Don Pendleton - Point Of Betrayal

“Our boy told us they’ve been setting up the place for months,” Bolan said. “On the surface it looks like an agriculture operation, with animals and the whole thing. They do all their training inside a series of nearby caves to help avoid satellite scrutiny. No outdoor firing ranges, or anything like that. They do a lot of hand-to-hand combat training, classroom work, that sort of thing. There’s also a large concrete building that houses their command functions.”

Kurtzman nodded. “That tracks with what I found out. The intelligence community had tagged the site as suspicious because of its history. But without any hard intel, they had to knock it pretty far down on the priority list. Plus, it’s a crappy target.”

“What do you mean?”

“Guess al-Shoud and his people brought their families along with them. Women, kids, elderly.”

Bolan’s brow furrowed, his lips formed a tight line as he considered the implications. “Lots of innocents on the firing line,” he said finally.

“Right,” Kurtzman said.

“We don’t have much of a choice in this one,” Bolan said.

“Just laying out the facts,” Kurtzman replied. “Hey, Hal wants to speak with you.”

“Go.”

Kurtzman disappeared from view. An instant later Brognola’s weary features appeared on the screen. Since Bolan had last seen him, the big Fed had lost his necktie, but judging by the coffee stain on his right breast, he still wore the same shirt, now unbuttoned at the collar.

“Striker,” Brognola said, “what’s the word on Jennifer Kinsey?”

“Nothing yet,” Bolan stated. “The man we spoke with knew nothing about her.”

“Could he have been lying?”

Grimaldi cut in. “He was pretty motivated to be honest.”

Brognola drank some coffee from a foam cup. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

“That’s why we wanted to find Shallallab,” Bolan said, “the finance guy. He’s high enough up that he’d know whether she was there. Al-Shoud considers him a confidant.”

“But you’ve got a good fix on al-Shoud?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “Bear says we’ve got apparent innocents in the way. I plan to make this a soft probe until I learn more.”

“Keep Barb and Aaron posted,” Brognola said. “I won’t be around.”

“Why?”

“We have an antiterrorism summit at an undisclosed location,” Brognola replied. “Heads of state from Egypt, Jordan, Morocco, Kuwait and Saudi Arabia are expected to be there. So are their intelligence chiefs. We’re going to share information, try to expand cooperation, all that sort of thing.”

“Hal the politician,” Grimaldi said.

Brognola smiled around his stogie. “Yeah, I’m loving it, too,” he said. “I’d stand naked in Times Square, but it’s a command performance. The Man wants me there, so I’m going.”

“Barb’ll take good care of us,” Bolan said.

“I have no doubt,” Brognola said. “Look, the minute you get a line on Jennifer Kinsey, let us know. If she’s still among the living, we’d very much like to bring her home.”

Bolan nodded. “Feeling’s mutual. We’ll do what we can.”

“No doubt, Striker,” Brognola said. “Just watch your ass. Al-Shoud’s operation may be small, but he’s not small-time. Most of his men are former intelligence agents who’ve pulled some serious black ops in India. Badasses all. If this turns nasty, do your best—hell, do your worst—and come home.”

“We’re on it,” Bolan said. Killing the connection, he and Grimaldi began scanning the satellite images and other intel provided by Stony Man’s cyberteam, preparing themselves for what needed to be a short, precise confrontation.

Jennifer Kinsey saw the U.S. Embassy compound from about two blocks away. Another block ahead of her, state police armed with automatic weapons had blocked all roads leading to the embassy with wooden sawhorses and officers. She guessed the Marines and Diplomatic Security Service agents also had doubled up their efforts since James Lee’s murder.

A shudder that had nothing to do with the biting cold seized her. Unconsciously she pulled the burqa’s heavy fabric tighter around her, as if doing so would protect her from homicidal bastard that had pursued her now for how long? Three days? Four days?

Underneath the thick black robes, she still wore her navy-blue business suit and white silk blouse, both stained dark crimson by James Lee’s blood. She chewed at her lower lip for a moment as unbidden memories of Lee’s death flooded her consciousness.

Almost immediately, she shook her head to purge the memories. Stay strong, she told herself. If you want to fall apart, that’s fine. God knows you deserve it. But do it after you’ve gotten inside the embassy. Not before. You’ve been through worse and you’ll survive this, too. Just stay strong.

Kinsey bowed her head and started walking. She had bought the burqa from a young woman. It had cost her all the two hundred dollars in emergency cash that she carried in a small belt under the waist of her skirt, but had been a worthwhile purchase. In her right hand, she clutched a .25-caliber pistol that she normally kept strapped to her thigh. She could handle much more substantial ordnance. But the State Department frowned on their people carrying weapons, regardless of what hellhole they sent you to. So, from her way of thinking, carrying a smaller weapon was a compromise of sorts. The stubby weapon was no good at distances, but she knew she could jam it into an attacker’s throat or eye and inflict plenty of damage.

She hoped it didn’t have to go that far.

She began threading through the sea of people gathered outside the embassy. It took a conscious effort to not push past people, particularly men who’d stand in a woman’s way on principle. It rankled her to be so passive, to walk seemingly without a purpose, to yield to anyone. Jennifer Kinsey hadn’t climbed the ranks of the CIA or the State Department by being submissive. She’d fought tooth and nail for every promotion, every letter of commendation.

Now she was fighting for her life.

A man bumped into her, knocking her off her feet. She fell to the ground, banging her knees and skinning her hands. Her cheeks grew hot with anger as she stayed on all fours a moment. The man continued on, not bothering to offer a hand or to apologize. She chewed her lip and took a deep breath to clear her head. Let it go, she told herself. Get to the embassy and tell them what you saw.

Of course, she didn’t expect them to believe it. She hardly believed it herself. That a group of Islamic extremists would attack her and Lee—or any American, for that matter—came as little surprise to Kinsey. Any U.S. diplomat who stepped into the country and expected a warm welcome, needed her head examined. Or at least needed to read a damn newspaper.

But Lee had been slain by a comrade. Not a friend, but one of his own.

Several of his own, in fact.

Hugging her arms tightly around her midsection, Kinsey found herself within forty yards of the nearest police checkpoint. She hurried toward it.

Again she could smell the smoke, hear the voices.

See the face.

It had been sheer pandemonium. The limousine’s front end pinned against the wall, shoved there by another car. When Kinsey first felt the impact, heard the grind of metal on metal, the explosion of radio traffic from the security team, she wondered if they’d been the target of a car bomb.

In some ways it might have been better that way, she thought.

The DSS agents had put up a valiant fight, of course. Stay in the car, they’d said. We’ll call for help, fight these guys off.

A swarm of militants, all dressed in civilian clothes, most armed with AK-47s, faces obscured by hoods, had set upon Lee’s vehicle almost immediately. The DSS agents had given little ground, burning down half a dozen of the bastards in the first few seconds of the fight. They were well trained, well armed, quite simply, the best.