cautiously toward the garage.
How many men had he killed in the last five minutes? He had no idea, and didn’t bother with a count. Killing was something he would never get used to. His only respite from remorse was knowing that for every enemy he killed at least one innocent life had been saved somewhere. He reached the building without incident. Climbing into the UAZ, he adjusted the seat to fit his six-foot-three frame and inserted the ignition key. The engine turned over once, twice, then fired. Bolan shifted into First and slowly accelerated out of the garage and around the truck. He stopped the vehicle by the ruins of his gear bag and climbed out, leaving the engine running, gearshift in Neutral. Bolan stepped around the corpses of the fallen terrorists and began to retrieve the damaged equipment, not wanting to leave it behind for somebody else to find and then accuse the United States of interference. As he heaved the contents into the back of the jeep, the reserve satellite phone began to buzz. Bolan grabbed it, opening the connection.
“Striker…”
“Get out! Get out now! Run!” Kurtzman yelled.
Bolan dropped the phone to the ground, jumped into the vehicle and threw it into gear. He stamped the accelerator, the driver’s door open, flapping as the vehicle shot away from the village. Behind him, in his rearview mirror, the truck at the end of the village turned into a fireball as the Hellfire missile struck, rendering it only twisted metal. The garage, the burning barracks and several neighboring buildings turned to rubble in a blinding flash. The shock wave shook the UAZ. Bolan fought hard to keep it under control.
The soldier stopped to observe the village when he was sufficiently far away. The buildings that hadn’t collapsed were burning fiercely. Thick smoke rose into the sky from the garage and truck wreckage. He knew that the Yemeni army would be on its way, ready to clean up and take credit for his actions.
It was time to make his way to the rendezvous point, to meet his contact and to get out of Yemen before anybody realized that he was there.
It was destined to be another scorching day in Yemen. The sun was already high, the sky bright blue, not a cloud in sight. Nelson Thompson pushed his shades back up his sweaty nose and took a sip of warm water from the plastic bottle. The contact was late. Thompson would give him a few more minutes before relocating to another position a couple of miles away and waiting there for a short while. If the contact still didn’t show up, then it was time to report in and retreat back to Aden.
Thompson tried to ignore the large column of thick smoke behind him to the east, searching instead to the west where another column of black smoke, this one much thinner, was attracting the attention of several Yemeni army helicopters.
Thompson shifted uncomfortably. He had been born in Phoenix, Arizona, so the desert heat didn’t really bother him. He grimaced as the familiar ache shot through his right leg, a leg he no longer had. He shifted his weight to his left, cursing the phantom pains in his artificial limb.
His official profession was that of freelance journalist, keeping tabs on the political situation in Yemen for several big newspapers back home. Unofficially he was to keep an eye out for terrorist activity and feed the information back to a contact in the Justice Department.
Several years ago he had been a Ranger and loved every minute of it. The training, the assignments, the various wars in foreign countries—it all fulfilled him in a way that life back home in Arizona could not. Then it all changed. He had been at Fort Benning when orders had come in specifically for him. A new assignment, a special job, nobody had known what it was or where he was being sent. The only thing he’d discovered was that an unknown somebody had recommended him.
A week later he’d been standing in a field in the Blue Ridge Mountains, dressed in civilian clothes and armed with a submachine gun and instructed by his new CO, one Buck Greene, to guard a farmhouse with his life. He had been rotated into a team of professional guards known only as blacksuits. Welcome to Stony Man Farm.
He threw himself into his six-month assignment, knowing that the oath he’d sworn would not allow him to discuss the six months with his fellow Rangers back at Benning.
Three months into his rotation he and a small team of blacksuits had accompanied a five-man team on a mission to Central America. Thompson had stepped on a Claymore and lost most of his right leg. That had ended his stint with both the blacksuits and the Rangers.
While in the hospital, a government type had visited him and told him that the blacksuits looked after their own and offered to cover all expenses for any retraining Thompson needed.
Thompson had recovered, accepted the offer and had become a journalist. With a helping hand from his Justice Department contact, he was employed by a national newspaper. Due to his combat experience, he was often sent to war zones. In exchange for the assistance, Thompson had agreed to keep an eye out for anything that might be of interest, particularly terrorist activities in whatever country he was visiting. Never once had he queried why his contact was from Justice and not State.
The previous day he had been leaving Aden International Airport after covering a story about international aid when he had spotted a known terrorist. After sending a text message over his phone using a special number, he’d followed the man at a discreet distance. Once in the desert, when he could no longer follow his quarry, he’d texted that, as well. A reply had come through a few minutes later. The target was being tracked. Meet a man at specific coordinates in the morning and assist him with exfiltration. Nothing more.
Thompson took another sip of water. Still waiting. The game of spies was deadly dull. Apart from the helicopters, apart from the distant long-gone sounds of a car, there had been nothing. No sign of life anywhere. He turned his attention to the larger column of smoke coming from Aden.
As he did so, he felt the cold muzzle of a pistol being pressed behind his left ear. Thompson knew in that dreadful moment that either his skills had deteriorated so much that he deserved to be shot or the guy holding the pistol was the stealthiest bastard he would ever come across. He tensed, waiting for the bullet.
“Six Alpha Green.” It was the sound of a chilling graveyard whisper.
“Alpha Deep Six” was his response. The gun was lowered and Thompson breathed out. He raised his hands cautiously into the air. “May I turn around now?”
“Yeah. But do it slowly and put your hands down.”
Thompson did as instructed and turned to face an apparition from hell. The man was covered in dried blood, sand and combat cosmetics—his face, his hands, as well as the all-too-familiar blacksuit. The man stared back, his ice-blue eyes penetrating deep, inadvertently causing Thompson to flinch. It took the African-American several seconds to find his voice, during which the man holstered his Beretta.
“Shit! You sure know how to make a guy turn white. I must be slipping to have allowed you to sneak up on me like that.” Thompson caught himself babbling and reddened, feeling unprofessional. He tried again. “Hey, um, I recognize you. You used to train with us sometimes. Buck called you Striker. Damn, you were good.”
“You’re making me blush. Where’s your car?”
“Just down the slope, on the other side of the road. I brought some water so you can wash, and a change of clothes. When you’re finished, we can head out to the safehouse. But I have no idea how to get you out of the country quickly. And what should I call you?”
“Cooper.
