Hellfire Crusade te-87, page 10
part #87 of The Executioner Series
This was the worst moment; the biggest risk of all.
And he had no choice but to take it.
The hooks and shank were sheathed with highdensity foam sleeves. The grapnel made little sound as it lodged in a gun port high above Bolan's head.
He tugged on the rope. The tips were trapped on the sill up there. Bolan gradually increased the pressure of his test pull... still it held. He glanced back once at the desert — out to where Danny was hiding with the Hog — then up he went, hand over hand, rubber-soled boots walking up the weathered facing.
His muscles ached from the effort required to pull himself and the added weight of the equipment he carried up the wall. Bolan was almost two-thirds the way to his goal, perhaps at the forty-foot mark, when he heard someone chuckle behind the window slit slightly to his left. The murmur of small talk drifted indistinctly by him. It was riskier to hang there dangling by a thread than to proceed. Bolan hauled himself up the rest of the way.
He wriggled through the defenders' firing slot and huddled close to the wall, catching his breath and his bearings at the same time. The nightstalker was on a flagstone walkway, repaired in places with wooden planking, about twenty feet from the nearest corner tower. A lookout up there was stamping his feet to stay awake and ward off the chilly night breeze.
Bolan wiped the sweat from his forehead, crawled back into the man-size slit and dragged up the rucksack.
He lugged the loaded pack across the stonework. A few small chips, broken off by the point of the grapnel hook, were swept back off the ledge.
They hit the walkway with a rattle.
Bolan heard the sound of boots on the worn stone steps within the tower. He pushed the pack against the wall and bundled the rope behind it. The door at the end opened with a creak. Dim lighting from inside briefly streaked the flagstones as the Arab guard stepped out into the cool air. He took a deep breath, then stepped forward, puzzled to find one of the foreign soldiers up here on duty.
Bolan waited, outwardly casual but internally poised to spring, until he noticed the trooper stare curiously past his legs. He'd seen the pack... The man twisted to unsling his rifle.
Before he could shout a warning, Bolan was upon him with the silent ferocity of a nocturnal predator.
He clamped a hand tight across the Arab's mouth, swung him around and smashed the sentry into the low wall. Apart from the grunt of suddenly expelled air, the man was too winded to call out for his comrades.
The Executioner cracked the guy's skull hard against the inside edge of the battlements. The senseless guard released his grip on the rifle. Bolan set down the weapon quietly, lifted the body to the slit and shoved it into space.
There was no scream before the man's broken body struck a soft patch of sand a hundred fifty feet below.
The guard's burnoose had fallen off in the brief one-sided scuffle. Bolan scooped it up and put it on, now disguised like some of the other mercs he'd seen. He moved the bag into the deepest shadows behind the door.
He had barely got the gear hidden from obvious view when he heard the sound of footsteps quickly mounting the tower staircase. Bolan picked up the rifle and was leaning nonchalantly on the wall when the second man appeared, still puffing from the climb.
"Thought I heard something..." There was a lazy Southern drawl in the newcomer's voice. He was one of Ruark's men.
"Yes, so did I," said Bolan. "But there's nothing happening. These old places give me the creeps."
"Yeah, you can say that again. Give me the bush any day." Sounded like this guy had seen action in Africa.
Bolan pulled the cigarettes from his pocket.
He offered one to the Southerner. They lit up and Bolan knew the other man was watching him over cupped hands. He was counting on the fact that there were too many mercs, with fresh recruits still arriving, for himself to be recognized as an outsider.
"Haven't seen you before — you come with that mob yesterday?"
"Nah, the one before that." The guy might be testing him: maybe nobody came yesterday. Bolan needed an identity he could use and fast. He picked the name of a dead man, a merc he knew had got killed in a former mission to Africa. "Scarr's my name. Brendan Scarr."
"Billy Joe Hooker — that's me. You're here just in time for the shooting match. Keegan reckons we'll be on the move within forty-eight hours."
Allyeah, well, what does Bull know?
"Ruark's calling the shots on this contract and I'll wait till I hear him say it," bluffed Bolan.
"Right. Still, I'll be glad to get out of this oven," said Hooker. He glanced back over his shoulder. "I'd better check the tower. Those boys are probably asleep up there." Hooker did not notice the pack lying in the corner as he slipped back through the doorway.
Bolan ground out the butt beneath his heel. It was time for the one-man strike force to sow a few seeds of destruction. Bolan lingered in the shadows, listening to Billy Joe Hooker running up the final flight of stairs. He could hear the muffled chitchat as the merc passed the time of night with the soldiers on duty up there. Bolan stayed motionless as two small figures crossed the courtyard below. He had to get off these narrow walkways, where at any moment he might be challenged by somebody more suspicious of him than that Southern kid. Moving now, he passed through the empty upper chamber of the southeastern tower complex and moved swiftly along the top of the adjacent stretch of wall until he reached the next corner tower.
The door was standing ajar. Bolan ducked inside and saw that this top story was as deserted as the last one. The wooden trapdoor in the ceiling was wide open. The sentry snuffled as he dozed at his post.
The second step down was chipped and loose.
Bolan pulled the slab back carefully and, after setting the digital timer for 09.30 hours, he slipped the first deadly package into the hollow underneath and replaced the cracked step.
He could not risk wiring the main gate. The guards there were bound to be more alert, even at night, so he couldn't place another charge. But, more importantly, if the slightest thing went wrong with his timing, if he had not gotten hold of Kevin by zero hour, then the explosion would end up sealing him inside the castle, rather than stalling the pursuit.
This tower, the one he was now in, was the most important one to blow, for it directly covered the ramp road below it. With the first charge in place, Bolan quickly descended the steps into the courtyard. He hugged a darkened patch by the wall, squeezing in behind a Jeep to survey the new dangers that faced him.
The cleanest hit would have been to snatch Kevin while the boy was asleep and spirit him out of Hagadan. Zayoud was not about to make it that easy for him. The main doors leading into the central keep were floodlit and Bolan could see two big mercs lounging on the steps outside. And they were flanked by four more of the sheikh's own bodyguards. Bolan knew there would be more trusted men stationed right outside the sleeping quarters. He decided the inner sanctum was effectively barred to him. He could not risk a shooting match with Kevin stuck in the middle.
Bolan figured he'd have to wait for the boy to come outside. However, Bolan could still use the remaining hours of darkness to his own purpose... these guys were going to think they were being hit by an artillery barrage!
Zayoud himself could be counted on to be awake for prayers at sunrise. As Bolan attached a smaller charge, set for 09.32, to the underside of the Jeep, he hoped the Baker boy wasn't planning on sleeping in.
The Executioner checked around the long courtyard for the next target of opportunity.
A radio sprouted from the top of the northwestern tower, the corner of the fortress Bolan could not see clearly from his earlier vantage point among the rocks. Too risky. Three men were posted outside the lower entrance, and the guys upstairs were wide awake — at least, slivers of bright light showed through the slit windows near the top. And he could hear the chugging sound of a generator in that direction.
Two things were of paramount importance to him now: transport and ammunition.
At the far end of the yard, the motor-pool sergeant and a couple of his men were still servicing a dark green Land Rover; it had to be Zayoud's own car for them to be working this late. A row of six trucks were parked neatly in line against the courtyard wall.
Two half-tracks and four more Jeeps were aligned at right angles to the other vehicles. The naked bulbs of the work lamps lit the whole area at that end with a harsh yellow glare, which would spotlight Bolan carrying the bulky rucksack.
Two more wooden sheds had been built against the inner wall, about thirty feet farther along from where he was hidden. The first structure was a stable — Bolan could tell by the slightly pungent odor carried on the breeze. He slipped into the narrow alley between the two buildings. The outer shack, with a tar-paper roof, had a small back door hidden from the view of the guards inside the compound. It was padlocked. Bolan removed the multitool from his belt and unscrewed the clasp.
The huge stone walls of Hagadan gave a completely false sense of security to the troops boxed up inside.
Bolan gently pushed the door inward.
The place was stacked from floor to roof with wellmarked crates: there were smoke grenades, frags and incendaries; boxes of 7.62 mm ammunition, 9 mm and even some old British .303's; feed belts and a couple of mortars; half a dozen containers stenciled in Russian held greased AK-47's. Everything Zayoud needed to launch his treacherous coup. And Bolan's actions had forced his hand — he had to strike soon or lose any advantage of surprise. Bolan left three more charges strategically placed deep within the ammo dump. He timed them all for 09.33.
He was locking himself into a tight schedule.
He shut the door and replaced the clasp. A loose plank in the side of the stable gave him access to the hiding place he needed. The big white stallion, the one he had seen in the satellite photographs, snickered softly in the shadows.
Bolan stood at the end of his stall and whispered, "Easy, boy." The horse quieted down.
Bolan tested the ladder for noise, then climbed into the warm scented darkness beneath the sloping roof. Within moments both he and the stallion were resting easily.
12
Bolan awoke, refreshed, before the native troops began their early-morning prayer ritual.
A couple of trucks went out, followed by Harrison standing in the back of a Jeep. Bolan watched the patrols leaving and scanned the yard through a knothole under the eaves of the hayloft.
Zayoud strode over to the communication center, snapping orders at various men he passed.
There was a shouted commotion from atop the southeastern tower. Someone had spotted the guard's body from the parapet. A squad ran down toward the main gate, detailed to check out what had happened to the man. Hassan Zayoud reappeared, disturbed by the sudden confusion. Impatiently he tapped a leather riding crop against his leg, waiting for the report on the sentry.
Bolan heard footsteps close by. Bull Keegan and Billy Joe Hooker, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, paused by the stable wall. They had no idea that the guard's attacker was only a few feet above them listening to every word.
"Probably fell off the wall," commented Keegan, with a derisive snort. "They're all a bunch of jerks. Still, nothing's going to stop Zayoud now. We're parading at 16.30 and going in tonight. By tomorrow afternoon there'll be a new king."
"Yeah," said Billy Joe Hooker, "then I'm going to find me one of those Arab chicks and look at what they've been hiding tinder those veils. If I like what I see, I'm gonna have a little fun with her on the spot."
"And if you don't?"
"I'll tie the veil back on and have her anyway!" said Billy Joe, laughing.
"Uh-oh, here comes Zayoud. Let's get scarce or he'll be ordering the lot of us out on another patrol..."
"Where's Captain Ruark?" snapped the prince.
Captain now, thought Bolan. Ruark never made it past sergeant last he heard.
Keegan doubled away smartly to find the mercenary commander. Billy Joe Hooker sidled off in the other direction to avoid being picked for patrol duty.
There was movement all over the yard. The mechanics were giving each vehicle a final inspection. A bunch of recently arrived mercs were gathered round a blackboard, being tested on the layout of the city and their target assignments. The court falconer was talking quietly to his hooded charges.
Bolan crept down from the loft.
The main gates were being dragged wide open. A convoy of six more trucks, plus two Saracen armored cars, rolled into the fortress. The squad, carrying the ambushed sentry's remains, staggered in behind the new vehicles.
Bolan took advantage of all this activity.
He waited till the passing trucks effectively blocked any view of the stable, then confidently walked out into the morning sunlight. A couple of Arab recruits to Zayoud's cause sat nearby listening to a third soldier lecture them on stripping a Bren. The corporal seemed to be stuck...
"Try the body-locking pin next," suggested Bolan brightly. Within moments the stranger was showing them the finer points of field-stripping the sturdy British weapon — just one more merc passing on his trade.
A crowd came spilling out down the steps of the main complex — chow time was over. One of Zayoud's shiny-eyed devotees saw the lookout's body and began wailing in grief. The sheikh himself had gone over to inspect the battered corpse and now had some very pointed questions for Ruark. Another Arab trooper came across to join Bolan's informal lecture group. He interrupted them with the news that their comrade certainly had not been shot or stabbed.
The American shrugged and redirected their attention to the light machine gun. "Okay, like I was saying, you've got to watch the gas gauge. That's this knob here..."
Ruark had called a couple of his men over and was grilling them in front of Zayoud. Bolan's hand never strayed more than a few inches from the Uzi, which he had placed on the corner of the groundsheet. He showed no particular interest when Kevin skipped down into the courtyard. The boy waited by Zayoud's elbow until the prince glanced around with an impatient greeting.
Bolan was too far away to hear their brief conversation, but he did see the sheikh wave toward the stable with a distracted gesture of approval. Kevin crossed to the wooden shed almost at a trot, as if he were trying to get there before Zayoud could change his mind. Bolan returned his attention to the trainees.
"Right, now see if you can do it without any help from me. Come on, you can unscrew the barrel faster than that — it won't break off in your hand!" He rose from a half-crouching position and by pretending to watch the men working on the gun from a different angle, he moved around for a better view of the yard.
Kevin led the stallion out from the stable. He was a magnificent horse — not pure white, after all, but more of a silvery gray — with wide nostrils and intelligent eyes. His rippling muscles bespoke the speed and stamina of the finest Arabian stock. The youngster gave just the slightest twitch to encourage the horse to follow him around the perimeter.
The sheikh had left Ruark to interrogate more of his men. "Just walk him for a while," he instructed Kevin. Then Zayoud turned in Bolan's direction. "You come here!"
Bolan was not sure he had been the one Zayoud was addressing. He saw Billy Joe Hooker tapping his chest, an inquiring look on his face.
"Yes, you'll do!" barked the sheikh. "Stay with the boy while he exercises my horse." Then Zayoud stalked back up the slope to see if Ruark was any nearer solving the mystery of the guard's violent demise.
"It's okay, Billy Joe, I'm finished here. I'll look after the boy," Bolan assured him. "You find some place to catch up on your beauty sleep. We're going to need to be rested up before tonight."
"Thanks, Scarr." Hooker gave him a sly grin and wandered off to leave "Brendan Scarr" on kiddie patrol.
Bolan caught up with the teenager.
"Expensivelooking horse, what's he worth? A million for stud?"
"Malik's worth a lot more than that!" scoffed Kevin. He did not seem to be unduly uncomfortable or under great stress. His jeans were freshly laundered, his short-sleeved shirt was neat and he wore a new pair of running shoes. The boy looked healthy and well cared for — and not at all like someone being held against his will. Bolan ambled alongside, considering his next move very carefully. Time was running out.
"Are you an American?" asked Kevin out of idle curiosity. It was just something to say, he didn't seem to be especially homesick.
"Yeah... at least, that's what it says on my passport," replied Bolan, still playing the battle-weary merc.
"These guys are from all over the world, quite a few from England."
"Well, we're paid to be here," said Bolan. "But what are you doing so far from home? Shouldn't you be in school someplace?"
Kevin shrugged. It was something he did not want to talk about.
Bolan risked pushing the point. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Why do you ask that?" shot back Kevin.
"Are you?"
"Yes, kind of..." Kevin was looking down at the sand when he said quietly, "So am I... sort of... but that's, well, that's all behind me now."
They had passed the communications center and were halfway along the north wall. No one was in earshot. Bolan made sure of that before he told the boy, "No, Kevin, it isn't all over, but you can face up to it. You can still wipe the slate clean."
The youngster stopped in his tracks at the mention of his name. There was something firm yet truthful in the stranger's tone.
Bolan fished out Mrs. Baker's locket. "Your mother gave me this, Chip."
"My parents sent you to take me back?"
"No, Chip, they didn't. But I have come a long way to ask you to return home."
Kevin shook his head in disbelief. He was very wary now. "Hassan said that someone would try to get through."
Bolan stopped to pet Malik behind the ears. He could only hope their conversation appeared innocent enough to any onlookers. "Do you know what you're involved in here?"
