Annotation
ASSASSIN'S CREED.
The world is being held hostage, terrorized by fanatical mercenaries whose services are available to anyone who can pay the price.
Intel from Stony Man Farm reveals that a zealous desert sheikh has resurrected the centuries-old cult of the Assassins, self-destructing killers who willingly sacrifice their lives for the glory of God.
When a specialist is needed to infiltrate the cults ranks, Mack Bolan is dropped into Syria's hostile terrain — and finds himself facing one of the most difficult challenges of his life. And possibly his last.
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Don Pendleton's
Prologue
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Epilogue
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Don Pendleton's
The Executioner
Cold Judgment
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave A paradise for a sect.
John Keats, 1819
There is no place in a fanatic's head where reason may enter.
Napoleon I
If it is impossible to reason with fanatics, then I'll have to speak the only language they understand — brute force.
Mack Bolan
To all American servicemen on peacekeeping duty in the war-torn Middle East. God keep.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.
Prologue
Jabez al-Malik settled on a wooden bench and scanned the baggage-pickup area of Orly International. The cavernous chamber was nearly deserted, and he felt terribly conspicuous in his bulky military-surplus jacket, sitting by himself with no apparent business in the terminal. If he was outward bound, he should have been killing time in Departures; if meeting someone, then Arrivals was the place to be. He worried that security police might take an interest in him, pause to ask him questions he could never hope to answer. If they asked-about the jacket, tried to check beneath it, he was finished.
As he waited for the others, Jabez al-Malik experienced his first real doubts about their mission. It was planned for everyone to get away in the confusion, but he knew that plans were insubstantial things, perpetually altered by the whims of fate and circumstance. It was entirely possible that some of them — or all of them — would die this afternoon. In theory, he was ready for it. In practice, though…
His eyes picked out the figure of Nizam Mihdi, leader of their band, emerging from the mens' room on the far side of the baggage chamber. Their eyes met, neither man displaying any sign of recognition.
Within five minutes the other members of the team arrived. Without a sign to either of his comrades, Hakim Buzurg moved past the baggage carousels, homing in on a newspaper vending machine. He could not read or speak a word of French, but Buzurg bought a paper anyway, opening the pages up at random, scanning with a rapt expression on his face as he leaned back against the wall.
Omar Melekshah entered the area holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, the other tucked inside a roomy pocket of his topcoat. A wispy mustache, slick hair and mirrored aviator glasses gave him the appearance of a Mexican bandito or a trafficker in drugs. Jabez al-Malik cringed as Omar made his way across the baggage chamber, fairly strutting past the porters, nodding once and flashing his teeth at a security policeman on rounds. The idiot would get himself arrested — get them all arrested — if he kept on playing games.
Four-thirty.
Flights were due from Italy and the United States, arriving almost simultaneously. In a few more minutes, close to seven hundred passengers would be descending on the baggage carousels to jostle for their luggage, juggling satchels as they tried to fight their way back through the crowd. Today, some of them would not make it to their destinations.
Rumbling footsteps, babbling voices, from above him and behind, the sounds of human cattle moving in a herd toward stairs and escalators. Slipping one hand underneath his jacket, he double-checked the Skorpion machine pistol by touch. Magazine in place. Safety switch released and fire selector set for automatic mode. A live round in the firing chamber. Two spare magazines inside the lining of his jacket, on the left, where he could reach them easily at need. The Makarov 9 mm automatic, tucked inside his waistband, in the middle of his back, was currently beyond his reach. Its bulk, the stony jab against his spine, was reassuring all the same. He had rehearsed the draw a hundred times, and he had checked the backup gun no more than forty minutes earlier. It would perform upon command.
The tourists from America and Italy were crowding past him, their voices joining in a babble that al-Malik could not understand. Before the mission each of them had been compelled to learn some basic French — enough to answer simple questions, ask directions, hail a taxi — but he was assaulted now by jabberings in languages he could not identify. The Hindu family, with its shrouded women, red dots painted on their foreheads, was identifiable on sight, but who could tell the Turks from Greeks or Spaniards, the Americans from Englishmen or Scandinavians?
It did not matter, finally, if he could tell the sheep and goats apart. Collectively, without regard to race or nationality or creed, they were his enemies, potential targets in the holy war that was his life, his reason for existence. It was not for him to understand why Allah had selected Orly International, this day and these targets to reveal himself and offer an example to the infidels. It was enough that he had spoken, through his earthly representative, decreeing that it must be so. Jabez al-Malik recognized divine instructions, and he would obey.
He felt some apprehension all the same, and with the knowledge of his weakness came an overriding sense of shame. He was embarrassed by the doubts that lingered in his mind, afraid that he would prove himself unworthy when the time arrived.
He could no longer see the baggage carousels — too many sweating bodies in the way — but he could hear the hum of the conveyor belts as they began their endless circuit, luggage surfacing as if by magic from its subterranean collection point. The jostling began, some of the tourists laughing at themselves or their companions, others cursing underneath their breath, the vast majority content to wait or struggle in heroic silence. Now the lucky few were bulling through the mob toward numbered exits, bags clutched in their hands or trailing after them on wheels.
He glanced at Nizam Mihdi, received the silent signal they had all been waiting for. He was digging underneath his jacket for the Skorpion when hell erupted in the baggage chamber, automatic weapons blazing in a wicked cross fire. They were armed with a motley collection of hardware — his Skorpion, two mini-Uzis, a Beretta Model 12 — but all of them were lethal at short range. Jabez al-Malik was not forced to choose a target. He simply pointed in the general direction of the panicked crowd and squeezed off short bursts, the thrill of combat singing in his blood.
He saw a woman fall. Another, huge with child, was thrashing on the floor. Beside her, kneeling in a pool of blood, was a Catholic priest, his collar flecked with crimson. The Skorpion stuttered its lethal lead, bullets slamming into random targets, dropping them without regard to age or sex. With thunder ringing in his ears, al-Malik offered up a prayer, calling on the God of all creation to accept his sacrifice.
A grenade exploded in the crowd, its shrapnel knifing through the crush of bodies, the stench of smoke competing with the smell of cooking meat. Omar Melekshah lobbed a second
fragmentation bomb across the vaulted chamber grinning as he fired his machine pistol one-handed, raking the crowd.
They were surging back in his direction now, the mob behaving like a huge, amorphous single-celled organism, flanked by pain on every side. A vast amoeba attempting to escape, aware within itself that no escape was possible.
A teenage girl lurched toward him, blouse and sweater torn to reveal her breasts. It was her face, however, that commanded his attention. It was stripped of flesh along one side, the naked bone and muscle visible beneath. The terrorist raised the Skorpion to finish her, and panicked as the hammer fell upon an empty chamber.
She was on him now, her bloody fingers groping for support, the blind eyes unaware that she was clutching at her mortal enemy. He slammed the muzzle of his weapon across her skull and drove her to her knees, retreating as he ripped the lining from his jacket. He lost one magazine but saved the other, wrestling it into place. He must destroy her, wipe the accusation from her ruined face with fire and steel.
Before he had a chance to aim and fire, the sharp reports of automatic rifles echoed through the baggage chamber, challenging the sputter of machine guns. Security police were responding to the attack, converging on all sides, their uniforms like punctuation marks throughout the crowd.
And they were firing for effect. He saw Hakim Buzurg go down, the tall man's life terminated by a round that drilled his forehead, peeling back the cranium as if it came equipped with hinges. Nizam Mihdi was concentrating on the uniforms, his Uzi spitting short precision bursts, but there were other officers behind him, closing, and he would not make the exit.
Al-Malik was up and running, dodging through the crowd, intent on finding cover. Ahead, the women's rest room beckoned, and he shouldered through the door, cheeks flaming with embarrassment, humiliation, as two frightened women stood before him, screaming. He was screaming, too, before he shot them, and a sudden ringing silence fell inside the rest room. From the slaughterhouse outside, a final burst of rifle fire informed him that the officers had dealt with Omar Melekshah.
He alone remained, and they were coming for him. He could not hear them yet, would not be able to communicate with them in any case, but he could still extract a price before they killed him. Shamed by cowardice, the fact that only he had broken, only he had run, Jabez al-Malik braced himself to make a final stand and kill as many of the infidels as possible before they cut him down.
Behind him, from the nearest stall, he heard the snuffling sound of bitter weeping. Startled, recognizing opportunity as he recovered from initial fright, he threw his weight against the door, defeated by its latch. The woman moaned in terror as he backed off, aimed his weapon at the locking mechanism and squeezed off a burst that slammed the door wide open.
She was terrified to move, but he removed the element of choice, the fingers of his free hand tangled in her hair as he dragged her, unceremoniously, away from the commode. She faced the door on her knees, with Jabez al-Malik standing at her back, the muzzle of his Skorpion pressed hot against one ear.
The first man through the door was braced to kill him, could have done so with a single burst, but there was still the woman to consider. Jabbering in French, he held his rifle leveled at al-Malik, calling to his backup, standing rigid as the others crowded in behind him. Three. Then four. Now five.
Enough.
If he could salvage anything from this humiliation, it would be through dying, offering his life for the glory of Allah. There was nothing on the other side to fear and everything to wish for. In another moment he would join Nizam Mihdi and his other comrades in the garden. If he earned the right, redeemed himself in time.
His free hand snaked around to find the Makarov, released it from its holster in the middle of his back. He flicked the safety off, thumbed back the hammer in a single fluid motion and raised both it and the submachine gun. Thunder exploded in his ears and in his blood. A marching cadence. He could see the garden in his mind; he recognized it instantly. And he was smiling as he died.
1
"Five minutes to the drop zone."
"Right."
"You sure this trip is necessary, man?"
"I'm sure."
"I was afraid of that."
Mack Bolan could appreciate the pilot's obvious concern. Jack Grimaldi had been with him from the early days of Bolan's private war against the Mafia, and they had seen some hairy times together. Jack would grouse and bitch about a job from time to time, but he would always see it through.
"Suppose your contact doesn't make it?"
Bolan frowned. It was a possibility, of course, and he had made allowances. "I go in by myself," he answered. "We don't have the target fixed, but I can still approximate. With any luck, I'll stumble over something."
"Just so something doesn't stumble over you."
"I'll do my best."
"Four minutes."
Time to check his gear. He wore a single parachute, which he had packed himself. A backup would have been superfluous, considering the altitude at which he planned to jump, and he would have his hands full burying the gear he had in the rocky ground.
Aside from the essential parachute and goggles, Bolan wore a pack with three days' rations, a first-aid kit, canteens, collapsible entrenching tool and a wicked Tanto fighting knife. His side arm was the sleek Beretta 93-R, fitted with its special silencer, complete with half a dozen extra magazines. Across his chest the soldier carried a Kalashnikov assault rifle, the same AK-47 distributed by agents of the KGB to terrorists and "armies of liberation" the world over. A bit heavy for Bolan's taste, the rifle had proved its reliability in unforgiving desert terrain… and it preserved deniability — as did the Soviet grenades he carried, scavenged by the CIA from would-be terrorists in Yucatan. If he was killed or captured in the course of what he was about to do, his weapons and equipment would not give his nationality or personal identity away.
"That's three."
He double-checked the harness of his parachute and the catches specially designed for quick release on touchdown, and found the rip cord with his eyes closed. Just in case. A half moon rode above the mountains, northward, bathing sand and stone in cold, relentless light. The rocky foothills lay ahead, an alien environment, hostile to intruders, etched in shades of black and gray.
They had approached the barren land from the sea, after taking off from Israel on the heels of midnight. Grimaldi had set his course for Cyprus, playing to the radar tracking stations in Beirut and Port Said, giving them fifteen minutes before he dropped off-screen and swung back to the east. They crossed the Syrian coastline south of Baniyas unobserved, Grimaldi homing on the rugged Elburz Mountains, north of Hamah. Somewhere up ahead, among the rugged peaks and valleys, Bolan's target waited for him, marking time.
"You've got the homer?"
"Yes."
"You still need forty-eight?"
"No change."
Two days. It might not be enough, but on the other hand, two days could be a lifetime.
"Two."
Bolan shed the earphones, stood in the open door. Without the jumper's goggles, wind rush would have blinded him immediately; as it was, his cheeks were filled with rushing air, the jumpsuit molded to his body like a second skin. He gripped the doorframe to prevent himself from being prematurely blown away.
"One minute!"
Jack Grimaldi's voice was nearly lost, a whisper in the gale, but Bolan caught the message and crouched slightly in the doorway as he braced himself. Their plane was still below the altitude for radar, and he caught sight of boulders, brush and stunted trees thrown into clear relief by moonlight. If he veered off course by so much as a fraction…
"Go!"
Bolan pushed off, let the slipstream carry him below the fuselage and clear of impact with the plane. Arms tight against his sides, he hurtled toward the rocky ground below, a sentient projectile on a hard collision course with Mother Earth.
Five hundred feet. He spread his arms and legs to hei
ghten wind resistance, subtly changing course. He had seen a light, winking in the darkness below him. A beacon, beckoning him back to Earth, prepared to guide him home.
Except that home was not below him. Home, if it existed after so much time, was half a world away. His target was the killing ground, and he had come to teach an object lesson in the politics of death.
The beacon had been right on time, but there was still the possibility of ambush. Given Syria's connections with the terrorist fraternity, betrayal and exposure of his mission were potential facts of life — or death. Committed to the job in any case, he would expect the best, prepare to face the worst and forge ahead without regard to what might happen on the ground.
Three hundred feet. He found the rip cord and deployed the special parachute, his rate of fall decelerating as the nylon canopy took wind. He played the risers, hauling first to starboard, then to port, negotiating currents as he targeted the beacon, homing on the light that was the only sign of welcome in a hostile landscape.
Impact. Bolan tucked himself into a textbook shoulder roll and came out of it on his knees, the AK-47 in his hands, his chute spilled out behind him like a giant's soiled, discarded handkerchief. If there was danger in the darkness, it would come at him now, before he had an opportunity to get his balance and look for cover.
Nothing.
He had lost the beacon seconds prior to touchdown as it was extinguished by his contact — or his enemies. He did not need it; the moonlight was sufficient for him to detect a slender figure, seemingly alone, approaching him across the stony ground. The shadow walker made no effort to conceal himself, but he was armed, the outline of a rifle barrel clearly visible above one shoulder.
"Far enough."
If he was Bolan's contact, he should certainly be able to converse in English. He would also know the recognition signal. If he wasn't, his lag time on the draw would see him dead before he had a chance to slip the rifle off his shoulder, swinging it around and into target acquisition.
Cold Judgment Page 1
