it is even more important I stop them.”
Sharif nodded. “This I understand. And what I said before I will honor. I will go with you.”
“And I,” called one of the gathered Bedouins.
His offer was picked up by the others.
“We have a duty also to avenge our slain brothers,” said another.
“It is Bedu tradition that those who are wronged must be avenged. It has always been this way. We would be betraying our own if we did nothing,” Sharif explained. “You understand this?”
Bolan nodded. He understood only too well.
“We will leave in the morning. Tonight we rest. Will you share my tent, Cooper?”
“Thank you, Ali.”
THEY ROSE EARLY, THE BEDOUIN leaving Bolan as they said their morning prayer. Breakfast was dates and Bedouin coffee, following which the camp was broken up and packed on two camels. The Bedouin then prepared their weapons, checking and loading the assault rifles they carried. Bolan noticed they were all armed with AK-47s. Sharif explained that the weapon was the common denominator in the region. It was readily available wherever they traveled and could be purchased easily. The Soviet Union military complex, if it was remembered for little else, had sustained a legacy that would survive forever. Some of the men carried handguns and they all, to a man, wore sheathed knives.
Sharif was leading Bolan across to the camel herd when the American paused, looking in the direction of the slope that had brought them into the camp. There had been a single Bedouin on sentry duty since first light. The man had gone.
“Ali, has the guard been relieved from the ridge?”
“Of course not…” Sharif said. He followed the line of Bolan’s gaze, stared at the empty spot, and was immediately galvanized into action, shouting orders to the others.
Bolan had already picked up the rising throb of an approaching vehicle. “They found us.”
The truck appeared above the rim and swooped in toward the Bedouin. The crackle of a machine gun sounded, flat and brittle, sending a line of hot slugs that chewed at the sandy ground then hit a couple of the tethered camels. Blood sprayed the air as the animals staggered, bellowing in pain as they fell. The action galvanized the tribesmen into movement, some turning to reach for their weapons, others running in shocked panic. The firing continued as the truck sped down the sandy slope, the heavy burst ripping into flesh. Two men went down, spinning in stunned agony, disbelief in minds unable to grasp the reality of what was happening.
Sharif stumbled as he neared the cover of the trees, his anger making him turn to see what had happened. On his knees he fumbled with the AK-47, his dark eyes fixing on Bolan.
“You see what these dogs are doing to my people? This will be slaughter.”
Bolan was watching the circling truck, his unwavering gaze fixed on the vehicle. “Maybe not,” he said quietly.
“What are you thinking, Cooper?” Sharif asked. “To attack that truck?”
Bolan’s next act gave Sharif his answer as the tall American moved quickly around the stand of palms, taking cover by the thick trunk of the last in line. He leaned around the palm, settling the AK-47 as he tracked in on the moving truck. He made no indication he had noticed when Sharif joined him, watching in silence as Bolan studied his intended target.
The armed truck spun wildly as the driver worked the gears. The machine gun opened up again, the barrel sweeping back and forth, raking the area with further blistering bursts. The weapon was swung out at an angle, flexible on its universal mount, allowing the gunner plenty of latitude when it came to widening his field of fire. There was a cold efficiency as he targeted more of the Bedouin’s camels. The helpless animals were cut down ruthlessly.
Sharif sighed in despair. The camel was a prized possession within the Bedouin tribes. They allowed the roving tribes to move whenever and wherever they wanted, providing them with far-ranging freedom and independence. Killing them was a direct insult to the Bedouin, showing contempt for them and their age-old traditions.
A half-strangled scream of defiance came as one of the tribesmen ran into view, shaking a clenched fist at the attackers. The robed figure took a stance, raising the assault rifle he carried to his shoulder and opening fire. It was a pointless exercise. The man fired without aiming, allowing his anger to dictate his actions rather than employing cool logic to the situation. All he did was waste his ammunition and present himself as an easy target for the truck’s gunner. There was a chill finality in the way the gunner eased his weapon around, lining up on the Bedouin. The machine gun crackled briefly, directing a white-hot stream of 7.62 mm slugs into the Arab. His body jerked awkwardly as the bullets hammered into him and tore open his yielding flesh.
Bolan fired, taking his cue from the slowing truck as the driver watched the gunner’s handiwork. The AK’s 7.62 mm slugs hit the windshield, shattering the glass. The driver threw his hands up at his pierced face, screaming as keen shards penetrated his eyes. The out-of-control truck made a sudden turn, spilling men from the rear. Bolan raked the hood, sending slugs into the engine compartment, and the vehicle stalled as the power was cut.
The dazed men were hastily climbing to their feet, reaching for dropped weapons.
“Let’s go,” Bolan snapped.
Sharif realized Bolan’s intention, and though he responded quickly he was steps behind the big American as Bolan ran toward the truck, the AK tracking and firing. His first burst took down two of the strike team, knocking them off their feet in bloody disarray. Others returned fire as they found themselves caught by the autofire from the rest of the Bedouin. Bolan kept moving forward. There were enemies to deal with and there was no other way than to maintain the advantage.
One of the attackers got behind the machine gun and swiveled it around to track Bolan’s advancing figure. The moment the Executioner saw the weapon move he dropped to a crouch, bringing him below the immediate trajectory of the muzzle. Before the gunner could realign his weapon Bolan opened fire, burning off a volley that clipped the edge of the truck before locating its human target. The would-be gunner was thrown back, bloody debris exploding from his chest. Bolan angled away from the truck, coming in from the side and caught the next man as he dropped from the vehicle. The warrior’s burst hit the guy in mid-jump, knocking him sideways and dropping him bloody and squirming into the sand.
Sharif gave a warning yell as a second man pushed to his feet from the bed of the truck, clutching a hand grenade. He had pulled the pin when Sharif fired, his burst rippling across the man’s chest. As he fell he dropped the activated grenade. Seconds later the truck was the center of the explosion. The grenade set off stored ammunition and extra fuel cans, and the vehicle vanished in a burst of shivering fire and smoke.
Bolan had a split second to drop to the ground as the truck blew. He buried himself in the sand, hoping that Sharif had done the same. He felt the slap of flying debris across his prone form and sensed the wash of heat from the explosion. Something hard and sharp scored a searing line across the back of his left shoulder. As the heat died away the rumble of the blast began to fade, leaving Bolan with diminished hearing. He shook his head against the effects of the explosion, pushing to his feet, sleeving stinging smoke from his watering eyes.
He was on the periphery of the blast area. Burning chunks of wreckage were strewed around the former camp. One of the Arabs was slapping at a smoldering robe. Within the blast
