LITMIR.BIZ

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flashes against the metallic cover. The closest man glanced around, then stood up. He raced forward, shouting in Arabic while turning and firing his weapon at the pallets containing the shells.

      “The son of a bitch’s trying to set off the gas!” Miller shouted.

      The other Arab’s eyes widened, and he got up and began to run.

      The Executioner zeroed in on the shouting terrorist and fired. The man’s head jerked back, then he collapsed to the ground. Miller sighted on the back of the running man and squeezed off a burst, sending him sprawling, face-first to the ground.

      Bolan keyed his mic. “Doerr, sitrep.”

      “Still at my post, sir. Looks like a hell of a firefight.”

      “Keep alert for any reinforcements. Johnson’s down. We’re going inside.” Without waiting for a reply, Bolan motioned for Washington to accompany him, leaving Vargas and Miller at the opening. “Set some charges on these shells. We’ll be back.”

      They moved cautiously down the long corridor, cognizant that an ambush most probably awaited them at some point. Bolan took the lead. The residual light from the generator had completely faded, and he flipped down his night-vision goggles again. The area in front of him immediately materialized in a profusion of clear, green luminosity. Scanning the corridor, he saw one man crouching next to a stone abutment on the left aiming his AK-47 at them. Sharif had positioned himself on the other side of the corridor on his partner’s left. He was ensconced behind crumbled sections of large stones. Both men were obviously without night-vision assistance and most likely were relying on sound to locate their next targets.

      Bad mistake, Bolan thought.

      He fired a quick burst and zippered the first gunner’s chest. As the man fell, the Executioner quickly shifted to his left, flattening against the wall and far from the center of the corridor, anticipating that Sharif would fire at the last muzzle-flashes.

      He didn’t disappoint.

      A series of bright wisps of flames ignited in Bolan’s green-tinged viewfinder. Seconds later the definitive green world returned to its previous clarity, providing the Executioner with a clear vision of Sharif’s grimly twisted face. Bolan sent another burst into the man’s chest.

      Sharif’s body jerked like an errant marionette whose strings had been severed, and he crumpled into a heap. Bolan moved forward at an oblique angle, as Washington moved in from the other side, stepping on the barrel of the first Arab’s weapon then pulling it free.

      Bolan rolled Sharif over. Blood poured from the chest wounds.

      “You are too late, infidel,” he said, the blood spraying from his lips as he spoke.

      Bolan said nothing as he watched the dying man.

      Sharif started to say something else, but convulsed several times, and then ceased moving, his eyes no longer focused on anything.

      “He dead?” Washington asked.

      “Yeah, he is.” Shifting his weapon, the Executioner squatted and tossed the AK-47 aside, then began to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing except matches, cigarettes and a wrinkled paper containing more khat. He keyed his mic to call Grimaldi, but got no response.

      “No reception in here,” he said to Washington. “We’re too deep. Go back to the others and get Doerr down here. We’re shoving off as soon as we set the charges.”

      “What about our target?” Washington indicted the fallen Sharif.

      “I’ll get an ID sample,” Bolan said, and took out his KA-BAR.

      Washington shouldered the recovered AK-47, then grabbed Sharif’s rifle. “No sense leaving these behind.”

      “Put them with the artillery shells,” Bolan said. “They can all go up together.”

      Washington looked askance. “I was thinking war souvenirs.”

      He shrugged. “As long as you carry them.”

      Washington grinned and slung the second rifle.

      Bolan straightened the index finger of Sharif’s right hand, flattened it against the stone floor, then adjusted the blade of the KA-BAR.

      Bringing Sharif’s body back with them was out of the question. Some blood and a bit of flesh would have to do. He pressed the blade downward.

      Standing, he placed the samples in a special packet and placed it in his pants pocket. Another glance at his watch indicated that the numbers were counting down rapidly. He jogged back down the corridor, flipping up the night-vision goggles as he got closer to the light. Miller was finishing up. He looked at Bolan.

      “We found a bunch of C-4 and some detonator caps,” he said. “Got everything just about set.”

      Bolan nodded and went to check on Johnson. Doerr was standing alongside Washington as Vargas applied pressure to Johnson’s leg.

      “He needs a medivac,” Vargas said.

      Bolan keyed his mic and called Grimaldi again.

      “Back at ya, Striker.”

      “You still have that pickup in sight?”

      “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

      Bolan paused to smile at his partner’s levity, despite the situation. But that was Grimaldi. Always ready with a wisecrack.

      “Light it up, then come back for us. We’ve got a casualty so we’ll designate with red smoke. Stay clear of this structure. We’re igniting some sarin.”

      “Roger that.”

      A distant burst of fire flickered in the distance. A rumble of sound drifted by them several seconds later.

      Bolan indicated that Doerr and Vargas were to carry Johnson. He checked the wind direction and pointed. “Let’s make sure we stay upwind of the detonation.”

      Miller grunted and said he’d stay until they were far enough away before setting off the blast.

      “We won’t leave without you,” Bolan said, and followed the others down the slope toward the flat expanse of the road, the LZ.

      The stuttering sound of the helicopter moving toward them became audible.

      Bolan keyed his mic. “Blow it.”

      Fifty yards away a yellowish tongue of flames thrust out from the front of the old stone structure, then disappeared into a punctuating rumble of collapsing rocks and mortar. Bolan uncapped the flare and slammed the igniter against his thigh, sending a trail of red smoke upward.

      “Got you, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio.

      The chopping sound of the helicopter grew closer, and Bolan saw Miller running toward them.

      After checking on Johnson, who made a weak thumbs-up gesture, Bolan watched as Grimaldi expertly guided the Black Hawk onto the gravel expanse about forty feet away.

      “Let’s go home,” he said, motioning his team toward the chopper.

       Chapter Two

      Arlington, Virginia

      Warren Novak used his index finger to tip over the black king on the far side of the chessboard. He preferred the tactile pleasure of handling the carved, wooden pieces when playing, even if it was only a solitary game taken from one of his many chess problem books. He sighed at the ease with which he’d won, and poured himself another dash of the fine Kentucky bourbon. Novak made a silent vow that if the phone didn’t ring before he finished it, he would give up for the night and go to bed after the conclusion of the evening news. The idiots on television with their pathetic lead-ins had barely touched on the ongoing congressional committee hearings. But then again, those things had

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