Don Pendleton: Plains Of Fire

“Better than none redeemed,” Encizo interjected.

Bolan returned to Aflaq’s office. The former militiaman looked up from his first-aid efforts on his nephew.

“How’s the shoulder?” Bolan asked.

“You’ll never cow a true warrior for the Prophet,” Anid snarled.

“Is that so?” Bolan returned. “The Egyptians abandoned close to fifty of their dead brothers after we were done with them. Let’s call it sixty true warriors for the Prophet, bleeding their guts out, and forty or so survivors running away through the shadows, all defeated by three men. Three men including me.”

Anid swallowed.

“My quarrel’s not with the followers of Islam, only the jackals who use the Koran’s teachings as a license to engage in rape and murder,” Bolan said. “Tell me how gang-raping children and mass executions bring enlightenment to the people?”

Anid remained silent, his eyes cast down at the wound in his shoulder.

“Search your soul. Who is the truly merciful one here? Who destroyed an overwhelmingly superior force and crushed the fight out of it, then stopped long enough to assist in the healing of your wounds?” Bolan asked.

“You did,” Anid admitted.

“Your uncle saved your life,” Bolan told him. “Pick the right path in your beliefs and actions. The one that the Thunder Lions have chosen only brings them defeat and suffering at my hands.”

Aflaq gave his nephew’s hand a squeeze.

“I’m not telling you two to turn your back on God. I’m telling you that there are ways to be true to your faith that don’t involve murder and pain. As your uncle said, peace be unto you.”

Anid looked up and met Bolan’s eyes.

“Understand?” Bolan asked.

“I do,” Anid answered.

Bolan nodded and left the office.

Cartegena, Spain

SHAVED BALD, YET STILL wearing a thick beard, Igor Sharpova looked uncomfortable as he sidled up to Alonzo Cruz’s table at the café. The midsummer sun raised a sheen of sweat on the Russian’s forehead as Cruz watched the man’s eyes flick nervously behind his sunglasses. The bulk of Sharpova’s chest was further thickened by a concealed bulletproof vest.

“I ordered some iced tea for you, amigo,” Cruz said.

Sharpova sat heavily. He snatched up a napkin and mopped at his wet brow. “I’m used to cooler climes. You do realize that this city comes under considerable scrutiny from NATO, the CIA and Interpol, do you not?”

Cruz chuckled. “Which is why we are talking here. This is a major port, the largest in Spain. Intrigue drips from the walls. Besides, you’re a Russian. Yesterday’s news. It’s the Islamicists that the West fears.”

Sharpova sighed. “So we’re secure.”

“Not if you keep acting so antsy and suspicious,” Cruz replied. “Relax.”

“What happened to the shipment?” Sharpova asked.

“What’s the worst possible thing that could happen to you, Igor?” Cruz responded.

Sharpova grimaced. “You mean that we’ve been found out.”

“I mean that your bogeyman has emerged from the shadows. And he’s become very interested in the Darfur tests,” Cruz told him. “Does he know what truly is going on? Unlikely.”

Sharpova frowned, his jowls hanging, which increased his resemblance to a bulldog. “You don’t understand. This man has derailed countless plots of ours around the world. He is the living doom to any who dare oppose him.”

“Poetic,” Cruz commented with a nod. “This time, however, we have knowledge on our side.”

“Knowledge. Ninjas. Nerve gas. Nanotechnology. Nuclear weapons,” Sharpova rattled off. “Nothing we’ve ever employed has been above his ability. You call him a man, but he is not human. No mortal could be so unerring and infallible.”

Cruz smiled. “Yes, he is a terrifying opponent. Don’t forget, you’re allied with Thor and me.”

“And the two of you actually possess the powers of gods?” Sharpova asked.

“Yes, we do,” Cruz answered. He spread his hands, his fingertips tracing a globe in the air. “The two of us can halve the population of an entire continent at a whim. A continent full of teeming resources that would be lost or destroyed by any other means. Diamonds, oil, precious metals and nuclear materials litter Africa. Such a prize is beyond anyone’s dreams.”

Sharpova swallowed.

“You look very tense for a man who can tame the wild renegades of the Commonwealth of Independent States and open up a whole new frontier of limitless resources,” Cruz noted.

Sharpova took another sip, shifting to get comfortable in his body armor. “But the devil is stalking us like a hungry lion.”

“My brother knows how to deal with lions, and is himself a devil, my friend,” Cruz said.

Sharpova grimaced. “I have some men on hand. Highly trained commandos. A small army at your beckoning if you need them.”

Cruz nodded, acknowledging the Russian’s generosity. “And I have my own highly trained security force. Throw in Thor’s militia and the allies coming to him as we speak, and we can sweep away any minor irritant.”

“Do not see this devil as one man, Alonzo. He is a force of nature, and he is simply not to be underestimated. We have done that in the past, and suffered greatly for it,” Sharpova warned.

Cruz sighed. “I’m not stupid, Igor.”

Sharpova looked around nervously. “Others have said that. They aren’t around anymore. Keep that in mind.”

The Russian excused himself and left.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

HAL BROGNOLA LOOKED at the data the Executioner and his two Phoenix Force allies had gathered over the course of their operations in Alexandria. The men were sitting in front of their laptop in a video conference, grim-faced as they were displayed, twice normal size, on the video monitor wall. Brognola could tell why the trio was unhappy. The implications of their discovery left the big Fed’s gut knotted as he saw the potential for tragedy. Mixing black-market military weaponry, a murderous plague and the ethnically charged slaughter occurring in the Darfur region meant a death toll that could easily top six figures in the space of a few days. The presence of Bitturumba’s Thunder Lion militia was a disturbing note.

“Weaponized Ebola in the hands of a violent, radical Islamic group,” Brognola said out loud, looking at Barbara Price, the Stony Man mission controller. She’d been infected with an artificially manufactured version of Ebola and would have died had not a treatment been developed by the CDC’s researchers thanks to intel gathered by Kurtzman and his cyberteam.

Price cleared her throat, remembering her near brush with death. “We need to see if this current variant is vulnerable to the same treatments that helped me out. Regular Ebola Zaire has proved resistant to any vaccines or countermeasures developed off the designer variant utilized on me. This version might be based off the same DNA blueprint, or even have been recovered from a stockpile used by the Imam.”

“I knew something wasn’t kosher when the Russians loaded up an arms shipment for Alexandria,” Bolan said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called in Cal and Rafe. This situation is about as bad as it gets. If the Thunder Lions succeed at their goals in the Sudan, we can see a lot more of viral outbreaks like the one at the refugee camp.”

“We’d be talking global nightmares,” Price agreed. “The only saving graces are that you have almost a one-in-two chance of surviving infection, and once the virus has been dispersed and settles, it goes inert and is no longer infectious. It’s only contagious in human respiration, and it either kills or fades out after twenty-four hours. Those who aren’t killed aren’t infectious, but they look like they’ve been run over by a truck.”