Suicide Highway. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
As he raised the muzzles of both pistols to defuse any thought of a standoff, he made out the face. Even partially shaded by her helmet, he picked up some recognizable features, though it was too dark for him to be certain. His gut instinct told him that she was a friend, and he went with it.
“I figure at least two gunners making a break for it out the back,” he told her. “We need someone to interrogate in case nobody survived the explosion.”
She touched her throat mike, and as he heard her voice, he confirmed who she was.
Tera Geren, a gutsy Israeli agent Bolan had worked with before.
He didn’t stick around to hear what she was saying, and he guessed that the machine gun fire in the distance was more American special operations ordinance, a SAW by the sound of it.
Long legs eating up the ground in effortless strides, Bolan swung around the building and spotted a quartet of men racing in the distance. They dropped to the ground, cowering from the sizzling onslaught of autofire raking all around them, but the gunner wasn’t firing for effect. Bolan paused, fed a fresh speedloader into the Taurus, slapped a fresh clip into the NP228, then continued his charge.
The SAW fire let up, and the Taliban lackeys slowly got to their feet, looking to where the onslaught came from, firing wildly from their AKs. Marksmanship was an illusory skill that the gunmen thought they possessed, and having fully automatic weapons instilled in them the delusion that they didn’t have to aim. Whoever the gunner was, he was safe. The pathetic riflery skill of the Taliban killers was barely enough to spray the broadside of a street cafe. Against real soldiers who took cover, conserved ammo, and watched the front sight, they were standing sacks of meat ready to be plucked by a short burst.
The distraction of the Taliban fighters bought the Executioner a few seconds, enough time to close to hand-to-hand range. With a savage snap, he hammered the butt of the Brazilian revolver hard across the jaw of the first man he ran into. The punch, backed by four pounds of stainless steel, felled the thug.
The second man was turning, but not nearly fast enough to avoid Bolan’s boot rocketing into his groin. The mercenary for the former occupational government folded over, head dropping to where the Executioner slashed his elbow down mercilessly like his namesake’s ubiquitous ax.
Two down, one to go, and Mack Bolan’s free rein over his enemies ended.
Too close to bring up his rifle and fire, the last man merely swung the barrel hard at the Executioner. The front sight hooked Bolan’s wrist, wrenching the revolver from his grasp. Bolan brought his NP228 around to shoot the guy and be done with him, but the fighter wasn’t finished swinging. The pistol grip of the AK crashed off Bolan’s cheek and left his head reeling.
Bolan dropped back, dazed. The rifle slashed out again. The soldier brought up his left hand to block the next chop and felt his forearm go numb. The Chinese pistol sailed from his grasp.
The Executioner wasn’t standing still. He kicked the guy in the knee, a dead center blow struck with his steel-toed combat boots. With a cry, the rifleman staggered, letting go of his weapon and windmilling his arms to maintain his balance. Bolan didn’t allow him any mercy, launching two right jabs with pistonlike speed. The Taliban fighter’s nose exploded, rivers of blood streaming down into his mustache and beard. Another step forward, and Bolan folded his opponent over his knee. A hammering fist dropped savagely on the back of the thug’s head and with a savage twist, Bolan hurled the half-conscious man over his hip.
“Give up,” Bolan said, picking up the sand-covered .44 Magnum pistol. He aimed the tunnellike barrel at the militiaman’s nose.
Eyes wide, the man muttered what sounded like gibberish to Bolan’s ears, and passed out.
Bolan lowered the Taurus, then brought his fingers to his swollen cheek, tears welling in his eyes from the sting.
“Striker!” he heard Tera Geren shout. He looked up and saw her running toward him alongside Laith and two big guys in nomex jumpsuits and boonie hats.
“That’s Colonel Brandon Stone,” Bolan told her.
Geren paused, looking at her allies, then presented her hand. “Theresa Rosenberg.”
Bolan nodded. “And your friends?”
“Staff Sergeants Wesley and Montenegro,” Geren answered. “U.S. Special Forces.”
“Green Berets?” Laith asked.
“Yeah,” Wesley said apprehensively, while Montenegro simply nodded. “You don’t dress like a local.”
“To prevent friendly fire, soldier,” Bolan explained. “He’s my guide.”
“Uh-huh,” Wesley said. “And what’s he guiding you to?”
“All the hottest tourist traps on the map,” Bolan said.
“Tourist traps?” Laith asked. “Oh, Colonel Stone, I’m sorry. I thought you said terrorist traps.” He shook his head. “English is only my second language.”
Bolan rested a hand on Laith’s shoulder. “It was an honest mistake, though I can see now why you suggested bringing a .44 Magnum along to pick up girls.”
Laith shrugged and turned to face the others. “Well, if you don’t mind, we’ll be off.”
Bolan saw Geren struggling to control her laughter, but the Special Forces sergeants weren’t buying it. “We’re taking these men for interrogation,” Wesley said, pointing to the surviving Taliban fighters.
“We were supposed to be snooping and pooping on these creeps,” he explained. “You interfered with that.”
“And what are you doing here?” Bolan asked Geren.
“Protecting truth, justice and a really good kosher pickle,” she replied.
Yeah, Bolan thought. Tera Geren was still a red-hot firecracker.
“Thanks for the update,” Bolan said.
“Let’s not waste a valuable intelligence opportunity,” Geren told Wesley. “We’ve captured people who might lead us to the UN hit.”
“You’re working this too?” Bolan asked.
Geren glanced up at him. “We have to talk, Colonel,” she said stiffly.
Bolan remained silent, answering with only a nod. The atmosphere drained of whatever relief he’d felt at the sight of a familiar ally.
He dismissed his disappointment at being at cross-purposes with Geren. It was an occupational hazard that he’d faced before, all too often. When working with someone who was loyal to and spilled blood for the safety of the land of her birth, there was always the possibility that the people in the field could end up flipping from friends to enemies.
And even if they weren’t enemies, they’d still end up doing their own thing.
A situation like that could get people killed.
MARID HAYTHAM KNEW the woman on sight. She was a member of the Israel’s secret police—one of the accursed enemies who hunted down his allies relentlessly. She was good, but she usually worked alone, almost as if she were a sacrificial lamb no one wanted to be associated with. Some wondered if it was because she was a woman who dared to take on the duties of a man, but Haytham knew better.
Women were present in all levels of Israel’s military. The country was in such a besieged state that women’s liberation was a nonissue, even in the 1950s. If you had two arms and two legs, you were able to fight for your country.
Tera Geren was not very tall, but she had a robust build, probably padded out by the body armor she wore. Still, it presented her as someone substantial.
Haytham was tempted to raise his AK-47, rest the barrel on the door of his car and hold down the trigger, stitching her from crotch to throat, but for once, he was reluctant to take out his fury on a known Jewish agent.
For