Predator Paradise

by Don Pendleton

“And his other two stooges?”

  “I’ll deal with them when we get back. I’ll remove them from the rest of this mission if that would ease any fears.”

  “It’s not them I’m thinking I should be afraid of.”

  “Me, then, Stone? Okay, if you think I’m some treasonous bastard out to wax your butt because we knocked heads at the start, then shoot me.”

  Collins waited for the chug, the look in Stone’s eyes hardening, the guy, he believed, actually thinking about it.

  “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll keep an eye open from here on. If I even see you—”

  “Don’t even finish that remark. Look, if I were you, I’d feel the same damn way.”

  “So, what happened here was just some…aberration of the mission?”

  “We’ll never know now, will we? But I’ll stand here and look you straight in the eye and state emphatically and with all good clean conscience that, yes, it was an aberration.”

  “End of story.”

  “End of story, and discussion. You either believe me or shoot me.”

  Collins felt his heart pound, Stone silent, looking as if he were debating the matter.

  “How many did you take out?”

  “Two.”

  The Beretta lowered. “Then we’re done here. Let’s go, Major. We’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll lead the way.”

  “And drive.”

  “Whatever.”

  Collins held in his pent-up breath, but took his fear and anger out on Hamadan, shoving the Iranian toward the foyer. He knew it wouldn’t happen, Stone with his honor and all that crusader crap, but he still waited for the bullet to core into the back of his skull, not sure if the man had bought his act.

  It didn’t come, and that left Collins wondering if and when it ever would. If he didn’t trust Wild Card before, if he’d wanted him out of the way since first laying eyes on the man, knowing what he knew where it was all headed…

  Stone, he thought, had to know his hours were numbered in single digits.

  Collins knew what had to be done, the late and unlamented Gambler having already tipped his hand, but he would choose the right time and place.

  EVERY FIBER in his being screamed that Collins was lying. Gambler had failed, a bad memory, an appetizer hung out there for a sample taste, but the main course would be served, in time, by Collins or another Cobra commando.

  Fair enough.

  In his world, where there was only blood, death and mayhem, Bolan had also encountered more deceit and backstabbing along the way by the so-called good guys than he cared to remember. Sometimes they did it for a twisted ideology, or revenge against superiors or a country they felt had grievously wronged them. But more often than not, it boiled down to love of money.

  Forever living on the edge, a sixth sense about the darker driving forces of human nature had developed, and Bolan considered himself better than a decent judge of character. Collins had shown him all the right—or wrong—signs that everybody else had something to hide except him and the thousand-pound gorilla on his shoulders, that he fancied himself just a little smarter, better and tougher. There was the trembling he’d seen in the major’s knees, the voice breaking just enough while it strained for cool, calm and collected, the brain churning in high gear behind the eyes, selecting the right words. There was the forcing himself past any hesitation when the spotlight hit him in the eyes, fighting through the terror he’d been caught, the blame dumped on Gambler. There was bluster, posturing, the defiance that was part and parcel of the liar attempting to create his own truth and sell it. There was…

  Well, more than enough to tell the Executioner not only was everything not as it seemed, but also that everything about this mission had changed for the rest of the ride. A line, as far he was concerned, had been drawn in the sand.

  Right up to Gambler’s coup—whether it was personal or something else—Collins had claimed to know everything about every player on both sides, all the pieces falling into place at the right time, with the possible exception of the near fiasco in Sudan. It made no sense, to say the least, that Collins would suddenly claim ignorance, wash his hands of one of his illustrious HUMINT black ops, write him off as a bad seed. That in mind, Bolan was sure there was some darker agenda on the major’s table, but the Executioner was stuck right in the middle of whatever it was, left with no option but to brazen it out, wait for whenever the hammer would drop, be ready.

  With no choice but to forge ahead, Bolan would dangle the noose for Collins, watch without watching the man every step of the way, instinct so finely honed over the years he might as well have eyes in the back of his head. If the major hung himself, so be it. If it came down to taking out Collins, Brognola would shake the black ops roost back home, put him solely in charge, send the other commandos of Cobra packing, resume the mission with operatives of his choosing from Stony Man.

  The soldier was on his own, but then again, he figured he always had been since coming on board Cobra Force.

  “Okay, Colonel, this is where we get off. You got the game plan down?” A pause, Collins staring in the rear-view glass, waiting. “We okay, me and you?”

  Bolan was in the back seat, Collins at the wheel, Hamadan in the shotgun seat. The Iranian was looking surly but giving up the intel they needed during the hour-plus drive to hit the extremist outpost near the beach.

  Eight fanatics, or so the Iranian told them, at the end of the trail, a hundred yards or so from where they were now parked. One Ghazi Khatani was framed in Bolan’s memory from the intel pics of their prime target. The only motion and heat sensors and cameras were at the edge of the clearing before the thatch-and-bamboo compound rose, a sandy beach bristling with palm and casuarina trees providing the backdrop. Bolan had already perused the sat pics. There was a wharf stretching away from the beach, leading to a speedboat and schooner, the soldier focusing in on land-sat imagery that picked up a narrow trail that ran parallel with the main road. Collins informed him when this was wrapped they would get picked up by chopper, flown back to Mahé.

  Simple.

  He’d see about that.

  Bolan took his satchel, draped it over his head, settled it on his shoulder. The bag open, he took and deposited a frag grenade in his pants pocket.

  Bolan met Collins’s look in the rearview mirror.

  “Stone? You with me?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “We cool? We back in business?”

  The major was feeling him out, Bolan knew, wanted reassurance they were back on the same team, whatever happened with Gambler was all just some bizarre misshap he couldn’t explain.

  Sure.

  The strategy, once again, had a few flaws, Bolan thought. Their prisoner was to march down the trail, cuffed, announce himself while the two of them advanced on opposite sides toward the compound. When the enemy showed, it was pop and drop, bag the big game, hit the beach for evac. Bolan pictured the Iranian shouting a warning, Hamadan figuring eight against two were pretty decent odds to cut them down, set him free. Once the shooting started, Bolan saw the enemy scattering into the jungle or bolting for the beach, driving away in the cigarette speeder. Beyond that, they weren’t exactly camouflaged for a jungle hit, flaming aloha shirts easy bull’s-eyes. And no advance through a jungle was ever soundless. There were twigs to watch, brush to evade, branches and hanging vines and such to avoid. There were birds and animals, spooked by human presence, that could suddenly sound the alarm. Bolan was an old pro at stealth striking, but it was Collins this time out that planted whopping seeds of doubt this would go down by the numbers.

  “We’re just peachy,” Bolan said.

  “Let’s do it, then.” Collins turned to Hamadan. “Get out. Anything cute, and you’re the first one to go. I don’t need you that bad.”

  Bolan was out the door, mini-Uzi and Beretta leading the way toward his point of penetration into the rain forest. Hamadan was shoved away from the SUV, he saw, Collins giving him a swift
kick in the rear with another warning about consequences for getting cute.

  Let more games begin, the Executioner thought.

  And Bolan checked for the path of least resistance into and beyond the thick vegetation, found it and slipped himself onto the sliver of dirt path outlined on the sat imagery that was able to pick up the course due to large holes in the canopy overhead.

  He scanned the rain forest, darting ahead, crouched, wings fluttering somewhere, a caw slashing the silence. A check to the road, and Hamadan was walking ahead in a sort of waddle-shuffle, glancing at Collins, who vanished into the forest.

  Bolan kept moving, glancing from Hamadan to where Collins had melted out of sight.

  “I don’t need you that bad.”

  The Executioner couldn’t help but wonder to whom the man referred.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ghazi Khatani was feeling grateful for the simple things in life. It was quite the pleasant change compared to the anxiety and worry that had gripped him during his first few weeks on the island. Before he had landed on Praslin he had many reservations about leaving behind the safety and comfort of the familiar surroundings of Iran for an island in the middle of nowhere, shipped off by their leader to some remote corner of the planet, their task undisclosed, shrouded in secrecy and mystery, as if he and the others were criminals in hiding. It took some adjustment then, whiling away the days, fishing and swimming, snorkeling and boating around the islands on pleasure cruises with the local women, feasting on some of the best seafood brought in from Grand Anse he could have dreamed existed. Sometimes the other half of the contingent on Praslin brought in Seychellois women to help them pass away the lonely nights in orgies he would have deemed sinful to the extreme back in Iran.

  All the creature comforts and then some in the large beach house, including fully stocked bar and refrigerator, satellite televisions, videos, computers and high-tech necessities for contact with other fighters in the global jihad, both on the island and back home. So he had decided, why worry? Life right now was one big party.

  Settled in and relaxed for the first time on this island heaven, he figured he could count his blessings, far away from the stress and strife of his holy chosen path, viewing it all as a vacation, praising their great leader for singling him out for this much-deserved R & R. He was on call, of course, and the strange orders from their leader were what had both puzzled and frightened him at first.

  He briefly recalled the words that had haunted his sleepless nights when he had first touched foot on the beach.

  “Some will have to die so that others will live. Bear in mind, the global jihad is God’s will, and it is greater than the life of any one man. However, I tell you this, in private, away from the others. As one of my top and most trusted lieutenants, your life will be spared. Men will be coming for you where you are going, but they are part of the great plan. Not even I know when precisely they will come, but your time will be short, so enjoy the paradise I am sending you to while you can. You must not be afraid, since it has already been arranged you will merely be captured, but only for a short time, then you will be free and you will see the full glory of Islam. I am asking you now, do you have the courage and the faith to obey me—and God—without question?”

  What could he have said other than yes? Their leader had spoken, so his wish for the great plan would be carried out.

  The weeks had crawled by in tension and fear in the beginning, he recalled, but prayer had buoyed his faith, calmed his nerves so that he could now accept whatever the future held. Island life wasn’t so bad, after all.

  He was indulging in a cigarette and afternoon brandy as he watched for the tenth time an American movie about five Elvis impersonators robbing a casino in Las Vegas. It was his favorite movie, but found it somewhat ironic that as much as he hated America and all things Western, he idolized their films. Any confusion as to how he really felt about Americans didn’t last long whenever he watched the five Elvises shoot up the casino, killing anyone—Americans, of course—who got in their way, rooting them on to rack up the body count.

  He was catching a nice buzz, revved up as the fifth Elvis began shooting up the casino, when he heard voices shouting outside. He considered arming himself, then heard the familiar voice of Zarik. He was thinking Zarik was merely coming to bring supplies or women, but the voice sounded nervous and tense, one of his own men asking Zarik…

  What? Khatani thought, out of his chair and moving for the door. Zarik was cuffed? Was this a joke or was it something more insidious?

  Khatani wasn’t two steps out on the porch when he saw two, then three of his men dropping onto the trail, long fingers of scarlet jetting from their skulls. The explosion came next, two more of his men flying away on the fireball. Part of his mind screamed this wasn’t happening, they were being hit, massacred and in paradise, no less. Then the calm voice of his leader broke through.

  “Some will have to die so that others can live.”

  If this was part of the great plan, it still galled Khatani that he was supposed to stand by while his Muslim brothers were slain before his eyes. But hadn’t he been told he would be spared? Even so, he wasn’t taking any chances. The AK-47 was inside, a dozen long steps that would feel like an eternity the way his men were getting chopped down by some invisible assassin.

  Khatani was wheeling toward the doorway when he heard “Going somewhere?”

  COLLINS AIMED the sound-suppressed Beretta between Khatani’s eyes. He had made the porch, just as Stone began chugging out the doomsday send-offs, kicking Iranians all over the trail, nothing but head shots.

  “You are the one? You have come to take me away, or so I was told. I am to be captured? I am to be spared?”

  Collins made his decision on the spot. “I don’t need you that bad.”

  “Wait! What do you—?”

  Collins drilled a round between Khatani’s eyes. He left him there, sprawled at his feet, a flimsy explanation forming in his head how he would answer to Stone about the execution. Maybe he didn’t need to explain himself. Hell, he was in charge. It was damn good, just the same, that he had reached Khatani first. The Iranian had some idea, it sounded, about the future. Whatever he thought he knew had gone to the grave with him.

  The old lion was roaring back inside, and that was good, Collins decided. Whatever the moment of danger back at the suite, it had passed, but he knew he’d still had to string Stone along. What better way to prove the man was in no imminent threat of death by his hand than by jumping into the fight and pasting the few runners scattering in flight?

  Collins sidled down the porch, a few wild rounds seeking him out, slashing off a piece of wooden beam. He was lining up another Iranian beach boy when he saw Hamadan bolting down the trail.

  “Colonel! Get Hamadan!”

  THREE IRANIANS WERE dumped by rapid successive taps of the Beretta’s trigger when Bolan saw them come unhinged. Torn between fight and flight, a spray of AK autofire ripped through the vegetation around the soldier, but he was already advancing to cut off any rear exit for the beach, bulling his course through palm fronds and brush. The Executioner armed his frag grenade, let it fly at the rabbits. It blew in a cluster of three hardmen, two of them sailing on for the motor pool of a GMC and two Land Cruisers. There was a headfirst hammering through the windshield of the GMC by one shredded extremist missile, the other mangled scarecrow thudding into the grille. Number three was scraping himself off the ground, a slab of raw meat, sliced and diced by shrapnel, screaming in pain. Bolan drilled a death tap into the back of his skull, the 9 mm subsonic round kicking him off his feet.

  That left three. There was Hamadan, the mark they’d come to round up, and one runner racing for the wharf. Their own prisoner was in flight, Bolan saw, scurrying back down the trail just as Collins sounded the alarm from the porch. It didn’t eat up too much time—no more than thirty seconds total—and Bolan charged up on Hamadan’s rear. A clip of the Beretta over the back of his head, and Bo
lan began manhandling him back down the trail.

  Homed in on the autofire, as the lone extremist backpedaled down the wharf, the warrior saw Collins giving chase. He left Collins to take care of the final problem, as he spotted the body on the porch, senses tuned to any sound from inside the large beach house. A glimpse of the action, and Bolan saw the major hosing down the Iranian with a long burst of mini-Uzi fire, the body spinning off the wharf, splashing down into the water.

  Hauling Hamadan by the arm, Bolan peered inside the beach compound. The only sound was the television blaring with the sounds of gunfire and men shouting at one another. The carnage littering the grounds briefly struck Bolan as surreal as he watched the celluloid battle. It happened like that sometimes, he thought. Coming out the other side of any armed engagement was never a given. He sometimes counted his own good fortune when he found himself still standing, even gave the gods of war a silent thanks on occasion, but when the adrenaline began to slow, a strange dreamlike quality could descend on the world around him. It never lasted but a second or two, but the feeling of being temporarily drained, even numb or disembodied, was still there.

  Bolan went to the body. Khatani. Shot once between the eyes. No weapon he could find. So why the execution? This was supposed to be the big game they had come here to snare. Why just gun down an unarmed enemy who had supposedly made the Cobra list? Bolan grunted, almost couldn’t wait to hear what snow job Collins would offer.

  The moment of wonder proved a mental lapse, Bolan feeling it coming even as his mind registered the escape attempt. The leg sweep came out of nowhere, the soldier taking the blow to the back of his knee. His leg buckled as the head butt was craning down. Bolan whipped his face away, but took the blow on the side of his skull. Bells and lights shot through his brain, and Hamadan wrenched free. Bolan exploded into a charge, angered over the brazen attack. Three long strides, and the Executioner clamped a hand into Hamadan’s shoulder. He ran the Iranian another two steps down the porch, then bounced his face off a beam. He let Hamadan drop, the Iranian rolling over, staring up, eyes blazing with hate and defiance.