Assault

by Don Pendleton

  The lights, he saw, were concentrated at the single entry gate, four hundred yards away, and in a ring around the house. Where Sarkis had preferred an opulent three-story home, Razmara occupied a simple ranch-style, flanked by smaller quarters for his staff. The Shiite's home away from Teheran was drab, flat-roofed, with no exterior adornment. On the roof, a solitary rifleman kept watch — or dozed, it was impossible to say — from a position at the northeast corner of the house. No other guards were visible from Bolan's vantage point, and he spent several moments waiting, on the chance that roving foot patrols might show themselves.

  It looked too easy.

  Even if Razmara had no inkling of the fate that had befallen Sarkis and Makarios, he was a man with countless enemies, whose life had been in danger, one way or another, since the era of the Shah. A veteran of the survival game, Razmara wouldn't leave his home unguarded… but he might attempt to cultivate an innocent facade, thus luring assassins into killing range.

  The soldier waited several moments more, then scaled the wall behind Razmara's house at a position where the rooftop sentry's view was theoretically obscured by standing trees. There might be sensors on the grounds, or other personal security devices Bolan couldn't pick out in advance, but he'd have to take his chances.

  Using darkness as his cover, Bolan climbed the nearest tree until he reached a level even with the sentry on Razmara's roof. The man still faced away from Bolan, sitting with his shoulders hunched, a rifle braced between his knees. Again he didn't move while Bolan watched, and it seemed probable that he was dozing at his post. A bullet would have made his sleep eternal, but the range was better than one hundred feet, too far to trust the strange Beretta and its silencer for guaranteed precision work.

  He slithered down again, lost contact with the rooftop gunner as he hit the ground, and spent another moment verifying the apparent absence of patrols. An entry to the house meant passing underneath the floodlights, but the lights would only be a problem if Razmara's men were watching. So far Bolan saw no evidence that they were on the job. He should be safe enough, unless a battery of gunmen lay in wait behind the darkened windows at the rear.

  Again, no options.

  Bolan used the shadows where he could and took his time, alert for anything from mines to sensors. On the far perimeter of lighted ground, he hesitated for another moment, secured his liberated SMG and made his move.

  The killing shot might come from anywhere, at any moment. If the combat scuttlebutt was true, if he was lucky, Bolan wouldn't hear it coming. One clean shot, perhaps a burst like sudden thunder, and he'd be dead before he hit the ground.

  His eyes were more or less adjusted to the floodlights by the time he reached the house and crouched against its western wall. No battle cries or clamoring alarms broke the silence. If anyone had marked his rush, they'd be waiting for the target to move closer, where a killing shot was guaranteed.

  Close by, no more than twenty feet to Bolan's right, a covered carport offered sanctuary from the glaring lights. He worked his way along the wall and let his pent-up breath escape when he was safely under cover.

  Safe? He forced a smile. It was a relative position in the hellgrounds.

  The carport sheltered a Mercedes, a Jeep and a pair of all-terrain vehicles that Bolan assumed would be used for patrol of the grounds in the daylight. Two of the walls were bare; the third and nearest supported a workbench, littered with mechanic's tools. Bolan slipped around the ATVs and tried a door connecting with the house, but it was locked. He doubled back to search, found the tools he needed and began to strip the lock.

  He worked as quietly as possible, aware that noise would make no difference if the enemy was waiting for him on the other side. It took a moment to defeat the lock, then Bolan had it, laying down his tools and palming the Beretta as he eased across the threshold.

  * * *

  When he had the opportunity, Hussein Razmara liked to get a full eight hours' sleep. Since he believed in rising with the sun, beginning every day with a praise to God and the Prophet, he would often be in bed by nine or ten o'clock. A man whose passions were directed toward fulfillment of the revolutionary dream, he kept no woman to distract him in the night.

  All humans dream, but the Iranian knew he was special. It was rare that he couldn't recall at least one vision from the night before, and he recorded them in diaries bound with leather, noting their significance, interpreting the symbols as befitted a man of piety and wisdom. On the very rare occasions when he dreamed of sex, Razmara knew that he was being tested, and he willed the images away. More often he dreamed epic battles, with the infidel in flight before the righteous sword of God, wielded by himself.

  This night he dreamed the subjugation of America. Razmara led a fighting column through the streets of New York City, rolling over spotty opposition in the capital of U.S. Zionism, pleased to note that most of the Americans he met were docile, hollow-eyed and passive. They were roused to action only when their drugs didn't arrive on time, and then they turned upon one another in a suicidal frenzy. It was priceless, watching a society of infidels collapse before his very eyes.

  Razmara jerked awake, with automatic fire ringing in his ears. His elbow banged against the nightstand as he groped to find the lamp, and caution stayed his hand. Instead of turning on the light, he reached inside the nightstand's single drawer and found the automatic pistol that he kept there for emergencies.

  The sounds of firing close at hand could only mean his enemies had tracked him to his home. But who? How many? Thirteen months before the late Ayatollah Khomeini rose to power, half a dozen gunmen from SAVAK — the Shah's gestapo — had attempted to assassinate Razmara in Beirut. Two lost their lives in an exchange of gunfire with his guards, who also died, and he had killed the other four himself, sustaining only superficial wounds. He knew the face of death, and he wasn't afraid.

  It would be difficult to dress in haste without a light, and he refused to give himself away by turning on the lamp. Razmara left his muslin nightshirt on as he prepared to meet the enemy. His slippers lay beside the bed, and he stepped into them, benefiting from routine.

  His pistol was a Chinese copy of the Russian Tokarev, a sturdy weapon that Razmara favored for its weight and stopping power. He could drop a man at thirty paces with a single shot, and any armed encounters in the house were bound to be fought at closer range.

  Razmara hesitated at the bedroom door, a sudden thought delaying him. Should he call Sarkis and Makarios and warn them of the danger? There was nothing they could do to help him now. If gunmen were inside the house, the issue would be settled swiftly, one way or another. Still, there was a possibility that the attack might be related to their common business, and the others might be facing danger, too.

  It was inconsequential. Time was of the essence, and if Sarkis or Makarios was under fire, neither would pause to take his call. If they were safe, a few more moments of delay would make no difference. Either way, Razmara had to save himself before he could be any help to others.

  Carefully he cracked the bedroom door and scanned a wedge of dimly lighted corridor outside. The sounds of gunfire had drawn closer, but the echoes were deceptive, muffled and distorted by the carpeting and walls. He slipped outside and closed the door behind him, looking like a derelict with unkempt hair and beard, the nightshirt hanging to his knees, pale legs below. He cocked the automatic pistol, held it ready as he moved with shuffling steps along the corridor.

  Razmara's enemies had tried to kill him more than once, and he was still alive, still fighting for the holy cause. Assassins faced him at their peril, used to dealing with the infidels who hid themselves and trembled in the face of danger. Razmara feared no man alive, including those whom he regarded with devout respect.

  He hesitated at a turning in the corridor. Around the corner, from the general direction of the dining room and parlor, gunfire hammered out a terse, staccato cadence. Angry voices cursed in Farsi, rasping out commands, but he couldn't sur
mise the progress of the battle from a distance. He'd have to see it for himself.

  Prepared for anything, Hussein Razmara edged around the corner, following the sounds of combat.

  * * *

  After gaining entry to the house, Mack Bolan found himself inside a utility room. There was no lock on the connecting door, and he followed his Beretta through a spacious pantry, checking out the kitchen as he passed. Razmara's home might not be opulent compared to that of Sarkis, but his kitchen would supply a fair-sized troop of riflemen at need. Moving forward, the Executioner could only hope those troops weren't in residence.

  He checked the dining room, and had the parlor in his sights before he met the opposition. Breezing through an open doorway, speaking softly to avoid disturbing sleepers in the house, two gunmen froze at sight of the man in black, wasting precious seconds as they tried to cope with the disruption of their day-to-day routine. They both had Czech-made Skorpions, slung for comfort rather than convenience, and the guy on Bolan's left was quicker off the mark at swinging his around.

  A muffled cough from the Beretta, and the sentry staggered, spouting crimson from a blowhole in his chest. The partner bought himself a scrap of time by dodging sideways, triggering a wild, reflexive burst before he had a chance to aim. The nearest bullets came within a yard of Bolan, wreaking havoc with a china hutch behind him, and the Beretta answered with a deadly one-two punch from twenty feet.

  The gunner lurched and lost his balance, giving up the machine pistol as he tried to catch himself, too late. A high-backed chair went with him when he fell, and Bolan plugged a mercy round behind one ear.

  The shooter's dying burst hadn't been wasted. Bolan heard the household come alive, doors slamming open, startled voices shouting questions. He was entering the parlor when a group of sleepy-looking soldiers challenged him. Their automatic weapons seemed incongruous with baggy cotton underwear.

  Bolan holstered the Beretta, shifting to his captured submachine gun as the hostiles opened fire. The racket numbed his ears, but he was covered for the moment, with the sofa's heavy frame and padding soaking up incoming rounds.

  To Bolan's left there was a fireplace, separated from the couch by several yards of open floor. An easy chair stood on his right, upholstered in material that matched the sofa, with another couch beyond. The room was furnished to accommodate at least a score of visitors, and Bolan glimpsed the possibility of his survival in Razmara's hospitality.

  The move would take precision timing, and he had to shave the odds a bit if he was going to succeed. He waited for a lull, the opposition either pausing to reload or send a scout ahead, and when he burst from cover, Bolan gave it everything he had.

  They were prepared to flank him with a pincers move, and Bolan caught them in the open, lunging from his place behind the couch, the submachine gun rattling away at almost point-blank range. The nearest gunner took a burst across the chest and went down in a sprawl, his comrades frozen for a heartbeat in the face of armed resistance. Bolan drilled another where he stood, then he ducked behind the easy chair and out of sight, the three survivors scrambling for cover and returning fire in ragged bursts.

  He let them cut the chair to pieces, scuttling behind the couch and along its length while they were wasting precious rounds. The body of the first man down was now within his reach, blood soaking through the simple undershirt that was his final combat uniform. Before he left his room, the guy had thrown his daily combat rig across one shoulder, with its pouch for extra magazines, and Bolan offered a silent prayer of thanks to the universe as he saw two grenades clipped on the harness.

  Reaching out with both hands, Bolan grabbed the dead man's feet and pulled him closer, unhooking the grenades. One of the opposition saw his move and shouted to the others, streams of automatic fire converging on the sofa.

  Too late.

  He pulled the safety pins on both grenades, pitched one and then the other, huddling for cover behind the couch as the lethal eggs hatched. Shrapnel exploded against the walls and ceiling, loosing gritty streams of plaster from above. A strangled scream wound down to nothing on the far side of the room, and Bolan rose from cover, cautiously, to check the damage.

  Reeling through the haze of smoke and dust, a tattered scarecrow wobbled into the warrior's line of fire. One naked arm was hanging by a flap of skin, the other raised to press a hand against the gunner's bloody face. As Bolan watched, the dying man collided with a piece of furniture and toppled over on his face.

  The Executioner heard reinforcements coming, and he moved to intercept them, staking out the parlor entrance as he fed his liberated SMG another magazine. How many guns this time? And would the sounds of battle summon others from the barracks out back? He felt time slipping through his fingers, concentrating on Razmara and the next phase of his mission in the Middle East.

  He counted seven men, all jammed together in the hallway, drawing closer. It was close enough to get him started, and Bolan let them have a burst in greeting, dropping two before they had a chance to recognize the danger. He kept firing as the others went to ground, a couple of them answering with rounds that chipped the wall and doorframe overhead.

  Not good enough. He had to flush them out and kill them in the open, before Razmara slipped away. The soldier fired off half a magazine to pin them down, then scuttled backward to the parlor's fireplace, searching briefly and recovering a can of lighter fluid from the mantelpiece. Returning to his post, he snagged a scrap of undershirt from one of his assailants, dousing it with fluid, knotting it around the can to make a wick.

  His disposable lighter worked the first time, and he lighted the scrap of cloth, flames licking at his hands as he wound up to pitch. It was an easy toss, despite the wise-ass gunner who got off a burst as Bolan showed himself. The makeshift firebomb dropped behind his adversaries, bounced along the carpet, and erupted as the fumes caught fire inside.

  One gunner took the worst of it and staggered to his feet, arms beating at the flames around him, and the others bolted, firing wildly as they broke from cover, two men peeling off in each direction. Bolan met them with a string of short, precision bursts that swept them off their feet and scattered them around the entryway. He used the remnants of his magazine to halt the human torch's breathless screams.

  One clip remained, and he snapped it into the receiver of his submachine gun as he rose, a silent specter on the field of death. Behind the barrier of smoke and flame, he caught a hint of movement, drawing closer, and he braced himself to meet a new attack. How many more would he be forced to kill before he had a clear shot at Hussein Razmara?

  Bolan didn't recognize his target at a glance. The Shiite mouthpiece hadn't dressed for company — had scarcely dressed at all, in fact — but the warrior saw that he had found himself a gun. The knee-length nightshirt didn't slow Razmara as he approached the flames. Unflinching, he passed through them, stepping wide around the bodies of his fallen bodyguards, intent on closing with his enemy.

  The Executioner stood fast and waited, fingering the trigger of his submachine gun. At a range of forty feet, Razmara swept his pistol up and fired a hasty round that whispered close to Bolan's ear. He kept on firing as the submachine gun stuttered in response, a line of crimson blotches sketching abstract patterns on his nightshirt. Dying on his feet, he triggered two more rounds before he toppled backward in his tracks.

  Retreating through the smoky parlor, Bolan checked his track for late arrivals at the party, meeting no more opposition by the time he reached the carport. Using caution as he left the shadows, the Executioner braced himself to face the rooftop gunner, but the guy was gone, his station empty. Bolan wrote him off, assuming that the rifleman had made his way inside and died there, fighting for his master.

  His work was finished on the island, and the time had come for him to face the greater enemy. If Nicosia had been hairy, Lebanon was shaping up to be a killer, and the Executioner had lost his cover in the bargain.

  Hadn't he?

&nbs
p; A notion came to Bolan as he left the lights behind and found his solace in the darkness. It would take some thought, and it was far from foolproof, but it might be worth a try.

  Sleep first, and then he'd apply himself to the solution of his problem, working out the bugs. And in the morning it was time to call Grimaldi.

  For the next leg of his journey, Bolan would be needing wings.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Twelve hours after Bolan's raid on Cyprus, Bashir Moheden stood waiting for his houseguests to arrive. The meeting had a single topic on its brief agenda.

  The news from Nicosia had begun to filter in at daylight. First a member of the metropolitan police had dialed his private number to inform him that Sarkis and Makarios were dead, as well as a dozen of their men. Detectives had no motive and no clue to the identities of their assailants.

  Immediately Moheden had tried to call Hussein Razmara, but the line was out of order. Trembling, he'd placed a most uncustomary call to the police, connecting with his toady after several minutes of listening to empty air. The Lebanese voiced his suspicions, made suggestions, and a pair of uniforms had been dispatched to check Razmara's compound in the hills outside of town. An hour later, Moheden received another call and learned what he had dreaded.

  The other calls had been a matter of necessity. Moheden would have liked to meet with his associates at once, but Bakhtiar was holed up in the Bekaa Valley. Time would be required for him to make the journey overland. The Lebanese understood that Bakhtiar would have to bring an escort this time. Twenty men, perhaps?

  In fact, the extra time was beneficial, granting him an opportunity to sort the puzzle pieces in his mind and try to find an answer for himself. Who wished to hurt him, and why? There were competitors, of course. For all of his success, Moheden hadn't managed to monopolize the sale of drugs in Lebanon or Cyprus. Ticking off the names of his important rivals, he could think of no one with the cunning, strength and nerve to kill all three of his associates in Nicosia. One or two, perhaps. But three? Until that morning, Bashir Moheden would have believed such an event to be impossible.