Don Pendleton - Armed Response

With his AK-47 leading the way, Bolan walked to the end of the village, to the final building, the motor pool. He could hear shouting, panicked voices encouraging one another to seek out the enemy. There were several shots, nothing remotely aimed in Bolan’s direction. They were firing at shadows, hoping to provoke some sort of response from their invisible attackers. Bolan worked his way down to the edge of the edifice, quickly scouting out the situation. The truck was parked in the middle of the street, between the barracks and the garage, blocking his view of the enemy.

Bolan dropped to his belly and peered under the truck. As he suspected, two terrorists were hiding beneath the cab, calling out to the others, one of whom replied from the barracks. When they believed that there was nothing to fear, they would emerge from their hiding places. But Bolan didn’t want to wait that long. The clock was counting down in his head. It was only a matter of time before somebody in America gave the order to destroy the village. Bolan wanted to be long gone before then. He drew the Beretta, holding it two-handed, resting on his elbows, pointing it at the back of one of the terrorists’ heads.

CHAPTER FIVE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“Mr. President, that isn’t enough time. Striker is still on the ground...Yes, sir...I understand that, but we need more time. The target still has not been confirmed…A firefight does indicate the presence of militants, yes, but…Yes, sir, I’ll inform them.”

Brognola broke the connection to the White House. He looked up at Price and Kurtzman. “The President has been convinced by the Joint Chiefs and other advisers that they need to strike now. The Hellfire missile is going to be fired. The remaining truck will be the target. Striker has less than five minutes remaining.” The big Fed turned his attention to the large screen. “How many terrorists are left?”

“Five,” Kurtzman said. “Five and a half. We’ve been tracking this guy here.” With a laser pointer, he indicated a figure moving slowly around the rear of the buildings toward Bolan’s position. “I think that he’s severely wounded by the way that he moves. I doubt that he will be much of a threat to Striker.”

“Where is Striker now?”

“Under the truck,” Price replied.

“Oh, God in heaven! Get out of there, Striker, get out now!”

Yemen

HE TWITCHED. HE GROANED.

Pain washed over him in waves. Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. A tiny voice told him that he was injured, that a hand grenade had exploded, that he was dead unless he moved.

Hakim Haddad groaned again and attempted to open his eyes. He was blind! He couldn’t see! He panicked; his hand shot up to his face. His fingers found his left open eye by accident, causing more pain as he poked it too hard. Wincing, he felt for his right eye. There was nothing there. A hollow space. Gone.

Haddad screamed in terror and frustration. Before he realized it, he had rolled onto his front. His mouth filled with sand and dirt. He stopped screaming and started to gag. Choking, fighting the horror, Haddad forced himself to calm down, take deep ragged breaths.

The infidels had taken his eye!

Trying to remember what had happened took an age. The agony was everywhere. He blinked, finally seeing some light through his left eye. He could see his blackened fingers covered in sand. Sanity was returning. There had been a bag, a soldier’s bag. They had emptied it, turning it upside down. Military equipment had spilled out. Weapons. There had been a clatter, which he had heard above the excited chattering of his men. He watched the grenade roll, thinking at first it had fallen from the bag. But he saw that it had no pin and realized that it had been thrown. He pushed the man closest to him toward the grenade, turning…

Haddad praised Allah for placing an unworthy soul next to him, an inconsequential soldier who should have been glad to sacrifice himself to save his leader. The man had taken the full brunt of the explosion, his body shredding in slow motion, the velocity of the steel ball bearings in the grenade vastly decreasing as they passed through his body and then struck Haddad. He knew nothing after that.

He understood that Allah had saved him, had guided his actions. That soldier would now be feasting in paradise. Hakim muttered a quick prayer. It wasn’t his place to understand what Allah wanted, he knew. But he could guess. Vengeance. Destruction of the attacking infidels.

He closed his eyes—his eye—breathing, just breathing. He attempted to rise. The pain flooded back and Haddad fell onto his face. He pushed himself up onto his knees, rocking back and forth, waves of nausea washing over him. Eye closed, he listened. There was shooting, a lot of it, close by. The infidels were still here. His men were brave, resisting. He would join them. Lead them. Set an example.

Qutaiba.

The name popped into his mind. That man was their true leader. And an infidel with his alcohol-drinking ways. He meant to kill Qutaiba. He had been waiting for the right moment—now it had arrived. Kill the man and blame it on the ambushers. The great Mullahs would understand what had happened and expect him to lead. Except he didn’t know the details of the attack. Only Qutaiba did. But he had a book, a little blue book. He had to find it before the enemy did.

Hakim opened his eye. He could now focus. He turned his head slowly, painfully to the left to see the bodies of his men lying on the ground, ripped apart by the grenade. He got to his feet with difficulty. He saw stars, staggered forward and found a warm mud-brick wall to lean against. He gasped. More nausea. He needed a weapon, something to kill Qutaiba with. He didn’t want to bend to pick up a fallen weapon. If he did, he might stumble and fall, never to regain his feet. His right hand moved down his robes, feeling, patting. Somewhere…yes, there. He withdrew an old Russian pistol his father had taken off the body of a Soviet soldier. He stood upright, breathed deeply, then turned and reeled toward Qutaiba’s building.

He tripped several times but didn’t fall, keeping his balance, windmilling his arms. He stopped outside the hut, at first not comprehending what he was seeing. Qutaiba lay there, red holes in his chest. The attackers had already been here. Good. The Mullahs could not blame him for this. Where was the book, the little blue book? Haddad lurched into the room, standing on Qutaiba’s bullet-riddled chest. Blood oozed out, covering his boots. Hakim didn’t notice. The book had been on the table, next to the devil’s drink. It was gone. Rage filled him. He had to find the book! It was important. He didn’t know exactly what Qutaiba had written in there, but it had to have been important. He had to get it back.

Outside he teetered to the back of the buildings, inadvertently following Bolan’s path. There lay two more soldiers, one man’s chest soaked in crimson. The other Hakim recognized but was unable to recall the man’s name. He seemed to be alive, but one leg was covered with blood. They had been a patrol that he had sent out. Was he the only man alive, the only man able to challenge the intruders? There was shooting somewhere, as if to remind him that there were other survivors, waiting for his leadership. He looked up and saw a shadow, a man in black, duck behind the end building. Haddad knew that this was the man that he was destined to kill, the reason why Allah had spared him. He moved forward, one foot in front of the other, the pistol heavy in his right hand, using his left for support against the walls of the buildings.

He finally reached the end of the row. He swung around the corner, pistol raised, fully expecting to find his target cowering and begging for mercy. Nothing. Only empty space. There was more shooting close by, panicked yelling. An explosion. He fell backward two steps. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the black-clad commando dart up between the garage and middle building, run back down the way Haddad had just come, then duck into another alleyway. The devil was fast. Haddad staggered after his enemy, feeling more and more light-headed. Pain seared where his right eye had been.