He had seen Mack take care of several guards, and could see him at that moment fitting the silencer on the muzzle of his MAC-10 and jamming extra clips into his belt.
Johnny shook his head in disbelief. Maybe Judith was right. It was just plain crazy to go in there alone — suicide. Even Mack couldn't hope to overcome the odds on an operation like this. He couldn't let him go in alone, he'd have to…
Suddenly hands grabbed him, pulling him backward down the steps. Without control he fell hard, his head hitting each step until he lay at the bottom. Through the pain and the haze that blurred his vision, he could see men staring down at him. He recognized one of them. Tony Metrano.
"Welcome to hell, asshole," Tony said.
* * *
The Executioner took a deep breath and reached for the door handle, quietly using a key he had found in one of the dead guard's pockets. The key fit easily, the door creaking open on rusty hinges.
The building was narrow and three stories tall. He figured there were about thirty men inside. It would be one of the most difficult assaults he had ever attempted. But if he handled it right he could do the job and get away clean. He'd start on the top floor and slowly work his way down, trying to take them out in their sleep as much as possible. His success depended almost entirely on his getting away from the top floor undetected. If he couldn't, then getting out of the building would pose its own set of problems. He thought of this in passing, but didn't dwell on it.
He started in the door, but was startled by the sound of his own name. He swung quickly to the source across the street, his MAC-10 ready, his body in a combat crouch.
"Look what I got," came Tony Metrano's voice.
Bolan looked, and his stomach did a sluggish barrel roll. They had Johnny. Two Mafia buttons held his brother by each arm, Tony standing behind with the muzzle of a .45 automatic buried in his neck.
"You got about a second to drop the hardware, soldier," Metrano said loudly, "or they'll have to take away the rest of this clown with a street sweeper."
Bolan could hear activity in the building behind him, people on the move. Johnny looked dazed, unable to support himself. Blood ran from his nose and mouth.
"Take me instead," the Executioner said. "No hassle. Just let him go."
"I got both of you." Metrano smiled back. "Drop your iron, now!"
They had it, the chink in the death man's armor. Countless times since he had let Johnny run with him, he had wondered about this moment, knowing somehow, someday, it would have to come. The one light that brightened the cold, lonely place where his soul lived was being snuffed; and while he stood hard as a (shadow on the outside, his insides were screaming. The Executioner, whoever he was, whatever he had become, did indeed have a heart — and it was breaking right now.
He should have bolted. He should have tried to take out Metrano and hope that Johnny was coherent enough to keep up his end.
Instead he dropped the MAC-10.
To die in Tel Aviv. Why not? Nobody cared anyway.
They were pouring out of the building behind him, rough hands grabbing, pulling on him, taking the rest of his weapons.
They punched him, but he was already too numb to feel. They hurried Johnny across the street and dragged them both inside the restaurant.
And the brothers were swallowed up by the building — no witnesses in the early morning, no help on the way, no cards up the sleeve. It was just the two of them, and a gang of people who would enjoy nothing more than taking their lives whenever they chose. Slowly.
Something hard clipped Bolan behind the right ear, lights dimming all around him without the bliss of unconsciousness. Time moved in jumps as he was dragged upstairs and thrown roughly to the dirty floor, Johnny dumped on top of him like a sack of fertilizer.
He remembered feet, then searing pain as he was kicked repeatedly by steel-toed boots. Then he and Johnny were jerked upright and pushed into a couple of wooden chairs. Bolan felt the ropes being wound around his body as he was bound to the chair.
For a few moments they were alone. In a haze he could make out his brother, head leaning to one side, also roped down.
Bolan sat uncomfortably in the semidark room, his head clearing by degrees. He craned his neck to get a look around. It was bare except for several now unoccupied bedrolls. The windows where covered by brown paper, so he couldn't get an idea of what floor they were on. He tried to recall how many flights of stairs he had been brought up, but couldn't. So, he assumed they were on floor three. Too high to jump.
Johnny sat beside him, blood and spittle smeared on his face.
"You okay?" Bolan asked.
Johnny stared, his eyes still a bit foggy. "I'm sorry, Mack," he said. "I only wanted to help, I…"
"Forget it," Bolan said. "What we've got to do now is figure out a way to keep on living."
Johnny forced a smile; his teeth were bloody from where he had bitten his tongue when he tumbled down the stairs.
The Executioner began to work his chair toward a window. He tried to stand but, because of the ropes across his thighs and lower legs, found that he couldn't. He thrust his head forward and gripped an edge of the brown paper with his teeth, then inched his way across the breadth of the window.
The paper ripped slowly, revealing bars beneath the glass. Great. Now the best he could do would be to try and break the glass. Then what?
The door flew open, Tony Metrano filling the space. Seeing Bolan at the window, he snarled loudly and moved over there, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him away, chair and all.
"Don't even think about it," he said.
Bolan saw the man's fist arcing toward his cheek, and he grimaced, anticipating the blow. The pain was fierce anyway, leaving a ringing in his head. Then Metrano bent and grabbed one leg of the chair. He gave it a sudden jerk, and Bolan crashed to the floor.
"Leave him…" Johnny started, but was silenced with a slap across the mouth.
Tony stood between the two of them and began to talk, his face angular and mean looking beneath well-groomed curly hair.
"You're in the wrong place at the wrong time, fellas," he said. "You killed two of my brothers and tore hell out of the business my father has worked his whole life to build. That don't set good with me, you know?"
He laughed and took out a cigarette, lighting it slowly, savoring the moment. The room was dimly lit, early-morning sun beginning to filter through the rip in the window's paper covering.
"I'm gonna do you bad, both of you. I ain't gonna kill you yet, cause my pop wants to do that himself. But I'm gonna do the next best thing. I'm gonna make you wish you were dead."
He leaned toward Johnny's face, blowing a long stream of smoke, making the younger Bolan cough. "Thought you guys were so smart. When we heard Guido was dead, we figured you'd show up here."
"I've already told everything I know to the government," Bolan said, trying to maneuver the chair to an upright position. He succeeded after a few moments.
Tony turned to him, angry. He grabbed his hair, jerking his head up. "Now I don't like that!" he said loudly. "You're a lying son of a bitch." He fired a punch into the back of Bolan's neck. "Somebody made you here already, and the government checked you out through Interpol and they figure you're the one who done everything. You've been all over the news. Rich, huh?"
He laughed again, turning back to Johnny. "You know, Pop only said to keep your big brother here, alive. He didn't say nothin' about you. Maybe I oughta knock you off first, so Hero Boy over here can know what it feels like to lose a brother. What do you think about that?"
Bolan's rage was barely controlled, but he kept it tight. "I think you're scaring us to death."
"Oh, yeah?" Tony took the cigarette out of his mouth and touched it to Johnny's face. "Like that better?"
"What the hell do you want from us?" Bolan said through clenched teeth.
"Pleasure," Tony said. "A great deal of pleasure.'* He took a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and flipped out th
e corkscrew. "I don't know as much about this stuff as Abba, but this is one kinda thing where on-the-job training can be fun and rewarding. For instance, do you have any idea of the possible uses for the eight blades in one of these babies?"
Bolan just stared at him.
He jabbed it into Bolan's arm and began twisting. "Let's discover together," he said.
16
Judith Meyers squatted in the brush one hundred yards from the old army barracks and waited. She wore camouflage, her hair tucked up under a black beret. An Uzi was strapped on her back; a Galil .223-caliber gas-operated automatic rifle was mounted before her, its tritium-lighted night sights flipped up to best advantage in the dark predawn haze.
Twenty-five of her people were ranged around the outpost that had served as housing for troops protecting the reservoir during the Yom Kippur War in '73.
She was worn out, physically and emotionally, and her stomach was knotted from waiting. They had called into the barracks, given the terrorists within the opportunity to surrender — and nothing had happened.
For fifteen minutes they had been waiting, as the dark sky turned slate-gray with hints of blue around the edges, and the reservoir behind the barracks began to quietly reflect its surroundings. But so far they had been greeted by absolute silence.
She heard scrambling in the brush near her, and turned her head to see Hillel, arm in a sling, making his way toward her. He carried a Desert Eagle .357 Magnum in his good hand.
He squatted beside her, staring toward the old wooden structure in the distance. *'We've got to come to some decision," he said.
"I know," Judith replied. "Are you sure they can't be sneaking out on the lake side?"
Hillel shook his head, frowning. "No boats over there," he said. "Besides, we've got the waterline well covered."
She looked at him, saw her own lack of command experience mirrored in his young face. "We've got no choice then," she said. "I think we should give them five more minutes to come out, then we go in."
Hillel jumped up immediately, glad someone had taken the responsibility. "I'll tell Asher," he said, and moved off into the undergrowth.
Judith, alone again, thought of Johnny. She worried about him when he was with Mack Bolan. It seemed as if the elder Bolan faced death carelessly, recklessly, like someone ready to die. The Executioner could easily get himself killed and his brother right along with him. Johnny seemed to her so sensitive, so… vulnerable. She hated to see him wasted on his brother's death wish. One so dead, Judith thought, comparing the two men. One with so much to live for. She feared that if Johnny stayed with his brother for too long, he too, would die inside and become nothing more than an executioner.
She heard the roar of a jeep starting up, watched Asher drive into the clearing near the barracks. An M-60 was mounted on the back of the jeep; her friend Sylvie was manning it.
Asher stood on the seat and called to the terrorists in Arabic, giving them the deadline. But before he even got the words out, a man dressed in black appeared in the doorway, his hands raised high in the air. He was followed by others, all throwing down their guns as they stepped outside.
She heard a few seconds of cheering from the units on her left, then some left cover, hurrying toward the barracks to help process the prisoners.
Asher turned back toward her, waving, smiling wide. But Judith Meyers wasn't happy. She was beginning to appreciate the responsibility of command. The other terrorists had been bombers, prepared to take death to themselves like a new lover. Why should these be any different?
She picked up the binoculars that lay beside her on the ground, squinting to get a good look in the half light. She stood — and then she saw. Knapsacks. They were all wearing the knapsacks.
"No!" she screamed, waving her arms. "No! Make them strip before they come out!"
Asher had turned in her direction, a hand to his ear to try and make out her words. She ran partially into the clearing, everyone turning to her, and watched it all happen in slow motion.
The first terrorist had reached the jeep, and screamed in Arabic, "There is no God but God, and Muhammad is his prophet!"
Then he lowered his arm.
The man exploded in a huge fireball, and the jeep was picked up and tossed by the force like a toy. Asher was thrown clear; Sylvie was crushed under the machine before it exploded, spewing metal frags in all directions.
The terrorists charged then, screaming like devils, blowing themselves up as they neared Sabra positions. Their planning was simpleminded and direct — war of attrition. They were charging the Israelis in order to kill them all. If any of their people escaped the conflagration, they could carry on with their mission.
Judith dived back for the Galil, lying prone to fire. The landscape was a nightmare of bombs with legs, going exactly where they could do the most damage.
People were exploding around her, literally tearing to pieces. She saw a laughing terrorist grab one of the Sabra women in an obscene embrace, both of them going up, arms and legs flying like projectiles.
Cold fury took possession of Judith's mind. She began firing at the ones still coming through the door, aiming at head level, as screams and explosions assaulted her from all directions.
In control now, she eased back the trigger, taking off the face of a terrorist in the doorway. He fell backward into the barracks, quiet for a second before his charges went off, blowing the roof off the building in three large pieces. His explosion was followed in rapid succession by others, as the human bombs still left inside detonated.
With the burning rubble as a background, she could see the charge of those still left outside. They were still running, screaming, across the open ground, going for the handful of Sabra agents still in hiding.
Her people were firing from four or five protected positions in the trees, trying desperately to take out the maniacs before they could cross the ground to them.
Four of them were coming under Judith's gun. She got one just appearing around the hulk of the jeep, his explosion shifting the wreckage again. Three still advanced, close enough now to distinguish faces.
She took the legs out from under one, and as he sprawled to the ground he exploded, dirt and flesh shooting twenty feet into the air, leaving a large crater behind.
The Galil ran dry, and she jumped to her feet, unslinging the Uzi and folding out the stock. Explosions ranged all around her; screams were piercing as one of the Sabra positions was breached and destroyed.
Judith fired from the hip at the two remaining terrorists rushing at her. They were closing from no more than forty yards, near enough to see their wild, staring eyes.
She got the lead runner with three short bursts, the rounds demolishing his head. The last came charging through the residual smoke from the first, and as she turned the Uzi on him, it jammed tight.
The fire in her brain threatened to consume her. She couldn't move fast enough, throwing down the Uzi and grabbing another clip for the Galil. Hands shaking, she dropped to the ground and ejected the magazine. The man was almost on top of her.
She fumbled one in, jamming it to click into position, and he was there, right there!
From a squatting position, she tried to grab the weapon, tumbling backward in the process, her finger locked on the trigger, stitching a line from ground level right up to the sky.
She took him with a diagonal line, blood spurting across his torso, throwing him backward from five yards distant. She rolled onto her stomach as he went up, his body popping with a loud thud.
And then there was quiet.
The Sabra agent rolled over, her own body and the area around her slick with blood and shimmering intestines. The man's arm lay beside her, the image of a scimitar tattooed just above the wrist.
As she stood shakily, those left from her company moved tentatively from their positions, surveying the carnage with disbelieving eyes.
Judith moved into the clearing and wondered if the Executioner would have lost so many troops had
he been in charge of the expedition.
She stared at the sky, which was now brightening considerably. It was Friday. Sundown would mark the beginning of Shabbat, the holiest day to Jews, a time for rest and celebration. She knew this fact would not be lost on the terrorists, and feared that there was more horror planned before Shabbat was over.
She was convinced that Mack Bolan knew what that horror was. She had to find him and make him tell her what was going on. And she had to find Johnny.
Johnny.
* **
Abba walked into the Rosh Hanikra courtyard with Jamil Arman and Tomasso Metrano, feeling the excitement pumping him higher and higher. The troops cheered, shaking their M-16s high in the air, while the TV cameras of the world recorded the scene in the early-morning light.
Big Tommy kept trying to cover his face and look away from the cameras. "Jeez," he said. "Did you have to let the damned news people in?"
"This is a glorious day for our people," Arman said, waving to the cameras. "We rejoice in the recapture of even a small part of our beloved homeland. We take pride in our accomplishment."
"We are not common criminals," Abba said, looking at Metrano with disgust. "We are heroes."
Metrano fixed him with hard eyes. "Most of the common criminals I know wouldn't stoop to killin' women and little kids."
"Israelis are not human beings," Abba said. "They are bugs to be squashed."
"Yeah?" Metrano said. "And what am I?"
"Our ally," Arman said, too quickly. He smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. "Come, Abba, we must send you on your way."
They moved past the cadre of reporters and cameras, off into the maze of kibbutz buildings. Next to one of these was parked an English Ford.
Abba opened the car door, but Metrano stopped him before he got in. "Remember," he said, "you tell Tony that I want these creeps alive until I can get down there and take care of them. Jamil's gonna arrange some safe transport for me later. I'll take my vengeance like in the old country, with my own hands."
Death Has a Name Page 9
