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  Bottom line: from here on to the bitter end there would be nothing but problems. Accepting that before they started out wouldn’t eliminate the many dangers waiting for them, but at least they ought to be prepared.

  And if they weren’t?

  In that case, Bolan knew they had no business even being in the game.

  With the Executioner in the lead and Geller on his heels, they started hiking as dusk’s shadows came on in pursuit.

  Las Palmas Resort

  Ibrahim al-Mihdhar entered the designated meeting room, designed to comfortably seat one hundred people, significantly more than the anticipated number of delegates. Fahd Julaidan followed closely behind him.

  The al-Qaeda spokesmen had flown ten thousand miles from Muscat in the Sultanate of Oman to Caracas. Normally, the flight would only span eight thousand miles, but two men hunted by the Devil’s emissaries, as were al-Mihdhar and Julaidan, found it safer to avoid direct travel in favor of a zigzag course, enhanced by switching passports twice en route.

  All that, to mingle with a group of warriors unaffiliated with his organization, including some they recognized as mortal enemies despite sharing a common faith.

  But when had faith in Allah ever been a simple thing?

  Modern Islam was not just divided; it was split into so many factions that al-Mihdhar sometimes wished he had a program to help keep the players straight. While Sunni and Shia claimed some 90 percent of Islam’s followers, there were also others to be reckoned with. Each sect had its fundamentalists, disdained by less rigid disciples from the generation of “Can’t we all get along?”

  Al-Qaeda’s answer to that foolish question was and always would be a resounding “No!”

  And there would be no fabled peace on Earth until al-Qaeda reigned supreme.

  Scanning the other delegates already present, al-Mihdhar saw faces that he knew and loathed for their apostasy, while others were entirely new to him. Not everyone was present in the meeting chamber yet, a few still straggling in behind him and Julaidan, no one desiring to be first in line and thereby branded as ingratiating.

  Tented place cards had been set around the spacious oblong table, clearly with an eye toward separating adversaries pledged to feuds against their rivals. One goal of the meeting, as al-Mihdhar understood it, was to mend those rifts, subsuming ideology and cant in favor of a broader, more cooperative view that would allow those present, and the factions that they served, to strike at Western enemies without wasting their time and vital energy in fitful dissidence among themselves.

  Considering that effort’s prospect for success, al-Mihdhar placed the odds at five-or six-to-one against.

  But he would do his part, as ordered by Qasim al-Raymi, current reigning emir of AQAP—al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. To do less, or at least to be seen doing less, was an irrevocable death sentence for al-Mihdhar and likely for the remainder of his family.

  He still wished that their hosts had not forbidden firearms being carried to the meeting, as he looked around the room and saw some others staring at him while pretending that they were not. Before Ibrahim al-Mihdhar could chase that train of thought, two men in business suits rose to his left, the taller of them rapping with his knuckles on the table’s top.

  “If I may ask for your attention, gentlemen—and lady—I must tell you that a problem has arisen that we should discuss before proceeding to the first session of our scheduled agenda.”

  As the room fell silent, al-Mihdhar’s eyes fixed upon two chairs across the table from him, situated cattycorner, noting that they were conspicuously vacant. He felt an anxious stirring in his gut.

  * * *

  Adira Geller took her time, placing her boots in Matt Cooper’s footsteps where she found it feasible, allowing for his longer stride. At the same time, she let her eyes drift to the left, right, not forgetting to observe the forest vines and branches overhead, the ferns around her feet.

  Danger, she knew, could come from anywhere at any time.

  Her M4A1 carbine weighed 7.75 pounds with a loaded 30-round magazine in place. The Jericho 941 added another 2.1 pounds. The frag grenades weighed one pound each; call it another dozen there. Her Lotar Kobra combat knife, at 1.6 pounds, barely counted overall in Geller’s estimation.

  Add to that a matched pair of IDF plastic canteens filled with potable water, a well-stocked first-aid kit, and a small backpack containing a dozen kosher MREs, two extra pairs of socks, a poncho and two compact Mylar emergency thermal blankets. Geller wasn’t exactly traveling light, but compared to the rigors of military service—compulsory for most Israeli men and women alike—this felt like a literal walk in the park.

  That was, if the park was stocked with deadly wildlife and the stroll concluded with a firefight against terrorist fanatics.

  For Geller, it was just another workday with Metsada, taking out the trash.

  As far as backup went, when she confronted hostile odds that headquarters could only estimate, she knew Matt Cooper could handle himself in a firefight. She accepted his knowledge of tactics, his field discipline—but none of that meant she could trust him.

  So why was she here in the wild, being led by a stranger who talked a good game but whose ultimate interest might not coincide with her own and her homeland’s?

  It was a judgment call, taking nothing for granted, and she would stand by that until Cooper proved her wrong.

  And if that happened, Yahweh help him, for Geller could be merciless.

  How many persons had she killed so far, during the fourteen years since her conscription to the IDF? She’d been to war in Lebanon, in summer of 2006, and once again in Gaza, briefly, for “Operation Cast Lead” against Hamas rocket sites, razing both military and civilian targets.

  The so-called fog of war made calculations from the battlefield haphazard, imprecise, although she could recall eliminating certain individuals up close and personally. On the other hand, Geller had no trouble in remembering the terrorists she’d taken out while serving with Metsada.

  Counting two on the Maiquetía docks that afternoon, she had eliminated twenty-seven men and two supremely vicious women. Gender, she had long ago determined, made no difference in combat with regard to being killed or maimed.

  As for Cooper, she could only hope he would not let her down. Her life depended on it now—and his most definitely did.

  Whoever threatened Geller or her homeland under any circumstances was fair game.

  And winning was the only game in town.

  Las Palmas Resort

  Colonel Miguel Pérez chose his words carefully as he addressed the audience of murderers. Major Riaz Khosa stood to his left, and he could feel the man observing, listening and judging him.

  He’d started cautiously, saying, “If I may ask for your attention gentlemen—and lady—I must tell you that a problem has arisen that we should discuss before proceeding to the first session of our scheduled agenda.”

  At that, with all eyes locked on his face, waiting to hear Pérez’s news, he was particularly conscious of two empty chairs at the long table set before him. Place cards bore the names of Filipinos he would never meet, Pascual Sandico and Rico Baes. Instead of joining the conference, they now resided in identical refrigerated drawers at Maiquetía’s morgue, awaiting autopsy and subsequent cremation.

  “You may note,” he told the men and the lone woman watching him, “that two places among you are unoccupied. Two members of the Philippine New People’s Army had intended to be with us here today, but they were ambushed and assassinated on arrival at Maiquetía this afternoon.”

  At that, more than a dozen voices overrode the colonel’s, all demanding answers. Who had killed the missing men? What was the danger to Las Palmas now? Could Pérez and SEBIN ensure their safety?

  “Bear with me, please,” the colonel said and then waited for the rising voices to be stilled. “
At present, we have not identified the individuals for this criminal assault against the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela, but I assure you that agents are pursuing every lead available. The murderers will be discovered. They will be held accountable.”

  More muttering from all around the table, but at least the angry voices were not shouting.

  “At this time,” he continued, forging ahead, “I have been ordered to inquire of you whether or not you wish to go ahead with the intended conference. Those who may feel unsafe here at Las Palmas are, of course, at liberty to leave under protection of SEBIN until your transportation out of country is arranged.”

  Dead silence now, all of the delegates staring at Pérez and his silent cohost, Khosa.

  “Those who choose to stay have my assurance that professional security is on alert and shall be during the remainder of these sessions. Furthermore, despite advance agreements to the contrary, I have received permission to supply each delegation with the tools for self-defense, those items subject to return upon departure from the airport of your choice.”

  More noise rippled around the conference table, gaining volume until Colonel Pérez raised his voice an octave.

  “I now offer you the opportunity to vote. Each delegation should decide to stay or leave, as its members see fit. None wishing to depart shall be restrained in any way. Those who remain, if any, have important business to discuss without obstruction from cowards lacking courage to stand firm.”

  “Yes, vote!” called out Namadi Giwa, speaking for Boko Haram. Within a moment, other voices joined his, letting Pérez know that he had drawn the winning card by challenging their courage.

  Who among them could bear losing face in front of allies, much less enemies?

  “Does anyone object to voting by a show of hands?” Pérez inquired.

  When no one answered him, aside from those shaking their heads, he smiled and nodded, as if bowing to their will.

  “All right then. A show of hands by those wishing to stay and carry out the meeting as intended?”

  Every person at the table raised a hand, some slower than their neighbors, but that hardly mattered now. Pérez glanced toward Major Khosa and found the Pakistani smiling like a man who’d won the lottery.

  “So be it,” Pérez said. “It’s unanimous. We shall continue as scheduled. But first, if all of you will follow me, I shall provide you with appropriate small arms and ammunition. Follow me, my friends!”

  * * *

  “Remind me why we chose to stay,” Georgios Xenakis half whispered to Marios Lekka, his compatriot from the Greek faction Revolutionary Struggle.

  “So that none of these bastards can go home and say they saw us run away,” Lekka replied. “We can’t be seen as being cowardly.”

  Both men had come up the hard way, fighting first in their late teens with the Conspiracy of Fire Cells before switching their allegiance to the EA in their middle twenties, dodging raids when other members were swept up in 2010 for mailing parcel bombs to Minister of Public Order Michalis Chrysohoidis. Four years later, they had bombed two banks in downtown Athens, and two years ago, the headquarters of Skai TV.

  Ahead of them in line were two Egyptians, Omar Mourad and Kamla Halim from Gama’a al-Islamiyya. Lekka watched as they accepted pistols, both Glocks, with two extra magazines apiece. He hoped for better and was not averse to saying so when his turn came.

  A Venezuelan soldier wearing sergeant’s stripes stood waiting for him as the two Egyptians moved away, checking their borrowed guns. Before the sergeant had a chance to speak, Lekka asked, “Have you any submachine guns?”

  “Only these,” the man in uniform replied, and fetched a Belgian FN P90. “Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Ideal,” Lekka replied. “With two spare magazines if you can manage.”

  “Sí señor.” The sergeant came back seconds later with two of the SMG unique 50-round magazines.

  The FN P90 was made by Fabrique Nationale Herstal. It measured 19.9 inches overall, weighed 5.7 pounds, and had the look of something from a science fiction film. It fed FN 5.7 mm rounds from a detachable box magazine mounted on top of its receiver, firing nine hundred rounds per minute with an effective range of 220 yards.

  When Xenakis took his turn, he asked the sergeant, “Do you have a shotgun for me?”

  “Sí señor.” The man in olive drab brought back a Russian KS-23, the letters standing for Karabin Spetsialniy, or “special carbine.” The weapon owed that outré appellation for a shotgun to its rifled barrel, firing 23 mm rounds equivalent to 6.27-gauge by American standards.

  The pump-action KS-23 weighed 8.5 pounds, measured 40 inches overall, with a 20-inch barrel, and held four rounds counting one in the chamber. Besides the gun, the sergeant handed Georgios a box of Shrapnel-25 rounds, Magnum buckshot cartridges with an advertised killing range of 82 feet.

  “Can you spare another, kólos?” Xenakis asked.

  The sergeant clearly missed the insult. “Certainly, señor,” he said, and came back with a second box of twenty rounds, making it forty rounds on all.

  Thanking the sergeant with a smile, he loaded his scattergun then started stuffing extra cartridges into his pockets and a zippered fanny pack on his left hip.

  “Be careful what you say around these Venezuelans,” Lekka cautioned his companion. “One of them may have a decent education when you least expect it.”

  As Xenakis racked a shell into his KS-23’s chamber, he shrugged and said, “Who cares? They’re all useless as far as I’m concerned.”

  “But we may need them yet,” Lekka reminded him, “to get out of this stinking place alive.”

  * * *

  “I make it half a mile from here,” Bolan announced, checking his Spot Gen3 GPS locator against the heading on his compass. He then glanced at the slice of sky he could observe between treetops and verified that dusk was closing rapidly around them.

  “Good timing,” Geller said. “They should be breaking up for dinner soon.”

  “Unless they’ve heard about what happened at Maiquetía and all decided to bug out.”

  “You think they will have left?” she asked him.

  “Doubtful,” he replied. “But just in case, we’ll need a backup plan to catch as many as we can before they’re in the wind.”

  “Considering how they were scattered on arrival, what do you suggest?”

  “If everybody bails together,” Bolan said, “it’s likely that the government will put them on the closest flights available, bunched up with any business types and tourists headed home.”

  “And how would you acquire that information?” she inquired.

  “Maybe ask someone from SEBIN, see whether they can help us out.”

  “Ah, yes. A specialty of mine.”

  He did not have to guess what Geller meant by that, nor did he ask.

  Maybe they’d catch a break and all or most of the anticipated delegates would still be hanging out around Las Palmas when he reached it with Geller, in another quarter of an hour. Give or take.

  But first Bolan would have to think about security at the resort.

  He took for granted that a luxury hideout that welcomed CEOs and other VIPs would have its own security in place, starting with CCTV cameras and working up from there to motion sensors, shotgun microphones, and maybe even thermal imagers including FLIR—state-of-the-art technology incorporating forward-looking infrared.

  Beyond that, what might they encounter on approach?

  Bolan surmised that land mines, hand grenades with tripwires and the like would be avoided on two counts. First, for the risk of injury or death to the sit-down’s invited guests or harmless passersby. Second, the stink that it would raise if one or more paranoid guests found out they’d been corralled by high explosives and accused their hosts of some nefarious intent.

  There likely would be s
entries posted on the outskirts of Las Palmas, though, perhaps including designated marksmen—aka snipers—to stop any hostile intruders in their tracks with more precision than a simple booby trap.

  That meant he and Geller would have to be on high alert, which Bolan assumed should pass unsaid with someone of her caliber assisting him. She would know that without reminders from a man she barely knew, and she would also be aware of what he would not say, in any case.

  Namely, whatever happened next, they might be walking into hell on Earth.

  Chapter Six

  Major Riaz Khosa sat at one end of the dining room’s extended table, facing Colonel Pérez at the other end, with restless-looking delegates lining each side.

  They had agreed beforehand that neither end of the table would be treated as its head—reserved in long-standing tradition as the host’s seat of honor, while his wife, the hostess, occupied the table’s foot. It was another petty exercise in face-saving, but neither officer was willing to be denigrated, thereby yielding up machismo in Pérez’s case, or purdah in the major’s native Pakistan.

  Ridiculous, perhaps, but there it was.

  The same care had been taken with prospective seating for their only female delegate, Carolina Salazar, who sat between her fellow ELN member and Colonel Pérez, thereby avoiding any hint of contact with the meeting’s straitlaced Muslim fundamentalists.

  So far, at least, the various participants seemed more concerned about their personal security than niceties of gender typing. All had turned up armed for dinner, although most had taken care to keep their borrowed weapons out of sight. Those who had selected firearms larger than a pistol kept them at their feet, partly concealed, but still within arm’s reach.

  The menu was designed to be an icebreaker of sorts, while introducing most of those present to their first taste of Venezuelan fare.