Death Has a Name Read online

  Seconds later, they were running across his body and into the round restaurant. Barlow left two more men at the door, three enemy guns out of commission now, and they charged in and hit the jackpot.

  The room was swarming with PLO, all dressed in black. Knapsacks were on the tables. And there was a virtual orgy in progress. There were nude women, coupling frenziedly with the terrorists. Forbidden liquor was everywhere, the smell of hashish strong, its haze hanging like a cloud in the room. Bolan saw Family there, too, recognized Big Tommy's son, Guido, and several of his buttons.

  Everyone froze for a second, like people posing for a photograph. Bolan took it all in at a glance and knew what they faced. Like the laughing man on the Latva, these were special troops. This was a taste of heaven for Muslim fighters: the women, houris, mythological nymphs; the drugs and alcohol, nectar of God. Like the Society of Assassins during the Crusades, these men were experiencing the afterlife in advance so that they'd be prepared, even hopeful, they would die. These were suicide troops.

  The lull lasted only an instant. Bolan cut loose with the MAC-10, trying to take out Guido first. But the man was already moving, dumping over his table and diving for the floor, literally scores of people charging between them.

  Someone hit the lights, plunging the restaurant into darkness, only pale light from outside giving any definition at all. Pale light and the staccato flash of a room full of stutterguns that gave everything a surreal, strobe-light effect.

  Sabra had the better ground. Several men charged their position, but were unable to attack in force because the room narrowed near the doors, allowing only one man through at a time. Still they tried to come in waves, presenting easy targets for Bolan's MAC-10.

  Gunfire sounded from outside as they tried the emergency exit, but only death waited on the stairs. The clamor of the guns was deafening, the dark room a shooting gallery with only the screams of the women punctuating the reports of the weapons.

  Bolan and Barlow were positioned on either side of a doorway. "What the hell is this?" Barlow yelled, as he shoved another clip into his Uzi pistol.

  "A training session," Bolan returned, "on the use of plastic explosives!"

  "The knapsacks?"

  "Yeah!"

  Three terrorists came for the doorway, and Bolan took them out with 3-shot bursts. They fell on top of one another like firewood, their bodies piling up to form a natural wall.

  The crash of breaking glass was interspersed with weapons fire as tables were hurled through the remnants of the large plate-glass windows that surrounded the restaurant. They were going out the hard way, just as Bolan figured. Now Barlow's plan would have to stand the test.

  The men in black grabbed knapsacks and began leaping out of the windows all around. Gunfire could be heard on the hotel grounds as the terrorists dispersed with their deadly packs, shadows jumping in the night.

  Bolan moved into the doorway, firing over the wall of dead that lay piled before him. He aimed high, heads exploding as the bodies slumped back onto dining tables. But even the Executioner couldn't be everywhere at once. They were escaping into the night, and there weren't enough troops outside to stop them.

  Fifteen feet away, one of the wounded terrorists rose painfully from the pile of dead, his hands in the air. As Bolan raised the MAC-10, a hand pushed it aside.

  "I want this one alive," Barlow said. "We need information." He stepped over the bodies in the doorway to bring the man in. It was then that Bolan saw the knapsack hanging from the man's arm.

  "Nat, no!" he called, then dived aside reflexively.

  The force of the blast shook the whole restaurant, all the glasses in the bar breaking, large sections of ceiling falling in.

  Bolan was around the door frame, and the explosion missed him completely. The other Sabra who had defended the doorway with them wasn't so lucky. He lay on his back, a gaping hole in his chest. As for Barlow, there was not much to find. His head lay on the floor beside Bolan, the eyes still open wide in wonderment.

  Bolan jumped back to his feet, grabbing the Uzi from the hands of the dead man beside him. He waded over the dead, moving in frenzy mode into the restaurant itself.

  Most of the terrorists either were dead or had escaped into the night. Those who remained soon enough learned the lesson of Bolan's justice.

  He moved through the room and took them out one at a time. The Uzi became an extension of his body. But there was method to it. He was marching inexorably toward Guido Metrano's table.

  The room was quiet by the time he neared Metrano's position, except for moans rising above the carnage. He stood five feet from the overturned table, scoping for signs of life.

  All at once, Guido rose from the debris, an M-16 in his hands. Face frozen in a death's-head grin, he pulled back the trigger on full auto at the same time Bolan did.

  Hot pain seared the Executioner's shoulder, but it was as close as Metrano ever got. The Uzi chopped him nearly in half, his dead fingers clamping hard and emptying the rest of his clip into the ceiling before he hit the carpet for good.

  Guido's heels were still drumming on the floor as Bolan hurried to him and searched his pockets. He found money and a small map case, both of which he took.

  It was his show now — he had the information. He spared a thought for Barlow. The Sabra agent had failed, not because he wasn't a true warrior, but because he had underestimated the enemy.

  Mack Bolan would never make that mistake.

  12

  At precisely 10:00 p.m., two BTR-40 armored vehicles rumbled along the mountainous stretches of Lebanon's Highway 2. They were rapidly approaching the well-defended border checkpoint at Rosh Hanikra.

  The vehicles were armed with Russian 7.62 mm SGMB submachine guns, and the terrorists who manned them were itching for action.

  The man known only as Abba sat behind the wheel of the second vehicle, his mouth tightening to a grin when he had visual sighting of the crossbars and sentry boxes.

  On his left rose the hills of Lebanon, on his right, several hundred feet below, the Mediterranean Sea crashed against the rocky shores, relentlessly carving out the limestone grottoes this area of the country was famous for.

  This was it, he thought, the phalanx of the thrust that would bring the Jewish nation to its knees. At exactly this moment, all over Israel, his people were striking fear into the hearts of the infidel through coordinated suicide attacks on populated areas.

  The second blow, the destruction of their holy places, would come tomorrow night. But tonight he and his people would occupy Palestinian soil again. Tonight they would drink the hot blood of victory on the enemy's home territory.

  Troops were rushing into the road ahead, first shouting, then raising their rifles and firing. And Abba was happy, for killing brought him more pleasure than sex, more pleasure than anything. And killing Israelis was the greatest pleasure of all. He laughed out loud as the BTR bounced over the mangled bodies of several soldiers.

  The first armored vehicle crashed through the border checkpoint, the flash of gunfire all around it illuminating the night. Abba was right behind, his gunners tearing hell out of the border patrol. Just inside the checkpoint, the barracks that housed the Israeli troops exploded, sending wood debris splintering in all directions like wooden rain. Abba was pleased. The foot soldiers who were crossing the border with him were doing their job.

  Troops came running out of the demolished structure like human torches, their bodies aflame. Abba laughed as one tumbled off the edge of the highway, falling two hundred feet to the sea below.

  The carrier in front careened to the side of the road, tumbling on its side, tires still spinning. It partially blocked the roadway, men climbing straight up to get out the door that was now above their heads.

  There was no time to stop. Abba hit the tail end of the lead carrier at full speed, hurling it off the road, throwing the occupants violently out as the gas tank exploded in orange fury.

  He had made it. The few troop
s left at the checkpoint were being taken out by his infantry. To his left, he saw several hundred more of his people running toward the hills, crossing fully armed into Israeli territory. The warnings had probably gone out, but that didn't matter. His men didn't have far to go.

  * * *

  Two carloads of Sabra agents hurried away from the carnage at the Dan Carmel. They had lost six of the twelve who had done battle at the Le Rondo. They had to leave in such haste that this time they weren't even able to carry off their dead.

  Mack Bolan, the front of his skinsuit soaked with blood from a superficial wound to his shoulder, sat in the passenger seat of the white Fiat. Judith Meyers, a distant look on her face, negotiated the winding hill road like an expert. She was mumbling to herself in Hebrew. Johnny sat in the back with a red-haired man named Hillel, who had taken a bullet in his left shoulder and was hunched up against the door. Behind, the other car cut off and took a different road. They would meet back at Rambam Street.

  The gloom in the car was palpable. They had failed. Sabra had lost an able leader, and though they had killed some of the suicide troops, many more had escaped into the night. This wasn't the PLO's only rallying point, but it was an important one.

  Bolan had Guido's information in his pocket, but hadn't had time to figure out any of it yet. One thing he knew for sure: those people tonight had been dressed for action, and at this point there was nothing he could do about it.

  He thought sadly about Barlow. In many ways the man had been like the Executioner, like what the Executioner had once been. The very thing that had made him real, though, his humanness, had been his downfall. But maybe, Bolan thought bitterly, there were worse things than being dead. Like his personal war. Would it ever be over?

  No time now to ponder his mortality. He looked at Judith. "Who's in charge?" he asked.

  She turned to him blankly. "Please…not now. I'm saying kaddish for the dead."

  "There'll be more dead… a lot more, if we don't get ourselves together quick."

  "Nat Barlow was our heart and soul," she answered. "He had no chain of command. We all followed him out of love."

  "Someone needs to take charge."

  "He's right," Johnny said from the back seat. "How many people can you get to the streets if you have to?"

  "Twenty-five," she answered, gearing down to take a sharp turn. "Maybe thirty."

  "Can we get them quickly?" Bolan asked.

  "How quickly?"

  As if in answer to her question, a huge ball of white-hot fire rose from the harbor far below them, the sound of the explosion reaching them a second later. One of three oil storage tanks on shore had exploded. The second and third went in unison seconds later, the brightness of the explosions lighting the whole city to near daylight.

  The body counts were already being bannered over the television screens when Bolan and the Sabra survivors straggled into the mikva headquarters a short time later.

  Video scenes of devastation ran before their eyes like some ghastly reminder of the Holocaust: the oil storage tanks destroyed by men in cars, who blew themselves up with the tanks; the waterfront museum's front torn out by a human bomb during a well-attended lecture on ancient sailors; the Haifa Gardens blown to pieces; the Knesset building in Tel Aviv heavily damaged by a human bomb who charged into the lobby, blowing himself up before a statue of Golda Meir; Ben Gurion Airport heavily damaged by human bombs; six Leumi Banks of Israel destroyed and looted; the whole east wing of the King David Hotel in Jerusalem demolished. The list was endless, the death toll already reaching more than a thousand.

  The news reports sobered Mack Bolan. Despite everything he had done, which had been considerable, still enough of Big Tommy's blood chit had made the streets to knock the wind out of an entire country. And Bolan had a feeling it wasn't over yet. Having taken Israel's bodies, the PLO now would go after its soul. The "Zionist landmarks" referred to in the intercepted letter still hadn't gone up, and it was on these that the Executioner would have to concentrate. His job had just begun.

  He put a hand to the superficial wound on his shoulder. Guido Metrano's hot fire had come within a millimeter of ending the Executioner's everlasting war once and for all. Instead, Guido lay on a table somewhere now, a slab of meat, and the Executioner still walked. What Fates had decreed that slight tremor of Guido's hand that enabled Mack Bolan to continue his lonely crusade? Perhaps that was what kept him going — destiny.

  He looked around the room. Everyone was busy. The wounded were tended; the combatants cried together for their country, and consoled one another, urging strength and courage to go on. Even Johnny had become one of them in their struggle.

  Bolan did not miss the attraction between his brother and Judith Meyers. Even now they sat together at the dinner table, sharing the closeness of an emotional bond. But no one came near Mack Bolan. Though his cause was just, he was Death to them, cold and unfeeling.

  He couldn't stay in this place, he knew that. He'd have to go back to Acco, to his safe house, and study the map case he had taken from Guido's pocket. No one knew he had it yet, and at least for a while, he wanted to leave it at that. So far, working with Sabra had caused as many problems as it had solved. He might need them later, but right now he wanted to figure things out on his own.

  The killing on the streets had died down; all of it had appeared to happen in a fifteen-minute period around 10:00 p.m. He figured it to be over for a while, the enemy using the lull to build up fear for the next attack.

  He was tired, hurt and sick at heart. And for the first time in his long fight against the forces of the night — he was confused.

  A bad, perhaps deadly, combination.

  * * *

  The Rosh Hanikra kibbutz squatted barely a mile within the border. Known for its orchards and gardens, it was one of the showplaces of modern Israel, a successful cooperative whose men, women and children lived full lives of peace and happiness.

  It was a choice and prime target.

  Abba and his henchmen hit the gates of the kibbutz at full throttle, the BTR pounding through the wood and metal in a rending scream, several hundred PLO troops pouring in behind.

  Abba watched happily from the cab of the BTR as his troops overpowered the meager opposition the people of the kibbutz offered. They were gunned down in the yards between the long wooden houses and other buildings that made up the compound. The houses were then quickly surrounded to stop any of the survivors from escaping.

  The terrorist leader observed a brief firefight in the wide courtyard near the broken gates, the infidels taking out a number of his troops with concerted fire.

  The battle wound down quickly, then Abba climbed out of the truck to issue orders.

  "Gather the dead," he called. 'Tile them up and burn them. Then put all the survivors in two buildings, men and women separate. You may have your way with the women, but don't kill them. They will be hostages to ensure the safety of our new headquarters."

  He watched his troops spring to action, nodding his approval the whole time. Holstering his pistol, he took a deep breath. It was good to breathe Palestinian air again. It was very good.

  * * *

  Johnny Bolan sat with Judith Meyers at the long table, a piece of honey cake uneaten in front of her. He studied her closely, watched her mentally steeling herself against the pain and horror that kept trying to surface.

  "You should eat something," he said.

  "Time enough for that," she replied, staring straight ahead at the wall. "We have much to prepare for."

  "Let it out," he said. "Let yourself grieve for just a little while."

  She looked at him then. "I can't," she said, and took his hand in both of hers. "I must be the strength of my people. Ours is a history of betrayal and persecution. Our race has survived intact for four thousand years, and always the world has wanted us dead.

  "When Hitler tried to exterminate us all in the death camps, the whole world turned their backs. When Great Britain divided P
alestine into Jordan and Israel in 1948, we were forced immediately into a war to protect our new country, and we fought it alone. We fought the Six Day War and the Yom Kippur War — all alone. We are surrounded by nations who live only to crush us under their boots. If we're not strong — if I'm not strong — they will wipe us all out. We love life, but must wallow in death, for there is no one to stand up for Israel."

  "I will," Johnny said softly.

  Her lower lip quivered, and she fell easily into his arms, sobbing quietly. "I think that God has sent you to me, Johnny Bolan," she whispered.

  "Can I borrow a car?" came a hard voice, and they broke the embrace to see Mack Bolan standing, frowning, beside them.

  Judith wiped at her tears, taking a deep breath. "What's ours is yours," she said, and took the Fiat keys out of her pocket, handing them to him. "Is there something we can help you with?"

  "No," he said. "Johnny and I have some business to take care of." He put the keys in his pocket. "We'll be in touch. Let's go, Johnny."

  Johnny Bolan stared at his brother, at the hardness in his eyes, then looked at Judith. She was purposely keeping her expression blank, not wanting to interfere between the brothers. But he knew what she was thinking anyway.

  "Give me a minute, Mack," he said.

  The Executioner nodded and moved to stand a discreet distance away from them.

  Johnny took her hands, kissing one, then the other. He was amazed at the contrast — so strong, yet so soft. Sabra. "I don't know what Mack has in mind," he said. "But this won't change anything."

  She nodded, not believing him. "Don't let him harden you," she said.

  "Mack's all right," Johnny replied. "He's just… I don't know…"

  "Crazy," she said.

  Johnny shook his head. "No… no, he's not. He's just… seen too much, that's all. We'll be back soon. I know we will."

  "Let's go!" Bolan called from across the room.