Point Of Betrayal. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the jab off course.
The man pressed his attack, swinging the knife blade at her in wide slashes. By now, people had begun to see the altercation and were clearing away, most looking elsewhere. Kinsey sidestepped the knife thrust, bringing her almost face-to-face with the man. Bringing up the pistol, she jabbed it into the soft flesh under the man’s chin and fired it.
As the man folded, she heard a screech of tires as a car came around the corner in a skidding turn. Hooded men stepped from the vehicle and began to rake the air with autofire. People screamed and scattered or dived for cover.
Kinsey tried to use the pandemonium to her advantage, melting into a wave of fleeing people. Looking up, she saw a big Caucasian threading his way through the oncoming throngs of people toward her.
She raised the small handgun to fire. As she did, something struck her skull, causing a white flash of light to explode behind her eyes. She stumbled forward and a swimmy feeling overtook her. She whirled to retaliate and found herself looking into Stone’s dead-eyed stare.
“Hi, Jen,” he said. A massive fist struck her once more in the temple and she sank to her knees. A moment later everything went black.
CHAPTER THREE
Waziristan territory, Pakistan
Crouched behind a line of boulders, Bolan panned his binoculars over the village of mud huts and sized up his adversaries. His breath escaped in white wisps and needles of cold plunged through the fabric of his combat black-suit and into the skin underneath. Three men, two carrying AK-47s, the third an Uzi, acted as sentries for the gateway leading into the walled village.
Craters and shattered stone from past wars dotted the landscape that lay between Bolan and al-Shoud’s stronghold. Bolan watched as one of the men fired up a cigarette, the lighter washing his face in a flickering orange glow. Another sentry, apparently the ranking member, cursed his comrade and swatted him on the arm. The stricken man groused but dropped the cigarette, stomped it under a booted heel and stalked off into the darkness.
A handful of tattered tents stood next to the mud huts and behind it all stood a large, featureless building of concrete brick. No fires for cooking or warmth burned. All the structures, except for the brick building, stood dark. Like Bolan, the three men clung to shadows, occasionally glancing at a dirt road that wound its way into the camp, as if they expected someone.
Bolan had kept the camp under surveillance for hours, but hadn’t yet found anything of substance. If Kinsey was alive—and Bolan wanted to believe she was—it was going to take an intense search to find her.
The Executioner felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Deepening his crouch, he turned and cast a wary glance. A fourth sentry, this man a good three inches taller than Bolan, walked the road heading to the camp. As he marched, the man scanned the area around him, his gun muzzle following the line of his gaze. Bolan’s breath caught in his throat as the sentry’s eyes settled on his darkened form.
The gaze lingered for a moment. The warrior felt his grip on the Beretta harden and his finger curl around the trigger. The man’s next move would determine his fate. To Bolan’s relief, the guard turned his gaze back on the camp and kept moving toward it.
During his hike up the mountain, Bolan had counted three guards and had left all three standing. That had been by design. He knew the events earlier in Islamabad would have al-Shoud’s fighters on edge as it was, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. And leaving a trail of dead bodies in his wake would only prematurely alarm the Executioner’s opponents and give them time to fortify their positions. However, the strategy also forced him to watch his back more carefully than usual.
The guard hurried up the trail and stopped when he reached the others. Bolan heard the muffled tones of the man’s voice but couldn’t distinguish his words. The terrorist warriors nodded their heads as the man spoke, and at least two broke into smiles and clapped one another on the shoulder.
“Striker?” It was Jack Grimaldi.
Bolan keyed his headset. “Go.”
“Spotters caught a chopper coming your way. ETA is seven minutes.”
“You sure it’s coming here?”
“Anything’s possible, but it’s a safe bet. The craft has no visible markings and only minimal exterior lighting. I checked and it’s definitely not one of ours. It could be weapons smugglers or terrorists not associated with al-Shoud. But my gut says you’re about to get visitors.”
“Clear,” Bolan said. “May be the break we’ve been looking for.”
“Understood. What have you got there?”
“Four guards, all armed,” Bolan said. “Three more roaming the grounds. Unknown on how many inside. You ready to swoop if I need you?”
“Right. You said you wanted a fast taxi ride, so here I sit. Just me, a combat chopper, and a strike team of two dozen special ops soldiers who, by the way, are getting a little impatient.”
“Tell them to stand fast,” Bolan said. “They’re here for mop-up, nothing else. This is a situation where the fewer guns we have, the better off we’ll be.”
Grimaldi whistled. “I’m sure that message will play well. If you hear gunshots, you’ll know what happened. Any sign of our lady fair yet?”
“Negative.”
“Al-Shoud?”
“Same.”
“Think she’s still alive?”
“Hard to say. If she is, al-Shoud knows where to find her. Regardless, he and I are going to have a heart-to-heart.”
“My guess is he’s going to do most of the talking.”
“Most likely.”
“Stay hard, Striker.”
“Always.”
Bolan heard the thrumming of helicopter blades in the distance. The guards returned to view and began turning on halogen spotlights, illuminating a flat area that Bolan guessed served as a landing pad.
Within less than a minute the helicopter, a Russian-made Mi-17, swooped in overhead. The whine of its engines pierced the silence. As it settled to earth, rotor wash seized snow, dirt and small stones, and flung them into the guards’ eyes, forcing them to wrap their forearms over their faces. White cones of light emanated from the craft’s bottom as it lit up the makeshift helipad. Bolan slipped deeper under cover to avoid detection and waited for the chopper to land.
A side door slid open and a big Caucasian with thick blond hair stepped from the craft. His booted feet sank several inches into the snow, but he still covered the ground in confident, graceful strides. Camouflage battle fatigues and a rumpled field jacket covered his bulky frame. A Colt Commando hung from a strap looped over his right shoulder.
He turned and his big hands reached inside the aircraft and almost immediately connected with something. Grinning, the man pulled Jennifer Kinsey, an olive-drab field jacket draped over her designer suit, hands bound in front of her by steel handcuffs, out of the craft. As she kicked out to get her footing, the man dropped her into the snow. As she glared at him, he shook his head and laughed.
Bolan studied her through the binoculars. A bruise swelled under her left eye, and she wore a couple of small cuts on her cheeks. But she was alive. For now, Bolan considered that enough.
For now. Soon she’d be free. Or Bolan would be dead. He wasn’t going home empty-handed.
The large man reached down, gathered the fabric of her coat collar in his hand and yanked her to her feet. Bolan saw a satisfied grin play on the man’s lips as he brought her erect and shoved her forward, causing her to stumble. The guards neither laughed nor made a move to stop the rough treatment. Four men all dressed similarly to the big man and brandishing assault rifles stepped from