Hellfire Crusade (4 page)

Bolan set a blistering pace along the narrow hump of the water-lapped roadway. A picnic area flashed past. A night fisherman dropped his rod as he spun to see this madman roar past.

Bolan reached forward and doused the lights, lifting his foot from the pedal as he coasted along the shoulder — another dark blotch of a recreation area loomed ahead.

He bumped down onto the banked sand, ran on past a concession stand and rolled to a halt behind a clump of palm trees. Bolan tore the key from the ignition and ran for the cover of the waist-high scrub that grew in a triangular wedge at the far end of the island. The sand sucked at his shoes and the sparse twigs snatched at his clothes as the Executioner sought cover.

A truck rumbled by in the opposite direction, and a few moments later the Audi sidled to a halt at the turnout entrance. Bolan, gun in hand, crouched in the semidarkness.

The causeway lights twinkled off the windshield as the hunters' car left the road. They drew up alongside the shuttered pop stand. Bolan heard a car door click, followed by a harshly whispered exchange... but how many men were there, two or three?

One stealthy shadow padded down to the water's edge, then slowly turned toward Bolan's hiding place.

Bolan poised, knees flexed, his gun hand extended and balanced lightly by the other palm.

The bushes gave a warning crackle, marking the approach of a second man sweeping the ground to Bolan's right. He was partially obscured by the tangled scrub.

The Executioner figured the odds, decided to take out the guy on the beach first. The man was dimly silhouetted by the dull sheen of the distant city lights on the satin water. Slowly the coiled death shadow lowered the muzzle to settle on target.

The sixth sense that had saved his life so often suddenly triggered its alarm. Bolan swung about, his arm traversing right, seeking the danger above him.

"Drop your piece!" There was a third man.

Bolan frowned. The guy must have moved swiftly along the road to position himself on the ribbon of grass behind Bolan's shoulder. He held the high ground — and a mini-Uzi.

The wicked little SMG was trained on the Executioner's chest. "Throw it down... now!"

Bolan shrugged and let the weapon fall. The gunner who was now on his left relaxed at seeing their opponent disarmed. "Walk up the slope toward me. Slowly." His voice was authoritative, the accent refined.

Bolan began to climb up the short, steep incline. His progress zigzagged between the bushes. He balanced his right foot on a tussock of salt grass and tugged on a nearby branch to assist his balance. He was bending slightly forward now, hunched to present the smallest profile. Then his right hand snaked down and plucked the second pistol from its ankle holster.

He straightened up and fired in one fluid motion. The crew boss gave one painful yelp and tumbled headfirst into the undergrowth. Bolan swiveled left and snapped off another shot. The second target took the hit low, rocking back to collapse on the sand.

The last of the hunting crew turned and fled, racing diagonally up from the beach in a heart-pounding effort to reach the car. Bolan fired again, the third bullet gouging a jagged chunk of palm trunk as the man twisted past it. The last shot smacked into the back of his skull, blew out his forehead and splattered a streak of mushy gore across the hood of the Audi.

Bolan ran the last few steps up the slope.

He scooped up the Uzi and shoved the body with his foot. The corpse tumbled loosely down under the bushes. He moved quickly to the left to check the other goon. The hapless gunman was twisted uncomfortably to the side, propped on one elbow, shuddering with each shallow, rasping breath. His weapon, a Walther PPK, was lying where he'd dropped it; Bolan tossed it into the bay.

He glanced over at the other man, who was sprawled facedown with his shattered head nestled in the crook of his arm. There was no need to see if he still had a pulse. The guy at his feet was not going to live too much longer, either; the soft-nosed slug had mangled his intestines. The guy uttered a soft curse in Arabic, then he said, "Not good."

"Nope," agreed Bolan. "So why the hell did you do it?"

"Hanzal gave the orders." He jerked his head in the direction of the bushes where the first man lay. The gesture cost him an agonizing stab through the gut. His elbow gave way and he sagged back on the sand. "Hanzal said you were not an official... he was sure of it. Thought you were a private investigator."

"Something like that," Bolan said. "And you thought you would scare me off?"

"Yes. And now..." He winced as he caught his breath. "I'm going to die."

"Yes," Bolan told him. It was not a time for lies. It was not a time for useless hatred, either. Bolan bunched up his topcoat and tucked it behind his adversary's head.

The pale wash of a passing car's headlights swept over them. The man's forehead was beaded in sweat. Bolan recognized his face. The police composite was not exact, but close enough.

"You were the driver, weren't you?"

"I drive for Hanzal. He demanded we catch you..."

"Where did you lake the boy? Who do you work for?"

"My home is far away. A small country — you will not have heard of it."

"Try me."

"But this will change. Khurabi will be the center of the Crescent Revolution. Hassan Zayoud — may Allah watch over him — will give new meaning to militant Islam."

"Where have you taken Kevin?"

"He is beyond your reach."

Bolan bent lower. Looming over him in the darkness, it must have seemed that the big American was about to make a final threat to wring out the truth.

"Just as I am beyond your reach. You can't kill us all." He gasped one feeble cough and died, staring sightlessly up at the ghostly palm fronds.

"You were right," Bolan told the Bear. He was calling from the airport. "Call it a hunch or whatever."

"Let's settle for a well-informed guess," said Kurtzman. "The input I was getting made me suspect a connection. So the boy is in Khurabi?"

Bolan quickly debriefed. "I figured the Mob would simply pay off somebody on the inside; they wouldn't have to stand watch. These guys were running a big risk to stay on top of things for their boss. He's playing a dangerous game."

"Yeah, but surely your action tonight is going to warn Hassan Zayoud."

"It'll put him on notice, sure, but Zayoud won't know who is on his case." It was a plain statement of fact but it carried an undertone of menace. "There's something else I want you to check out: can you trace anything on the Crescent Revolution movement?"

"Right." The Bear made a note. "Sounds like another self-appointed savior is in the wings — just what the world needs! Did you find out what Harrison is doing in Khurabi?"

"Jeff Clayton told me he was recruited by Dan Ruark. My guess is that they're training Zayoud's men for a palace coup. Ruark has some experience at stabbing people in the back," replied Bolan. "Have you found me an expert on Khurabi?"

"There aren't too many. Bill Patterson spent quite a while out there, running a survey for Allied Oil. Trouble is, he's been promoted to senior VP and is now enjoying his yacht somewhere off Nassau."

"Who else did you come up with?"

"Professor Brunton at Westfield University. He conducted a couple of extended digs there quite recently. I called him at the university but he was just leaving for a conference in Heidelberg and he wasn't in any mood for small talk about the Middle East. He said if there was anything we wanted to know about the Khurabi project we should get in touch with his assistant, Danny Jones."

"And have you spoken to him?"

"Not yet, but I can give you his number at Westfield."

"I'll switch tickets," said Bolan. "Think I'll talk to this Danny Jones in person."

Bolan was glad to be back in a more temperate climate after the mugginess of the Gulf Coast. He had rested up in a motel near the airport. Over a black coffee he had scanned the morning newspapers: there was nothing on the causeway killings.

The police would do their best to keep a lid on the story until they had checked out the diplomatic ramifications of the triple slaying. And if they did recognize the dead driver, they would be probing any connection to the Baker affair. Kurtzman was right, though, it would not be long before Hassan Zayoud found out what had happened to his hired guns.

The university at Westfield did its utmost to look like one of England's ancient seats of learning and, for the most part, it succeeded quite well. The walls of McCormack Hall were covered with ivy; the new library annex was faced with gray stone to merge with the older buildings; and the tree-lined paths provided a pleasantly sheltered network of walkways across the campus.

Bolan avoided the main inquiry desk and followed the signs to the Department of Archaeology.

It occupied a small wing off the back of the main arts building.

He held the door open for a vivacious redhead with an armload of audiovisual equipment.

Bolan returned her smile and wondered if, after all, he might not have missed something by not going to college. The receptionist stared up over her horn-rimmed glasses and asked, "Yes, can I help you?"

"Dr. Jones?"

"Room 17B. Down the corridor and to your left."

The walls were papered with notices for scholarship applications, student club meetings and smaller ads for a ride to the West Coast and sublet apartments. Bolan turned the corner. The door to 17But was slightly ajar. He tapped and pushed it open.

The dark wood-paneled office would have been gloomy but for a large lattice window overlooking the carefully tended lawns. A woman was standing by a tall bookcase, stretching to return a well-worn volume to the top shelf. Bolan assumed the trim blonde was a graduate student.

"Here, let me help you."

"Thanks."

"I'm looking for Dr. Danny Jones."

"What can I do for you? I'm Danica Jones."

"You are Professor Brunton's assistant?"

"Yes," she said, moving back to stand at the corner of her desk. She knew he was mildly surprised to find that an associate professor of archaeology was a young and attractive woman, but she said nothing. As Bolan turned to take the seat she indicated with a brief wave, he saw a large map of the Middle East tacked on the wall by the door.

"I've come to talk to you about Khurabi."

"You're a historian?"

"No. No, I'm not — my name is Bolan. Mack Bolan." He decided to be as truthful with her as he could; after all, he expected no less from her. "Carl Brunton recommended that I speak to you."

She tilted back in her padded swivel chair, appearing to weigh his introduction carefully; indeed, it seemed as if Dr. Jones was trying to recall ever meeting Mack Bolan before, perhaps in a different context.

"I'm sure you don't know me. I'm not in the academic field. Let's say that, well, I have connections to Washington. Can I leave it at that?"

Danica Jones pursed her lips for a moment and then shrugged in acceptance. "Sure. What do you want to know?"

"Just about everything," admitted Bolan. "I understand you spent quite a while out there."

"Work on the Haufari dig was the basis of my dissertation," she answered. She went on to explain that the Westfield expedition had excavated the ancient and long-abandoned port of Haufari, about thirty miles southeast of Khurabi.

Bolan noticed that her face became quite animated as she spoke. Danica Jones obviously liked talking about her work. Twice she got up to point out details on the map. Bolan took the opportunity to observe her both as a knowledgeable lecturer and as a woman. She was five-seven, maybe five-eight, weighing around one-eighteen. Her long legs, trim waist and taut stomach all accentuated the firm swell of her breasts. Neat blond hair framed an oval face, with a wide sensual mouth. Danica wore barely a trace of makeup. Bolan liked that.

She didn't need it.

Her vivid green eyes seemed remote, as if beneath the cool surface there was some deeply felt, long-ago hurt. Even when her features were animated with the evident enthusiasm for her archaeological adventures, she still concealed this secret vein of sorrow. Perhaps it was guilt or doubt. No matter, Bolan thought, dismissing it.

The telephone interrupted her account of diving for the wreck of a trading vessel.

"Hello... yes, this is she... oh, hi, Patricia... no, I'm not lecturing this term, it's my research semester... well, not now, no, I have a visitor with me... yes, I'll call you later... by." She was polite to her colleague but slightly distant. "Where was I? Oh, yes... we received a lot of help from the local pearl divers. And Allied Oil were very good about lending us their facilities."

"Bill Patterson?"

"Yes. Bill. Do you know him?"

"Not really." Bolan switched topics. "How did the Zayoud family react to your expedition?"

"The sheikh was very amenable. Carl, Professor Brunton, remembered to take some of the latest software as a gift. Harun Zayoud is very easily won over! And he saw to it that Salim Zakir, the Minister of Culture, made things go smoothly for us." She pointed to a photograph on the shelf behind her. Danica was posed next to Salim, who appeared to have more than a diplomatic interest in the American scholar.

"And what about Hassan Zayoud?"

Danica arched her eyebrows. "He's not at all like his brother. He's only interested in Khurabian history insofar as it reflects the glory of Islam. He once invited us to excavate at Hagadan, the Fortress of the Rock, to furnish him with proof of how powerful were the Tamal sheikhs. They were fundamentalist rebels who holed up at Hagadan in the fifteenth century."

Bolan could feel the tumblers clicking into place. "Tell me more about this fortress, Dr. Jones."

"I'd rather you called me Danny," she said, unrolling a large-scale map of Khurabi on the desk between them. "Okay. Khurabi occupies less than four thousand square miles between the barren ranges of the Jebel Sutaq, here, and Jebel Akzam in the south..." she began, tracing out the facts with her fingertip. The country was the shape of an irregular oblong, with about forty miles of coastline on the gulf, and running nearly a hundred miles deep. The interior was partially bisected by the steep rocky slopes of the Jebel Kharg. The population of little more than one hundred thousand lived in the coastal capital or in small fishing villages scattered farther to the south.

"The interior is a sun-baked wilderness, some of the harshest desert terrain in the world. Hagadan is here, in the southwest corner, quite close to the disputed border. The fortress was built around the only freshwater wells for miles."

"What's it like? Did you go there?"

"It's in the forbidden zone." Danny shook her head. "That whole quarter of the country is strictly off-limits. Of course, we could have gone out there under Hassan Zayoud's protection, but we had more than enough to do at the Haufari site. If you'll pass me that book, there's a picture of the castle at Hagadan in it."

Bolan quickly retrieved the volume. Danny found the photograph; it had been taken by a British traveler in the 1930's.

"I don't think it will have changed much," she joked. The fortress had been standing on the bare outcrop of the Hagadan Rock for many centuries. It was a formidable encampment.

"It seems to incorporate several styles," noted Bolan.

"You're right. Alexander the Great sent a garrison to Khurabi; one of his detachments is said to have laid the foundations. Randall de Lacey, an eccentric knight, brought his followers eastward instead of returning home after the Third Crusade. They built up the inner ward and towers. The Tamal sheikhs took over Hagadan and extended the walls and outer bastions. Defenders have been starved out, but the castle has never been breached by force."

Bolan didn't have that kind of time. Or manpower. If Kevin Baker was being held prisoner in the Hagadan fortress, then the Executioner would have to get in there alone, rescue him and get out again fast. "Are there any other features of note in the interior?" asked Bolan. The map did not reveal any, but he had to cover all the possibilities. "Do you know of a modern army camp, a training base maybe, even an old cave system?"

Danny could not see where this line of questioning was leading to; she shook her head emphatically. "There's nothing else out there that I know of — just quicksand, mineral pools, unmapped wadis — as I said, this is one of the most forbidding deserts in the world."

The outline of a plan was forming in the back of Bolan's mind... but it would first need the trust and willing cooperation of this striking young professor.

Bolan pulled out the gold locket and handed it to her. Danny stared at the boy's picture, and Bolan thought she might be searching for a family resemblance.

"No relation," he informed her. "His name is Kevin Baker."

"Isn't he the kid who was..."

"I'd better tell you the whole thing... at least as much of it as I've managed to put together."

Danica Jones had enjoyed talking with Mack Bolan. He was intelligent and attentive. She had assumed from his guarded introduction that he was gathering information for a diplomatic briefing, or perhaps that he had some interest in Middle Eastern espionage. She was not ready for the story he now told her.

She did not interrupt or challenge Bolan's explanation of what seemed to have happened.

"Let's go for a walk," was all she said when he had finished. "I need some air."

They followed the willows down to the creek that flowed lazily along the edge of the college grounds. The harsh realities of the modern world seemed very far removed from this peaceful sanctuary. The archaeology scholar stared down at a leaf drifting past. Bolan wondered if he had misplaced his confidence.

"What makes you think it's Kevin's knowledge of nuclear devices they are after," she asked, "and not his talent for breaking into top-secret computers?"

"The bomb makes more sense in the political and military context of the struggle for the Middle East. If the Soviets are or become involved, then they well might be interested in Kevin's computer know-how. Either way it's dangerous — for him and possibly for all of us."

"And why should Kevin cooperate with them?" Danny tossed a twig into the water and watched it swirl away.

"They could threaten him, scare him into going along with them. Or they could intimidate Kevin with threats of what might happen to his parents. They might find some weakness to exploit, some means of bribing him. And then there's always drugs. Brainwashing."

"Okay, I get the point. And I can see why you're concerned. There's any number of ways they could force Kevin into helping them, whether he wants to or not."

"That's why I have to get into Khurabi quickly and pull him out," said Bolan.

"And for that you need my help?"

Bolan nodded. "I know I'm asking a lot."

"Maybe it's time I stepped back into the real world for a while." Danny linked her arm loosely through his as they strolled back toward the arts complex.

Originally she had trained as a nurse, she told him; one day she saw a news photo of a soldier carrying a child out of a burning village. They were both wounded and in need of aid and so, a few months later, Danica Jones was serving in Nam.

She sketched out her career there in a few terse phrases. Little more was needed. Bolan, too, had shared that nightmare. Now it all made sense to him.

He knew full well the pain she shielded from others who had no understanding of what had happened out there, those who could not comprehend what that meat-grinder war did to people.

For him, of course, it had never ended... One day he had been stalking Charlie through that stinking undergrowth, the next he was tracking soldiers no less cunning and ruthless through the twisted jungle of the underworld. Sergeant Mercy became the Executioner, born of a necessity for justice, not out of a lust for killing.