Triangle of Terror Page 6

  7

  A body count was not the Executioner’s primary goal, at least not going into the compound. Bolan needed answers, names, clues to a litany of nagging questions and suspicions that now appeared to reach from Washington to Brazil. He had some loose pieces of the puzzle to work with, if nothing else—high grade DDT—two or three steps shy from being morphed into nerve gas—leaving the country on a classified military flight, but what was he up against once he was southbound? And where the hell was the lethal cargo really slated to go? Into whose hands would it eventually fall?

  Only time and spilled blood, he concluded, would tell.

  Mystery hardman number two came close, but the Executioner’s combat radar, not to mention the warning whiff of cigarette smoke, had galvanized him toward the threat on his rear. A sweep of M-16 autofire at the ankles had toppled the hardman into view beneath the pipeline with a vicious curse, and Bolan cleaned his clock with a 3-round facial that left no doubt about a closed casket viewing. Two down and, taking a dead man’s word, eleven armed threats in the vicinity, the alarm of weapons fire blew the roof off stealth, and the chance of grabbing up another prisoner.

  No problem, Bolan figured, he’d take them the hard way.

  Bolan put an HE round down the gullet of his M-203.

  Checking the steel tangle of outreaching pipelines but finding no armed shadows as he rounded the storage tank, he took in the numbers around the forklift. He had come in from the east, figured to roll up the enemy’s rear as he made his way west. Why not keep on banging?

  Four hardmen were grouped around the GMC, with a driver on the forklift, a pallet packed with four fifty-five-gallon drums, wound together with wire, wrapped in thick plastic, right in their faces.

  Perfect.

  Behind him, the Executioner heard the static snarl of a voice barking over a radio. Angry words whipped away into the dark as they fell on dead ears. Ahead, men were shouting at one another, into handheld radios, HK subguns swinging toward the tank. West, Bolan found the other hard force frozen near the transport’s ramp, a handman in black hollering something at his forklift driver heading across open ground.

  First come, first served on the way out the gate.

  The Executioner slipped his finger around the M-203’s trigger, just as one of the warehouse crew spotted him in the deep shadows beside the tank. The man was waving at the others, pointing out the threat, drawing a bead with his weapon when Bolan caressed the trigger. The 40 mm comet shot forth, trailing smoke and flame. The voices downrange raised in panic as they scurried from ground zero. Impact blew a saffron fireball through the drums, and the screaming of men in agony began in hellish earnest. The poisonous contents of the drums spewed over the hardmen. The pungent stench of chemicals pierced Bolan’s nose even at a sixty-yard distance.

  Showered by toxic rain, hit square in the eyes or sucking down a lungful of the ghastly stew, three of the five men flailed on the ground, gagged and choked out. With shock from the blast and flesh shredded by shrapnel to sponge up more poison, they were checking out fast. They were limp by the time Bolan forged ahead.

  Holding back on the M-16’s trigger, Bolan tagged two hardmen still in the fight. Shooting blind, growling curses, their ravaged frames most likely being eaten up by burning poison, they swept the ground before Bolan, rounds whizzing past his ears, tattooing the wall behind him in a rolling steel drumbeat. Raking them left to right with a tempest of 5.56 mm rounds, knocking them down, Bolan fed another HE projectile into the M-203.

  Hardforce Two didn’t come running as Bolan veered a course well away from the outer limits of the toxin still raining to earth. They were in high gear near the transport, hardmen flailing about, arms flapping at the driver, two shadows on the ramp vanishing into the belly of the bird.

  The flight crew, he reckoned, running to crank on the turboprops.

  They were rattling off streams of automatic fire by the time Bolan hit a crouch beside the empty guard booth.

  No prisoners, no escape.

  The Executioner squeezed the launcher’s trigger, aiming for an encore pesiticide detonation. As the booth began to take hits, in a whirlwind of glass and wood slivers, Bolan scored the curtain call. The blast hurled drums and searing toxic rain into the air, the forklift flying off the ramp on a gust of flames, its driver loosing a scream of agony that told the others he was going the way of sprayed bugs. A few more human insects added to the chorus of shrieking as they were doused, weapons falling silent as they became more concerned about breathing and finding a way to extinguish what was liquid fire.

  Dumping an incendiary round down the launcher’s chute, checking his rear but finding only the scorched dead, the Executioner rolled out through the gate. Closing on the hideous choking, two shadows flailing on the ground like gutted fish, Bolan heard the turboprops whining to life. On the march, he spared the hackers a mercy burst, then turned death sights on the transport. Judging the size of the tanker trucks near a lone hangar, and the distance to reach Brazil, he figured the wings were topped off with fuel.

  Why not end it? There was tomorrow, and another battlefield, he suspected, that would demand his lethal skills. Traitors like here, too, that would demand his full vengeful attention.

  Bolan cut the gap to about a hundred yards, but pushed out to the north before lining up the port wing for the final touch. He cut loose, the missile sailing on, waiting…

  Bingo.

  A brilliant wave of thundering white fire sheared off at least half the wing, white phosphorous igniting high-octane fuel in a blaze that appeared to take on a life of its own as it raced for gorged tanks. Bolan squinted, then turned away as the doomed ship belched apart in a fire mountain, vaporizing all life on board or maybe still clinging to the ghost on the ground.

  All done here, he reckoned, as he reached for his radio, wreckage pounding the earth beyond his rolling safety zone with seismic tremors.

  Quickly, the Executioner melted into the shimmering shadows, putting behind one world on fire, in search of yet another hellzone sure to come.

  8

  Jabir Nahab was braced for another beating. This was his second trip to the white room, but something in its appearance and in the demeanor of the American interrogator who called himself a closer had changed. Was he being set up for a new tactic? The friendly approach, all understanding and sympathy, warming him up for a sucker punch to the teeth? Did this infidel think him a fool?

  He had traveled this road many times, but from the driver’s side, of course. He had employed every angle, trick, deceit and psychological ruse, inflicting untold pain and mutilation on rival Arabs and traitors among his own ranks to get information, or make an example. He knew the torture drill so well, he figured he could have scripted a dozen or so new and creative sadistic and agonizing games for the infidel. But he was prepared to go to Allah at the hands of his enemies. Yet, there was something in the air, something as different as life, say, was to death. He was curious, or was he maybe hopeful?

  He sat, hands and feet chained to his waist, felt sweat-tacky flesh sticking to his orange jumpsuit, watching the American working on his cigarette, a strange calm for an aura. Nahab wondered when the fist would slam his jaw or tear open an eyebrow. He glanced around the cell, revelation suddenly dawning on him why the room was different. For one thing, the plastic tarp, meant to take spilled blood and thus relieve a Marine from janitor duty—or roll up a corpse to be dumped far away—was gone. The steel chair with its head brace and eye clamps had been replaced by a simple folding chair. A small rectangular table was positioned directly in front of where the hot seat had been bolted down. The air conditioner was still in place over his right shoulder, a silent metal box he expected to start humming out bitter cold air any second. Another trick? If so, he was grateful for the moment it wasn’t pumping out icy waves that, he recalled, had nearly frozen him to death when he’d been left alone with the screeching music cleaving his senses, the white light—like staring into the sun—d
rilling into his eyes, lancing his brain with invisible fiery needles where he sat in his own running blood from the brutal fist to his nose.

  That was it! The wattage bathing him from above was no stronger than a night lamp. But when would it flare on like a supernova?

  “You want a smoke, Jabir?”

  Nahab hesitated, thinking this act of generosity contrived to soften him up before the fist flew. He watched the American with the bullet head, buzz cut and eyes that were all anger and shades of the ghosts of violence pop the lid on a can of soda and set it on the table. The closer held out the pack, nodding at the beverage.

  “Don’t worry, Jabir, it’s not poison, LSD or truth serum.”

  With his nose smashed and blood clotting his nostrils, it was difficult to smell, but he made out the bite of bleach, maybe disinfectant, used, no doubt, to wash away the blood of whomever the previous victim had been. Something, he decided, had happened in the past few hours to dull the edge on the man’s savage touch. What? And did it matter? He was still a prisoner of the infidels, far removed from his home-land of Syria. Yesterday, today, tomorrow if he was lucky, he’d still be steaming in anger and anxiety in solitary confinement through the endless hours of harassment, one cup of mealy broth and a cup of tepid water as daily ration, wondering if he’d live out the next few minutes. Or when the next round of torture would begin.

  “Go on, take it. No tricks. I’m not going to lay a hand on you.”

  Nahad flinched as chains rattled and he stretched his hands to take the cigarette. He was steeled for a slap to the cheek, but the infidel simply lit his smoke. Keeping his tone level, he said, “Is this what you call good cop?”

  “No, Jabir, this is straight man-to-man, or warrior-to-warrior, if you will. Things have changed. Listen very carefully. Your life and your freedom depend on your final answer.”

  He watched as the infidel stepped back, puffing hard on his smoke. Two clouds—two warriors, he thought—sharing a moment of silence, meshing their smoke, thinking, waiting. One and the same, he wondered, even if they were on opposing ends of the spectrum? Despite adversarial ideologies, and who wielded the power of terror right then, he began to wonder just how different they were in the final analysis. They warred, they killed, they wanted to live to fight another day.

  They both wanted to win, if not in a mere contest of wills then facing off on the battlefield.

  The closer began, “I don’t like what I’ve done here, Jabir, all this blood and brutality on my hands. Believe it or not, there’s a part of me that’s almost human—let’s just say I can feel your pain, your fear, your desire to breathe free air again. The deal I first put to you still stands. Give me something, a name of a contact, a general location of what you know I want, and you walk. Same for the rest. Cooperate, go with the program, I’ll even fly you home personally.”

  Nahab chuckled, leaned forward and took a sip of cola.

  “Tell me why I’m not convinced by this sudden conversion.”

  The closer cleared his throat, began pacing, a dark look shadowing a face sharp as the edge of a razor. “There is a man coming down from Washington. Seems he’s coming to take a look around Camp Triangle. He will probably question you and the others. Information on operations you may be aware of, locations of cells in America and so forth, but I’m thinking he wants to see for himself—and report back—how you and the others have been treated.”

  Nahab managed to keep the smile off his battered lips. “I see.”

  The closer, he saw, waved a hand at his face, said, “When he questions you about the facial rearrangement, you are to tell him you and a few of the others attacked your guards, a savage attack, mind you. It was in an attempt to break free and you nearly succeeded. You were clawing for eyes, balls, trying to rip out throats, hell, use your imagination, but make him a believer in the story.”

  “And when he inquires about the disappeared?”

  “You don’t know anything about that. I’ll handle that problem, for all you know you believe they were released and shipped back to their country of origin.”

  “And in return for all this charity and forgiveness you demand of me?”

  The closer bobbed his head, blowing smoke out his nostrils. “Officially Camp Triangle, Jabir, does not exist. We are planted smack up the anus of the world, even Allah would have to check a map and GPS to find where we are. We are surrounded, my Syrian friend, by corrupt policemen and Brazilian military officers who have their hands out for everything and anything—money, drugs, from kidnapping children for sex slaves to harvesting dead bodies so they can sell the organs. We have major narcotics traffickers, organized crime, Muslim fundamentalists, rebels scattered from here clear into Paraguay, police death squads and right-wing racist groups who think the only good Indian—or, in your case, an Arab—is a dead one. Everything in this area called the Triangle is for sale, and life is only as good as what a man can provide, or give up—or take for himself. That in mind, Camp Triangle was created, is being run by men who, much like yourself, are seeking the overthrow and perhaps destruction of the United States.”

  The closer continued. “I have been a soldier for almost two decades, Jabir. I used to believe in my country. I have fought, killed and have nearly been killed on more occasions than I can count defending America—or some ideal I used to think I believed in. Freedom and truth and justice for all and such bullshit. No more. I’m still a soldier, but I’m fighting a different war. The men I’m involved with want what’s in Turkey, but that’s only the beginning, only one card on the table for them. Call me a traitor, but I see myself as a warrior who wised up, jumped the twenty-first century Titanic that’s America. I’m going for number one, that’s who I’m fighting for. My soldiers and I want money, the men above me want power and dominion, but that’s their business. You want to be free so you can carry on your jihad.

  “I have no problem with that, I have no love for America, at least not the one I presently see. Already we have learned of several operations you or your fellow jihadists had in the works, dirty bombs to be touched off in several American cities, martyrs going down in blazes of glory for Allah while shooting up shopping malls, restaurants, resort hotels and casinos. Those plans have been scrapped, but I know there’s more big events being hatched. Bottom line, Jabir, I’m here to see you go free, to have your dream come true.”

  The closer stopped abruptly. Stunned, Nahab didn’t know what to believe. He knew, though, where there was passion, or at least the clarity of anger, there was the fire of truth. Clearly, the closer was in charge of an outlaw operation, which, if found out, could well land him in the white room, in the chair, staring into the blinding supernova, mind and spirit to be cracked like eggshell. A live or die deal was being put to him. Nahab had his answer ready.

  “It’s your call, Jabir. Freedom to unleash jihad again—or never see what’s beyond these prison gates. How can you trust me? You can’t. But you can’t afford not to.”

  “The others?” Nahad asked.

  “I’ve spoken to all but four. They’re in. They want out of this hellhole. They tell me you can give me what I need to know, so all of us can eventually go our own ways, but only after I’ve finished my mission here and you or some contact of yours can deliver the goods. What’s it going to be?”

  Nahab took his time answering. He furrowed his brow, pretending to ponder his fate. He dumped his cigarette in the soda can, asked for and received another, the closer lighting him up. He let the infidel wait, thinking the American spoke at least some truth. Trust him? Never. Work with him, bide his time, sharpen his blade, then when he was ready to carve his own pound of flesh…

  Nahab forced a smile he didn’t feel. “I have two contacts, reliable. I know where they are, or how to find them. But I and the others need to be free.”

  “If it checks out, or if it even has a ring of potential, we’re on our way to the Promised Land.”

  “One is in Turkey, and one is right here in this region y
ou call the Triangle.”

  9

  The Executioner deplaned to an empty airfield. Considering the nature of his “official” objective—an investigation into alleged torture and murder by American fighting men and intelligence agents against Muslim fundamentalist enemy combatants—he hadn’t expected the red carpet treatment. But they’d been cleared for landing via a preset encrypted message to both the camp’s communications center and control tower a good fifty minutes earlier. There was no welcoming committee on hand, not even a Marine or a Task Force Talon underling shipped out to greet him. The first warning signal flared up for the Executioner.

  Colonel Braden Stone from Washington was a leper. And perhaps even considered the enemy.

  As the Gulfstream C-20’s twin Rolls-Royce turbofans shut down, Bolan walked a few steps across the runway, stopped and took in Camp Triangle. During the haul from New Orleans—roughly four thousand miles and close to eight hours—to this cleared-out stretch of subtropical rain forest hugging the borders of Argentina and Paraguay, Bolan had updated Hal Brognola, who had promptly marched in a Justice Department special task force to secure Wolfe-Binder on the heels of Bolan’s evacuation. With both of them in the dark where the mission was headed, Bolan left the big Fed to the chore of nailing down seen and unforeseen logistical headaches, and to cover all the right bases, official and otherwise.

  The longer he waited for some sign of life to step out into the morning sun, the more Bolan’s gut warned him his visit could go unofficial in a hurry.

  So be it.

  One piece of the jigsaw at a time. After the slaughter and hanging questions in the wake of New Orleans, Bolan had landed in the Triangle prepared for the worst.

  Nothing new.

  The Farm’s intel package included detailed satellite imagery of the compound, with every road, highway, trail and bridge that led to and from the borders with Argentina and Paraguay and then points north and east, thrown in for good measure, in the event an unexpected sojourn was required. The imagery, Bolan knew, was pirated from a National Reconnaissance Office satellite, but at first pan Bolan found the space shots on the money. The one-story prefab concrete building, its roofline bubbled with radar and satellite dishes, was the detention center, the rectangular structure, he recalled from grid markings, taking up close to a city block. What was inside, Bolan thought, was another matter altogether.