Majabein could only answer for himself, with an emphatic negative, but it was not the same. His name was found on certain Wanted lists throughout the West and Middle East, but he had never been notorious enough to merit a six-figure bounty or life underground.
Mobility was his blessing.
But it could also be a curse.
If the unknown enemies reached al-Bari and Rashad, then Majabein would be cut adrift. He had no means of reaching the top man to ask for guidance, sanctuary, anything at all. He could, of course, put out the word through trusted contacts, but in times like these, if trust was misplaced…
Majabein shrugged off the morbid turn of thought, focusing briefly on the knives displayed at one market stall. Edged weapons fascinated him, but when the odds were stacked against him, he would take an AK-47 any day.
At last, with only three minutes remaining to their deadline, Majabein saw Brigadier Jadoon approaching. He was still in uniform, no effort to disguise himself, but most of those he passed made a determined effort not to notice him. Staring at soldiers—more particularly, those of an exalted rank—might be construed as an offense, regardless of the ogler’s intent.
“Peace of God be with you,” Majabein said, in greeting.
Jadoon replied with a perfunctory “As it shall be with you,” and kept on walking, forcing Majabein to follow and keep pace with him.
“How can you help me?” the brigadier asked.
“First,” Majabein replied, “I am instructed to advise you that our master and al Qaeda had no part in the recent killing of your men.”
“They weren’t all my men,” Jadoon told him. “Only some.”
“In any case, there is no question of al Qaeda having any hand in those events.”
“I never thought you did,” Jadoon replied. “Al-Bari isn’t fool enough to bite the hand that feeds him.”
Majabein slanted a glance toward Jadoon, seeking some evidence of levity. The brigadier’s remark verged on insulting. Did it call for a response?
Jadoon’s voice interrupted Majabein’s consideration of the problem.
“What about that help?” he asked again.
“We have resources, as you know,” Majabein said.
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
“All of our eyes within the North-West Frontier Province seek the men whom you are hunting. If we find them—”
“What? You’ll call me? Kill them for me? What?”
The flare of temper startled Majabein. In all their prior dealings, Brigadier Jadoon had been polite and deferential, as befit a man whose life and fortune lay within al-Bari’s hands.
But now…
“You will be notified, of course,” Majabein cautiously replied. “We realize that you will benefit from taking them. Of course, we would be gravely disappointed if the nature of their mission was exposed, thereby confirming that al Qaeda has roots in Pakistan.”
“I surely would not dream of disappointing you,” Jadoon replied. And then, “Let’s go this way.”
They turned onto a narrow street where the babble from the marketplace was muted. Even with the crowd nearby, Jadoon had found a place where they could speak alone and unobserved, for the time being.
“I would like to thank you for your offer,” Jadoon said, slipping a hand beneath his jacket, as if scratching at his lower back. “But I’m afraid I must decline.”
Decline?
Majabein frowned and said, “I do not—”
“Understand? I thought that you might not.”
Jadoon produced a pistol, jammed its muzzle hard against Majabein’s ribs and fired. Majabein’s body cavity absorbed the shock waves and expanding gases, searing what the bullet did not mangle on its path from lung to lung.
Majabein collapsed to the lumpy pavement. He was already numb below the waist, his chest on fire. He had mere seconds left, but there was time enough for Brigadier Jadoon to whisper in his ear.
“We’re finished, you and I,” he said. “Sleep well.”
THE HIKE FELT more like mountaineering with each forward step. Bolan had done his share of rock climbing and high-altitude training as a member of the Special Forces, and had found some handy applications for it since he’d left the army, but it still drained energy in ways that marching over flat land never could.
It was the simple fact of working against gravity, invisible but inescapable. He’d started with two hundred pounds of bone and muscle, adding another eighty pounds or so of gear and weapons, but two hours into their ascent, it felt like he was carrying a ton.
Still, he kept going, measuring each step to match the one before it, employing his hands when there were outcrops he could use for leverage. In front of him, Gorshani had become a robot, lurching forward as if he were set on automatic pilot.
Bolan kept himself alert in case he had to make a grab for his companion, but so far there had been no need. He thought they had to be drawing near their final destination now, and hoped Gorshani’s slowing pace owed more to caution than fatigue.
In confirmation of that thought, Gorshani raised a warning hand, then inched around a shelf of rock and disappeared from view. Bolan crept after him, placing each step with special care, avoiding chips of stone that might go rattling down the mountainside and warn al Qaeda’s lookouts of their presence.
Bolan found Gorshani huddled in the shadow of a massive boulder, where the trail broadened, before it narrowed again to something like a scratch mark on the rocky slope. If they moved on from there, they’d definitely have to use the ropes and pitons.
But his guide pointed beyond the boulder now, off to Bolan’s right. The Executioner moved closer, craned his neck to peer through a cleft in the stone, and saw a turbaned sentry armed with a Kalashnikov some thirty feet away.
Bolan knew he was looking at al-Bari’s first line of defense. There would have been more shooters if the cave was within a pistol shot of where they were sheltered, but the guard meant they were at least closer.
And that guard had to die before they could advance.
Scaling the boulder, even circumnavigating it, would give the sentry time to spot them, turn and fire. A single shot from the Kalashnikov would warn al-Bari’s other guards and bring the wrath of God upon them, before they even glimpsed al-Bari’s cave.
Bolan set his AKMS rifle on the stony ground and drew his FN Five-seveN pistol. One of his cargo pockets gave up a six-inch suppressor, threaded to fit the weapon’s muzzle. Once he had it snug in place, Bolan duck-walked around Gorshani, toward the right side of the boulder that concealed them from the lookout.
It took a minute, but he found the vantage point that he was looking for. Water and wind had worn the boulder smooth, and some calamity in bygone aeons had chiseled a round corner off the stone, tumbling its pieces down to form a series of natural steps. Bolan mounted that rude staircase, testing each step before committing his weight, and soon reached a point where he could observe the guard without being seen.
Thirty feet was close to point-blank range for the Five-seveN’s high-powered 5.7 mm cartridge.
All Bolan had to do was aim and fire.
He aimed.
He fired.
12
Lieutenant Colonel Raheem Davi nearly slid out of his jump seat as the M113 APC began to climb the two-lane road ascending Mount Khakwani. He imagined soldiers smirking at him, as he braced himself with one hand on the bulkhead, but his darting glance revealed no secret smiles on any of their faces.
His free hand clutched a submachine gun that he had not fired since he’d completed basic training, though he was confident that he still remembered how to use it. Davi reckoned it would not be necessary, but his memory of the Laghari massacre was clear enough that he would take no chances, where his own survival was concerned.
To that end, Davi had requested backup, but decided not to wait until the extra troops arrived from Peshawar. By that time, Davi’s soldiers could secure the cave where al-Bari and his fellow fugitives resided—or, at
least, make sure that no intruders could precipitate another bloody slaughter.
Davi stood firm upon one point—if there was any killing to be done that afternoon, his men would do it, on his orders.
As to who was killed, well, that remained to be decided by the coming sequence of events.
Davi thanked Allah that the APC had air-conditioning. It was not terribly efficient, granted, but without it he and his assembled troops would all be comatose from heatstroke. As it was, he dreaded stepping out into the broiling sun again, but there was no escaping it.
The higher altitude should help, he thought, although he’d never fully understood how getting closer to the sun reduced external temperature. There was an issue with endurance, too, in mountain warfare, but he wasn’t worried about that.
Once the killing started, Davi knew it would be brisk and brutal, finished within minutes. And the only thing that mattered, in the end, was that Davi be acknowledged as the winner.
He could even bear a minor wound, for the advancement of his reputation and career. It would mean decoration, and a new respect from those who mattered back at headquarters, in Rawalpindi. Davi was not yet sure how to arrange it without mortal danger to himself, but he had always been resourceful. Given half a chance, he’d think of something.
The APC was laboring, but it had been built for heavy work. If old civilian cars could travel over Mount Khakwani, Davi had no doubt that his vehicles could reach their objective. His one drawback, at the moment, was the lack of clear coordinates marking his target.
Never mind.
Al-Bari and the others waited for him, somewhere up ahead, before Khakwani’s peak. More to the point, the murderers he sought were headed there, as well, according to the headman of Sanjrani village and the other peasants who had begged Davi to spare the man’s life.
This would be his first experience in combat, of a sort, and Davi faced it with a mix of apprehension and excitement. He would not disgrace himself or his command. Above all, he would not permit himself to be surprised.
Weighing the risk of ambush against his desire for warning when they reached al-Bari’s lair, Davi turned to the crewman nearest him and said, “Go up and man the turret. Watch for snipers on the mountainside and any sign of habitation.”
With a weak “yes, sir,” the soldier did as he was told. Davi belatedly discovered that the open hatch nearly negated any benefit from air-conditioning, but he resolved to live with it.
Their target had to be close, now.
He could feel it in his gut, and in his aching rump.
BOLAN’S FIRST SHOT was enough. It put the sentry down without a whimper, though his rifle clattered on the stony mountainside, slipping from lifeless fingers as he fell.
Bolan waited to see if anyone responded to the noise. When no one did, he broke from cover, dragged the lookout’s corpse into the shadow of an overhanging ledge, and stripped the magazine from the dead man’s Kalashnikov rifle.
One down, and how many left to go?
Gorshani joined him, trailing Bolan now as they advanced along the barest vestige of a trail at a snail’s pace. Gorshani’s work as Bolan’s guide was finished. They had not laid eyes on the al Qaeda sanctuary yet, but posted sentries meant that it was nearby.
From that point on, a soldier led the way.
They met another sentry, sooner than expected. This one was approaching, his movements telegraphed by scraping sounds of boot soles against shale and stone. Perhaps he came to ask the other lookout something or relieve him at his post.
Bolan still held the silenced pistol, with his AKSM slung across his shoulder. He stopped in his tracks and waited for the second target to reveal himself.
Easy. Watch and wait.
A turbaned, bearded figure stepped around the nearest corner of the trail and gaped at Bolan and Gorshani, for perhaps one heartbeat. It was all the time remaining in his life.
Bolan fired one shot, at a range of ten feet. His bullet drilled the stranger’s forehead, snapped his head back and sent his turban flapping in the mountain breeze. Bolan removed the magazine from yet another AK, and tucked it inside his web belt as Gorshani dragged the lookout away this time.
Closer, he thought. And after two more minutes on the narrow track, Bolan heard muffled voices up ahead. Mount Khakwani’s acoustics played tricks with his ears, but he guessed that the speakers were no more than fifty feet distant.
Gorshani heard them, too, and nodded in response to Bolan’s arched eyebrow. The Pakistani edged closer, cocking his head to pick out words and phrases, listened for a full minute or more, before he whispered a response to Bolan.
“They are talking about women. Sharing prostitutes to save their money. Nothing serious.”
“How many?” Bolan asked.
“I only hear two voices, but if more are listening…” Gorshani left it hanging, finished with a helpless shrug.
And he was right, of course. It was the same with soldiers—hell, with men—whenever they had time to kill. Some guys were talkers, while others stood around and soaked it up, grinning. It didn’t matter if they thought the ones doing the talking were outrageous liars. Tuning in was almost mandatory.
“We have to take them,” Bolan said.
Gorshani nodded grim acceptance of the obvious.
Raising his pistol, Bolan said, “I’ve still got eighteen rounds left. I’ll go first. Fire only as a last resort.”
Another nod.
Bracing his FN Five-seveN in a two-handed grip, Bolan stepped out to meet his enemies.
AKRAM BEN ABD al-Bari felt a headache starting at his left temple. Restraining an impulse to grimace, he laid down the sheaf of photographs that he had been examining—a military base filled with Crusaders, outside Kandahar, Afghanistan—and told Ra’id Ibn Rashad, “I need to step outside.”
Frowning at the expression on al-Bari’s face, Rashad inquired, “Are you not well?”
“Fresh air, a little sun, I’ll be all right,” al-Bari said.
Each time he rose from sitting on the stony floor, it seemed to take more time and effort than it had before. Further proof that he was aging, and al-Bari realized that living in a cave was not a recipe for aging gracefully.
He had resigned himself to spending his last days on this mountain, thinking of it as a sacrifice to Allah and jihad. The idea did not please al-Bari, but he knew discomfort was the very least one should expect from martyrdom.
Sometimes, when weariness oppressed al-Bari, he imagined strapping on a Semtex vest and driving down the mountain, seeking out a target of his own, and wafting off to Paradise on roiling clouds of fire. It seemed more fitting, somehow, for a lifelong warrior to obliterate himself in battle, rather than wasting away in a hole in a mountain.
But he was needed. The top man himself decreed it.
Still, perhaps one day…
Al-Bari was twenty feet from the cave’s entrance, passing a cluster of guards who’d averted their eyes as a sign of respect, when he heard the first gunshot. It sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through his veins, awakening the ancient fight-or-flight instinct, but al-Bari had time to do neither.
Hard on the heels of the first shot, several automatic weapons opened fire outside the cave, followed an instant later by the crash of an explosion. Its shock wave staggered al-Bari, while dust from the rocky ceiling above him speckled his turban, shoulders and beard.
One of his guards grabbed al-Bari’s arm and pulled him back, deeper into the cavern, while most of the others ran to join the fight outside the entrance. As al-Bari let himself be led away, he wondered who had come to kill him, whether they were skilled and numerous enough to do the job.
A sudden image of the cave collapsing, trapping him forever underground, froze the man in his tracks. He tugged against the bodyguard’s restraining grip and almost bolted toward the sunlight he could just barely see, through a swirl of dust and smoke.
“Master,” the guard said, “you must seek shelter!”
; “Yes,” he said, then grabbed the man’s rifle, pivoted while twisting sharply, and disarmed him with an ease that left al-Bari wondering how the young man had survived this long.
“You go, seek shelter if you must,” al-Bari told his startled soldier. “I will face my enemies.”
THE FIRST SOUNDS of gunfire were distant, barely echoes in the confines of the APC, but Raheem Davi still heard them over the sound of the vehicle’s engine. He bolted upright from his seat, groping for balance with his free hand on the bulkhead, as he shouted orders at the APC’s driver.
“Faster! It’s started! Get me there right now!”
Davi turned toward the turret gunner, only visible from the waist down, and gave a sharp yank on his trouser leg. The gunner ducked to face him.
“Yes, sir?”
“What do you see?”
“Nothing yet, sir. I—”
“Keep watch, then!” Davi raged, feeling the other soldiers’ eyes upon him as he lurched and staggered in the narrow aisle between their seats.
The crack of an explosion slapped his eardrums, and the sounds of automatic fire redoubled. Davi knew they had to be close, now, and it suddenly occurred to him that they should not approach the battleground blindly.
Before he had a chance to speak, the turret gunner called down to him, “Sir! I see them!”
“Who?” Davi demanded, calling from below.
“Guerrillas!”
Davi rounded on the driver, shouting, “Stop! Open the cargo hatch!”
The APC shuddered to a halt, brakes groaning with the effort, and the driver flipped a dashboard switch that instantly produced a whining sound from the rear of the vehicle. The broad cargo gate lowered smoothly, rather than dropping to slam on the ground, leaving Davi to mutter and curse while he waited.
At last, it was open, and Davi bawled orders to his men, herding them before him out the vehicle’s armored womb. Behind them, the second APC had also stopped, and in another moment it was also spilling troops onto the narrow roadway.
Frontier Fury Page 14
