Don Pendleton - Agent Of Peril

Bolan accepted the detonator, flipped up the safety cover on the firing stud and thumbed it down. Even through the rotor slap and vibrations of the SH-60’s powerful turbines, the shock wave from detonating the tanks was palpable. Concentric rings of smoke, indicating the rippling forces that devastated the armor, were still visible down below.

That was just the opening salvo to the scorched earth process being undertaken.

The four orbiting Marine Seahawks were armed with artillery rockets and Hellfire missiles. Pilots and gunners opened fire instantly on the ground where the terrorists sought to sell the Devil’s tools. Explosions formed a scouring cloud of devastation that swept from the four corners of the auction ground toward the middle, shredding and splintering anything in its path. Stomped flat as if under the feet of giants, the hodgepodge mixture of surviving jeeps, guns, helicopters and low-speed jets, as well as various missiles and other explosives, disappeared in a cacophony of devastation that Ellis yanked the SH-60 out of just in the nick of time.

Bolan could almost reach out the side door and touch the blossoming mushroom of smoke from the hell blitz.

An explosive start to a mission that promised more such devastation ahead.

It was time for the weekly mail drop, and J. R. Rust, posing as a journalist, stepped up to the cage, smiling.

“Your new cameras and printer are here, Mr. Russel,” Rudiah, the mail clerk, notified him. He was wrestling a box onto the counter.

Cameras and printer? Rust thought. The box looked fairly large. “I hope the editors thought to include an instruction manual this time,” he said.

Rudiah almost said something, and then smiled tightly.

Yeah, the Lebanese post office wasn’t at all interested in what James Russel was receiving in the mail from America, Rust thought sarcastically. He looked at the return address and saw it was from Egypt, but labeled from a blind intel dump that a man named Striker had set up with him. Rust had worked with Striker and a covert strike team on two dangerous operations, one in Pakistan, and one in Lebanon, racing to deal with forces ready to blow the Middle East wide open in a nuclear conflict.

Since then, Striker had tapped Rust personally, knowing that the CIA man had his ear firmly planted to the ground in regards to Middle Eastern politics and terrorism. Born eating and breathing the cultures of the Islamic nations from the Mediterranean through the Kashmir, Rust was an expert not only in Arabic dialects but mannerisms and mind-set. This ingratiated him to the movers and shakers of the nations he frequented. Either as an invisible part of the embassy staff, or, slightly more out there, as a journalist, Rust was able to blend in, become a fly on the wall, and get information to the ears that needed to hear it.

Rust thought about the need to get information to the right ears, and thought of 2001. Maybe that was why a veteran CIA man was so willing to buck the system and risk his job by leaking information to a phantom not even the Company was sure about. Striker went to the field and actually put boot to ass.

He signed for the box. The damn thing weighed a ton.

Hauling it under one arm, he left the post office. That’s when he saw a dark-featured young man out of the corner of his eye. Rust’s alarm bells went off when he knew that the young guy didn’t fit in. There was something wrong about him, but he couldn’t place what.

Things were really tight now. Unbalanced and hindered by the heavyweight box, he couldn’t rapidly reach the tiny Glock 26 he had nestled in an ankle holster. He knew how to draw quickly with the ankle rig he wore, but that was with his hands free and his ability to turn unhindered by a big, heavy box. The CIA man was of a mind to just dump the box, but that wouldn’t be good for his health if the package contained a bomb.

“Russel,” a voice called. It had a mixed Midwestern and South Florida drawl to it, and Rust had to look twice at the man who spoke using the voice.

It was the guy who set off Rust’s instincts. The features were a little too dark for Egypt, and not hooked enough to be fully Semitic, but he did look like he fit in Lebanon, even though his manner was that of a Westerner. The hair, though, was nappy and short to his head, and dark eyes studied him carefully.

“Russel, I’m here on ranch business,” the man said. His hands were occupied, filled with a rolled newspaper in his left and a bottle of water in his right.

Rust relaxed. It was kind of an unwritten code among the agents in the area that they have their hands filled when they met, to distinguish friend from foe. Empty hands meant that the person you were meeting wanted his options open to immediately grab a weapon. The plastic water bottle and newspaper, however, were indicative of a savvy mind—they could be dropped with no hassle, and guns could be grabbed as trouble arose.

Ranch business was another clue. It was a code phrase that Striker had used with him in their private dealings.

“Let me set this hunk of crap down and we can talk somewhere,” Rust answered.

The handsome man smiled, and easily slipped the bottled water and newspaper into the deep pockets of his cargo pants. Reaching out, he took the box. “I’ll carry that.”

He could see the younger man’s dark arms ripple with corded muscle. “Oh sure. Just because you’re young, strong and agile…”

The kid grinned. “Old age and treachery will win over youth and purity every time.”

“I like your attitude, kid.”

“Just want to live long enough to get to old age and treachery, Mr. Russel.”

He nodded and led the way. “Got a name?”

“Alex Johnson, sir.”

Rust paused and looked him over. “You look like a Johnson.”

“Excellent, sir. I was barely able to detect the sarcasm in your tone.”

“Come on, Alex.”

ALESSANDRO KALID SET DOWN the cardboard box with a grunt, causing the rickety old table to wobble under the sudden impact. Kalid held his breath for a moment, but the spindly legs held. In the heat, it was heavy work, and he was glad for the breeze that pushed and puffed-up the gauzy drapes to Rust’s apartment. He didn’t know how much was in it, but knowing the man he knew as Striker, the box certainly wasn’t filled with jelly beans and Easter eggs. He looked at the seal on the box and saw the telltale signs that the tape had been stripped off and replaced.

“Someone’s been looking in Striker’s stuff,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Rust stated. “The Lebanese have been interested in the packages that come in to me.”

Kalid flipped out his Tanto knife with a deft wrist movement, slashed open the box and returned the blade with a flourish. “If that’s the case, your cover might be blown.”

“That’s on the short list of things that are certain in life,” Rust answered.

Kalid could only shrug and pull out the contents of the box. “A laptop, a printer and some digital cameras.”

“Son of a…” Rust said.

Kalid smirked. “The printer works, but it’s twice the size it should be.”

He flipped over the unit and looked at the bottom. “No, not smuggling guns.”

“So what’s that?” Rust asked, pointing at the silver square that Kalid was removing from the printer’s plastic shell.

“Consider it the ultimate in wireless modems. State of the art. I think I’m supposed to light my eyeballs on fire for knowing about this,” Kalid said. He looked through the heavy booklet in the box. “And the manual on how to use the cameras.”

Kalid flipped through the book. “You think they’d slip something into this that could give us a clue as to what’s going on?”

Rust held out his hand, and Kalid handed over the book.