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
