping them atop one another in screaming agony.

  "Get cover!" Barlow yelled from behind, as his people fanned out in an ever-widening circle, its interior a safe zone.

  From the upper decks, hoods with M-16s fired from the rails, dropping one of the Sabra agents, his arm torn off by the shells.

  The Executioner looked up. As the deck angrily splintered all around him, Bolan used the 93-R in controlled 3-shot bursts. Isolating himself from everything but his targets, he punched through six of them, one after another, all killing shots to the upper torso. The bodies tumbled over the rails above, falling to the deck like human rain, their weapons clattering down with them.

  A Sabra agent ran the deck and jumped to the crate that was still suspended from the crane. He climbed atop the now wildly swinging box, using a knife to slash the rope holding it to the cable. He landed on deck with the crate, its sides splitting, M-60s and boxes of ammo spilling out along with the television sets that were supposed to be inside.

  Barlow ran to the rail, pointing down at the truck and yelling. "That one! Get that one!"

  The driver was already taking the truck out of there, his vehicle swerving erratically as he tried to drive on the rims of his front axle.

  Johnny and Judith ran to the center of the dock, opening up with their stutterguns. Civilians scrambled for cover as the pavement sparked under the friction of the parabellums. The truck covered fifty yards before the crate on the back caught fire, then blew seconds later with a deafening roar.

  The concussive effect of the blast threw the driver through the windshield, the rolling truck careening sharply to the right, plowing into Barlow's snack stand before the gas tank erupted in orange flame. Both truck and stand went off the edge of the dock and into the Mediterranean, leaving behind a residue of oily black smoke.

  They had the enemy on the run. The deck had cleared of all but bodies, as everyone retreated under cover.

  Bolan ran to the hatch to follow as Barlow hurried up to him, a combat grimace frozen on his face. "How many do you make?"

  Bolan ejected the clip from the Beretta, jamming another clip into the butt. "Ten or fifteen," he said. "How many we lost?"

  "Two," Barlow said, taking a deep breath.

  "Ready?"

  "It's your party."

  Barlow swung out with the door, opening to a barrage from the narrow passages within. He came around with the Uzi, emptying the whole clip into the hallway, driving the enemy back. Bolan followed the fusillade into the acrid, smoke-filled hall.

  A head poked through a doorway and tried to withdraw. Bolan drilled a third eye. He ran to the place, charging into a dining room filled with enemy guns. The Executioner knocked over a table for cover as M-16s opened up. It was steel, heavy enough to withstand rough seas, bullets singing loudly as they ricocheted off its dull top.

  Barlow and several others followed him in, grabbing cover where they could find it. Flaming hell existed for thirty seconds as everyone emptied their guns at once in the large room.

  Bolan held back with the Beretta. When the initial volley subsided, he stood without cover and took out the enemy soldiers one at a time, blasting mechanically wherever they were exposed until the clip ran dry.

  Then the gunners charged, swinging empty rifles like bludgeons. The K-bar was in the Executioner's hands and he came up under a swinging rifle as another Sabra agent fell. Bolan thrust the knife into a terrorist, going for bone. The fighting was close. He came up, aiming at a throat.

  Then it was over.

  Three Sabra agents stood knee-deep in bodies. They were breathing heavily, blood and gore covering them from head to foot.

  "Gather our dead," Barlow ordered, and a second later one of the female agents poked her head in the door.

  "Some of them are down in the hold!" she said. "I think they're trying to blow it."

  "Get the bodies!" Barlow yelled. "Let's get out of here!"

  Bolan was already racing for the exit, heading for the deck. He had no idea how to make it to the hold other than from above.

  He cleared the hatch into sunshine. Barlow's people were busy getting their dead and wounded down the gangplank.

  The hold lay exposed before him, a large square hole that dropped fifty feet in the deck. There were still a great many crates left — how many had already gone? Several men were down there scurrying around the wooden boxes. Nobody had fired on them for fear of shooting into live ordnance. Bolan had no such fear.

  They were setting small charges of C-4 with timers to give themselves the chance to get away. Bolan saw three of them, crouched in different sections of the hold.

  The Executioner shoved another clip into the 93-R and stiff-armed it out in front of him.

  "Bolan, let's go!" Barlow screamed from behind.

  He didn't respond, instead firing at a Mafia man, taking out the guy's kneecap. To be certain, he put one in the other leg.

  "I can't move!" the man screamed to his partners. "Don't set the timers!"

  Another mafioso stood, ignoring the danger and digging for hardware. Bolan finished him with a round in the chest.

  "No!" the downed man screamed. "Please!"

  He swung to the third man, an Arab, who continued to work on his charge without stopping. Bolan put one through his leg, too. But it didn't work with this guy.

  "Bastard!" the man screamed and finished setting the charge. He began laughing then, high-pitched, hysterical laughter.

  Bolan turned and ran.

  The Sabra agents were already hurrying down the dock to safety. Only Barlow awaited him at the base of the gangway.

  Then Barlow glanced over his shoulder, pointing back toward the ship. "Look!"

  Bolan followed Barlow's finger to see two mafiosi coming down the gangway with their hands in the air. Barlow leveled his Uzi and started back for them. "Let's take these guys," he said.

  Bolan stood his ground. "Nat!" he ordered. "Stop!"

  But Barlow was already squeezing his trigger, stitching the unarmed thugs, who rolled the rest of the way to the dock.

  Bolan's face twisted with rage, and he ran back to the Sabra agent. "We could have used them for information!"

  Barlow's reply was lost as the freighter blew then, erupting apart in a series of rumbling explosions. The first concussions sent the warriors facedown to the dock, which threatened to go as it shook madly, cement pilings crumbling beneath it as huge sections fell into the sea.

  The sky turned orange, then white, as the air itself seemed to be ripping apart, smoke billowing away, pushed by a gentle breeze. The wooden roof of the wharf caught fire, dry timber turning the area into a raging inferno all around them.

  And just when it seemed everything would be swallowed up, it was over. The rumblings stopped, the dock half gone. Sirens wailed plaintively in the distance as Bolan rolled over to dust himself off. The Latva was gone, totally and absolutely.

  10

  The Sabra headquarters was located on a tree-shaded cul-de-sac on Rambam Street in the heart of the ultraorthodox Jewish quarter of Haifa. Its front was a mikva, a ritualistic bath, the continual ebb and flow of traffic disguising the presence of agents.

  Nat Barlow and Mack Bolan sat across from each other at a large dining table; a nearby doorway led to a small kitchen. The room was large and open, furnished with many chairs. Books were piled everywhere. There were no windows, but TV screens monitored every angle outside.

  Several cots were set up at the far end of the room, and except for the gun cases set in the cinder-block walls, there was no ornamentation. A small group of agents sat tensely around the room, speaking in stage whispers.

  A telephone rested on the table between the two warriors. They were engaged in the part of warfare that combat veterans hate the most — waiting.

  "Isn't there something else we can do?" Bolan asked. "I hate sitting
here while those guns get into the wrong hands."

  "Everyone I can spare is out running his contacts," Barlow replied, lighting another cigarette on the butt of the one he had been smoking. The ashtray beside him was filled to capacity.

  "Through the whole country?" Bolan asked.

  Barlow took a long drag, exhaling slowly. "Fortunately, it's a small country, about the size of, say, Massachusetts. You think they'll use some of the explosives soon?"

  "It's logical," Bolan said. "The longer they keep stuff around, the better chance of it getting discovered. From the tone of Metrano's letter, I think we're in for some heavy-duty problems — and soon."

  "What 'Zionist landmarks' do you think he was talking about?"

  "You live here," Bolan replied, taking a sip from the dark, bitter coffee that sat in front of him. He shook his head. "You tell me."

  "This is the land of the Bible," Barlow said. "The whole country's full of landmarks… though I would suspect that Jerusalem would have to come under attack at some time. They can go after both Jews and Christians there at the same time."

  Bolan thought about that. The PLO had one aim alone — to conduct the war of fear. Believing Israel a land meant only for them, they waged jihad — holy war — against the unbelievers, meaning Jews and Christians. Considering it their divine duty to slay infidels, they used whatever methods struck the most terror in the hearts of their enemies. That meant war on innocents, wholesale slaughter of children in elementary schools or the bombing of hospitals. And whatever else the Executioner thought about this, the overwhelming sense of guilt and responsibility overrode it all. Why wouldn't the phone ring?

  "Does your organization have any official status?" he asked Barlow.

  The man shook his head. "We're sponsored by several members of the Knesset, our parliament, and funded by donations of American Jews through the Jewish Defense League, but like you, we must have the freedom to act immediately in emergency situations. Israel is technically at war with eighteen surrounding Arab states. Things happen too quickly to rely on politicians."

  * * *

  Johnny Bolan and Judith Meyers stood in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes from lunch and listening to the exchange between Bolan and Barlow.

  "I'm sorry about your cousin," Johnny said, when there was a temporary lull at the dining table.

  Judith looked at him, her eyes a pale blue, her face lean, but somehow soft looking. "I think we all expect it in this business," she said, a catch in her voice, "but Sara and I were children together." She laughed, caught herself. "We used to routinely run away from home together. I guess I just… I just…"

  She broke down slightly, turning her head from him, sniffling. He felt awkward, then ashamed of his awkwardness. He put a hand on her shoulder. She turned and slipped into his arms, letting him comfort her. "Sara had so much life in her," she said. "So much… desire for life. She was the one who wanted to join Sabra when we heard about it through some army friends. She wished desperately for the land we love to be free from pain, to know the peace that would allow everyone to enjoy life."

  Judith moved away from him then, slightly embarrassed. She took a deep breath, composing herself. "Now she'll never know how things came out. She died on foreign soil, not buried among her own kind."

  "Funny," he replied. "Sometimes I feel that way about my brother."

  She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. "What?"

  "You should have seen Mack before… when he was younger." Johnny turned and looked through the open door to make sure no one could hear him. Barlow was across the room, trying to read a book, while Bolan stood nearby, watching the outside monitors. "He was always happy, always laughing. When I was a kid, I idolized him. Life meant so much to Mack. Nobody could have a time like he could."

  He finished drying a dish and put it up in the cupboard, closing the wooden door. "Then came the war, and the deaths of the rest of our family. Mack stopped being my brother and became something else, something a lot darker. Sometimes I don't know him. Sometimes I don't think he knows himself."

  "Combat changes people," Judith replied, and she turned to look at Bolan through the door. "It can scoop out the sensitivity and just leave the empty shell. I've seen it happen. We worry a lot about that here because of the nature of what we do. That's why we're called Sabra. The sabra cactus is hard on the outside, but soft and sweet to the taste on the inside. We must not lose our humanity, no matter what. I fear that perhaps your brother has crossed the line."

  "I fear it, too," Johnny said, surprised to hear those words coming out of his mouth. He had not even dared think them before.

  Johnny quickly changed the subject. "How come all of you speak English so well?"

  "It's required in all the schools," she answered. "Since we come from so many places, it tends to be a common ground for most of us. Plus, we owe a great deal of our continued existence to our friendship with the United States. We… appreciate our position."

  The phone rang loudly, making both of them jump. They moved to the dining room door, watching both Barlow and Mack run for it, Bolan waiting for Barlow to pick it up.

  "What?" Barlow said into the phone. "Just a minute." He got out a small pad and began writing. "Got it," he said after a minute. "I'll be in touch."

  He hung up the phone and looked around at the expectant faces that crowded in on him. "We've made some of them," he said. "Right here in town."

  11

  The Dan Carmel Hotel perched on the summit of Mount Carmel, the entire city spread beneath it down the mountainside. This was the highest point of the port city. A Turkish cannon still sat on the hotel grounds, pointing out over Haifa to commemorate the last outpost to fall when General Allenby took Israel from the Turks in 1917.

  But for Mack Bolan, the Executioner, the Dan Carmel was more than a scenic hotel with a history — it was killing ground, and very poor killing ground at that.

  Now he stood with Barlow, Johnny and twelve other Sabra agents on the darkened grounds. They were staring at a bulbous projection from the second floor of the hotel, called the Le Rondo, a fancy French restaurant that boasted the best view of the night city. According to Barlow's intelligence, a mysterious American had rented the restaurant for the night, but had insisted on bringing in his guests via the outside, emergency-exit stairs that were normally closed to the public, instead of through the hotel itself.

  In the hours following the destruction of the Latva, this had been the best lead the Sabra people had come up with although there had been movement. Every business and person under Sabra surveillance had been on the move. The energy in the air was electric — tonight would be yet another night of horror for Israel. Unless the Executioner could do something about it.

  Officially, the government was listing the destruction of the ship as an unknown quantity under investigation. Unofficially, all covert branches of the Israeli military had been mobilized for action.

  "Thoughts?" Barlow whispered around him in the darkness.

  "We must limit the fighting to the restaurant itself," Judith said. "This is a tourist hotel. A gun battle in there could have international repercussions."

  "Agreed," Barlow said. "My feeling is to take half our force and go in through the hotel entrance, making that the least likely route of escape. We'll spread the rest up the outside stairs and on the surrounding grounds."

  "I disagree," Bolan said. "The hotel entrance is down a long, narrow hallway that could easily be defended by two guns. If you force them through the windows and the outside stairs, you'll need most of your firepower right out here."

  "International publicity is a major concern for us," Barlow said. "Our survival as a country depends a great deal on the goodwill of our allies. We can't take the chance of letting this leak into the hotel."

  Bolan nodded. He didn't like it, but until he could come up with his own sources of information, he'd have to play by Barlow's rules.

  They split up into teams, Johnny part of the squa
d of three who would defend the outside stairs that spiraled from an emergency door in the center of the building. For the most part the place sat on stilts, twenty feet above ground level, and three more men waited in the darkness beneath the building to catch anyone coming through the windows.

  Bolan moved through the remnants of forest that occupied the back of the Dan Carmel toward the well-lit front. He was dressed in combat gear down to his harness, as were the rest of them. Barlow hurried to catch up to him, and they entered the light together.

  The lobby was bright and wide open, with a long counter on their left as they walked in. The room's atmosphere charged instantly, employees and guests looking in shocked surprise at the six men armed with submachine guns who hurried past them.

  At the counter, Bolan saw an employee frown deeply, then reach for the house phone in front of him. The Executioner realized immediately how the place had gotten rented that night. He ran to the desk, flashing out with a hard right hand to level the traitor before he could phone and warn his cronies upstairs.

  The man fell to the floor, his head cracking on the key cabinet behind him.

  Bolan jogged to catch up with the others, who had taken the series of small flights of stairs leading up to the hallway that exited only at the Le Rondo.

  There was one way to play this one, fast and loose. Move quick and hope the element of surprise was on your side. Surprise was the warrior's best friend and worst enemy, depending on whose side it was on. Bolan knew they'd need all the help they could get tonight.

  Barlow stationed a man at the far end of the hallway to keep anyone from wandering in accidentally. The rest of them moved quickly toward the double glass doors fifty paces away.

  They were a third of the way before the man with the M-16 on the other side saw them. He turned to shout as Barlow emptied the Uzi pistol into him, shattering the glass at the same time. The volley's impact hurled the gunner against a wall behind, then he bounced back onto the jagged shards of glass that still poked up from the metal door frame.