Frontier Fury. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Qaeda’s existence, noting that the Agency had funneled arms to O.B.L. and others in Afghanistan to help them slaughter Russians, back when O.B.L. was still a “patriot” and “friend” of the United States. In fact, some claimed al Qaeda didn’t exist at all, but had been fabricated by the CIA to keep those covert dollars pouring in.
“We take what we can get,” Bolan replied.
“Speaking of that,” she said, and reached for Bolan’s hand. But before going any further, Price paused and said, “Listen, this is serious. About Gorshani.”
“I know.”
“We’ve checked him out as far as possible, same as we always do—but this is Pakistan.”
“Meaning they’ve elevated subterfuge to art-form status?” Bolan said.
“Meaning it’s a bloody can of worms. The North-West Frontier Province makes Medellín look like Utopia. They stopped publishing casualty figures in 2004, when the tally became too embarrassing. And it’s not just the government versus rebels. Every village has at least one illegal arms dealer. In the cities, you can’t walk a block without tripping over Kalashnikovs and RPGs. They’ve logged more than twelve thousand arrests for gun-related crimes over the past three years, and that’s barely scratching the surface.”
“Sounds like Dodge City,” Bolan said.
“Dodge City on angel dust,” she replied, “with unlimited ammo and a side order of religious fanaticism. On top of which, if you can make it past the bandits and militias, we suspect the government is covering your targets.”
“If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you wanted me to pull the plug.”
“Who says I don’t?”
“Sounds to me like a conflict of interest.”
“You want it straight? I’ve been against this from the start, but I was overruled. Okay. I’m a team player. But it stinks.”
“A chance to cut the snake’s head off,” he said. “Or close, at least.”
“That’s how they’re selling it. But why can’t the Agency’s man come up with coordinates for an air strike? You want to tell me he can snap a photo of the targets, but he can’t jot down the longitude and latitude? Come on!”
“My guess would be he doesn’t want to go up with the others.”
“And are you supposed to recognize him, when you get there? What’s he gonna do, whip out his CIA decoder ring before you drop the hammer on him? And he’ll still be working as an asset undercover, after that? Somebody’s blowing smoke.”
“Maybe,” Bolan said. “But I can’t see through it till I’m on the ground.”
“I knew you’d say that,” she replied.
“What else can you predict?” he asked.
“A long night for the two of us,” she said, and offered Bolan a slow smile as she led him to the bed.
3
North-West Frontier Province, Pakistan: The Present
Fleeing over open ground meant there was nothing to obstruct the enemy’s sight line or spoil their aim. All Bolan and his contact had going for them now was speed, and the Executioner hoped his driver was equipped to make the most of it.
Crouched on the SUV’s rear deck, Bolan was crowded by a spare tire on his right—the driver’s left—but he had room enough to fight. And room enough to die in, if the APC’s machine gunner was capable of holding steady on a target at the far end of his killing range.
But not just yet.
The Jeep was Bolan’s first concern, though. With only two men inside, and the driver fully occupied with his appointed task, the Executioner had the advantage. At most, the driver might fire pistol shots, but, then again, aiming would be difficult unless he dropped the Jeep’s windshield.
That left the passenger, whom Bolan took to be the officer in charge of the patrol. He couldn’t read the soldier’s face at four hundred yards, much less determine his rank, but the man was holding some kind of rifle, biding his time.
Bolan thought he’d give the lead pursuers something to think about, and began firing from a seated position. With elbows braced on knees, it was the best position next to prone for steady shooting, but that was, of course, from solid ground. Each time his driver swerved or hit a pothole in the pavement, Bolan lurched along with the whole SUV.
His first shot, therefore, may have been a miss. He saw the two Jeep-riders duck their heads, but saw no evidence of impact on their vehicle. The Jeep held steady, barreling along in hot pursuit.
For number two, still set on semiautomatic fire, Bolan aimed at the center of the Jeep’s windshield and squeezed the trigger. This time, it was nearly on the mark but high and slightly to the left, missing the rearview mirror by an inch or so.
Still, Bolan got the physical reaction that he’d wanted, smiling as the Jeep swerved wildly for a moment, slowing at the same time, while its driver tried to choose between the gas and brake pedal, guts or survival.
Bolan saw the shotgun rider turn and shout something at his wheelman. Whatever he’d said convinced the driver to accelerate despite incoming fire.
Behind the Jeep, the eight-wheeled APC was giving all it had to stay in the race. Its twin Russian-made ZMZ-49–05 V-8 engines strained to hit and hold the vehicle’s top speed, around fifty miles per hour. That was good time for patrolling or advancing on a line of rioters, but in a car chase it was almost bound to lose.
Almost.
Bolan observed the shotgun rider in the Jeep half-standing, lining up a rifle shot over the windshield’s upper edge. It wasn’t likely he would score the first time out, but there was always the threat of a lucky shot.
Bolan thumbed the fire-selector switch on his AKMS from single shot to 3-round bursts, then braced the black fiberglass-reinforced polyamide snug against his shoulder. A trained shooter brought the weapon to his face, not vice versa, and Bolan was one of the best. But even so, he couldn’t abrogate the laws of physics.
His first 3-round burst was aimed at the grille, but went low and outside. Not low enough to shred the left front tire, but knocking shiny divots in the fender just above it.
Correcting for the second try, he saw two rounds ricochet from the Jeep’s dusty hood, one scarring the windshield, the other long gone. As for the third round, Bolan couldn’t guess where it had wound up.
The chase car’s driver swerved again, but brought it back on track this time without a warning from his passenger. The officer had fallen back into his seat when Bolan fired, ducking and covering as best he could while riding in an open vehicle, but now he rose again, aiming his rifle toward the SUV.
It’s coming, Bolan thought, and ducked beneath the SUV’s tailgate. Between the wind rush and the growling engine of the SUV, Bolan had trouble hearing any shots fired from behind him. He didn’t know, therefore, how many times the Pakistani officer had missed before a bullet drilled the tailgate, inches from his sweaty face.
From there, it punched through the backseat, missed Hussein Gorshani’s elbow by a whisper and buried itself in the dashboard.
“They’re shooting at us!” his driver cried.
Bolan didn’t bother answering the obvious. His mind was searching for a way to get the shooters off his back—or send them all to hell.
HUSSEIN GORSHANI cursed in Pashto, gripping the SUV’s wheel with a white-knuckled mixture of fury and fear. The soldiers had damaged his car and were trying to kill him. His hatred for them, in that moment, was boundless.
Never mind that he was technically in the wrong, and that they were only doing their jobs. The gunfire was a product of Gorshani