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  Father O’Melton sat quietly, listening to the big American and silently marveling at the fact that after several years as a retiring, mild-mannered priest, he was back in the same kind of action he’d performed while a U.S. Army Ranger. He didn’t know exactly where this mission was headed. But of one thing he was certain.

  He had no doubt in his mind that he was continuing to do what he was meant to.

  * * *

  BOLAN WAITED SILENTLY as the call bounced off the phony “trap” numbers and went from satellite to satellite before finally reaching Stony Man Farm. A moment later, he heard Price answer, and said, “Barb, I need Hal just as fast as you can get him.”

  It took only a few seconds for that to happen.

  “Hello, big guy,” the Stony Man director said. “What can I do for you?”

  “A lot,” Bolan said. “Here’s the situation. We’ve got our man back in with his old Hezbollah buddies and they appear to still trust him. We’ve also got the location of some twenty barrels of sarin, which are currently under guard at the port in Latakia. Now, here’s the problem—Hezbollah is planning to move them out tomorrow night.”

  Brognola whistled on the other end. “That doesn’t give us much time,” he said.

  “Do we have an aircraft carrier in the area?” Bolan asked.

  “We’re bound to have one somewhere in the Mediterranean,” Brognola replied.

  “Well, get a ship headed for Latakia,” Bolan said. “But make sure they stay out in international waters. We don’t want to tip our hand too quickly.”

  “I can make that happen with one phone call to the President,” Brognola said. “What else are you going to need?”

  “Helicopters,” Bolan said. “The same stealth kind the SEALs used to take down Bin Laden. They need to be able to take on the cargo and they need to be on the aircraft carrier as soon as possible.” He paused and glanced toward Father O’Melton. The priest was adjusting his new holster and magazine carrier, but listening intently at the same time. “Are Phoenix Force and Able Team there?” he said into the phone.

  “Able Team is still busy on the Mexican border,” Brognola said. “And I just sent Phoenix Force toward Australia. I can call them back—”

  “No need,” Bolan interrupted. “But get twenty blacksuits ready to jet toward the aircraft carrier.” In his mind, he pictured the battle-hardened troops who were trained and stationed at Stony Man Farm. “Make sure they include enough pilots to fly the choppers.”

  “That,” Brognola said, “I can do without a phone call.”

  Bolan paused and took a deep breath. “And make sure the blacksuits know what they’ll be grabbing when they land.”

  “Do you know whether or not the sarin’s been weaponized yet?” Brognola asked.

  It was a good question—one that could mean the difference between life and death to the blacksuits and anyone else in the area when the strike went down this night. Bolan turned to Ahmad. “Has the sarin been weaponized yet?”

  Ahmad looked confused. “What exactly do you mean?” he asked.

  “In order to get maximum effect out of the gas, it’s got to be mixed with binary agents. Do you know if that’s been done yet?”

  “No,” Ahmad said. “I do not.”

  Bolan spoke into the phone again. “That’s unclear at this time, but let’s be on the safe side. Outfit all the blacksuits with Level A Demilitarization Protective Ensemble. And test each suit for heat sealing and air supply, as well as the escape air canister, communication system and heart-rate monitor.”

  “Ten-four,” Brognola said. “I’ll have Cowboy Kissinger on it as soon as we hang up. Do you want DPE suits brought in for you and your two men there?”

  Bolan thought for a moment. If the sarin had already been mixed with the binary agent, a lone gunshot into one of the barrels would immediately contaminate the entire area. But even if the agent was still separate, a puncture would allow small amounts of sarin to leak out, which could affect anyone close by.

  And that “anyone in the immediate area” included Father O’Melton, Ahmad and the Executioner.

  “No,” Bolan finally said. “There won’t be time for us to suit up. We’ll have already started taking out the guards by the time the first helicopter lands.” He paused, knowing that the weight of O’Melton’s and Ahmad’s safety was falling directly upon his shoulders.

  It was one thing to risk your own life. Quite another to risk that of some other, innocent person.

  And endangering innocents was exactly what he was doing. At least with O’Melton. Ahmad’s “innocence” still wasn’t a hundred percent certain.

  “We’ll have to go in Level F,” Bolan finally said. “Street clothes. But you can send along three gas masks for us just in case.”

  “Affirmative,” Brognola said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “You know anybody over at NCEH?”

  “The National Center for Environmental Health?”

  “The very same. Know anybody?”

  “Not that I can think of offhand,” Brognola said. “But the President will.”

  “Then tell the President we want one of the top hands along to test for leaks. I assume he’ll have his own Level A togs. You can pick him up in Washington with the blacksuits right before you fly this way, and you won’t have to worry about him learning anything about the Farm.” Bolan let a tiny smile curl his lips. Stony Man Farm was the most top-secret counterterrorist installation in the world. Even the CIA had no idea of its existence, and the military and law enforcement officers who were handpicked to train there were always brought in and out with blindfolds covering their eyes and the pilots pulling every “air show” trick in the book to keep them from knowing where they were until they’d landed.

  It was Brognola who instigated the next subject of conversation. “You’ve still got Grimaldi there in Damascus,” he said. “May I assume he’ll be taking you to Latakia?”

  “You may,” Bolan said.

  “Then I’ll send the blacksuits and NCEH geek with Mott. He’s been here ever since he dropped Able Team off.”

  Bolan thought of Charlie Mott. He wasn’t quite the pilot Jack Grimaldi was, but he wasn’t far behind. He’d probably use one of the Concords Stony Man Farm had purchased when the company went out of business, and he’d get the blacksuits to the aircraft carrier as fast as possible. “Okay then, Hal,” Bolan said. “I guess that’s all for now.”

  “Keep your phone on, Striker,” Brognola said. “We’re threading a needle here. This is going to take split-second timing.”

  “I know,” Bolan said. A second later, he pushed the button to end the call.

  Father O’Melton rose from his seat on the bed. “I take it that our stay here at Aladdin’s Lamp is going to be a short one?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” Bolan said. “We’re heading to Latakia.”

  Bolan slid his sport coat over his weapons and started toward the door.

  The other two men followed.

  5

  Latakia was Syria’s primary Mediterranean port. A quiet city except for occasional political riots that spread there from Aleppo, it was famous for its tobacco crops. The streets were wider than those in most ancient Syrian cities and were lined not only with houses, but beautifully tended gardens and parks. Hilly pastureland surrounded the municipality, except for the side facing the rocky seashore. A Roman arch, reminding those who saw it of past conquerors, rose high in the sky, and the Mughrabi Mosque was famous for its panoramic view and the beautiful rugs on display.

  None of which interested Bolan as Jack Grimaldi landed at the Latakia airport.

  The Executioner’s mind was on a thousand details of the strike they were about to make.

  He had called ahead and reserved a Buick Enclave r
ental car. It required a minimum of paperwork, and a few minutes later Bolan, Father O’Melton and Ahmad were driving away from the airport toward the harbor area.

  Night fell on the black vehicle as the smells of sea salt and fish began to penetrate the closed windows and doors. “You know the building where the stuff’s stored, right?” Bolan asked Ahmad.

  “Precisely,” the allegedly former Hezbollah man said. “There is a container terminal across from the quayside railway and next to the bridge.”

  “And enough room for the choppers to set down close by?” Bolan said.

  “Yes,” Ahmad replied. “Your men should not have to roll the drums more than thirty feet or so.”

  The harbor appeared in the distance and Bolan slowed the Enclave, falling in with other traffic on the road. They passed a floating crane, then the primary dock before Bolan pulled the vehicle in behind several large containers stacked next to the quay ramp. Pulling a set of night-vision binoculars from the console next to him, he raised them to his eyes. On the other side of the ramp, he could see a small storage building.

  A man in green fatigues and a kaffiyeh stood outside the door.

  In his hands was an AK-47.

  “That the place?” Bolan asked Ahmad, handing him the binoculars.

  The informant took a quick look and said, “Yes. In fact, I know the guard.”

  “How many other men are there likely to be?” Bolan asked.

  “There is no way I can be certain,” the man said. “But the chemical weapons are quite a prize. I would guess there are many.”

  Bolan lifted the satellite phone and tapped in the Stony Man Farm number. Price, the chief mission controller, would be handling the split-second timing necessary to make this strike a success, and it was she who answered.

  “Yes, Striker?”

  “We’re on site,” Bolan said. “One guard at the front door is all we see. But my man here is certain there’ll be plenty more.”

  “Affirmative, Striker,” she said in a cold, businesslike voice. “The blacksuits are in choppers on the aircraft carrier, just waiting on you to give them the go.”

  “Okay, Barb,” Bolan said. “We’ve got five helicopters, but there’s no room around here to land more than one at a time. They need to come in three minutes apart. Each team will load four drums of the sarin and then take off. I want the next one right behind, ready to land. We’ll be heading toward the building to take out the guards just as soon as I hang up.”

  “Gotcha, Striker. I’ll get the first chopper started. Good luck.”

  “Striker out,” Bolan said. He turned to Father O’Melton, who sat directly behind him. “Time to pass out the toys,” he said.

  O’Melton reached over the seat to the rear storage area of the vehicle and grabbed an M-16 A-2 assault rifle. He fished around for a moment before coming up with four extra 5.56 mm magazines, then handed the lot to Bolan.

  Ahmad, who had sat in the front passenger’s seat to guide Bolan, said, “Please give me one.”

  He shook his head. “If any of the Hezbollah men see you and get away, you’re burned,” he said. “You stay here in the car.”

  For a second, Ahmad’s temper seemed to flare. “But I want to go,” he said. “I need to go. I know you are not certain yet that you can trust me. And I want to prove to you that my conversion to Christianity and my desire to stop terrorism is sincere.”

  Bolan stared into the man’s eyes for a long moment. Ahmad seemed sincere. But there were a lot of lives at stake here—not just the three of them in the Enclave, and the blacksuits, but all the men, women and children who would die if the sarin gas reached its target in the U.S.

  And if Bolan’s guess that Ahmad truly was on their side proved wrong, it would be easy enough for the Hezbollah man to shoot both him and Father O’Melton in the back during the gunfight that was sure to be coming.

  On the other hand, proving he was sincere meant Bolan had one less worry to distract him as this mission went on.

  Finally, Bolan glanced back at O’Melton and said, “Give him a rifle, Pat.”

  The priest did as instructed, then grabbed a third M-16 and extra magazines for himself.

  The harbor was dark, save for streetlights scattered throughout the area. There were plenty of shadows between the Enclave and the guard in front of the door, but the quay ramp stood between them. And that presented a problem.

  The ramp grew steeper the closer it got to the sea, and if they wanted to cross it while remaining out of sight, they’d have a ten-foot wall to pull themselves over before they reached the building. And it would be in darkness. But doing that with weapons would likely create noise, not to mention that they’d have to sling their rifles in order to use both hands, rendering them defenseless for several seconds.

  And being helpless for no matter how short a period had never sat well with the Executioner. In this particular situation, if the guard at the door heard them, he’d be able to take all three of them out before they even got their rifles off their backs.

  Bolan felt the muscles in his face tighten as he pondered the problem. The only other way to get to the storage building would be to cross at the top of the ramp. And that area was in full light, and plain view for the man in the green fatigues.

  Bolan, O’Melton and Ahmad got out of the Enclave and quietly closed the doors. Bolan led the way to the steepest part of the ramp, then turned to the other two. Handing O’Melton his M-16, he whispered, “I’ve got to take that guard out quietly. Wait here. Don’t come after me until he’s down.”

  O’Melton and Ahmad nodded.

  Moving quickly, Bolan drew the sound-suppressed Beretta from the shoulder rig beneath his sport coat. There had been no time to change into blacksuits, and he regretted that fact. He had his extra magazines stuffed into pants and coat pockets, and none were ideal for battle, let alone the gymnastics he was going to have to perform to get across the ramp.

  Moving to the edge, Bolan dropped to a seated position, then pushed himself off into space. He landed on both feet, with a thud he knew sounded louder to him than it actually was.

  The next part of his quiet assault was most critical. He had to get up and over the side of the ramp and put a bullet into the guard’s brain stem before the man reacted. Once gunfire started, all the Hezbollah men around the chemical stash would be alerted.

  Softly, in the distance, Bolan heard the sound of helicopter blades.

  Walking quickly across the concrete ramp, Bolan stuffed the Beretta into the front of his pants, took a deep breath, then jumped upward, catching the top edge with both hands. A second later he had pulled himself up the other side and lay flat on his belly.

  Looking straight into the barrel of the Hezbollah man’s AK-47.

  Bolan didn’t hesitate. While the guard was still confused as to what was happening, he leaned to one side, drew the Beretta and sent a quiet 9 mm hollowpoint into his head. The man fell forward onto his rifle.

  A second later, Bolan was on his feet and sprinting toward the prostrate body. What he found was a badly wounded terrorist. The bullet had been slightly off center, and the man was still breathing. He would die soon, but Bolan wanted him dead now. Even though the Beretta was suppressed, it wasn’t silent, and the Executioner didn’t want to risk even the quiet pfffffft it would make this close to the building.

  So, pulling the Spyderco Navaja from his pants pocket, he flipped open the blade, knelt and drew the razor-sharp edge across the man’s throat. A gusher of blood—like a just-tapped oil well—blew from the side of his neck.

  Bolan wiped the Navaja’s blade on the dead man’s BDU shirt, then turned toward his teammates. They had dropped down into the ramp themselves, and handed up their rifles. He took them, laid them down, then helped pull O’Melton, then Ahmad up and over the side.

  The pu
lsing of blades from the first chopper was getting louder, which meant it was time for Bolan and the other two men to take out the rest of the guards. Pointing O’Melton toward the right side of the building, he waved him that way. As the priest took off running, the Executioner directed Ahmad ahead of him to the left.

  The building wasn’t particularly large, and the two men reached the corner in less than twenty steps. Bolan had run to the side and just behind Ahmad, keeping one eye on him as they went. As soon as they rounded the corner, they saw two more men in green fatigues standing guard at a side door. Both had lit cigarettes in their mouths, and the orange tips gleamed in the shadows.

  Bolan raised his M-16 A-2 and flipped the selector to semiauto. He sent a lone round just to the side of one orange glow, and watched the bullet obliterate the terrorist’s face. A half second later, Ahmad proved he could operate an M-16, drilling his own round into the belly of the other guard.

  Bolan continued running, and was almost on top of the gut-shot man when he pulled the trigger again. His round hit slightly higher, and the 5.56 mm hollowpoint splintered both itself and the terrorist’s heart.

  Bolan and Ahmad continued sprinting down the side of the building, passing windows that had been painted over in black, then turning the corner to the rear of the structure. They could hear O’Melton firing full auto at whoever he had encountered on the other side.

  Only one man stood behind the building, and there was no rear door. He lifted his AK-47 as Bolan and Ahmad appeared, but the Executioner was a half second ahead of him. Pulling the trigger twice, he sent a pair of 5.56 mm rounds into the terrorist’s chest not two inches apart.

  Bolan would not be around for the autopsy, but didn’t doubt that whoever performed it would have a hard time finding any pieces of the man’s heart.

  Running footsteps sounded, approaching the far corner, and Bolan turned his attention that way. Raising his rifle once more, he fingered the trigger, then released it when Father O’Melton appeared.