Don Pendleton - Armed Response

The bomb detonated, a loud crump among the yells. Bolan spun out of his hiding place, his liberated rifle raised to his shoulder. Several men, including the Beard, were on the ground, dead or getting there fast. More were picking themselves up or standing still in shock. Bolan opened fire, the AK-47 on full-auto. Years of experience helped him keep the bucking rifle under control; the muzzle rising only slightly, Bolan swept it from left to right. Men screamed and died as a storm of metal cut through them, sending them to join the Beard in whatever hell awaited them.

Chips of mud brick exploded above Bolan’s head as a terrorist from farther back along the street attempted to return fire. In his excitement his aim was off by at least a foot. There would be no second chances for the man. Bolan fired a quick burst, on target, the shooter shuddering as the high-velocity ammunition cut through him, throwing him onto his back. The soldier released the magazine from his weapon, unsure of how many rounds were left, slammed another one in, arming the rifle even as a group of terrorists tumbled out of the barracks, weapons at the ready, looking for something to shoot. Bolan supplied them with a target as he opened up, delivering a greeting card of death. The three screamed and shook as they were cut down, not having a chance to respond. A fourth man stood in the doorway, clearly seeing Bolan’s position, then ducked back into the barracks. The soldier fired several shots into the open door, wanting to discourage any resistance. A rifle muzzle poked around the base of the frame, firing in his general direction, no hope of hitting anything. Bolan dodged back, preparing to retreat to the motor pool, where he would be able to lob his final grenade into the building.

The firefight had lasted all of ten seconds so far. Bolan had taken only two steps when a muffled boom brought him up short. Somewhere in the distance there had been an explosion, a large one. He paused for a second, briefly considering what it was before focusing on priorities. Another step. The door of the outbuilding opened. Qutaiba stood there, his AK-47 pointing directly at Bolan’s head.

* * *

THE ACHE RETURNED a few moments after Hakim Haddad had left his room, the constant nagging ache. Qutaiba did his best to ignore it, blinking away the image of the lost photograph. He picked up the notebook, hoping to hide away in the grand plan, wanting to hide anywhere. He flicked through the pages, not really seeing the words or occasional diagram. He should burn the notebook. He would do so in a moment. The trucks would arrive, they would leave in a convoy, reach their destination, take control and use it against the Americans. A thousand things could go wrong, but Qutaiba and the Mullahs had prepared for most eventualities. He considered the class of militants that was supplied to be a liability, but the Mullahs assured him that the men would perform well when the time came, that they would all be welcomed into heaven with open arms. Qutaiba hadn’t believed a word.

And now the time was here. A lasting, painful strike against America. A major target. An act of revenge for those two lives taken from him. He blinked, knowing that he was slipping away again. “Focus,” he snapped out loud. The attempt might fail, he knew, but it would be noted and reported. It would make news around the world. And that would be success enough.

Qutaiba had to have drifted off, because the next thing he heard was excited shouting coming from outside. The thick walls muted what was being said, but it sounded as if the men had found something. Maybe Haddad’s mysterious falling bird. Qutaiba rose to his feet and walked to the door.

Chaos had erupted.

A muffled crump was followed by screams, followed by a lot of shooting.

They had been discovered.

Qutaiba froze for several seconds, unable to believe that the plan was about to fail. Not now. Maybe some of the men were shooting at shadows. No, there was too much chaos. He picked up his AK-47, checked that the safety was off and that the weapon was armed. He opened the door, ready to fire.

A black-clad stranger stood in front of him. Rage engulfed Qutaiba in an instant. The man was the very type of commando who had murdered his family, his dreams. He brought the rifle into play, raising it to his shoulder, pointing it at the intruder’s head, pointing it where the intruder’s head had been a split second before. The commando had dropped to his knees. Qutaiba fired too late, bullets smacking into the wall. He began to adjust his aim, fighting the recoil. Too late. Too slow. He didn’t have time to scream his frustrations. The commando had whipped around his own AK-47, holding it one-handed, firing at Qutaiba’s chest…

* * *

BOLAN FIRED HIS KALASHNIKOV, the first four rounds slamming into Qutaiba’s chest, three more missing altogether. The terrorist flew backward, arms outstretched, his weapon fallen from his hands. Bolan rose to his knees, approached his enemy, his weapon pointing at the terrorist’s head. Qutaiba shuddered as life went out of him. Bolan checked vital signs, making sure he really was dead, then scooped up the fallen AK-47. His own was virtually depleted; Qutaiba’s most likely had a nearly full magazine. He didn’t have time to search the room that Qutaiba had been inhabiting. He could hear an engine in the distance, rapidly approaching. Reinforcements? A small blue notebook on the table caught his eye. Bolan glanced quickly around, making sure that no one was bringing him into target acquisition. He saw nothing, took the chance, darted into the room, snatched up the notebook and stuffed it into one of the side pockets on his combat suit.

Time to go.

He quickly reloaded the AK-47 with his final full magazine; the partially loaded one he tucked back into his combat webbing. Stepping over the corpse, he brought up his gun, ready to fire at anybody standing outside. Nobody was around. He returned to his original position of attack, to see if anyone there was pursuing him, to see if the barracks had disgorged more men. Bodies lay everywhere, none moving. His gear bag lay on the ground, surrounded by the dead, its contents spread around. Bolan would gather it later if he got a chance.

At the top of the village road he observed a truck stopping, braking hard. Three men jumped out of the cab, yelling incoherently, waving their arms in panic. They stopped dead when they spotted the carnage of their fallen friends. Their silence lasted a second, no more. Bolan was bringing his sights to bear when the three split off in different directions. He cursed as he saw one plunge into the garage. He would now have to hunt the three plus the other survivors cowering in the barracks. Bolan ducked back into cover, quickly retracing his steps around the back of the building, passing Qutaiba’s tiny building again. He spun around the corner, rifle ready, only to slam into two terrorists creeping up on his rear.

The two terrorists barreled into him, their mouths open in shock. Bolan reacted without thinking, without allowing surprise to distract him. The Executioner dropped his AK-47, stepped in close, grabbed the left guy by the throat and head butted him full force. The man’s nose collapsed, spraying blood. The guy screamed, hands reaching for his face even as Bolan was swatting away the barrel of the second terrorist’s weapon. With his hand still around the throat of Broken Nose, the soldier brought up his right foot, then slammed the sole of his combat boot down on the knee of the second terrorist. The guy joined his screaming friend as his kneecap shattered. The terrorist fell, all the fight going out of him as he was overwhelmed by pain.

However, Broken Nose wasn’t finished. As he clawed for his holstered handgun, Bolan drew his Desert Eagle. He pushed the barrel into his adversary’s chest, squeezing the trigger, simultaneously releasing his stranglehold on the man’s throat. The gun fired at point-blank range, the muzzle velocity throwing the terrorist through the air, an exit hole the size of an orange in his back. Satisfied that the kneecapped terrorist was no immediate threat, Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and snatched up the dropped AK-47. He had no time to check the dead for ammunition. The thunder of the .50 Desert Eagle would have advertised his position to everyone in the area.