Aftershock
Don Pendleton
SHOCK WAVEMack Bolan is in Turkey to recover millions in stolen medical and relief supplies earmarked for displaced refugees in the civil-war-torn region. Racing to reclaim the cache before a violent insurgent group sells everything on the black market, Bolan finds his mission compromised when a massive earthquake rocks the region.Hunting his prey through a city in chaos–a hellzone where lethal aftershocks rip randomly through the crumbling urban landscape– Bolan remains determined to stop opportunists from profiting from their savagery. But he's up against two renegade paramilitary armies fueled by bloodlust. The Executioner faces several enemies, but his will to fight remains honed to a single, satisfying cause: justice.
Bolan pressed the hot muzzle against the Kurd’s cheek
“Captain Makal sends his regards,” he said.
Bolan nodded to Sengor, who grabbed two full bags of money. The Executioner leaned down and picked up the wounded man and hurled him through the doorway. Sengor had brought in a canister of gasoline with him, and left it behind when he evacuated, all part of Bolan’s plan.
Bolan tore off the cap and splashed the flammable liquid across the remaining money and corpses. He threw the container in the corner, pulled out a disposable lighter and fired it up.
The money-room was an inferno within thirty seconds, but by then, the Executioner was already en route to his next war zone.
MACK BOLAN ®
The Executioner
#258 Target Lock
#259 Nightfire
#260 Dayhunt
#261 Dawnkill
#262 Trigger Point
#263 Skysniper
#264 Iron Fist
#265 Freedom Force
#266 Ultimate Price
#267 Invisible Invader
#268 Shattered Trust
#269 Shifting Shadows
#270 Judgment Day
#271 Cyberhunt
#272 Stealth Striker
#273 UForce
#274 Rogue Target
#275 Crossed Borders
#276 Leviathan
#277 Dirty Mission
#278 Triple Reverse
#279 Fire Wind
#280 Fear Rally
#281 Blood Stone
#282 Jungle Conflict
#283 Ring of Retaliation
#284 Devil’s Army
#285 Final Strike
#286 Armageddon Exit
#287 Rogue Warrior
#288 Arctic Blast
#289 Vendetta Force
#290 Pursued
#291 Blood Trade
#292 Savage Game
#293 Death Merchants
#294 Scorpion Rising
#295 Hostile Alliance
#296 Nuclear Game
#297 Deadly Pursuit
#298 Final Play
#299 Dangerous Encounter
#300 Warrior’s Requiem
#301 Blast Radius
#302 Shadow Search
#303 Sea of Terror
#304 Soviet Specter
#305 Point Position
#306 Mercy Mission
#307 Hard Pursuit
#308 Into the Fire
#309 Flames of Fury
#310 Killing Heat
#311 Night of the Knives
#312 Death Gamble
#313 Lockdown
#314 Lethal Payload
#315 Agent of Peril
#316 Poison Justice
#317 Hour of Judgment
#318 Code of Resistance
#319 Entry Point
#320 Exit Code
#321 Suicide Highway
#322 Time Bomb
#323 Soft Target
#324 Terminal Zone
#325 Edge of Hell
#326 Blood Tide
#327 Serpent’s Lair
#328 Triangle of Terror
#329 Hostile Crossing
#330 Dual Action
#331 Assault Force
#332 Slaughter House
#333 Aftershock
The Executioner®
Aftershock
Don Pendleton
Profit is sweet, even if it comes from deception.
—Sophocles, 496–406 B.C.
Make your blood money and enjoy it while you can. The reckoning for your deceptions will be paid off, and I will collect.
—Mack Bolan
To the Red Cross for the lives they’ve saved around the world.
Contents
Prologue (#u489b66a5-fb29-5ae1-a21d-a92a2fd6e766)
Chapter 1 (#u7fa88f24-3404-5855-807d-a7ae1ad96725)
Chapter 2 (#u4be92eb2-38ec-5cf2-9aca-7584bcc9b9cf)
Chapter 3 (#ued257526-daf6-5fd5-9972-52b6df703757)
Chapter 4 (#uaa81e0d4-d6e6-54e7-aece-ecd2daa338c9)
Chapter 5 (#ue3195edd-373f-578d-bd09-ef076971706f)
Chapter 6 (#u91fa8f3d-0ad3-5c98-9f73-b4f0e4d1222e)
Chapter 7 (#u3b0a1bae-6fb0-5a45-b52e-3e337a498071)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
The Turkish morning sun burned down on the city of Van and the crowded streets full of frightened and shell-shocked citizens. The ceaseless battle between the Turkish military security forces, Jandarma, and the Kongra-Gel terrorists was hottest in the southeastern region where Van was located. Cops were on every corner, and a small command post was set up by the hotel. Officially it was to protect American relief workers, but the soldiers stationed there were more interested in keeping an eye on the foreigners. They were wary of the strangers, realizing that the relief workers, or tourists in the same hotel, could be in league with the Kongra-Gel revolutionary front.
Boz Arcuri looked both ways before he got out of the Peugeot. The 9 mm Llama in his waistband was uncocked, but he could thumb the hammer back in a heartbeat and put all nine shots from the sleek handgun into anyone who challenged him.
Still, his black, scraggly beard was trimmed, and his clothes were neat and clean, despite their loose fit, allowing his shirt to cover the trim outline of his pistol. He frowned. The hotel he’d parked in front of wasn’t one of the best in Van, but it was loaded with relief workers, and frugal tourists from a dozen nations. The presence of the military so close by provided the foreigners with a false sense of security.
Westerners were comforted by the sight of soldiers, regardless of how truly effective they were in protecting them. Arcuri thought of the time he’d gone to the United States, setting up a heroin deal with a New York Mob boss. Since that dark September day, it wasn’t unusual to find men and women carrying assault rifles, but to the Kongra-Gel lieutenant’s experienced eye, he realized that those National Guardsmen were holding empty weapons, no magazines in place. A calculating enough assassin could kill a half-dozen of the armed guards and get a supply of pristine, unfired automatic weapons to unleash a wave of devastation among them.
Though the Turkish army troops had magazines in their weapons, they suffered from the conceit of many Middle Eastern men. They refused to use their shoulder stocks, and many of them had folded their metal stocks, or sawn off the wooden units, making their rifles ineffective and useless farther than twenty feet out.
Arcuri felt secure as he walked away from the truck. Its covered bed was stuffed with four thousand pounds of mixed fertilizer, plastic explosives and small arms shells that had been damaged in transport, or didn’t fit Kongra-Gel’s arsenal of weapons, all packed in a flat cake that was neatly concealed by a simple tarpaulin. Mixing in the bullets was a stroke of genius. It disposed of useless ammunition and created simple, effective shrapnel that would only add to the mayhem.
The goal of the bombing wasn’t to strike any specific blow, but the detonation would provide a thundering distraction for the Turkish rebels’ true goals.
The Multinational Organization Relief Effort for Southeast Turkey—MOREST—had a storehouse of drugs, including painkillers, that Kongra-Gel could steal and sell for millions of dollars, keeping a small supply for their own forces to continue the fight against the western-poisoned government. Arcuri grinned and walked. A bomb going off at the hotel would draw the relief workers and guards hired to protect the medical supplies to the scene of the bombing. It would leave only a minor skeleton crew on hand to protect the golden egg that Kagan Trug wanted.
After that, it would be easy to swoop in. The Kongra-Gel team was organized, had its trucks in position and only needed one thing to make the heist come off cleanly.
Arcuri looked around. The lawman standing on the street corner, pistol in his belt holster, dark eyes scanning the faces of passersby, had only noticed Arcuri in passing. The rebel Turk pulled his Llama from under his shirt as he’d gotten within an arm’s length. A woman’s scream alerted the cop that there was danger, but it was too late for him. Arcuri pulled the trigger, emptying nine rounds into the doomed policeman’s skull. As the cop fell, the terrorist turned his attention back to the military forces by the hotel. They heard the shooting and grabbed their rifles, racing in a throng toward the sound of gunfire.
When the main pack of Turkish soldiers reached his Peugeot, Arcuri grinned and pressed the button on the radio detonator in his pocket. Even five blocks down the street from ground zero, the Kongra-Gel lieutenant was knocked off his feet by the blast wave. The fireball extended three hundred feet in every direction.
Anyone inside that dome of flame and pressure was instantly vaporized. Even the protection of walls and windows were useless as ripples of explosive force shattered brick and turned glass into clouds of high-velocity shrapnel. Arcuri crawled to the cover of a parked car and watched in awe as the hotel shook violently.
The vehicle he huddled against rattled as debris rained atop it. A moment later, the half of the hotel facing the pickup truck expelled jets of dust and smoke from its shattered windows, and slid to the ground in a choking cloud of gray.
Arcuri struggled to his feet. The world had been flipped onto its ear, and wails of pain and terror erupted from the thick blanket of swirling debris that grew, crawling ominously toward Arcuri. The Turk grinned and gave the cloud a small salute, racing off down the street. One cop fired three shots after him, a bullet clipping the sleeve of his jacket, but another Turkish officer dragged the gunman toward the carnage, the act of saving lives more important than bringing in the madman, for the time being.
Arcuri raced to freedom, knowing his brothers would be hard at work, looting the warehouse.
IN THE KANDILLI Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute, scientists registered the tremor in downtown Van. It drew attention, but not as much as it should have, as the radio and television displayed the news of the destruction of the hotel and the deaths of hundreds.
Vigo Pepis, however, was watching the sensors. The vibrations they picked up from the explosion in Van lasted longer. He tried to tell his coworkers about the aberration, but he was brushed off, told that the collapse of the building would have contributed to the odd readings.
Pepis looked at the graph. He could see on the scope the rhythm of the tremors caused by the explosion, and moments later, the collapse of the hotel. There was a definite beat, but a background vibration wave had started a moment before the detonation, hidden by the spike in pressure waves caused by the explosion. Pepis wished he could have seen the scope of the tremor. He was good at predicting earthquakes, but he needed clean, uninterrupted data. The bombing in Van had hit at just the wrong moment for Pepis to tell if the minor quake was a prelude to something worse, an initial breech of pent-up energy between fault lines crushed against each other, or just standard shakes as the earth flexed as part of its natural shifting.
The graph suddenly began going again.
“Vigo! Oh my God…Look!” Taira shouted.
Pepis glanced up momentarily from the graph to see the damaged hotel shake again. Another section collapsed, and he snapped back to the graph. The plates flexed against each other. Something had happened. He was certain a major earthquake was building up. The collapse of another section of building masked more of the seismic vibrations in Van, but nearby sensors, twenty and fifty miles from the city center, picked up sympathetic tremors.
“It’s going to be a disaster,” Pepis muttered weakly.
“What are you talking about?” Taira asked. “It already is! I can’t imagine how many people are trapped under the rubble.”
Pepis’s lips drew into a tight and bloodless line.
“It’s going to get worse,” he whispered. “Much, much worse.”
1
The Executioner whipped around and leveled the AK-47 at the midsection of the armed thug, stitching him from crotch to sternum with a line of .30-caliber holes. Belly blasted into a gory crater, the gunman’s corpse toppled off the back of the pickup truck and Mack Bolan turned to slide through the rear window of its cab. Gunfire chased after him, but bullets deflected off the sides of the truck.
The driver, his skull dented by a point-blank burst, blocked the Executioner from getting fully inside the pickup. The vehicle rolled out of control toward the gate of the Kongra-Gel facility. Bolan let the emptied AK drop to the pickup’s bed so he could use both hands to steer for the center of the wooden doors. He pushed hard against the corpse’s knee, using the lifeless leg to stomp on the accelerator. The truck raced faster and Bolan held on, white-knuckled, to the steering wheel.
The front fender met the barrier, and two tons of steel defeated the heavy wooden doors. The impact jolted Bolan farther into the cab, and he twisted like a serpent. His legs slipped through the rear window and he dropped into the leg well of the shotgun seat as a fresh storm of autofire tore through the cab. The lifeless driver jerked spasmodically as 7.62 mm ComBloc rounds burst gory exit wounds from his chest, the heavy-caliber bullets smashing the steering column into useless metal and plastic.
The Executioner realized that he didn’t have much longer and pried open the passenger-side door. His long legs extended fully, like steel coil springs, and launched him out the door and into a thicket of bushes as the bullet-riddled pickup truck tumbled onward. The Toyota’s grille collapsed as it hit a tree. Where the unbraced doors had proved vulnerable, the old, deep-rooted tree was an immovable object. The driver’s corpse vaulted through the windshield and slid down the hood, leaving a gory smear.
Bolan drew his Jericho pistol and checked its load, then headed deeper into the roadside foliage. The spectacular crash of the pickup truck had bought him a few precious moments to reach cover, and he took it. The Jericho was a stand-in for Bolan’s usual Desert Eagle. Getting across the border hadn’t given the soldier much of an opportunity to shop for weapons, but he was able to get the gun, in .40 S&W, and several hundred rounds of ammunition for it. Even though it wasn’t the full-sized .44 Magnum he was used to, the “baby Desert Eagle” would give any pursuer pause, and give the soldier an opportunity to acquire a longer range weapon. And if he couldn’t, he’d improvise.
The soft probe of the Kongra-Gel camp had proved disastrous, an example of bad luck as a guard had been able to get off a shot before the Executioner could silence him. Bolan hadn’t had an opportunity to lay the explosives he needed to destroy the training area and the barracks of the Turkish narcoterrorists responsible for the deaths of almost two hundred American and British relief workers, and more than three hundred Turkish citizens in the Van bombing.
He’d only just finished a mission in Azerbaijan, taking out a ring of arms smugglers when he’d heard about the brutal attack in Turkey. Bolan was too late to protect the victims of the Kongra-Gel, an amalgamation of various Turkish Communist insurgent groups. However, a quick conference call with Aaron Kurtzman and Hal Brognola at Stony Man Farm had indicated that the hellish murders were simply a diversion to cover the theft of millions of dollars’ worth of relief supplies, including medications and painkillers meant for the displaced refugees from the incessant civil war waged by these very thieves.
It was a small step up from heroin and opium dealing to flooding the black market with drugs meant for their own countrymen. Bolan hoped to find the missing drugs and supplies before the savage thugs sold them off, and perhaps get them back to work in helping the Turkish refugees. It was the least that the Executioner could do to further the cause of the MOREST lifesavers.
They had been slain in the course of their work to make the world a better place.
Bolan wasn’t going to let their murderers profit from their savagery.
The Executioner paused at the base of the hill and spotted a half-dozen gunmen making their way around the bend. They were out of breath from taking the road and had slowed down, eyes wide and wary against the lethal black shadow who had torn through twenty of their brethren. Rifle muzzles swept the roadside, bodies reacting to the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Bolan frowned as he recognized that they were maintaining their calm. They were alert, not panicked, and weren’t going to waste their ammunition on an uncertain target.
Bolan was running low on major gear and supplies. It had taken him six hours to smuggle himself into Turkey, pick up a couple of handguns along with a smattering of plastic explosives and a battle harness. He’d used up his grenades in a savage firefight against the Azerbaijani gunrunners. That was why he’d made the soft probe against the Kongra-Gel training camp, to scrounge for supplies and intel, and to give the organization’s leadership something to sweat over.
The Executioner knew he’d come in behind the eight ball, but he wouldn’t allow that to hobble him. He wadded up a cube of C-4 and rolled it in a stash of stones and pebbles that an ant colony had built up to secure their nest. The insects fled from the slowly rolling ball as their rocky pile was imbedded into the soft, pliant explosive. Bolan pressed a pencil-sized radio detonator into the round, rocky blob, and let fly with the improvised grenade.
The Turkish rebels spotted Bolan’s movement and one of them fired a short burst toward the tree that he’d been huddled against. Bark splintered as the incongruous bomb landed in the midst of the gunmen. They looked down at it, an ersatz, gray candy apple with a blinking stick poking out of it. Because it didn’t look like a grenade, they were confused by its presence. More of the riflemen opened up, but the Executioner thumbed the firing stud on his detonator.
The explosion tore one of the terrorist thugs in two, a sheet of force pushing a guillotine of rock through the centerline of his body. Another man died as a quarter-inch-wide pebble tore through his right eye and whipped through his brain like a bullet. Another one wailed as his left arm was stripped of flesh all the way to the bone.
It wasn’t much of an advantage, but it would have to do, Bolan figured as he burst from cover, the big Jericho bucking in his fist. The Executioner’s first shot caught a Turkish terrorist on the bridge of his nose and blew a flap of scalp and skull off the back of his head. A second killer leaped wildly for the cover of a ditch, but Bolan caught him with a bullet through his left thigh. Muscle and bone were mangled by the heavy-caliber slug and the rifleman disappeared out of sight, screaming in pain.
The last able gunman, his right side bloodied, uniform torn by shrapnel, snarled angrily and milked the trigger of his AK-47 in an effort to avenge his injuries. Bolan pivoted and leaped forward beneath the stream of autofire, pumping out four shots. One missed, sailing into the distance over the wounded Turk’s shoulder, but his other shots connected with the Kongra-Gel killer’s torso, zipping him from throat to groin.
The wounded rifleman struggled to grab his AK’s pistol grip with his left hand, determined to protect himself when Bolan somersaulted onto the road. The Executioner lashed out with one of his stovepipe legs, his heel catching the rifle. The kick launched the weapon into the roadside ditch, and Bolan leveled his Jericho at the Turk.
“Don’t even try it,” the soldier warned.
The Kongra-Gel fighter froze as he looked down the hole in the end of the massive pistol.
“Run away,” Bolan said, jerking the muzzle slightly. “Live to fight another day.”
The Turk looked over his shoulder, then back at the huge handgun aimed at him.
If he didn’t understand Bolan’s words, he at least understood the intent of his gestures. The Turk cradled his mangled arm and raced off down the road, not looking back.
Bolan scrambled to his feet and dumped the partially empty magazine, reloading with a fully loaded stick of twelve more hollowpoint rounds. He pocketed the half-empty clip and slowly advanced toward the gunman cowering in the ditch.
A burst of automatic fire was the Executioner’s welcome, the swarm of bullets burning hotly, too close for comfort. Bolan dived to the bottom of the ditch and punched two more rounds into the hobbled rifleman before the Turk could adjust his aim. The rounds were fatal, one plowing through the gunman’s groin and smashing his spine, the second tearing into his heart.
The Executioner holstered his pistol and picked up the AK-47 and the dead man’s spare ammo. He walked into the road and pulled more ammunition off the other dead men, inspecting the banana-shaped magazines for damage before loading them into a borrowed bandolier bag. Five of the clips had been mangled by the explosion, and nothing could be retrieved from the torn corpse of Bolan’s first target.
It didn’t matter. He had twelve full magazines, and five more half-filled boxes that he could load to make it an even fifteen sticks for the confiscated AK. The rounds of rifle ammunition would be enough to keep Bolan solvent in his war against the Kongra-Gel and the recovery of the missing supplies.
Two-dozen dead, and one survivor who would take a message to the group’s leadership.
They were no longer the prime predators in southeast Turkey.
The Executioner had arrived, and there was going to be hell to pay. He was going to shake the country and see what rattled loose in the aftermath.
2
Catherine Abood grunted as she was hurled against the jeep’s fender by the Jandarma goon. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, and wasn’t surprised by the bright red seeping across her skin when it came away. She took a deep breath and spit out blood, and glared, dark eyed, at the thugs.
She’d taken pictures of what these creeps had done to a teenaged boy they suspected of knowing members of the Kongra-Gel. Her camera was torn open, its film exposed while another of the rifle-toting thugs crushed her remaining canisters of film.
“We can’t allow this to fall into the wrong hands,” the Jandarma commander, Captain Yuli Makal, told her.
“Since when do you care what the West thinks?” Abood asked as Makal snatched her wrist and pulled her close.
Abood realized that antagonizing these thugs was the worst possible choice she could have made, but her father had raised her to be an independent woman. He’d taught her how to shoot, how to fight, how to protect herself, and encouraged her to break the mold of a demure, soft-spoken Arab woman. She was born and raised an American, a fourth generation New Englander, but by the time she was fourteen, she’d seen most of the world. From Kudu hunts in South Africa to skiing in Switzerland, she’d avoided a sheltered life.
Makal smirked as he felt her waist, then pushed open her photographer’s vest. “You have a gun, young lady.”
“I have a permit for it,” Abood stated. Her cheek and lips felt thick, probably swollen from Makal’s punch. “Your government wants me to have it.”
Makal looked at the 9 mm Beretta Compact, admiring its balance and feel. “But you have the protection of the Jandarma, my sweet thing,” he said.
Makal’s smile split his homely face. His head rested on his broad shoulders like a fireplug topped with curly, thick, greasy hair. A bushy mustache flapped over that yellowed smile. They were eye to eye, and though Abood was tall, at five feet, seven inches, it only pointed out how her willowy frame made her stand out among the Turkish people.
Though her Syrian blood had given her an olive complexion, it was not as sun-and-wind darkened as the natives. She was relatively pale, and her long black hair flowed like silk. Her smile would have been much whiter had it not been for the blood smeared across her teeth from Makal’s punch.
“Who gave you such a fine gun, my sweetie?”
“My father,” Abood answered, her eyes narrowed. She struggled, but she was wary of the trio of riflemen watching her intently. She knew how to fight, how to shoot, how to protect herself, but she also knew that pulling a pistol against an armed force of semiofficial vigilantes patrolling the Turkish countryside would be tantamount to suicide. She bided her time.
“Ah,” Makal said. “Did you add the pretty sights and grips, or did he?”
Abood glowered. Makal’s fist squeezed her wrist, and she felt the bones in her forearm start to rub together. He would keep grinding them until her arm was crippled or he’d gotten an answer. “He did. But that’s why I like it so much.”
“It’s worth money, then,” Makal said as he stuffed the handgun behind the buckle of his belt. Abood resisted the urge to warn him against shooting his dick off, partially because the pistol’s safety was on, and pissing him off would only make things worse for her. Makal rubbed a hard, callused hand across her smooth cheek. “As are you, no?”
“My magazine does not make deals with terrorists,” Abood answered.
The caress turned into a hard slap, and Abood sprawled across the hood of the jeep.
“We are the law in this country,” Makal snarled. “We are justice.”
Abood glared. Her ingrained response had landed her in trouble. Makal adjusted his belt and placed his rough hand over the crotch of his pants. “Usually, we’re not as well compensated for our efforts….”
Abood looked at the trio of riflemen watching her. Their weapons were aimed at the ground and wicked smirks danced across their features. One slung his weapon and began to undo his belt.
“That is Etter,” Makal explained. “He’s our warm-up for these things.”
“Warm-up?” Abood repeated, a chill flashing across her skin like lightning.
“Some women are a bit…tight,” Makal continued. “He loosens things up.”
Etter chuckled, sounding like a mentally deranged cartoon character as he opened his trousers. While the Turk wasn’t a big man, only a couple of inches taller than Abood, he was freakishly endowed. Abood gritted her teeth, knowing she’d better think of something before these bastards had their way with her. Unfortunately, the two men who had been destroying her equipment finished and flanked the group.
“We got everything,” one soldier said.
“Almost everything,” the other said with a chuckle as he looked at Abood.
Makal nodded. “Hold her.”
The two newcomers slung their rifles, and Abood acted instantly. She kicked Makal in the stomach, the toe of her boot knocking the Beretta to the road and forcing the Jandarma captain to stumble backward. Etter paused, then lunged forward, one beefy hand grabbing at her blouse, but Abood reacted fluidly. The heel of her palm caught the Turk between his lip and nose and snapped Etter’s head back. Unbalanced, his legs constrained by his half-fallen pants, the Turk flopped to the road.
She snaked her arm free from one of the soldiers who grabbed at her, but the other latched on to the arm that had knocked their partner onto his rear. Abood twisted and punched the goon in the sternum, but even driving the wind out of the Jandarma soldier didn’t relax the rapist’s grip.
“Fuck you!” Abood screamed, letting the clingy Turk get a face full of her loudest yell. It distracted him from her foot snaking around his ankle and she folded her arm abruptly. The point of her elbow struck the man in the breastbone and he fell to one side, dragging her down with him.
“Whore!” the other two would-be rapists growled, and they rushed forward. Abood twisted and pulled her wrestling partner against her, a shield that took the first brutal swings of their rifle stocks.
It wasn’t much, and they were going to make her pay for her resistance, but she was not going to surrender meekly. She was going to go down fighting.
“Drop the rifles!” a voice suddenly shouted.
The gunmen paused. Abood thrashed free, clawing out into the open.
“They’re trying to rape me!” she shouted.
“Nobody move!” the newcomer shouted. Abood’s eyes cleared and she spotted the man. He was tall, well built, wearing a dark, body-conforming outfit that showed off his rippling arms and chest where his torso peeked through a pouch-laden harness. He held an AK-47 in his hands, and his gaze was hard and stern.
Etter scooped up his rifle and triggered it, but holding the weapon one-handed, his initial burst missed. That was all the man in black needed to explode into action. A fiery lance of gunfire stabbed into the half-dressed rapist, heavy-caliber slugs punching through his head and neck. Explosions of gore and the rattle of automatic weapons spurred the remaining riflemen into action, and they went for their own guns. The tall man took three steps, seeming to weave ahead of the Turkish thugs as they tried to bear down on him. The mysterious avenger’s weapon ripped out another stream of slugs and decapitated one of the riflemen.
Abood didn’t know who he was, but this man was quick and skillful. Still, he was outnumbered, and she saw her Beretta lying in the gravel. She lunged for the pistol and almost got it when Makal’s weight slammed into her, a big hand clawing at her forearm. Abood turned and showed her own claws, fingers raking across the Turk’s left eye. Blood squirted over her fingers as she dug in, and the Jandarma commander’s fetid breath washed over her, accompanied by a wail of pain. Abood punched hard, tagging him in the nose. Cartilage collapsed under the impact, and Makal squirmed to one side, rolling into a roadside ditch.
Abood vaulted forward and grabbed her handgun.
“Get out of the way!” the man shouted as Abood swung toward the Turkish captain, but Abood triggered two shots. Makal twitched as a 9 mm hollowpoint round ripped through his arm. The fireplug-headed goon raced into the woods.
Abood whirled and the tall man lowered his rifle.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Abood brushed her mouth. One corner was swollen and tender to the touch, but the blood flow had stopped. “It’ll be awhile before I play the saxophone again….”
The man regarded her. Though his skin was tanned a deep, rich brown by exposure to the sun, he was most decidedly not a Semitic man. Too tall, too classically Anglo. Abood couldn’t exactly place him by look, and thought if he wore sunglasses to conceal those cold, ice-blue eyes, he could have fit in anywhere from a Marrakech market to a Hong Kong casino.
“It was a joke,” Abood said, her words slurred slightly as right side of her mouth reacted numbly to her words.
“They didn’t do any permanent damage?” he said.
“No. I’ll be okay,” Abood answered. She looked down and saw blood spattered across her torn blouse. “Most of this blood isn’t mine.”
He extended a hand to her. “Name’s Brandon Stone,” Mack Bolan said, using a cover identity.
“Catherine Abood, Newsworld magazine,” she introduced herself. “Everyone calls me Cat.”
A hint of recognition showed in Bolan’s face. “You did an article on a white slavery ring operating in Lebanon last year,” Bolan said.
“Yup. Would I know of your work anywhere, Mr.—”
“Colonel,” Bolan corrected.
“Colonel Stone?” Abood asked.
Bolan shook his head. “Nothing I could confirm or deny.”
Abood nodded. “One of those kinds of guys.”
“Afraid so,” Bolan replied. “We’d better get out of here.”
Abood nodded, and she stepped over to the Jandarma soldier who lay stunned beside her Jeep. She picked up his rifle and grabbed a couple of magazines, stuffing them into the voluminous pockets of her vest. She stuffed her Beretta back into its holster after reloading it. “They took out my equipment.”
Bolan looked around. “What did you witness?”
“They skinned a teenaged boy and lit his hair on fire,” Abood answered softly. She was disgusted at how easily she could repeat the events. “They saw me and chased me down.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t just kill you,” Bolan stated as he headed toward one of the jeeps. “Who were they? Kongra-Gel?”
“Jandarma,” Abood answered.
Bolan stopped and frowned, his hard eyes suddenly troubled. His gaze refocused. “They’re official in this province?”
“Official enough that the government never prosecutes them for excessive force if there’s not enough evidence,” Abood said.
“Like photographs taken by a foreign journalist,” Bolan suggested.
“Right,” Abood replied. “After that, it would be my word against theirs…if I survived.”
“The government wouldn’t have believed your accusations without photographic evidence,” Bolan stated. “I know these types of groups.”
“Intimately?” Abood asked, slightly nervous.
“We’ve butted heads more than a couple times,” Bolan said.
“Yeah,” Abood agreed with a sigh. “You look like a tough customer, but you are definitely not one of these scumbags.”
Abood chewed over his words for a moment. “You’re from New England too. Lost most of the accent, but I can still hear it.”
“Massachusetts,” Bolan replied. “New Hampshire?”
Abood nodded. “Yup.”
“We’ll have old-home week on the way out of here,” Bolan told her. “Right now, I want to get you to safety.”
“I can handle myself,” Abood said, defiant.
“I’m sure you can,” the Executioner answered, no condescension in his tone. “But you were in over your head. Get in the jeep.”
“Who’ve you been butting heads with over here?” Abood asked, climbing into the shotgun seat.
“Sorry, I don’t have time for interviews,” Bolan stated as he started up the vehicle and tromped on the gas.
“It’s not an interview. I just want to know what’s gotten you spooked.”
Bolan sighed as he performed a hairpin turn. “Kongra-Gel.”
“The bombing in Van,” Abood said. “I was investigating that when I ran afoul of the storm troopers back there.”
Bolan looked in the side mirror.
Abood looked over her shoulder and saw what had caught the big man’s attention. “Shit.”
“Yeah. The one you winged just waved down some buddies,” Bolan said as he looked at the trucks in the distance. He gunned the engine, squeezing more speed out of the vehicle.
“No wonder you were in a hurry,” Abood said, settling down in her seat.
“Hang on tight. This is going to get a little bumpy,” Mack Bolan told the reporter as he swerved around a bend in the road.
3
Kandilli Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute
“Sir, I believe we’re heading toward a major disaster. We have to let the media know,” Vigo Pepis said to Kan Bursa, the director of the observatory.
“Nothing is clear on the graph, though,” Bursa answered, concern coloring his features. “And none of the other seismologists have been able to confirm on their readings.”
“I know. The background tremors caused by the bombing and the collapse of the buildings in the area have masked any readings in the city,” Pepis explained. “But just take a look at what I’ve recorded. Outlying sensor reports seem weaker, meaning that the epicenter is going to be right beneath Van itself.”
“There’s nothing to reinforce that fact,” Bursa replied.
“That’s because of Lake Van,” Pepis explained. “Sensors can’t pick up anything because we couldn’t place the ground sensors in a conventional perimeter. With the closest western land more than one hundred miles away, we’re not going to get properly effective readings.”
“How about the data we’re receiving from NASA?” Bursa asked.
“The satellite placed in orbit over Turkey is currently being worked on by their shuttle,” Pepis stated. “It’ll be another eighteen hours before we have a current observation of thermal patterns. However, there was a lava buildup on the infrared scans of the area before the scope went down.”
Bursa chewed his lower lip. “I’ll put out a warning, but Van is already under martial law. The military, police and Jandarma are on the hunt for the bastards who attacked the relief workers.”
“Then we have an infrastructure already in place,” Pepis said. “That’s good.”
“They’re hunting for terrorists,” Bursa explained. “If something does hit, they’re going to be spread doubly thin.”
“You don’t think that the Kongras would strike in the aftermath of an earthquake, do you?” Pepis asked.
“They might not,” Bursa said. “Usually, when we’ve had big earthquakes in the past, we’ve been able to rely on a general ceasefire to keep everyone in line.”
“But they already hit the medical supply warehouse,” Pepis stated.
“And relief workers,” Bursa added. “I’ll talk to the minister of defense and the minister of the interior, but right now, the earth isn’t the only threat we have to deal with. I’m sorry, Vigo.”
Pepis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He nodded in quiet acceptance.
“How bad do you think it will be?” Bursa asked.
“Huge,” Pepis answered softly. “At least a 7.0.”
“You think it’ll be worse.”
Pepis nodded, almost spasmodically.
“I don’t have to remind anyone in the ministry of the interior that a 7.2 earthquake killed thousands of people a few years back,” Bursa grumbled, watching his best seismologist’s reaction.
“I’m praying it’s not going to be that bad,” Pepis said. “But sometimes your prayers don’t get answered.”
Bursa looked at the map of Van. “Bombings, civil war…and now an earthquake. If that city ever needed heroes, it needs them now.”
THE EXECUTIONER’S BATTLE instincts were on alert. He saw the Jandarma jeeps racing to keep up with his vehicle, and even though they were loaded down with armed riflemen, they kept a decent pace with the much lighter jeep he was steering. Something else kept him on edge, though. Bolan didn’t believe in psychic phenomena, but he had enough experiences with subconsciously detected threat cues to realize that there were senses many people possessed that provided them with early warnings.
Bolan had survived years of war against Animal Man simply because he’d managed to make his subconscious observations a part of his conscious thought. A bulge here, scuffed dirt there, the whisper of a foot across blades of grass or even the whiff of drying blood on a blade were all noticed by his intuitive bubble of early warnings. It wasn’t a sixth sense per se, but his mind processing all the data brought before it by his other five senses.
Something was nagging at him, and even as he twisted the jeep around another bend, his mind sought what made him uneasy.
Bolan’s soft probe, only an hour ago, had been interrupted because the sentry who had raised the alarm had been on his way to see why the guard dogs in their kennels were on edge and barking. Bolan had slipped into the training camp and made an effort to avoid the dogs, staying upwind of them and keeping out of their finely honed sense of smell. When he moved, he moved with the crescendo of background noise and walking feet so as not to tip off the guard dogs’ acute hearing.
So what had set the animals off?
Bolan heard Abood gasp and he yanked on the hand brake, spinning the jeep into a 180-degree turn. Another group of vehicles was racing along the hillside, and Bolan recognized them. They were from the motor pool at the Kongra-Gel camp, and they were joining the merry chase. All this took a heartbeat. The soldier released his handbrake and the jeep raced toward the onrushing Jandarma hunters.
“Who’s that?” Abood asked quickly.
“Kongra-Gel,” Bolan answered abruptly. “They’re after me.”
Abood shook her head and gripped her confiscated AK-47. “You make friends everywhere you go?”
“Yeah. Some of them don’t even try to kill me,” Bolan said. He glanced at the side mirror and caught sight of the Kongra-Gel hunters pushing their vehicles off their road and racing down the scrub-clotted slope to get even with their quarry.
Rifle fire opened up, spraying between the two parties of hunters as they recognized each other. Bolan glanced back as the Kongra-Gel cadre tore past the turning Jandarma pursuit team, their AKs spraying the slowed vehicles. The Turkish security force drivers struggled to keep them in the chase and the crews of their jeeps opened fire on the Kongra-Gel terrorists.
Bolan swerved and plunged his own vehicle off the road, knobby tires slipping on crushed bushes and loose shale, but he steered into the direction of any drift. In a few seconds, Bolan swung his jeep onto a lower road, hooked a hard right and tore down the snaking path through the forest. Automatic fire chattered, but it was wide of the target. Trying to get accuracy out of a moving vehicle, hitting another moving vehicle, was beyond the marksmanship skills of most untrained gunners.
The cut down the side of the hill had bought the Executioner and Abood a ten-second lead, keeping them ahead of the mayhem, but the jeep felt sluggish. Bolan scanned both side mirrors and saw that the right rear tire was at an odd angle. The vehicular gymnastics and off-road racing had twisted the axle and bled some speed. The tough little jeep would keep rolling, but it kept Bolan from reaching top speed, and that would be enough to allow the heavier pursuit vehicles to catch up.
“I wrecked the suspension,” Bolan announced. “We’re not going to be able to outrace the Jandarmas or the Kongras.”
Abood twisted in her seat and looked back down the road. “I caught a glimpse of a front bumper.”
Bolan tromped the gas, but the accelerator wasn’t giving him more speed. “I’m going to have to slow them down.”
Abood looped the sling of her rifle around her shoulders and extended its folding stock. She pressed it tightly and got a good cheek weld. “Just keep driving.”
Bolan nodded and hit a straightaway on the road. As the enemy rounded the bend, Abood cut loose with her rifle. Brass rained in the Executioner’s hair and one hot casing landed between his skintight top and his battle harness. It was hot, searing his skin, but the fabric of his blacksuit would prevent any permanent damage. A swift glance in the side mirror told him that the lead jeep had turned violently to avoid the stream of automatic fire.
“Thanks for keeping the jeep steady,” Abood said. “I still didn’t take them out.”
“Slowed them down,” Bolan told her. “Good shooting.”
“My dad’s a gun writer,” Abood explained as she reloaded her rifle. “He even let me play with some of the law-enforcement-only toys he got to review.”
Bolan nodded. “Keep up the good work.”
The soldier swung around another curve and hit the brakes. Abood glanced back and Bolan grabbed his rifle. She saw the headlights of a large truck racing toward them on the road.
“Abandon ship,” he ordered. “Don’t know who they are, but they just cut us off.”
Bolan and Abood raced away from the jeep and into the trees. A couple of jeeps rounded the curve too quickly and rear-ended their abandoned vehicle, smashing it between their fenders. The truck slammed into the other end of the jeep and threw the other two aside.
Jandarma gunmen clambered out of the back of the transport truck, and Bolan cursed as he saw a contingent racing into the woods after them while the others rushed to deal with the Kongra-Gel pursuit team. The road erupted with automatic fire between the warring parties, the Jandarma thugs charged through the grove of trees.
“Keep running,” Bolan said to Abood.
Bolan stopped and dropped to one knee. He fired two bursts, catching the two frontmost pursuers in the chest, stitching them with heavy-caliber slugs. As the paramilitary Turks dropped to the ground, as if they’d struck an invisible wall, their partners scattered and took cover behind tree trunks.
Abood reached the cover of a tree and braced herself across an exposed root, one-and-a-half feet high. She pointed her rifle and ripped off a short blast of autofire at a goon behind cover. Bolan wasn’t certain if she made a hit, but that wasn’t his concern as he caught up with her. “Keep moving.”
Abood nodded and got up as the Executioner paused at the trunk, flicked the selector switch to semiauto and put the front sight on the head of an adventurous Jandarma rifleman who had broken cover. Bolan stroked the trigger and the AK-47 punched a bullet through the gunner’s upper chest. The Executioner noted how far off the sights were from the results of his shot, and took the break in the Jandarma pursuit to continue after Abood.
After two more minutes of running, Bolan and Abood cut southwest toward Van, passing a stream and disappearing into the forest on the other side of the water. After five minutes, Bolan stopped so that Abood could catch her breath. The pair rested behind a copse of bushes.
Bolan breathed slowly and evenly to recover his breath while Abood gulped down air.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just not in as good shape as I’d like,” Abood answered. “Then again, I’m not usually running for my life with fifty pounds of rifle and ammunition.”
“Sorry about that,” Bolan replied.
The woman shrugged. “You’re the reason I’m still alive to bitch about it, Stone.”
The soldier smiled. “Glad you could keep it all in perspective.”
“It’s a talent,” Abood answered. “So what’s the plan?”
Bolan pulled a laminated map from a pocket of his blacksuit. “Judging by how far we’ve come and the direction we’ve taken, Van should be a forty-five-minute walk.” He pointed. “That way.”
“You’re going to need clothes,” Abood mentioned. “Unless you don’t mind sticking out like a NATO Dense Pack.”
“I’ve got a stash in a roadside ditch, about a forty-minute walk from here,” Bolan said.
“Always prepared?” Abood asked.
Bolan nodded. “A friend of mine once referred to me as the original hard-core Boy Scout.”
Abood sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just goes to show. I joined the Girl Scouts, but they would never give me a merit badge for marksmanship.”
Bolan chuckled. “It’s a bit late for that now. Come on, before the Jandarma expands its search for us.”
“And what about the Kongra-Gel?” Abood asked. “I take it you have unfinished business here.”
“Very observant,” Bolan replied. “Once I drop you off somewhere safe, I’ll get back to what I was doing. Don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t worry about me, either. This is about the missing drugs, right?” Abood asked. “Listen. I know people. My dad associated with a lot of folks, SEALs, federal cops, all kinds of folks who go into dark places. I don’t know what organization you’re with, but I do have a feeling that you’re more than just some spook busting Turkish Commies.”
Bolan remained silent.
“First, you broke cover and started a fight with the Jandarma to protect me, someone you don’t know. Second, you expressed some concern when it looked like you could have killed official people, but once you remembered what the Jandarma was, you didn’t let it bother you. Third, your plans include making sure I’m safe and secure before you continue your mission,” Abood said. “You’re not some macho man. You actually care about what you’re doing, and there’s a lot of lines you’re not willing to cross to get it done.”
Bolan shrugged. “Or I just could be a sucker for a pretty face.”
Abood smiled. “I’ve been on the same case. If you promise to bring me along to cover the story…”
“There’s no story,” Bolan explained. “Not with me.”
“Then I’m not going to tell you what I know,” Abood said defiantly.
“I can live with that,” Bolan answered, and he started walking.
Abood jogged to catch up with him. “You can live with that?”
“I have my own ways to get information,” Bolan explained.
“Even if the drugs are going to be shipped out to Erzurum tonight?” Abood asked.
Bolan paused. “I know I’m up against a deadline. I also know I’m not going to risk you underfoot, no matter how good a shot you are.”
Abood grumbled. “And if those drugs end up on the black market, or destroyed, how many thousands are going to suffer?”
Bolan stopped, his jaw set firmly.
“You’re willing to risk your own life to save those people, fighting against the Kongra-Gel all by yourself. But are you willing to risk thousands of refugees if you fail?” Abood asked. “What’s one life more in the fray?”
Bolan regarded her coldly. “What’s one more life?”
Abood stepped back, stunned by Bolan’s voice.
“What’s one more life? Plenty. I’ve lost enough friends and allies over the years. Far too many buddies, too many bystanders. You mentioned that I’m someone who cares about what I’m doing, and that I have lines I won’t cross,” Bolan said. “You’re right. And watching another person die because they got in over their heads is something I refuse to do.”
Abood frowned. “But—”
“I know you’re used to risking your life, but you do it to get stories. I stay out of the limelight. If you want to save lives, then you tell me what I have to do to keep those drugs from getting out of Van,” Bolan told her. “Unless you’re willing to risk thousands of people for your own little byline.”
“Stone, wait….”
Bolan started walking again. “You’ve got forty minutes to make your choice. If you haven’t made a decision by the time I get to my stash of clothes, I’m walking one way and you’re taking a hike. You’ve got guns. You look after your own safety.”
Abood fell silent.
Bolan knew that his decision wasn’t appreciated, but he also had his duty. He was as much a defender of lives as an avenger of victims. When it came down to it, anything he could do to deny the Reaper another soul was gravy. If he had to be tough, then so be it.
Better that they lived resenting his rough manner than they died because he was too polite to say what needed to be said.
4
Cat Abood checked her watch. They reached Colonel Stone’s stash of backup supplies a good four minutes early, but then, she knew that Stone hadn’t counted on walking at a pace to escape his frustration. She looked at the big man as he paused and checked the rugged chronometer on his wrist.
“You’ve still got four minutes to make your decision. I promised you that much,” he said curtly.
“I’m not the enemy. This is more than just about a story. Do you think you can do everything by yourself?” she challenged.
Bolan remained as silent as his namesake as he pulled off his battle harness. He slipped on a pair of jeans over the skintight leggings of his blacksuit, then slid the Jericho into its holster and cinched the belt tightly. He unhooked his shoulder holster from its place on the combat harness and slipped it and the sleek machine pistol that it housed across his broad back. A rumpled leather jacket came out of his war bag, and he threw it on over the outfit. “Three minutes.”
He busied himself, snapping on a sheath for a concealed knife and spare magazines for his two handguns as well.
“Can I at least lead you to the warehouse? I’ll hang back,” Abood said. “I promise not to get in the middle of a firefight.”
Bolan remained tight-lipped for a few moments. He snapped the folding stock shut on his AK and slipped it into the bag. He glanced at her.
“Give me your rifle,” Bolan said.
“How am I going to protect myself?” Abood demanded, gripping the AK more tightly.
“You have your pistol,” he answered. “Besides, if you’re going to walk through the streets of Van with me, I’d rather you not attract a lot of attention carrying a loaded rifle.”
Abood looked down at the ugly weapon in her hands, then surrendered it to him. “So I can take you there?”
“Don’t get in my way,” he said, finger aimed at her. “And keep your head down.”
Abood nodded. “You’re in charge.”
Bolan folded his arms across his muscular chest. Under the jacket, the blacksuit looked like a skintight T-shirt, the kind that weight lifters wore to show off their well-honed torsos. His words helped to distract her from the way he seemed poured into his jeans.
“You’re right. I’m in charge. And no mention of my involvement in the story,” Bolan explained. “I have people who can squelch the story if anything comes out. I’d hate to see you waste your time.”
Abood held up her hands in surrender. “I don’t even have a camera. Your secrets are safe with me. I’ll take them to the grave.”
Bolan’s jaw tightened.
“Sorry, poor choice of words,” Abood apologized.
“This isn’t a joke,” Bolan stated. “This is real.”
“Yeah. I have the bruises to prove it,” Abood agreed. “You’re forgetting that I’m not a tenderfoot.”
Bolan’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. He wasn’t amused.
“You’ll be kept confidential,” Abood stated. “Anything you let slip—”
“I won’t.”
Abood swallowed. He’d been so friendly nearly an hour before, prior to her wanting to deal herself into the recovery of the missing medical supplies. But, from what he’d said, she understood the change in tone. He’d been expecting to drop her off, safe and sound with no worries. Now, he was going to bring her close to the flames, and he didn’t want her wings to ignite if she got too close. He’d taken responsibility for her, just like he’d taken on the sole responsibility of recovering the drugs.
Abood had heard rumors across the years of such lone wolves, solitary crusaders reporters had occasionally run across. He was like a guardian angel, drawn to the most dangerous spots on Earth, performing good deeds, saving lives and providing aggressive, decisive strikes to those who would harm others.
Abood understood. There was something about the man called Colonel Stone that inspired her to feel not only loyalty, but the desire to protect him. She thought maybe it was because she was a reporter who hunted out the truth and fought for justice in her own way. He was on the same side, waging the same struggle as she did, except with force of will and arms instead of words. Either way, they were both working toward the same cause.
“Thanks for letting me help out, Stone,” Abood said softly.
“Call me Brandon,” Bolan said. “Sorry for being such an ass, but it’s for your own good.”
“I know,” Abood replied.
“All right. Can you hold the bag?” he asked her. “It’s heavy, but…”
“I’ll manage,” Abood said. She took it, and sure enough it was about as heavy as her dad’s range bag when he went to test rifles and pistols for his gun rags. It was nothing she wasn’t used to. “What are you going to do?”
Bolan winked. “I’m going to borrow some wheels.”
“Yeah, I got the bag. See if you can get something nice, like a Corvette,” Abood quipped.
“I’ll see what I can do—”
The ground vibrated beneath her feet, and she looked down. Bolan whipped around and looked at the city as the tremors grew in force.
“Earthquake!” he growled.
Suddenly the dirt at her feet heaved, and a fissure opened up between her feet. She lunged forward, and Stone caught her as soil cascaded into the crack in the earth. The pair lurched away as fast as they could on the flexing ground, and at one point, the dirt seemed to disappear beneath their bicycling feet, only to surge up again and knock Abood to her knees. Bolan tumbled forward, heaved off balance by the surging hillside.
A slope suddenly deepened as the earth continued to flex, and Abood let go of the bag to reach for Stone.
The big man skidded down the slippery slope toward a crack in the ground that yawned and snapped shut, like a pair of gigantic jaws.
5
Jandarma Major Omar Baydur arrived in his jeep, looking at the aftermath of the battle between his men and the Kurds.
“Major,” one of his men said. He managed to stand at attention, though his right arm hung limply, soaked with blood.
“What happened here?” Baydur asked.
“We lost track of the American journalist. She was taken by a stranger,” the wounded officer stated. “Captain Makal gave us the description over the radio.”
“Where is Makal?” Baydur asked.
“He continued pursuit overland. It appears that Abood and the stranger took off toward Van.”
Baydur frowned. “And what was his progress on the Kongra-Gel search?”
Another Jandarma trooper raised his hand. Baydur recognized this one as Gogin, Makal’s most trusted lieutenant. A white bandage covered a bloody thigh wound.
“We had interrogated a suspect, but the journalist interfered before we could get any results,” Gogin stated. “We think that the man who snatched that witch Abood might be working with the PKK.”
“So why did the Kongras attack him?” the soldier with the injured arm asked.
“The Kongras shot at the man who had the journalist?” Baydur asked.
“Nobody saw for certain,” Gogin growled. “Besides, that bastard killed Etter and the others.”
“We heard. Four men killed, and Makal retreated to find you,” Baydur stated. “You took that bullet in the leg when the Kongras attacked?”
Gogin nodded.
“Strange,” Baydur said with a frown. “You seem to be walking pretty well.”
“It went clean through,” Gogin explained.
“I don’t see a bloodstain for the exit wound,” Baydur stated. “And if it bled that much in this short a time—”
The earth rumbled, cutting off the Jandarma commander. Trees shook and birds took to the air en masse. It felt like a bomb had gone off nearby, but Baydur had lived through enough earthquakes to realize what was happening. He struggled to stay upright, and Gogin collapsed against the fender of the jeep, wincing in pain.
The radio went wild with cries of alarm. The tremors rose in intensity, and Baydur held on to his vehicle’s frame. After what seemed an eternity, the earthquake abated.
“What happened?” Gogin asked, sliding to a half-seated position on the hood of the jeep.
“An earthquake. It was either a small, local one—” Baydur began.
“Sir!” Sezer, his driver, interrupted. “The radio waves are crowded, but the closest I can make out is that Van was hit again. Something big.”
Baydur got into the jeep. “A bomb?”
“Earthquake. As much as I can tell from all the chatter, the landlines have been knocked out,” Sezer answered.
“All right, try to get through on our secure lines. We’re pulling everyone we have to pitch in with the city,” Baydur said.
“What about the bastard who killed our men?” Gogin asked.
“Get off my hood,” Baydur answered. “This whole mess has the stink of someone wanting to get back at Makal for one of his antics. I swear—”
Gogin glared. “Swear what? This animal murdered our own people.”
“I swear, if I find out that Makal’s stepped out of line, and you’re helping to cover for it, you’re going down a very deep hole,” Baydur threatened.
“Sure. Coddle the Commies,” Gogin snarled as he slipped off the jeep’s hood. “Makal gets results.”
Baydur stared back coldly. Sezer threw the jeep into reverse, and the two Turks maintained their glaring contest until the driver spun the vehicle around and turned toward Van.
Kandilli Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute
VIGO PEPIS COULD ONLY watch in impotent horror as the seismic graph for the Lake Van region suddenly shook off the charts. He shot a glance at Bursa, who swallowed hard.
“It’s at 7.4 and rising,” Zapel spoke up as she read off the graph paper. The needle was going wild. “Seven-five—”
“Oh my God,” Bursa gasped in helplessness. “The minister of the interior just told me that they’ve lost landline communications with Van.”
Pepis could only stare as the needle hit 7.7, and the line still didn’t stop increasing in the violence of its activity. Radio transponders on seismic sensors enabled them to keep up with current data, simply because of the vulnerability of landlines to tremors.
He thought about the region. Van was one of the primary capitals in Turkish Kurdistan, a city of more than two hundred thousand souls, and in one of the most hotly contested parts of the country. Conflicts between the Jandarma and the Kurdish separatists were furious, resulting in thousands of refugees.
It was the bombing of the relief workers that had masked the initial tremors leading up to this earthquake, leaving Pepis alone and unconfirmed as a prophet of doom. Now, the horrors were coming true, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the needle. It was a defense mechanism, because if he took his eyes off the harshly scribbled ink on the graph paper, he’d think of the ancient city, its people and all that it had suffered before.
Van had seen endless tragedy over the centuries, from when it was first founded, eight hundred years before the birth of Christ. The most blatant horror was the deportation of millions of Armenians from the region, resulting in the deaths of more than half a million refugees, through violence or starvation. Since then, it had only been more of the same, in smaller quantities, but with no less anger or hatred. Now, nearly a quarter of a million people had been struck by the fist of an angry God. Though they were on one of Asia’s largest lakes, Lake Van’s brackish waters were useless for either drinking or irrigation.
“The minister of the interior is on line three,” Zapel announced.
Bursa picked up the phone and spoke in hushed, hurried tones, then hung up.
“Vigo, the military is unable to assist,” he confided. “Whatever is on hand is all that they have.”
“If the desalinization plants weren’t affected, there might be hope,” Pepis stated. “Otherwise—”
“The minister wants to know how bad the aftershocks will be,” Bursa cut him off.
“It’ll be bad. At least in the six range,” Pepis said.
“It went all the way up to 7.83,” Zapel announced. “But it’s starting to die down.”
“It’s going to be hell there,” Bursa said numbly.
Pepis turned away from the graph.
6
Mack Bolan’s left hand dug into the loose soil, but his right hand dropped instinctively to the Ka-Bar fighting knife he’d bought earlier that morning. The blade sank into the earth and dragged for a few moments, but finally his slide toward the chomping rift below him slowed. He dug the toes of his boots into the ground and he hauled with all of his might. His war bag skidded closer to the edge, and for a moment he reached out for it before the earth seized shut, smashing the bag between stony jaws.
The earth stopped heaving, and Bolan drew back, looking at the satchel clamped in the fissure. He winced as a flood of granite pebbles and dust hit him, eyes snapping shut to protect the vulnerable orbs beneath his lids.
“Brandon!” Abood called. He looked up to see the young woman extending one long leg toward him. “Grab my leg!”
Bolan hauled himself up on the knife and grabbed her ankle. With the extra leverage, he managed to crawl to the lip of the cliff. Abood slid back from the edge and sighed.
“We lost the rifles,” Bolan announced.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“No permanent damage,” he answered as he looked toward the fissure. He could see a half-loaded box of ammunition sprawled in the dirt, bullets glinting in the sun.
“How much do you have?” Abood asked.
Bolan checked his harness. “Four loaded magazines for the Jericho, and four more for my own Beretta.”
“You usually carry all that ammo?” Abood asked. She shook her head. “Sorry…I forgot. You’re a spook in hostile territory.”
“I’ll get by,” Bolan said. He looked around, then grabbed the root of a tree trunk, stretched down and pulled his knife out of the dirt. “It’s not worth the risk to climb down to grab more ammo, but the knife will be useful.”
Bolan looked toward the city. In the frantic slide to death when the ground first shook, he’d only been concerned about keeping himself and Abood alive. Now, the city of Van had changed drastically from when he’d seen it only moments before. Columns of thick, choking smoke rose lazily into the sky from fires. Clouds of gray-white dust from collapsed buildings formed a hazy fog in the wake of the brutal earthquake.
“Good God,” Abood whispered.
Bolan couldn’t speak. Already his mind was racing. He was going to have to navigate through a city where buildings had been compromised. He knew that in the aftermath of such violent earthquakes, lethal aftershocks ripped through the terrain, causing nearly as much damage when shifting earth gave that one final tug that brought down weakened buildings and power lines, or split streets to expose jets of invisible, highly flammable gas into the air. In all of the Executioner’s years of warfare, he had seen only a few cities as thoroughly destroyed, and usually those were the targets of coordinated, concentrated bombing, and the destruction was spread over hours, not moments.
“We’ve got to do something,” Abood said, breaking the numbed silence.
“We don’t have anything to help them with,” Bolan answered. “Unless we recover those medical supplies.”
“Don’t you have contact with your superiors?” Abood asked.
“No. I was en route from another mission,” Bolan said. “This was sort of a pickup.”
Abood looked at him in disbelief.
“If the law finds out that I’m intruding in their territory, there will be hell to pay,” Bolan admitted. “Which was why—”
“Which was why you didn’t want me along,” Abood concluded. “One of the reasons, at least. Your mystery bosses give you carte blanche in racking up collateral damage?”
“No, my boss doesn’t want any collateral damage at all,” Bolan answered firmly.
Abood narrowed her eyes. “Something tells me that I’m looking at your only boss right now.”
“Are you going to conduct an interview, or do we find those stolen medical supplies and save a few thousand people?” Bolan asked.
Abood grimaced for a moment, then her irritation dissolved and she smiled softly. “You got me there, soldier.”
“Come on,” Bolan said. “It’s fifteen minutes by brisk walk to the closest street. If we run, we can find some wheels and get those medical supplies even more quickly.”
The Executioner turned toward a safe path down the cliff and started jogging.
Abood was right on his heels.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“A FEW MINUTES BEFORE the earthquake, we picked this up,” Barbara Price said as she handed the translation to Hal Brognola.
“Tall man, six, to six-and-a-half-feet tall, heavily armed, indeterminate nationality,” Brognola murmured as he read it. “Who put out the word?”
“That was under Jandarma’s known frequencies,” Price answered. “Bear thought it best to keep our ears open on the police scanners, give Striker a bit of assistance in the region if he should call in.”
Brognola frowned. “I wished he’d taken the time to hook up properly with us before tearing off after the Kongras.”
Price sighed and folded her arms. “Striker said that time was of the essence. The Kongras wouldn’t hold on to the stolen medical supplies for more than forty-eight hours, maybe even less. He said he had to be on the ground and operating before they had a chance to move that stuff out to the black market.”
Brognola squeezed the wrinkled knot between his eyebrows, then blinked away his frustration.
“Hal, you’ve known him longer than almost anyone,” Price said. “You know that Mack isn’t going to turn his back when he can do some good. Now, it’s even more vital than ever for him to get those relief supplies.”
“How bad was the earthquake?” Brognola asked.
“Kandilli Research Institute measured it at 7.8,” Price responded. She set aerial photographs of the city of Van in front of Brognola.
“Christ, it looks like it’s been hit by a bomb,” the big Fed stated.
“According to Aaron, a 7.8 earthquake is nearly as powerful as the bomb that hit Hiroshima,” Price stated. “Or it at least released the same amount of energy as an atomic weapon.”
Brognola shook his head. “What do we have in the region that can help out?”
“Not much. Turkey is still sensitive about the Iraq invasion, so our resources in the area have been drastically trimmed,” Price stated. “Politics will keep people dragging their feet, and even if there was a way to get major supplies in, it would still take at least three days before we could have a strong enough presence there.”
“What would we be talking about?” Brognola asked.
“The President has two aircraft carriers he can deploy,” Price stated. “One off Kuwait, and one in the Mediterranean. Between their desalinization plants, they can airlift enough fresh water to turn the tide.”
“Airlift fresh water?” Brognola asked. “There’s a huge lake right near the city.”
“It’s a saltwater lake,” Price answered. “It’s not fit for drinking or irrigation. The best we can hope for is for one carrier to make port in Iskenderun and ferry supplies across four hundred miles of Turkish airspace.”
Brognola pursed his lips. “And the Turkish government is still sensitive about our craft using their airspace to penetrate Iraq airspace. “All right. What about the teams? Can we dispatch them to give Striker some backup?”
“Able Team and Phoenix Force are fully occupied. Able Team would be free in thirty-six hours, then factoring in travel time…. There’s nothing we can send right away,” Price stated.
“None of our assets in the region are available?” Brognola asked. “We have former blacksuits in every branch of the military and a lot of embassy posts.”
“Nobody on hand,” Price admitted. “Our military people have their work cut out for them, and any who would be dispatched to the scene are going to be busy with conventional relief efforts.”
Brognola picked up his cigar and began chewing on it to relieve his frustration. It took a moment for the old stress mechanisms to take effect, and his mind cleared. “Just keep your ears open for Striker. You never know. He might be able to contact us. I want the cyberteam to give him every assistance and up-to-date satellite intel. Paths through the city, aftershock warnings, what we hear from the Jandarma…”
Price nodded.
Brognola looked at the translation. “He killed them while they were questioning an American journalist.”
“You know how the Turkish paramilitary forces work, Hal. If Striker dropped the hammer on them, the only questions asked were ‘who do you want to rape you first’ or ‘head or gut, where do you want to be shot?’”
“Yeah. It’s just going to make things a lot more difficult if we have to call in some favors to help him out,” Brognola stated.
“I put the word out to our people. If anyone’s cozy with the Jandarma, we won’t ask them for help. It’ll narrow down our resources, but…”
“Just do it,” Brognola said. “I’ll inform the President that we have Striker on the ground.”
“Hal,” Barbara spoke up.
“Mack will be okay. He’s been hunted by far worse than the Kongras and the Jandarma.”
“The Mafia and the KGB might have had better technology, but the Kongras and the Jandarma are as brutal as anything he’s ever faced,” Price stated. “They’ll peel a man alive for a week just to make him hurt.”
Brognola looked back at the photos. “You don’t make reassuring you any easier.”
Price nodded. “Reassurance is one thing. Outright lying is another.”
Brognola frowned. “If Striker’s alive, he’ll make it through. It’s what he does. He’s survived on his own for so long….”
The head Fed’s words trailed off as he looked at the stricken city in the photograph. If Mack Bolan had survived the earthquake, he’d do as much as he could to recover the relief supplies and save the shattered people of Van. Bolan was a man who would move heaven and earth to save lives, no matter what odds were stacked against him.
But Brognola realized full well that with two renegade paramilitary armies, and the aftermath of an earthquake against him, the Executioner was in for the struggle of his life.
7
The first car they found was unlocked, and Mack Bolan counted himself lucky. He knew the faster he could cut across Van, the more lives he could save. He threw open the door and even though no keys were in the ignition, he had hot-wired enough automobiles to do it on autopilot. He stabbed his knife into the steering column and tore away its plastic housing when he heard a faint distant cry.
“What’s wrong?” Abood asked.
“I heard something,” Bolan answered. He put his fingers to his lips and concentrated. He heard the call for help again and got out of the car.
“Someone is going to ask us what we’re doing around this car,” Abood stated.
Abood was right. The longer it took to steal the automobile, the more chance they would be caught by Jandarma forces on patrol. But if there was someone in danger, Bolan’s instincts called for him to do something.
“Stay with the car,” Bolan said. He stripped the wires and sparked them together. The car turned over in an instant. “Drive it around the block. I’m going to look for the source of those cries.”
Bolan turned from the car as Abood scooted into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. “Stone—”
“I’ll be careful,” Bolan told her. “Just keep the car warm.”
Abood nodded and Bolan strode off, loping along at a ground-eating pace. He immediately saw where the cries originated from. A small girl stood alone, in the doorway of a half-collapsed apartment building. She turned and saw Bolan jogging toward her and her eyes widened, afraid.
Bolan slowed and held his hands out carefully and gently, speaking low and soft, in English, but hoping that his tone would translate until he figured out what language the girl spoke. “No, it’s okay. I’m here to help.”
The girl took a tentative step back, then pointed inside. She said something, only two syllables, but it was enough. “Mama.”
Bolan nodded and followed the girl as she led him through a hallway. It was choked with rubble, and there seemed to be no way past. Through the barrier, however, he could hear the plaintive screams of a woman calling for help, deadened by the weight of collapsed stone. The girl spoke up, rattling off in rapid Turkish.
The woman didn’t stop screaming, and Bolan wondered if she could hear clearly. He gestured to the girl to cover her ears. She did and then in his best parade march bellow, he called out. “Can you hear me?”
The woman stopped. Garbled Turkish erupted. Bolan knew a few words in the language, but the gist was lost on him. She repeated one word several times— ”Lata.”
Bolan knew the Turkish word for “help”; it was one of the phrases he memorized before cutting across the border. “Lata” sounded like a name.
He looked down at the girl. “Lata?”
The girl nodded.
Bolan searched his memory for a moment and then pulled up the Turkish phrase he needed. He barked it out loudly, Lata covering her ears again. “Lata’s safe!”
The woman on the other side broke down in a mixture of tears and laughter, the sounds of relief cutting through the heavy rubble. Bolan tested the barrier and pulled his flashlight. Its bright beam cut into the darkness above, and he knew that several levels had collapsed onto this hallway. The heavy floors made it impossible to move, as they had wedged down tightly. He’d need another way to get to the trapped woman.
Bolan turned, his mind racing. Picking an apartment door, he kicked it open violently. Wood splintered and the door swung open. No one was inside. The ceiling had buckled in a few places, and in the direction of the woman, he noticed that the wall had crumbled at the top. He pulled the all-steel Jericho pistol and hammered it against the cracked drywall. The girl gasped in surprise that he was armed, but saw what he was doing and calmed down. After three hard taps, there was a fist-sized hole in the drywall, and he could see through to the next apartment.
Bolan took a firm grasp of the drywall and cracked a chunk free easily. He holstered the Jericho and tapped the wall, checking for the width of the support studs, then hurled himself against it with all his might. Drywall crumbled under his weight, and he dented the far side.
“Thanks for cheap apartment construction,” he muttered. The girl took a tentative step forward and Bolan rammed the half-broken wall again and burst through. Covered in plaster and powdered drywall, he looked around the next apartment. His shoulder ached from where he’d used it as an improvised wrecking ball. He looked back at Lata, who watched him in awe.
The apartment’s ceiling was buckled in several places, and a sofa from an upstairs apartment poked through into the room. It wouldn’t be safe for the little girl. Bolan knelt and motioned for her to stay put in the doorway they’d come through. If the floor was going to collapse, that would be a safer place for her. Lata nodded in understanding and ran to where he pointed.
“Thank you,” she said in Turkish. Bolan understood and smiled, then tried the apartment door.
It opened a couple of inches but was stopped by a massive weight on the other side. Bolan braced the door with one hand, then drew his Jericho again, and its solid steel frame cracked the wood with one hammer blow. Bolan holstered the weapon, then used his forearm to drive the broken section of door away. He could see into the hallway, and the woman lying on the floor. She was wedged under a support pillar. He could see that her scalp was split, and that blood soaked down into one of her ears. No wonder she hadn’t heard the little girl’s voice. It had taken Bolan’s volume to cut through her partial deafness.
Her eyes were glazed, and she was starting to slip into shock. Bolan grabbed the door frame and pulled hard. After his third tug, the molding around the door ripped free and clattered to the floor at his feet. Plaster rained from the ceiling above, and the Executioner knew that he wouldn’t have much time. He considered using a gun to shoot out the hinges, but the percussion would weaken the ceiling more. Instead, he took out his knife and pried the top hinge. Cheap brass folded under its leverage. Held in place by only one hinge, and unrestrained by the door frame’s molding, he’d be able to wrench the bottom hinge loose. With a powerful tug, his shoulders and back protesting against the effort, he tore the half-broken door free, using the space he’d smashed out of its corner as a handle.
Bolan scanned the area, then grabbed a chair and wedged the door into it and up against the ceiling. It wouldn’t last for long, but he hoped it would buy him a few minutes. He knelt by the woman’s side. He took her dark, bloodied hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“I’m here to help,” he said as he looked at the weight holding her in place.
“Lata?” the woman inquired. Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. She’d worn out her vocal cords crying for her child. Bolan dug his fingers in under the support pillar and tried to lift it, but he couldn’t move it. If he could get a quarter inch of slack, the woman would have been able to crawl out to safety. But there just was too much rubble wedging it down.
The mother looked through the door, her eyes widening fearfully. “Lata!”
Bolan looked back and saw the little girl.
The woman clutched at his leg. She shook her head.
Bolan took a deep breath, grimacing at the woman’s implications. She wanted him to take Lata and escape before the whole building came down. Plaster rained on the little girl and she screamed. Bolan rose to his feet and scooped Lata out of the way as the sofa crashed to the floor from the apartment above.
In his rush to rescue the little girl, he didn’t feel the tremors of the aftershock immediately. The woman winced as the weight pressed against her. Bolan pushed Lata into the gap he’d made to the next apartment.
“Stay,” he told her firmly in simple Turkish. He looked around. He couldn’t give up on this girl’s mother. Then he saw the kitchenette by the door. He strode over and opened the cabinets and found several bottles. He couldn’t tell what they were exactly, their labels unintelligible, but one he saw had bubbles, and another was a form of greasy oil. He pocketed five bottles of various soaps and oils, then looked around. He could make it more slippery for the mother to slide out, but he needed leverage. The pillar that wedged her in had shifted, which meant it could now be moved, but its weight could crush her if he slipped. He saw a coatrack and tested it. It was a chunk of solid wood, and Bolan kicked off the flimsy hooks on one end before slipping through the doorway.
The injured woman looked at him, frightened. Bolan gave her a nod, then drove the shaft of the coatrack under the pillar. Bracing the wood across his hip, he plucked out the bottles and pulled off their tops. Greasy, slippery fluids poured onto the floor, soaking beneath the trapped woman. She squirmed, but when her shoulders slipped loosely, without any traction, understanding crossed her features.
Bolan pushed all his weight into lifting the wedged pillar. The coatrack’s shaft started to crackle under the strain. The woman gasped as the weight stopped pressing on her.
“Now!” Bolan ordered, keeping his muscle pressed into his improvised lever. She fumbled and slipped, then pushed against the thing that had trapped her, and found the leverage to slide free. Lata rushed to the doorway and took her mother’s hand, and the Turkish mother and daughter stumbled back into the apartment as the wood snapped against Bolan’s shoulder.
The Executioner staggered back, and the pillar hammered into the floor. A wash of rubble assaulted his legs, but he managed to kick free.
Lata was leading her mother to the next apartment when Bolan caught up with them and steered them toward the window. With a powerful kick, he shattered the glass and, using the fallen sofa’s cushion, swept away broken shards to make it safe for them. They slipped out and Bolan dived through just as the ceiling came down on the heels of another aftershock.
The woman wrapped her arms around Bolan’s neck and kissed his cheek, tears flowing.
Abood pulled up in their stolen car, and Bolan knew that he couldn’t leave these two behind.
“We’ve got passengers,” he told Abood. He gestured for the Turkish refugees to climb into the back seat.
“I thought you were in a hurry,” Abood said, looking back at Lata, who rewarded the journalist with a bright smile.
Bolan refused to take the bait and slid into the shotgun seat. “We’ll drop them off and recover the medical supplies.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/don-pendleton/aftershock/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.