He began a walking tour, pointing to this or that in turn, describing fences, car parks, laboratories, an administration building, water towers, generators. It had everything a self-sufficient rural plant would need to operate in secrecy, without relying overmuch on nearby towns.
After the basics were detailed, Janna produced more drawings, and Pahlavi took them through the floor plans for each building one by one. For Bolan’s benefit, he noted that his sister had supplied the basic sketches, which evolved with help from someone named Darshan—apparently a draftsman—into what they saw before them.
Bolan paid attention, asking questions when he needed to, if something wasn’t clear. For the most part, it was a textbook-perfect briefing, down to educated guesswork on the personnel they’d have to deal with, if and when they breached the fence.
“You’ve done good work,” Bolan said, when Pahlavi finished, “but you have to know it’s dated, now. After today, there’ll be enhanced security. Most likely, they’ll increase the guard force. Look for army regulars, if they’ve got men to spare. It won’t be easy, going in. Some of us probably won’t make it.”
No one answered that until Pahlavi said, “We are prepared.”
“I hope so,” the Executioner told them all. “Because the only rule from this point on is do-or-die.”
17
Shankara thought it was a miracle that he was still alive, much less that he was free and racing down the highway toward his impulsive rendezvous with Darius Pahlavi. He would have preferred that Pahlavi knew he was coming, that he would be there to meet Shankara on arrival, but he only had an address and could not afford to stop to try to find the telephone number.
His strength was failing, and the blood would draw unwelcome notice.
There was pain, of course. Shankara had expected that, and almost welcomed it, since it kept him awake. Without the pain, he was convinced that he’d have slumped into unconsciousness by now and wrecked his car. It had already suffered damage, crashing through the compound’s gates, but if he drove it off the road and mired it in sand or mud, Shankara knew he was as good as dead.
Don’t kid yourself, he thought. You’re dying now.
Perhaps. But if he was, there still might be sufficient time for him to warn Pahlavi and report that Darice was alive.
Perhaps.
Shankara had surprised himself, when he attacked the guard in Building A and sent him sprawling. It was all chaotic and a little blurry after that. The sprint to reach his car, as the alarms began to whoop and moan around him. Reaching it as more guards hustled from Administration, running after him. He’d somehow managed to outrun them, climb into his car and start the engine as they raced across the parking lot with guns drawn. And he’d crashed both gates as they began to fire at him, their bullets peppering the car and smashing out his rear window.
One of those shots, at least, had found its way into Shankara’s back. He’d felt the impact, like a hard slap with an open hand, but thought perhaps the slug was just embedded in the padding of the driver’s seat. It was the excitement of the chase, speeding along at better than 70 miles per hour, using back roads where he could and nearly getting lost in one town that he couldn’t even name.
A full half hour after his escape Shankara felt the blood soaking through his shirt and running down inside the waist-band of his slacks. On noting that, he’d reached behind himself and drawn back fingers streaked with crimson. Pain had followed the first sight of blood, and while he tried to take stock of his injuries—both lungs still functioning, his arms mobile, his heart still pumping fitfully—Shankara knew he couldn’t last much longer without help.
But there was no help to be had, unless he reached his destination, told his story, begged Pahlavi to forgive him for not helping when Darice was taken from the lab.
If he stopped now, Shankara knew that there were only two alternatives. Blood loss might kill him where he sat, or his pursuers would discover him still living. He could not predict if they would finish him immediately or attempt to save him for interrogation, but since neither prospect offered any hope, he thought the best option was to forge ahead and try to pay his debt.
It couldn’t be much farther, could it? He had lost all track of time, but there were landmarks that Darice had listed for him, and Shankara had already seen most of them, ticked them off in passing as a way to reassure himself that he was on the right track, wasn’t lost and wasting the last moments he had left on Earth.
The house should be close. Granted, he was having problems with his vision, blurring in and out of focus while he drove, but there was no doubt in his mind that he could recognize a house on sight.
He only hoped that it would be the house.
Any mistake at this point would be fatal. If he stopped at the wrong place, got out and staggered to the door, he would exhaust his last reserve of strength for nothing. Strangers would recoil from him in horror, and would likely summon the authorities to cart him off for slaughter.
No. He had to get it right the first time. Drive directly to the house with trees around it and present himself to Darius Pahlavi. He would tell Darice’s brother what he knew, and pray to Allah that he had not come too late.
Was that the house, on his left? It matched the physical description given to him by Darice, some time ago, but there was only one way to be sure. He had to take the risk, knowing that if he erred, his flight and sacrifice were wasted, all for nothing.
Grim-faced, grinding teeth against the pain, Shankara turned his bullet-punctured car into the narrow country lane and drove slowly toward the old, dilapidated house.
ONE OF THE FRONT PORCH sentries called out to Pahlavi, something urgent. Bolan saw his guide blink once and lift his rifle from the floor.
“A car is coming,” Pahlavi said.
“And you’re not expecting anyone?”
“There’s no one else.”
Bolan retrieved his AKMS from the duffel bag and moved to join Pahlavi at the nearest window. What he saw, approaching without stealth along the narrow access road, was a compact sedan with shiny scrapes and scars across its nose, pockmarked with bullet holes along the side that he could see. It wasn’t military, and unless gunmen were hiding on the floor or in the trunk, the driver was the only passenger.
“Somebody went through hell to get here,” Bolan said. “We’d better find out who, and why.”
Emerging from the house, he knew that it could be a trap. There was a possibility, however logically remote, that someone in authority might have sent a dented, bullet-riddled car to the house to lure the tenants out. But he could see a long stretch of the highway from the porch, and there were no more vehicles in sight. There could be infantry out there, approaching on the sly, but Pahlavi had watchers in the weeds, equipped with two-way radios and automatic weapons.
As it stood, Bolan was willing to believe the unknown driver came alone—but that wasn’t the same as letting down his guard.
Not even close.
He held the AKMS ready as the car approached, watching the driver staring through his windshield at the people on the porch, while others rose from the earth, surrounding him. This was the point where he could bolt or charge the house, start shooting or attempt to ram some of Pahlavi’s people with the car. But all he did was coast up to the porch, then brake and kill the engine.
Bolan waited for another moment, peering through the dusty windshield at a man he’d never seen before. Beside him, Darius Pahlavi said, “I know this man. His name is…Sherk…Sharkan…Shankara! He’s another worker from the lab, on Project X!”
That said, Pahlavi leaped from the porch and ran around the car to meet its driver, as the new arrival struggled from his seat. Bolan had already observed the damage to the vehicle, and now he saw the man was wounded, dark blood soaking through his shirt and slacks, legs turning into rubber as he tried to stand.
Pahlavi caught him as he fell, joined by a couple of the others who helped lift him, carry him around the car, a
cross the porch and inside the house. Bolan stood waiting with the others on the porch for just a moment longer, making sure no reinforcements were approaching from the highway, then he turned and went inside.
The wounded man was lying on an ancient, swaybacked sofa, talking to Pahlavi. He was exhausted, nearly out of breath and maybe out of time, but there was clearly something that he wanted to communicate. Pahlavi listened, nodding, answering in monosyllables from time to time, then raised a hand to stroke the wounded driver’s head with almost loving care.
Pahlavi rose and turned to Bolan, blinking rapidly, as if he was about to cry, and said, “He tells me that Darice is still alive. Or was, some hours earlier today. He heard the chief of plant security discussing her, believing that no one could overhear him. I believe that it has killed him, but he brought the news.”
“What did he hear, exactly?” Bolan asked.
“The lab security director—Kurush Gazsi is his name and he’s an animal—said that Darice would be his secret weapon, even if she could not give him any information.”
Bolan frowned. “You understand that doesn’t mean she’s still alive. He could be drawing you to rescue her, and when you get there—nothing but more guns.”
“I feel that she still lives,” Pahlavi answered, smiling now, despite the moisture on his cheeks.
“That’s feeling. Knowing is something else,” Bolan said.
“Of course.” Pahlavi nodded. “But I have to go and find out for myself.”
“Go where, exactly?” Bolan asked.
“Gazsi would keep her at the compound. There is nowhere else.”
“Unless he’s working with the army or police. They’ll have facilities designed for a prolonged interrogation, with enhanced security.”
“Gazsi would not trust anyone to do his job,” Pahlavi said. “Nor would he give up the enjoyment of it.”
“So, what do you want to do?” the Executioner asked.
“Proceed as planned,” Pahlavi told him. “We were going to the laboratory complex anyway. Now, I have twice the reasons to succeed.”
“THAT GAZSI IS A CLEVER bastard,” Lieutenant Malajit Sahir said. “I give him that. Attaching locators to all the cars parked at the complex was a smart idea.”
Sergeant Chandra Kalkin, hunched behind the staff car’s steering wheel, did not appear convinced. “He wasn’t smart enough to call us first, sir,” he said.
“That was his ego undermining him,” Sahir replied. “It may undo him yet. But if this turncoat leads us to the rest, it will be good for all of us.”
Indeed, Sahir did not begrudge Gazsi his share of the applause, as long as Sahir got promoted, maybe decorated in the bargain, for his service to the state. The military was supposed to be a team, but for its officers, it was another dog-eat-dog environment with each man looking out for number one. Advancement was the key to a career, and in these times of Pakistan’s uneasy peace with India, the only sure road to promotion was to make consistent inroads against bandits and rebels.
Saving a secret project, now, that should be worth a medal at the very least, and possibly a set of captain’s bars.
“He’s stopped,” the sergeant said.
“What do you mean?”
“The car is no longer moving, sir.”
“Ahead of us?”
“And to the north. Our left. He’s driven off the highway, sir.”
“Hurry!”
Kalkin pressed the accelerator, while Sahir palmed the dash-mounted radio’s microphone, keyed the transmission button and addressed the vehicles behind him.
“We are now approaching contact,” he announced. “All men, be ready. Check your weapons now and be prepared to disembark as ordered. Fire if fired upon, but otherwise, wait for my order.”
The acknowledgments came back, seasoned with static. Sahir kept his eyes on the north side of the highway, watching for access roads, cart tracks, any diversion that would let their prey evade them in such open country.
“Still ahead,” Kalkin said. “But we’re getting closer, sir.”
“I see it. On the left!” Sahir pointed, and Kalkin saw the entrance to the unpaved lane at once. Well back from the highway, at least a quarter mile from where they sat, an old house squatted in the shadow of a wooded grove.
“Stop here,” Sahir commanded, reaching for his field glasses. He focused on the house, surprised at its sorry condition, even in this land of want. Nothing that he could see suggested human habitation, but the signal from their locator was clear and strong.
“I don’t see any car, sir,” Kalkin said.
“Nor I. He must have parked behind the house, or in the trees.”
“Unless the reader is malfunctioning.”
“We have to find out for ourselves. Pull in. We’ll block the road with vehicles, then move up to the house on foot.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kalkin turned off the road and drove along the one-lane track just far enough to let the other vehicles pull in behind him. Two jeeps and an open truck followed the staff car, thirty-five armed men in all. As Sahir stepped out of his vehicle, the others tumbled from their rides and formed ranks in the nearby field.
“Our quarry,” Sahir told them, pointing, “is somewhere inside that house or in the trees beyond it. We don’t know why he selected this place in particular. You should assume that he is armed, and that there may be others present. Take no chances, but do everything within your power to secure at least one living prisoner. Headquarters wants to ask some questions, and they won’t thank anyone who spoils their fun. Questions?”
There were none. He had not expected any.
“Very well. Fan out into a skirmish line and move on to the house. Watch out for traps along the way, man-made or otherwise. These fields are full of gullies, pits and burrows. Go!”
They went. Sahir stood watching for a moment, let his soldiers have a decent lead, then followed in their wake.
“SOLDIERS ARE COMING!”
Pahlavi translated the warning from his sentry just as Bolan slipped his duffel bag into the space behind the driver’s seat. He processed the alarm, retrieved his arsenal and ran back to the house, through its back door, which they had left ajar, and back into the musty sitting room where Manoj Shankara’s body lay wrapped in a sheet.
Between the old house and the road, a skirmish line of troops was plodding forward, bracketing the rutted driveway, none of them apparently in any rush to reach their destination. Bolan counted thirty-two, assuming that their officer was bringing up the rear or waiting with the vehicles, perhaps with one or two close aides. Say thirty-six to make it safe, and Bolan thought the odds were reasonably good.
“Here’s what we do,” he told Pahlavi, speaking rapidly, his tone allowing for no argument. “Four people in the house—that’s one each for the front door and two windows, with a gun on the back door. The rest, split up and fan out to the sides. Stay low, find cover and a field of fire, but don’t do anything until I start the party. Got it?”
“Yes!” Pahlavi nodded briskly and began translating Bolan’s orders, personally picking out the four who would remain inside. His girlfriend was one of them, and Bolan thought there was nothing wrong with that. If there was any hand-to-hand fighting outside, he wanted men up front, with their testosterone and extra body mass.
Bolan followed Pahlavi from the house, the last to leave. They both went to the left, Bolan remaining with his translator because he had no other means of speaking to the rest. He knew it was unlikely there’d be time for guidance when the shooting started, but he wanted to be ready, just in case.
They hunched and scurried through the weeds beside the old farmhouse, trusting the dusk to help them hide. When they were in position, Bolan risked a glance and saw the soldiers were fifty yards away, advancing steadily.
He didn’t know how they had found the place, and at the moment Bolan didn’t care. The fact was, they had found it, and he had to think that more troops might be en route to
join the raid. It was critical to deal with these men and then get out of Dodge before the rest arrived and changed the odds beyond hope.
When the soldiers were at forty yards, Bolan palmed one of his Russian frag grenades and pulled the pin. Pahlavi, crouching ten feet to his left, glanced over at the small metallic sound it made and grimaced, turning back to face the enemy.
Still Bolan waited, knowing that his arm could only lob the lethal egg so far, and that he’d only have one chance to make a bloody first impression on his enemies. If he was early with the pitch, it would be wasted. If he stalled and dropped the grenade behind them, he might wound the stragglers without making any real dent in the skirmish line.
It had to be just right.
At twenty yards, he cocked his arm, released the safety spoon and started counting off the seconds in his head. When only three remained, he pitched the grenade overhand, then ducked back to earth with his rifle in hand to wait for the blast.
It came three seconds later, give or take. He heard a startled cry, perhaps a warning from some grunt who’d seen and recognized the danger, but it came too late. The shock of the grenade’s concussion slapped his eardrums, while its shrapnel sizzled overhead. Screams radiated in a wave, and as he came erect, the AKMS leveled from his shoulder, Bolan saw a clear gap in the skirmish line.
PAHLAVI MADE his first shot count. No matter that it was almost an accident, rising beside Bolan after the grenade exploded, with his CETME rifle aimed downrange toward men who were bent on killing him this day.
He’d found a target—slender, narrow-waisted, with a vaguely dazed expression on his face after the blast—and had his sights fixed more or less upon the soldier’s torso when his trigger finger slipped, the rifle bucked against his shoulder and the man went down.
This time, Pahlavi felt nothing but raw surprise, tinged with embarrassment. He had grown accustomed to the act of killing, but Pahlavi thought it shouldn’t be that easy, not so casual. He ought to work for it, at least endure a moment of uncertainty verging on panic, while his adversary suffered mortal pain.
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