Suicide Highway

by Don Pendleton

  At least three lives were worth saving, one to be given the chance for redemption. He swung the Land Rover down the quiet streets. In the distance, he saw smoke curling up from buildings on far parts of town. One he knew instantly as Captain Blake’s improvised headquarters.

  The other, the closer one, was where the Palestinians had been holed up.

  “It’s Haytham, Colonel,” Jerrud spoke up, his ear pressed to the phone. “They’ve lost another man.”

  “We’re closing in,” Bolan said.

  “He says they don’t have much time.”

  Bolan’s eyes narrowed to a squint, twisting the steering wheel around.

  “Nobody does, Sergeant,” he growled. “But I’m working on it!”

  TERA GEREN, HER WRISTS bound tightly behind her, was back in the conscious world the moment the wall blew in. She recalled a hazy memory of being surrounded by Palestinian men arguing her fate when an explosion went off, throwing her across the room. Blake skidded to a halt, next to her, eyes wide with shock.

  Marid Haytham loomed over them, cell phone pressed to his ear, knife in one hand, the blade glimmering in the light as Hamas gunmen were firing out the hole blown in the building by a rocket-propelled grenade.

  Her throat constricted for the briefest of moments, then Haytham reached behind her and she felt her wrists were suddenly free.

  “What’s going on?” she shouted over the din of assault rifles. Bullets chewed into the ceiling and the wall.

  “Abraham’s Dagger must have found us!” Haytham responded. “Now they want you in their hands, or all of us dead!”

  He handed her the knife. “Get Blake loose. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Haytham, if they spot us with guns…” Geren began.

  “Shoot them back, then,” Haytham growled. “It’ll be no loss!”

  Geren was stunned by the comment but flipped the penknife in her hand. Blake squirmed around, giving her a chance to get at his bonds.

  A shadow moved into her peripheral vision. Her body, though battered and bruised, still reacted like a machine and she dived to one side as a ribbon of quicksilver flashed in the half-sunlight pouring through the damaged roof and wall.

  Rolling onto her shoulder, she came up on her feet, the penknife held parallel to her index finger. Geren looked into the eyes of a balding madman, a grin splitting his face ear to ear.

  “You’re not even going to get a chance to hold a gun, bitch,” said Amal Sariz, the man Mossad had called one of the ten most mentally unstable members of Hamas. “I’m going to cut you from scalp to toes, and you’re going to enjoy every minute of it!”

  THE GRENADE EXPLOSION sent Sergeant Robert Wesley diving flat on the ground, but a moment later he was up and running to the cover of the office building, M-4 SOPMOD bouncing in its shoulder sling until he got behind some heavy stonework.

  Marines and Green Berets had found their cover as soon as the waves of rifle fire started. The enemy seemed to have a small supply of explosives, much less than he would have been expected, but that was a blessing as far as Wesley was concerned. He flipped on his LASH.

  “Ogden, we going to get our boys up roofside in action?” he asked.

  There was no response over the main frequency. He tried adjusting the volume and only ended up with an ear full of feedback that pierced his skull like a nail through plywood. He winced and yanked out his earpiece.

  Bannon slid in beside Wesley like he was stealing second base, dirt kicking up behind him, some of it raised by his passing, the rest from the volcanic eruptions of bullets striking dirt at supersonic speed. The Marine scrambled to his feet, his mirrored shades long since lost, green eyes wide, red face a mass of freckles.

  “You guys know how to throw a welcome party,” Bannon quipped.

  “Hell, you should see us when we have more warning. Usually it’s strippers with big hooters jumping out of fifty-five-gallon drums,” Wesley answered.

  “Wow, I’ll have to try that sometime,” Bannon answered. He shouldered his M-4, scanning rooftops, then ducking back under cover. “No good. They’ve got the high ground.”

  “Well, their marksmanship’s shit, at least,” Wesley answered. “They’re doing just enough to keep our heads down.”

  “I don’t like being stuck in a defensive position,” Bannon answered. “How’s your communications?”

  “Someone’s left us with space noise, man,” Wesley replied. “I’m thinking that the renegade Israelis had some pretty spiffy tech going to shut us down.”

  “Comm, ammo and water is what keeps a unit going, and they knocked out one third of that,” Bannon said. “And given the response we threw up when the shooting started—”

  “Lord knows how long the ammo’s going to last,” Wesley said. “Luckily, we calmed down back to training.”

  Wesley poked his head out, looking for an enemy to target. The Green Berets and the Marines had all calmed down from magazine-draining blasts of autofire to short, concise bursts. Special operations soldiers learned that a light tap of the trigger, putting out between one and four rounds, resulted in more hits against the enemy than trying to wrestle against the recoil of a rifle on full-auto. Hits were what counted, and that was what made the odds more even, marksmanship and proper cover proving to be an effective way to increase the effectiveness of a unit.

  Bannon yanked Wesley back behind cover as bullets sprayed the stone pillar that sheltered them. Wesley realized that the Taliban soldiers were making a textbook example of how even expert use of cover was enough to make the odds between professional soldiers and bullying thugs a draw.

  “As much as I appreciate you being bait, I’d prefer to keep you on the live side of this battle,” Bannon said.

  “Thanks,” Wesley answered. “Listen, could you cover me? We have a rooftop hide where I can get a better view of all the bad guys hemming us in.”

  “And maybe get to take some potshots at them too?” Bannon asked.

  “Sniper’s roost. Sharpshooter’s heaven,” Wesley promised.

  “Hickcock! Plaster! Get your asses over here!” Bannon shouted, pointing to two Marines.

  Wesley swung out, bringing his M-4 to his shoulder, sweeping one rooftop on full-auto, providing cover fire. Bannon’s rifle barked out a similar rock-and-roll tune as the two Marines he summoned dashed wildly from their respective hiding places to his side. The two men made cover.

  “These two girls happen to be the best snipers in my unit,” Bannon explained as the Taliban mercenaries returned fire, bullets bouncing off stone, earth and vehicles. The racket was horrible. A quick glance told Wesley that no more than the four men he’d seen wounded in the initial volley were still out there, being cared for by fellow soldiers who held their ground, refusing to leave a buddy behind. It made the Green Beret’s heart swell with pride.

  They might be outgunned, outmanned and surrounded, but there was courage in this little office compound today, and the men wouldn’t break, not for anything.

  “All right. Hickcock and Plaster?” Wesley asked. “We now have to run to that door. Think you can make it and not get shot?”

  Hickcock, a tall, lanky man with thick, curly black hair and dark, ruddy skin, looked at the gauntlet they had to run. “Well, unless it’s like in a sack race, and I got Plaster here slowin’ me down, I reckon I can make it. You’re going to have to toss Plaster though. He don’t run nowhere quick as me.”

  Plaster, a spread hand taller than five feet by Wesley’s figuring, wrinkled his nose. “You could walk the distance and not get your narrow ass hit. Don’t mind this moron. He needs to wear a straw to cast a shadow.”

  “Enough grab assing. Get up to the roof and start shooting, before they start getting lucky again!” Bannon ordered.

  Wesley charged, boots digging into the dirt.

  Almost immediately, enemy gunfire was dogging at his heels.

  THE LOOK ON JERRUD’S FACE told the whole story to the Executioner as he swiftly t
ore himself out of his tan BDUs and pulled down the sleeves of the skintight black combat blacksuit.

  “Colonel!” Jerrud began.

  “You’re staying here with Montenegro and McKorkindale,” Bolan ordered. “Whether you do it with or without a broken jaw, make your decision now, so I can get to Blake and Rosenberg that much faster.”

  Jerrud sputtered for a moment, giving the Executioner an opportunity to throw on his load-bearing harness and the holsters for the Desert Eagle and the Uzi pistol. Full magazines were stuffed into each weapon, spare reloads tucked into appropriate pouches all along his harness. He slapped some black greasepaint into his palms and rubbed it across his face, taking on the appearance of a blackened mask, his grim features distinguished only by the startling ice blue of his eyes freezing Jerrud in place.

  “I’ll stay with the Land Rover, sir,” Jerrud answered.

  “Good,” Bolan replied. He grabbed the head weapon he knew he was going to need for this fight, an M-4 SOPMOD with a grenade launcher attachment. It was smaller than the M-16/M-203 he usually took with him, but it still fired a 40 mm grenade with earthshaking power, and out of the shorter barrel of the M-4, the 5.56 mm bullets it spat still had man-stopping force at close quarters.

  The three Green Berets looked at him slack-jawed, eyes wide with wonder. Bolan didn’t blame them. He had transformed from a relatively normal looking man to what some people called an ultimate fighting machine. He didn’t take any egotistical pride in such a statement, but he did appreciate the psychological effect it had. Over six feet of solid black, a human shadow bristling with handguns, knives, grenades, rifles and spare ammunition, long powerful arms and legs wrapped in muscle hugging black material that at once allowed his limbs full agility while protecting his skin and keeping him from snagging while he plunged through the battlefield in combat. He was a shadow that had stepped out of the darkness, a slice of night now visible in full daylight. Stealth wasn’t the Executioner’s goal, not in this instance. He wanted impact, and the impression he got from the faces of the Special Forces soldiers conveyed every ounce of the power he carried with him.

  “Who are you, Colonel?” McKorkindale asked.

  “That’s the baddest mother ever to walk the Earth,” Montenegro spoke up.

  Bolan simply shook his head. In a flicker of movement, he whirled and was off, racing toward the group of gunmen who were hemming in the Palestinians.

  With the clatter of assault rifle fire, it wasn’t difficult for the Executioner to pin down the location of the Taliban gunmen. His eyes swept their positions, marked by muzzle-flashes and blurring figures fleeing and ducking return fire from the Hamas defenders. Their attention was fixated on the Palestinians’ headquarters, a two-story apartment building that had seen better days even before an RPG-7 shell planted its 84 mm warhead into the ancient stone, sheering off a corner of the roof large enough to drive a Cadillac through.

  Bolan sighted a couple of gunners racing toward the front of the building, their aim to penetrate the building and begin clearing it out from the inside while the defenders were occupied on protecting their perimeter. He cut them off in midrun, going for solid intimidation right off the bat. A 40 mm HE grenade popped from the fat barrel under his rifle, spiraling through the air to strike one of the gunmen. The impact fuse had enough time and distance to detonate, and when it struck human flesh, it went off.

  Six ounces of high explosive shook the battlefield with the thundering announcement that the Executioner had arrived.

  Gunfire halted completely, dozens of eyes stared at the black wraith who had entered the war grounds, minds struggling to cope with the sudden shock. A mouth opened in alarm, and Bolan triggered his rifle, putting a burst through the man’s face, all but smashing his skull from his shoulders.

  “Introductions are over,” Bolan whispered to himself, raking the ranks of the Taliban mercenaries as they dived for cover, their rifles spitting a hailstorm of firepower at him. He’d won a few seconds of unresisted combat.

  Now it was time to earn the rest of his victory.

  14

  The explosion distracted Sariz, but not Tera Geren. Not when she had one of the most dangerous men in the Middle East facing her down. Hesitation was tantamount to suicide, and fighting fair would only result in her being carved up like sandwich meat. With a half step, she lunged, tackling Sariz headfirst, raking him with the penknife.

  The blade sought flesh and found it, slicing through Sariz’s shirt and pants, opening a cut that was a foot long, but only a half-inch deep. It was enough to jar Sariz from his confusion, however, and he slammed his forearm against the side of Geren’s head, lights flashing on and off behind her eyes from the jarring impact. The tough little Israeli went with the force of the blow, letting it redirect her. If she’d resisted the blow, she was certain it could have broken her neck. Instead, she rolled onto her back, landing five feet away from the Palestinian madman, his knife slicing at empty air.

  Geren twisted her legs underneath her, spinning to her feet and allowing herself an uncontrolled stumble backward, letting gravity and her own wobbly legs make her a nearly impossible target. Just inches separated her from the shimmering afterimage of the Hamas killer’s knife sweeping in an arc that would have laid her rib cage open at the very least, or slipped between the protective bones and into her lungs.

  Using the wall for balance, she slapped it with both hands, snapped up one foot and caught Sariz in the shoulder with all of her might. There was a grunt, and she shoved off, closing distance before the murderer could bring his knife back up. She sliced down with her penknife, the little two-inch blade plunging into flesh, tearing along the biceps muscle of the man with a savage fury. With a howl of rage and surprise, he jerked back. Geren was about to press her advantage when Sariz pivoted on one foot, bringing his heel up and into her kidney, tossing her aside.

  The Israeli fighter felt the knife disappear from her fingers at the same time her breath evacuated her lungs. Pain burned like an inferno up and down her torso. Teeth gritted, she forced herself to all fours, then spotted something out of the corner of her eye. With a hard push, the fireball launched herself backward, Sariz missed kicking where her ribs had been only moments before.

  Wild, hate-filled eyes swiveled to lock on to her as she leaned back on her haunches.

  “You missed,” Geren snarled, bile bubbling in her throat and making her want to choke. Instead, she straightened her legs, leaping to her feet, fingers extending like claws and digging at her attacker’s face. “My turn, fuckhole!” she shouted.

  A punch swung into her back, thumping like a bass drumbeat and reverberating through her body, but Geren didn’t let go. Instead, her blunt-nailed fingers sank into the soft flesh of the Palestinian’s cheeks, skin beginning to tear at her death grip on his face. Blood spurted from the wounds, the force of her crush squeezing the viscous fluid like the juice of some unholy fruit. Some of it sprayed all over her face, red droplets matching the freckles on her cheeks.

  Blinded with his own blood, Sariz flailed away. Without leverage, and with Geren on his chest, arched against him at the limits of his reach, his blows peppered her back and sides. She ached, pain radiating from every new impact, but the fists weren’t able to do the kind of murderous damage they would have if the Palestinian was on his feet, able to put his weight into each hammering strike.

  Instead, Tera wrenched her hands around and plunged both of her thumbs into his eyes. A shriek of agony split the apartment building, slicing through the sound of gunfire.

  Pulling her gore-smeared hands from the wreckage of his face, she reached down and dug into his belt for the pistol. She looked up and was surprised to see none of the Palestinians seemed to give a damn about the death struggle going on among them. She pressed the pistol into the ruined man’s mouth, his hands preoccupied with trying to scrape the remnants of his features back together.

  A single pull of the trigger, and it was over. Geren’s heart hammered in her
chest as she looked at the destruction she’d wrought. Queasiness cut through her, and she recoiled from the horror she’d created.

  By now, Blake had pulled himself half-free and was reaching for the penknife that had been knocked free during the course of the battle. Haytham ran from a window and picked up the blade to help out Blake.

  “He attacked me,” Geren explained.

  “I know. It doesn’t matter now,” Haytham told her. “We have to get moving. Colonel Stone has arrived.”

  “Colonel Stone?” Blake asked.

  “He was the only one I could reach,” Haytham explained. “He’s fighting our attackers.”

  “With how many men?” Blake asked, glancing out the window. His face went pale for a moment, and Haytham dragged him back out of sight, bullets tearing into the wall where he’d been moments ago.

  “How many?” Geren asked.

  “He…was alone,” Blake said breathlessly.

  Haytham nodded. “That man would fight alone, unarmed and naked to protect those who needed him. And you had cause to doubt him?”

  Geren smiled through the pain of a thousand bruises and maybe a broken bone. “I never doubted him.”

  THE EXECUTIONER DROPPED his doubts behind him like empty ballast, anything that slowed his combat mind spilling along with the empty brass from his hammering assault rifle. There was no sign, yet, of any of the soldiers from Abraham’s Dagger, but that didn’t make him feel any better. Just because an enemy soldier wasn’t visible on a battlefield didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. Bolan had won most of his fights because he wasn’t a visible target, able to strike first and fast from the shadows and fade away again.

  Not this time. He had to fight to protect an ambushed set of defenders, and the Executioner knew the best way to draw the fire away from a surrounded firebase was to leave big footprints on the back of the attackers. He didn’t count how many he’d chopped down with the slashing bursts from his rifle, but between his attacks, and the sniping from the hemmed in Palestinians, the assault was breaking up nicely.