Suicide Highway

by Don Pendleton

  This wasn’t over, the assassin knew.

  Where it would stop was anyone’s guess.

  2

  Hal Brognola chewed into his unlit cigar so hard he felt his teeth ache, as the voice on the other end of the phone line spoke.

  “I’m going on a hunting trip, Hal.”

  “Dammit, Striker,” Brognola spoke up. The handset was plugged into a hardline at Stony Man Farm, a top secret facility in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Even with the latest encryption hardware and software protecting the call, years of experience had taught him that nothing was one hundred percent secure, and even after all this time, he was not in the habit of talking openly on the phone with the man whose voice he knew intimately.

  Experience had also taught Brognola something about the man he called Striker. Once he made up his mind to accomplish a goal, nothing would stop him.

  “Dammit, Striker,” Brognola repeated, “I think I know what you’re looking at.”

  “You think,” came the reply. There was no mockery or challenge in his tone. Brognola and Striker were friends who respected each other too much to play word games. “There’s a big wide world out there, Hal. A world that needs me to act between the jobs you have for me.”

  Brognola grunted. He tasted the buds of tobacco squeezed from the crushed cigar between his teeth and set it down on an ash tray. Spitting residue from the tip of his tongue, he looked at the desktop full of news clippings and intelligence reports that made up the hell that was tearing through the world at that very moment.

  It was the same crap, just different names. Terrorists. Mobsters. Drug dealers. Murderers. Conspiracies. Threats ranging from the schoolyard to the ivory towers of governments and corporations. This was the world that Brognola looked at every day, a wall of mourning and misery that he had to pick and choose from, and apply the powerful resources of America’s most elite covert action organization against.

  To have Striker, one of Stony Man’s most important allies…

  That was the truth about their arrangement, Brognola reminded himself.

  Mack Samuel Bolan, the Executioner, wasn’t an employee. He wasn’t a recruit. He wasn’t a member of Stony Man Farm. The Executioner was the cat who walked by himself. He chose whether to go along with the soldiers of Able Team or Phoenix Force when they needed an extra hand. And he chose when to discharge his duties elsewhere.

  The career of the big soldier wasn’t one defined by pay, or orders. It was entirely personal. It had started with destroying major chunks of the criminal organization that drove his family to its death. It moved up to battling terrorists, and then to the Executioner’s realization that there was more that needed to be done than what was sanctioned by any pencil-pushing politician or even Brognola himself.

  “I’m sorry. Thanks for letting us know that you’ve got other pots cooking,” the big Fed said. His cheeks burned, even though he knew Bolan would forgive him.

  “If it’s any consolation, you could be right about who I might be doing,” Bolan said.

  “I’m betting it’s Chaman,” Brognola said, pulling the report of an attack on a relief hospital setup near a refugee camp in Afghanistan.

  “Remind me to keep you away from LasVegas,” Bolan said.

  A chuckle relieved the pressure in Brognola’s gut. “I dunno. I don’t remember having much time to place bets any time we’ve been to Vegas. Besides, I’d be much more interested in catching one of the shows.”

  “Well, that’s one thing Vegas and Chaman will have in common,” the Executioner said.

  Brognola chuckled. “You’ve always been known for your tiger impersonation.”

  “Yeah. But when I put my teeth into someone’s neck, I intend to take their head off,” Bolan said.

  MACK BOLAN WENT to Afghanistan in answer to the murders of UN relief workers, but he went not to bury them, but to insure that no one else would fall. The soldier’s duty he undertook didn’t have room for feelings of hatred and revenge.

  He needed assistance, and while the cyberteam he usually relied upon at Stony Man Farm might have proved helpful anywhere else, in the technological wasteland of Afghanistan, Internet evidence of the suspected Taliban perpetrators was scarce.

  That meant that the Executioner was going to have to go hunting the old-fashioned way. Electronics only went so far, but human eyes and ears, and trusted old friends, could reach further and deeper than anything. When the world was still in a cold, cold war, Bolan had been to Afghanistan often and had built up a network of allies, warriors among the mujahideen, the first and finest of whom was Tarik Khan, an old ally from the very last days that Bolan had been known as Colonel John Phoenix.

  Aleser Khan looked every bit the younger version of his Uncle Tarik, and though he didn’t know Bolan personally, the two men knew each other by reputation. The young leader accepted the soldier into his camp as if he were a long lost cousin, and listened to the Executioner’s reasons for being there. Aleser’s dark brown eyes flashed with outrage, not at his presence, but at the need for the Executioner’s presence. His long black hair flowed like the mane of the lion he was named after.

  “My uncle and my cousin owe you their lives, Al-Askari. It matters not which name you travel under. You will always have the best Aleser Khan can provide you, in men or arms,” the young mujahideen leader told him. “Especially when it comes to righting the wrongs done by those who claim to be our countrymen.”

  “Thank you.” Bolan accepted, glad at Aleser’s facility with English. While the soldier knew enough Arabic to help him get around most of the Middle East, the Dahri dialect wasn’t one he was as skilled with. “I know that the men of the Taliban are no sons of this land, just another conquering army in a long line,” he said.

  “That they succeeded so well leaves the taste of ashes in my mouth, Colonel,” Aleser stated. “We would hunt them down ourselves, but your military commanders tell us that it is their job to insure the peace.”

  Bolan frowned. “They mean well, but sometimes they tie the wrong hands. Mine, however, are free.”

  “Tarik Khan spoke of your willingness to step outside the laws thrown in your path. What others consider walls, you step over as scratches in the dirt,” Aleser stated. “Ask what you will, and I shall give you anything.”

  Bolan was already well-armed, thanks to the generosity of Khan. He didn’t want to risk the lives of any others in his crusade. All Bolan needed, and asked for, was information—a handle on his enemy so he could work his way up the chain of command. Aleser responded totally. Though disappointed the request was so simple, and that he would do no more than act as a pointer, the Afghan warrior not only gave Bolan a handle, but a road map of potential Taliban targets, from desert training camps untouched by the U.S. military to urban cells nestled in towns, hiding under the noses of their enemy.

  “It is the same information I have given many in your government,” Aleser said, dejectedly.

  “Let me guess. Nobody acted on any of it,” Bolan replied.

  Aleser shook his head, a deep melancholy in his leonine eyes. “And now, unarmed healers and caregivers lay dead at their hands. Only say the word, Colonel, and I shall assemble fifty of my best men, and we shall descend upon them and slay them all.”

  “It’s tempting,” Bolan stated, “and I am honored by your offer. I cannot risk, however, our forces mistaking you for the enemy. If you are armed for war, and lurking around our area of control…”

  Aleser nodded.

  “I look like one of them, at least. And one man can disappear more easily than fifty,” Bolan explained.

  “Then if you wish stealth and a low profile, you will need more than one man.”

  “I cannot—” Bolan began.

  “You cannot speak our dialects fluently. You come seeking information, and you will undoubtedly come across more in your quest,” Aleser replied. “My younger brother, Laith, he speaks English as well as I do, as well as half a dozen local dialects. He moves like a
hunting cat, is good with a gun, but will follow orders.”

  “Are you sure?” Bolan asked. “I’ve been assigned young bucks in the past.”

  Aleser smiled and put a reassuring hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “Laith’s enthusiasm has been long since tempered. The wilderness does not suffer many fools.”

  Aleser gestured toward the newcomer entering the tent, a young man just inches short of six feet, with short, curly black hair and light brown eyes that flickered golden with the reflected lamplight. He looked out of place in the Afghan camp, and for a moment, Bolan wasn’t sure if it was one of the mujahideen, or perhaps a Green Beret assigned to the area.

  The newcomer was dressed not in the traditional robes of an Afghan warrior, but in a green coverall that Bolan recognized as a Nomex jumpsuit, used by American pilots and Special Forces soldiers alike. Over the flight suit was a black vest festooned with tool and magazine pouches. One of the pouches had been improvised into a holster for a handgun. While the outfit was relatively clean, Bolan saw signs that this wasn’t original GI issue for the young man.

  The jumpsuit showed wear and tear, weathering except for patches just below the youth’s elbow and kneepads. The previous owner, having worn similar joint protection, kept those parts of the garment looking newer. The cuffs on his wrists were turned in, and the young Afghan wore no gloves, a mainstay of U.S. operators in either full or fingerless form for the past decade. The final clue was the lack of shooting glasses.

  Bolan aside, no active American special operations trooper as young as this man would be caught without a set of protective eyewear.

  Laith Khan looked Bolan over, evaluating him, but not challenging. Apparently the Executioner met the young man’s standards of approval, because Laith took a step forward and extended his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet the man who saved my cousin and my uncle.”

  “I am honored by the hospitality of your tribe,” Bolan answered, shaking hands. The kid’s grip was strong, and his fingers not quite so callused as his older brother’s. The almost golden eyes held his stare for a moment, then the young man stepped back, hands at his sides, head tilted just slightly, watching Bolan studiously. His body language was calm and observant, even more so than Aleser. While Aleser did his best to show the strength and power of a commander, Laith staked no claims of dominance. Bolan looked slyly to Aleser.

  “You anticipated me?” he asked.

  Aleser nodded. “You were regarded as a wise and skilled man. Such wisdom is written that a man has to know his limitations, and the wisest of such men is truly intimate with his limitations and accepts them.”

  Bolan caught Laith’s slight smile. His shoulders straightened and he untilted his head. It was the first show of pride he’d noted in the younger Khan, and it was a subtle one.

  “Come on, Laith. It’s time to go hunting,” Bolan said.

  ROBERT WESLEY CROUCHED behind the wreckage of the burned-out Volkswagen, casting a nervous glance back at the woman in fatigues he was supposedly guarding. From everything he’d seen of Theresa Rosenberg, she needed a bodyguard like a pit bull needed a switchblade.

  It wasn’t that she was particularly rough or hard around the edges. She had a flinty gaze, but that was due to alertness, and her round face was soft and attractive, with full lips. Staff Sergeant Welsey couldn’t explain it. While she didn’t look anything like a soldier, she looked exactly like some of the best soldiers he’d ever met as a Special Forces A-Team member. Not in appearance, but the way she moved, the way her eyes were always in motion, never settling on any one thing.

  Theresa Rosenberg had the warrior mentality, and Wesley doubted she could have gained it easily. You got that kind of alertness only by having walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and proving yourself one bad mother.

  Wesley idly wondered if you could refer to a woman that way, but then movement outside the collection of battered buildings drew him back into the moment. He had been silently complimenting the Israeli woman on her ability to be one with her surroundings, and he nearly let his attention wander fatally.

  “Couple more guards, side one, moving toward side four,” Staff Sergeant Luis Montenegro spoke up through their LASH radio set. The terminology was developed by the LAPD long ago, side one being the front, and turning in a clockwise manner. In a situation where north and south were confusing, people could determine which side was “front.” And front was always the place to start.

  “We see it,” Rosenberg whispered. She slid prone, resting on her elbows. The stock of her M-4 carbine pressed her left cheek. Only now did Wesley realize that she was a southpaw.

  Odd details bubbled to the surface when the adrenaline hit the bloodstream, and Wesley remembered the term called tache-psyche syndrome. In some instances, it meant that time seemingly slowed down for people. In others, people could count the ridges on the front sights of their pistols. At its most dangerous, peripheral vision blacked out and noises and speech sounded like they were trying to pierce pillows stuffed over the ears.

  The Green Beret took a few deep breaths, oxygenating his blood. His fingers tingled despite the fact that he had them crushed down hard on the pistol grip and forearm of his Special Operations Modification M-4 carbine. The SOPMOD was outfitted with all kinds of things to make a firefight easier, from big holographic dot sights, recoil-reducing muzzle brakes and forearm pistol grips to flashlights, lasers and infrared illuminators. Wesley’s rifle was painted in desert camouflage patterns.

  The Israeli woman, on the other hand, had her carbine wrapped with burlap and twine. Sand and dust caked into the weave of the heavy cloth, making it better camouflaged than the sleek lines of the heavily customized rifle Wesley had. Rosenberg’s only concession to “modern” technology was an Aimpoint sight.

  “They haven’t noticed us, yet,” she said finally. She spoke without any hint of an Israeli accent.

  “Only a matter of time,” Wesley answered. “Hush the chatter.”

  She glanced over at him, then gave him a wink, her emerald green eyes twinkling. She took a breath to speak, then paused, thinking better of it, and just nodded.

  Wesley loosened his grip on the SOPMOD, laying it down gently. Through binoculars, he scanned the men walking around the corner. They looked woozy and were leaning against each other. One passed the other a pipe, and he took a deep hit from it, holding in his breath for a long time before streaming white smoke out of his nostrils. Wesley shook his head and swept the binoculars over to the front of one home. Amber firelight spilled through the portal, backlighting two men standing out front. One shook his head with the same disbelief Wesley had at the two pipe smokers.

  The Green Beret took these two men seriously. The AK-47s they held were all business, and at only one hundred yards out, he was well within range of those deadly, efficient man killers. Too many American soldiers, from Vietnam to the streets of Tikrit had learned how dangerous those weapons were, even in the hands of rag tag thugs.

  According to Rosenberg, these weren’t just ragtag thugs. They had connections with a Middle Eastern group and had received training, weaponry and funding. Wesley had asked who. He was in intelligence and operations, after all. Knowing who they’d be up against could be vital, life-saving information. Rosenberg kept those cards close to her vest. She said it was suspected that they might be Syrians. Rich, powerful, well-armed and willing to share all kinds of training…

  “We have movement coming in from side four,” Montenegro’s voice whispered over the LASH. “Two figures.”

  Wesley brought his binoculars back to the two pipe smokers. Hashish, heroin or marijuana, he didn’t know what the pair was smoking, but they were not so buzzed as to fail to react to a pair of shadows rising from the scrub brush that reclaimed shattered town roads. As the Green Beret was about to take action, he watched the two smokers stiffen, jerking in response to silent, but lethal impacts. For a moment, he could have sworn he’d seen the flicker of reflected steel and the red-pencil flare of a su
ppressed handgun’s muzzle-flash. The hashed-up thugs collapsed into lifeless piles of limbs and robes. As quickly as the shadows had appeared, they were atop the dead men.

  The smaller man wrenched something wicked, curved and metallic from one corpse while the other covered him with a large pistol, a suppressor on the muzzle.

  “Are they friendlies?” Montenegro asked. Perched atop the M240 light machine gun, even with the barrel shaped and steel-drum tough ECLAN scope atop it, he was watching all the action from the cheap seats.

  Wesley glanced at Rosenberg, whose mouth gaped with surprise. Then she smirked.

  “Get ready to watch a show,” she whispered.

  MACK BOLAN WAS IMPRESSED with Laith Khan’s stealth and skill with a thrown blade, but he didn’t let it get in the way of going about the grim and silent business of bringing death and getting prisoners. Laith’s skills simply reinforced the Executioner’s confidence that Aleser had given him a reliable backup.

  They slipped quickly around the corner and Bolan put away his pistol, exchanging it for the head weapon for this assault. Entering Afghanistan with his faithful signature weapons was a task that would have required more official support than the Executioner wanted for this mission. He’d opted for a low profile, at least in terms of ties to the West. A diplomatic pouch for his Beretta and Desert Eagle were out of the question, and a war bag full of larger weapons, grenades and ammunition was impossible.

  Instead, Bolan set down with nothing more than his Applegate-Fairbairn folding knife, a .32-caliber Beretta Tomcat hidden inside the guts of a camera and plenty of spending money to give to the Peshwar gun dealers in Pakistan.

  Bolan’s silenced pistol was a NORINCO NP228, a Chinese knockoff of the 9 mm SIG-Saur P-228 autoloader. He also managed to get a Taurus Model 44 with a 6.5-inch barrel and a 6-shot capacity. It didn’t reload as fast or hold as many shots as his Desert Eagle, but it was accurate, and more importantly, it was with him.

  The head weapon was a severely cutdown version of the AK-47 called the Zastava M-92. It was chambered for a rifle round, the 7.62 mm COMBLOC, and was no larger than most submachine guns. It gave Bolan an incredible power advantage in a small package. While recoil didn’t bother Bolan, the muzzle-flash of such a short-barrel rifle would give away his position, so the only modification was a segment of PVC pipe over the muzzle that provided room for the superhot, flaming gases to disperse while only adding minimal length to the agile little gun.