Don Pendleton - The Iranian Hit

And Karim Yazid was left without a team. At first he could not believe what he had heard from the lone survivor of the front assault squads — a badly wounded man whom Karim and Amir had carried between them on the final leg of their trek out through the front gates of the estate, to where one of their vans had been parked nearby.

The man had mumbled that only one man had delivered all of this devastation to Yazid's crack team.

One man!

Karim remembered pulling away in the van to the shrieking of sirens that had been approaching from all directions in response to the sounds of open warfare.

Slowly, the images of then evolved to the present.

Karim blinked and stared at the restaurant out through the front window of the van.

He knew now where he was. He knew what he had to do.

Luck had finally shone on Karim as he, Amir, and the wounded man had fled in the van. Karim had hardly driven forty feet when he spotted a car pulling away from a cluster of shrubbery below and alongside the road, where the car had been hidden.

Karim fell back and followed the car, a sleek new Mercedes.

He could not shake the certainty that he was following General Nazarour and company.

The cries of the wounded commando had filled the van. Amir administered a shot of pain killer, and the cries had subsided to low, unintelligible murmurs.

Karim had followed the car into Bannockburn Heights, and at a twenty-four-hour restaurant on River Road, Karim's suspicions had been confirmed.

He watched as Rafsanjani, that hellion Minera, the general himself, and Mrs. Nazarour had gone into the restaurant. From a point halfway up the block, Karim had continued observing them with binoculars through the plate-glass window of the restaurant.

The conversation between the four had been fervent and secretive. Minera had left the party for several minutes. He returned to make a report. Karim was sure that they were lining up another flight out of the country. A few minutes later, a scene had transpired during which it appeared that Mrs. Nazarour was being discreetly but severely chastised for something she had done.

The important thing to Karim, sitting there behind the wheel of the van, was that he was still on the general. There was still hope for the mission.

He had to isolate the general's party. There were two rounds remaining for the rocket launcher. But he had to choose his spot carefully for the ambush if he wished to make a successful withdrawal. Karim did not underestimate the efficiency of the local police agencies in the face of an event such as the one that had occurred that night in Potomac. All neighboring precincts would be on alert.

Karim decided that the best time to assassinate his target would be as the general was actually boarding the plane that was to fly him out of the country. There was a risk involved, certainly. The risk that something would go wrong, without a second chance. But the general's group seemed to be unaccompanied by additional security. That man Minera was a worthy fighter, true. But he would be one man against a rocket launcher. And in an open area such as an airfield, the chances of a clean withdrawal were practically guaranteed. The risk would be minimal, when compared with trying to make the attack on a city street.

It was only a matter of time. A matter of following the general from the restaurant to whatever airstrip Nazarour had engaged for his rescheduled departure.

Yazid became aware that the murmurings of the wounded man in the back of the van had ceased. Yazid turned from the steering wheel as Amir moved forward and sank into the passenger seat alongside him.

"He's dead," Amir reported quietly. "It's down to the two of us now, Karim."

Karim looked back in the direction of the restaurant. The general's group was in the process of leaving. The Iranians could see Abbas Rafsanjani through the window, paying the tab at the cash register. Soon the party would be back in the Mercedes.

Then to the airfield.

And that was where they would die.

As he watched the group move hastily from the restaurant to the car, Amir hissed, "We should kill them now for what they have done to our brothers!"

"Be patient, my friend," Karim replied. "They will die. But not here. I have considered the matter. We could not get away. You must trust me."

"I do trust you, Karim," the lieutenant said, and he lapsed into silence.

Karim Yazid also fell into thought as the general's car, driven by Minera, exited the restaurant parking lot, turned south onto River Road, and continued toward Bethesda.

Karim fell in at ten car lengths behind the Mercedes, and continued tailing the general's group through the quiet early-morning streets of Washington suburbia.

The cold gray traces of dawn were lighting the eastern horizon. There were a few more vehicles on the streets, but that was just as well. More traffic meant better camouflage.

As he drove, Karim Yazid's mind shifted to the factor that he and Amir had avoided discussing.

Who was that individual who had wrought such havoc among the three frontal-assault teams? It must have been the man whom Amir had seen returning with Mrs. Nazarour earlier that night. But who was he? And would he appear at the final confrontation at the airstrip?

For reasons of his own, General Nazarour appeared intent on eluding this mysterious figure. Very well. That would be the error that would seal the general's fate.

And if this mysterious fighting man did appear?

Yazid thought of the dead comrades he had left behind in Potomac. A part of him fervently hoped that this man would make another appearance.

There was a blood debt to be settled.

But either way, the general would die.

To the south, within the residential section of Bethesda through which Karim had been tracking the Mercedes, the open expanse of an airfield loomed into view.

It would happen soon.

Karim Yazid was prepared to meet his fate and to deliver the general's fate.

This time he and Amir would not fail.

Nazarour, his wife, Rafsanjani, Minera — they would all die.

But even as he felt the prekill iciness begin to creep over him, Karim Yazid could not free himself of two lingering questions. Who was the warrior in black? And where was he now?

River Road was just beginning to clog with commuter traffic as Bolan caught the Goldsboro Road turn and continued on the hilly roller-coasterlike stretch with the Corvette's gas pedal floored, racing through suburban residential neighborhoods on a direct course toward the Bethesda Naval Hospital district.

It was 6:18 a.m.

The sun had risen minutes earlier like an ornamental silver disc in the eastern sky. The warmth of the newborn sunlight hadn't penetrated his car yet. And even with the heater on, Bolan felt chilled to the bone. The world outside looked grim and bleak.

Bolan held the Corvette at fifty miles per hour, playing morning traffic, moving smoothly in and out of lanes, unobtrusively gaining every second he could.

This had become a personal matter for the big man with the icy eyes — this race against time to intercept General Nazarour's group before they could rendezvous with the plane that would whisk them out of the country.

Bolan had no idea what would happen at this confrontation. But he would damn sure be finding out, within short minutes.

The two leaders of the Iranian hit squad that had been this mission's original top priority were still on the loose, and Bolan felt that there was a good chance he would encounter them ahead also. If Yazid and Pouyan were not about to make an appearance, then they could be anywhere in the D.C. area. But tracking them down was no longer a one-man job. Hal's forces were working on that end.