Predator Paradise

by Don Pendleton

  The Executioner took stock of the situation

  He was under no grand illusions about their effort to strike back at terrorism, in this or any other mission. The new war had shifted tactics, going preemptive in world headlines, but it was still the same never-ending battle for the Executioner.

  No matter how many they took out, it was a monumental task to expect even the most skilled and determined force to rid the planet of what the Administration tagged as evildoers. There would always be more terrorists when the sun rose the following day.

  It never stopped for Bolan.

  Other titles available in this series:

  Storm Burst

  Intercept

  Lethal Impact

  Deadfall

  Onslaught

  Battle Force

  Rampage

  Takedown

  Death’s Head

  Hellground

  Inferno

  Ambush

  Blood Strike

  Killpoint

  Vendetta

  Stalk Line

  Omega Game

  Shock Tactic

  Showdown

  Precision Kill

  Jungle Law

  Dead Center

  Tooth and Claw

  Thermal Strike

  Day of the Vulture

  Flames of Wrath

  High Aggression

  Code of Bushido

  Terror Spin

  Judgment in Stone

  Rage for Justice

  Rebels and Hostiles

  Ultimate Game

  Blood Feud

  Renegade Force

  Retribution

  Initiation

  Cloud of Death

  Termination Point

  Hellfire Strike

  Code of Conflict

  Vengeance

  Executive Action

  Killsport

  Conflagration

  Storm Front

  War Season

  Evil Alliance

  Scorched Earth

  Deception

  Destiny’s Hour

  Power of the Lance

  A Dying Evil

  Deep Treachery

  War Load

  Sworn Enemies

  Dark Truth

  Breakaway

  Blood and Sand

  Caged

  Sleepers

  Strike and Retrieve

  Age of War

  Line of Control

  Breached

  Retaliation

  Pressure Point

  Silent Running

  Stolen Arrows

  Zero Option

  Don Pendleton’s

  Mack Bolan®

  Predator Paradise

  In the United States, we go to considerable trouble to keep soldiers out of politics, and even more to keep politics out of soldiers.

  —Brigadier General S. B. Griffith II, USMC

  Introduction to On Guerrilla Warfare

  Mao Tse-tung, 1961

  Powerful people in league with certain aspects of the military have the ability to move mountains—or to unleash untold misery on humankind. Left unchecked, the butcher’s bill could be exorbitant. Can we afford the tab?

  —Mack Bolan

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Habir Dugula was no stranger to death. He knew there were many ways to die in his country, most of them brutal. Old age rarely claimed life in Somalia. The land itself could kill a man without water in a matter of hours.

  The parched and unforgiving earth produced next to nothing to feed ten million hungry mouths. The country’s famine, though, was no secret to Western relief workers, he knew, nor to the world at large for that matter, thanks to naive intrusion by CARE, UNICEF, the Red Cross and the United Nations, which seemed to take a morbid pride in denouncing his nation as a seething hotbed of outlaws, thieves and genocidal maniacs.

  Starvation, so it was said, had laid waste to nearly a half-million Somalis in the past five years, another two million on the brink, if he was inclined to believe UN or Red Cross statistics. Those numbers, in his mind, were greatly exaggerated—propaganda—if only to give the West excuses to make incursions into his nation, strip him of power and return Somalia to the control of white colonial imperialists. It was true, however, that he was branded the Exterminator by the United Nations, the devils of the American media. To some extent he was responsible for the plight of the starving, at least in the area he controlled south of the city. He had his reasons, plus the blessing of God, to maintain a certain population control, and that was enough. First, they would want food, then, bellies full, education would be the next demand, minds alive and seething soon enough with what they perceived a monstrous injustice perpetrated on them by him. With the power of knowledge there was little doubt an uprising was sure to find its way to his front door.

  Not if he could help it.

  There would always be too many hungry mouths to feed, he knew, always the poor and the needy who would fall by the wayside, and he didn’t intend to let the great unwashed, the weak and the vanquished weigh him down, hold him back from climbing the next rung up the ladder of power and glory. As long as he didn’t have to look at the dying masses on his doorstep, there was no point burdening himself with guilt. Sentiment was weakness.

  Then there was civil war, consuming another half-million or so lives in the past decade, what with roughly five hundred clans divided into twenty-six main factions, all of them heavily armed, shooting up one another in a running bloodbath that saw no end in sight. There was widespread disease, savaging mostly the children, but again, if he didn’t have to see it…

  Why bother, he decided, to attempt to search for reason when madness and the law of the gun ruled his country? How could a man show mercy to even the poor and the needy when his own survival was always in question? As leader of his clan, there was a bottom line, deemed by him every bit as important as seeing the next sunrise. If death, war, famine and pestilence appeared destined to push millions of Somalis to the edge of the abyss, the least he could do for himself—and the continued survival of his clan—was to profit from the madness somehow. Even in the hell that was his country, cash was still king.

  So was the power of the gun.

  Dugula had a busy day ahead. He rose from behind his desk, checking the wall map and factoring in the grueling stretch of miles needed to take him to the afflicted village and its refugee camp, due southwest of Mogadishu. Three events on the day’s agenda, a long, hot twelve hours or more before him, and it was time to embrace death once again. The grim problem could prove the first order of the day’s business, but, then again, he concluded, it was best to deal with the most troubling and by far the most hazardous of his three chores.

  Listening to the soft hum of the air conditioner, pumping out icy waves through the office of his command-and-control center, he knew that once he stepped outside, the sweat would start to flow
free and unchecked. Discomfort he could live with, but uncertainty he wouldn’t entertain, since not having answers to certain questions, not knowing who or where his enemies were, could kill. Indeed, the first outbreak of sweat, he thought, would be brought on by more than just the brutal hammering of sunlight.

  He watched as Nahbat, his AK-47 leading the way, swept through the door.

  “They are on Aboyge Street. Perhaps three minutes remain before they arrive.”

  Dugula grunted, a slew of questions about the visitors tumbling through his mind. He picked up his AK-47, chambered a round, aware of the numbers coming their way. “Assemble everyone in the courtyard. Same drill as before. Do it quickly, and may God pity the first man who is not ready to fight to the death, if necessary, because I will not show mercy to cowards.”

  “Understood.”

  White men in Somalia, Dugula thought. They were a rare sight. It was beyond strange—malevolent perhaps—how these whites had ingratiated themselves to a rival clan, even if they had thrown around large sums of both shillings and U.S. dollars to buy protection, gather information, carve inroads into their clans. But for what purpose? Who were they? CIA? Mercenaries? The first time he had met them they had dropped off an envelope bulging with U.S. dollars, saying little, only that they would require his help, that he would be well compensated for, again, some unspecified act. Dugula had some idea what they wanted, catching the whispers from his various informants around the city, but he needed to hear them state it out loud.

  Slipping on his dark sunglasses, he marched outside, grimacing at the first blast of heat. He was halfway across the courtyard, counting his own men, spread along both walls, a gauntlet of assault rifles and RPGs, poised to catch the visitors in a crossfire, when the first wave of the technicals rolled through the gate. The technicals were a common sight all over Mogadishu, he knew, the Toyota pickups or anything else on wheels, with roofs cleaved off to allow free and easy fields of fire for the .50-caliber machine guns or the smattering of TOW rockets. Truck beds, he noted, were crammed with gunmen, most of the them mooryan, teenage thugs. The glaze in their eyes from the amphetamine-like high of qat warned him they were edged out. Not good, no telling what they would do as he saw their fingers tight around the triggers of assault rifles, ready to shoot, he had to assume, for little or no reason.

  He stood his ground, dust spooling in his face, the technicals fanning out. Twelve, no, thirteen technicals lurching to a halt then, nervous-sounding laughter, chatter among the mooryan, a few mouths still grinding away at qat. As before, the black minivan was last, carrying its mystery whites, two motorbikes with gunmen flanking the vehicle. Dugula waited, pulse drumming in his skull. The minivan stopped in the dust cloud, door sliding open.

  Three men in brown fatigues stepped out, slow, sure of themselves. AKs were draped across their shoulders, spare banana clips wedged in their waistbands. Commando daggers were sheathed at their hips. As they cut the gap, Dugula found the black hoods concealing their identities unsettling for a moment. He wasn’t sure what to make of this display, wondering if they were issuing some silent statement meant to unnerve him, or if their desire to keep their faces hidden was genuine, bore some special significance. If he chose, he could have them followed again, but the word from his trackers was that these men were bounced all over Mogadishu in the black van, changing vehicles, in and out of safehouses, able, or so he was told, to vanish into the air. It made him wonder how accurate—or deceitful—their report, whom he could trust, where did the truth lie. Money always had a way of shifting allegiance.

  Blue Eyes, as he thought of the hood in the middle, held his stare. Dugula was certain he was grinning to himself. Arrogant bastard, he thought, stifling the urge to whip the assault rifle off his shoulder and blaze away. Dugula felt himself being measured, Blue Eyes laughing back at him, a private joke.

  “We have to stop meeting like this, Habbie. Your little slice of hell on Earth, not high up on my list of hot spots to start with, is starting to make even me a little jumpy, and I’ve been down some dark alleys in my day.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer we do this on some sandy beach, sipping iced tea?”

  “Right. After a nice dip in the Indian Ocean. No, thanks, but I’d rather swim with sharks of the human variety than what’s out in those waters. And do me and yourself a favor when we leave here. Leave your own mooryan at home. If I start seeing a bunch of your shooters on my bumper, I’m going to begin thinking ours can never be a working and profitable match made in Hell.”

  “Perhaps if I knew exactly what you wanted? If I were to understand what is this working relationship to which you refer?”

  “It’s this.”

  The white with the scar on his hand spoke up, producing a thick envelope from behind his back, tucking it in his waistband. “Fifty thousand dollars, American. An advance, if you agree.”

  “But you need to understand the rules first, Habbie,” Blue Eyes said before Dugula could ask the obvious. “Then we can play ball. You love money, you want power, you want to be top dog on the block. You’re on every shit list from UNICEF to the White House. Thing is, what we are, we’re your three wise men, come here bearing gifts.”

  “How magnanimous. To what do I owe this great honor?”

  The third black hood got into the act next. Like the first time they met, the three whites ricocheted the verbal shooting match between them, leaving Dugula wondering if this act was scripted, and who, exactly, was in charge between them. Number three had blackness behind the slit where his left eye was, Dugula fairly assuming there was a patch covering some war memento.

  “Here it is,” One Eye began. “In the coming days there are going to be several very significant big events, within and beyond your borders. We prefer to not stand here in this heat and dust and with sky spies framing our every move, answering a bunch of questions that only time and decisive action will answer in the first place. First, we’re taking the human cargo you have smuggled in-country. They’re part of the plan. They go with us.”

  There it was, he thought, gut clenching, spine tightening. Before the thought they were some sort of international bounty hunters or CIA black ops, come to either kill or capture the holy freedom fighters he had been paid to grant safe haven to, Blue Eyes, as if he could read minds, cooled some of his fears.

  “Relax. We’re not here to kill or arrest those who are under the care of your golden umbrella.”

  “Truth be known,” Scar Hand said, “their leaders are aware of our presence here. Call it a blessing from Allah, a strange union between infidels and Islam, but it’s arranged. And your guests have already agreed to go the distance.”

  Dugula bared his teeth, a half smile, half grimace, and waved a hand. “This is all very mysterious, and suspicious. You talk, ten ways out of your mouths, but you say little.”

  “No time to stand around and gnaw on nerves or question what’s damn near an act of God being dumped in your lap. You accept—on faith—and you’ll be well rewarded,” One Eye said.

  “There is a number inside the envelope,” Blue Eyes said. “Call it. A cutout to a very important individual in a country better left unnamed at this time, but an individual you know well through your own Web site. He’ll back our story, and he’s backing us.”

  “You are telling me, what, exactly?”

  “Rule number one,” Blue Eyes said. “You’re on a need-to-know basis, that is, until the time comes when your role will become larger than the scourge of Muhammad’s head-lopping converters. Then it will be defined, a blinding light that will grant you, shall we say, instant transformation. Super warlord. That could be you.”

  They paused, Dugula sensing he was supposed to be impressed or implore them to continue. “I’m listening.”

  “You recruit some of these fighters for your clan,” One Eye said, “from other countries, some of them used by you to wipe out rivals, help keep the iron grip on your turf. They train here, they plan their operations when they�
��re not beefing up your troops. Surprised? Habbie, we know everything that goes on in this neck of the woods. Hey, as far as some folks you know are concerned, we’re the next-greatest thing to Allah. Think of us as damn near supernatural.”

  “The Alpha and the Omega,” Scar Hand declared. “That’s us.”

  “And we’re here to tell you what is in motion cannot be aborted,” Blue Eyes said.

  “We don’t need to spell out the organizations of the fighters you have in-country,” Scar Hand said. “All you really need to know is they’re with us. More truth—these fighters have already been contacted by their leaders, weeks back, and they’ve been ordered to accept our terms without conditions.”

  “They know some of the score,” One Eye said. “Not much, but the truth will be revealed in due course. But their leaders know something of the endgame. All parties—down to you—have agreed.”

  “You want endgame speculation? What will go down could prove one of the biggest coups,” Scar Hand said. “One of the most fearsome blows Islam has ever struck against the infidels.”

  “With or without you,” Blue Eyes said, tone hardening, “it’s a done deal.”

  “And Umir Hahgan? You come to Somalia, three wise white men,” Dugula said, putting an edge to his voice, “and you go straight to my main rival. How much did you pay him? And if I say no to this strange offer, ask no questions, go along, a blind man in the dark among the wolves and hyenas, what then? Do you set Hahgan’s men against me?”

  “It’s like this,” Blue Eyes said. “We hedged our bets, granted. Hahgan’s giving up some fighters, and yeah, he’s been paid, enough to keep the troops in qat and whores for a while. Time to put aside all this petty squabbling over some real estate. Fact is, you’re stronger than Umir, more men, more guns, more contacts from Cairo to Karachi, but we’ll pencil in the number-two man on the roster if we have to. Hey, you need to start thinking more about your future, leave the hand-wringing to the losing side. Now’s the time.”

  “Think big, as in immortality big,” Scar Hand added. “Your name could end up being glorified by the entire Muslim world, feared by your enemies, for decades to come. You’re a rising star, could be bigger than Osama, if you want. Let me ask you, you don’t want to just be a second-string warlord, creaking around this shithole in your golden years, or do you?”