Don Pendleton - The Iranian Hit

"Persia is historically a land of thousands of tiny workshops that improvise brilliantly the production of otherwise unavailable spare parts. It is also a land of smugglers. That is how it is done. People like myself are not a central threat to Iran's destiny."

The general paused. His grim face suggested a measure of wisdom, despite its dissolute features. Bolan knew there was truth to what he was saying, knowledge born of the observation of history.

"No," continued Nazarour, "I am not the victim of Iranian spies. I am the victim of someone around me here, someone who wants me dead. My enemy is within my own security...."

Suddenly there were sounds from beyond the study windows, outside in the night.

Dangerous sounds.

Shouts, then the rattle of automatic weapon fire.

The report of answering fire.

More shouting.

Bolan swung toward the bar, regaining his weaponry. "So much for Persian destiny," he muttered. "We'll have to continue our conversation later, General. In the meantime, I would advise holding hands with those two bruisers outside."

"It is happening so soon?" Nazarour's knuckles were white as he clutched the sides of his wheelchair.

"Maybe they're shooting rabbits," grunted the big guy as he slung the strap of the Uzi over his shoulder, ensuring that the gun would ride in the small of his back. He belted up with his collection of garrotes and other silent killing instruments, plus the custom-made British Special Service style flash and concussion rifle grenades.

"I guess you might all kill each other this night," he added. "And I'm in the goddamned middle. That is the special ferocity factor of this new war," he muttered to himself. But he was keen to begin.

He next unzipped the leather carrying case, hoisting and rapidly checking the action on the M1. The impressive weapon sported the Smith & Wesson Startron passive infrared night sight. The Startron magnified what little light there was, so that a warrior could easily pinpoint his position in combat in relation to anyone using an active night spot. The Startron/M1 combo would serve well tonight. The Ml fired 150-grain .30-caliber ammunition and threw it hard and fast, so that a 600— to 800-yard first round kill was not only possible but probable. Bolan always preferred accuracy — one round, one kill — as opposed to spraying bullets all over the place. In addition to an automatic mode that enabled him to fire short bursts if necessary, the M1 was equipped with a rifle grenade attachment.

With the .44 AutoMag riding at his right hip, the big warrior was ready for extreme action. And he had armed himself fully in less than twenty seconds.

Bolan had to move fast.

He must meet the assault head on, with full fury.

He didn't waste time with any parting comment to the general. He hit the light switch, plunging the room into darkness, and stepped out into the hallway.

The guards were up, their guns were out, but they seemed instinctively to eye Bolan for instructions. His orders were curt and sharp: kill all the house lights, get everyone in the main group accounted for, and sit on them.

The guards obeyed with alacrity.

So much for preparations.

There was more firing from outside and the sound of a small engine being gunned to its max, approaching the house.

The numbers were completely gone now.

The attack was on.

Bolan left the house to engage the enemy.

The small engine being gunned that Bolan had heard from inside was that of Minera's souped-up golf cart. The small contraption came flying full speed around the darkened Olympic-size swimming pool and shuddered to a wild fishtailing stop on the cobblestone walk near Bolan, who had hurried down the front steps to meet Minera.

The security honcho's surliness had disappeared. His eyes were bugged out. There was a sliver of blood along his right cheek. Bolan could see that the back of the cart was riddled with bullet holes.

The head cock leaped from the cart, holding his Dirty Harry .44 and eyeing Bolan with profound relief.

"Am I glad to see you! All hell's broke loose!"

The guy was close to losing it. Bolan spoke to calm him, quietly yet forcefully.

"You're throwing a party and not inviting me? What happened?"

"Damned if I know," Minera grunted, making an attempt to pull himself together. "I was out checking on the dog patrol. On my way back in, I couldn't see anybody moving around in Gatehouse Two. I was gonna pull in and take a look, but I never got that far. Some guys were already coming around from the front gate on foot.

"We saw each other at the same time, and they opened fire. I got a few rounds off, then got the hell out of there to find you. I don't know what the hell went down out front, but I'd say we've been invaded!"

"What about the guardhouse on the driveway?" Bolan snapped.

He had already set out at a stiff jog away from the golf cart, along the cobblestone walk that ran the circumference of the pool, heading toward the front grounds.

Minera stayed with him, trying to catch his breath.

"The boys in the guardhouse have a light machine gun," he told Bolan. "They should be able to hold 'em for a while."

The sound of a chattering chopper drifted in on the night air, as if on cue, from the direction of the guardhouse, a distinct nine hundred yards down the driveway from where they stood.

Bolan and Minera had come to the far edge of the pool, away from the house.

"We split up one hundred yards short of the guardhouse," said Bolan. "We'll close in on both their flanks. You take the left; I'll take the right. Let's just hope your boys with the chopper keep 'em pinned down and busy."

Minera seemed more than happy to let Bolan assume command.

"Just don't expect too much from me, partner." The guard boss tossed a nod at Bolan's weaponry. "Looks like you came prepared. All my heavy hardware is back at the goddamn command post — holyshitl What's that?"

Minera stopped and pointed at a dark human form that lay sprawled out on the ground alongside the cobblestone walk.

Bolan broke stride and stepped over to the form, the Ml held ready for business. With one foot he nudged the body over onto its back.

It was no trap.

The dead man was Dr. Medhi Nazarour.

Someone had rammed a stiletto into the physician's chest just above his heart. The blade had gone in to the hilt.

Bolan stooped down and made a positive verification. The general's brother was dead, all right. Blood still oozed from the wound.

A fresh kill.

Bolan rose from examining the body.

"It doesn't play," he murmured, almost to himself. "They couldn't have made it in this far from the gate already. Not without us seeing them."

Minera couldn't seem to pull his eyes from the corpse. "If it wasn't the attackers, then who..."

But Bolan had already started away from the body, continuing on his way in the darkness toward the fighting. The chopper was still yammering from the guardhouse down the road, its chattering sound punctuated by the popping, of rifles and another handgun in the open air.

The guardhouse was holding its own, but Bolan could tell they were outnumbered. It would only be a matter of time. Unless he and Minera got there first to even things out.

Minera was at his side again, keeping stride. Bolan studied the guy from the corner of his eye as they trotted along together, heading away from the pool, traveling parallel to the opposite sides of the winding driveway.

Bolan knew that he and Minera had probably been on different sides of the fence in that last war of the Executioner's. That was against the Mafia. But that was then. This was now. Now Minera was an ally. Crazy, sure. Another twist in Bolan's life, thanks to the capricious whims of the jungle.