taken him under its wing, faith or no faith, molding him into what he was today. He’d discovered a talent for leading and planning, one that the Mullahs, the mad, hypocritical Mullahs, encouraged. Qutaiba felt he was using them as much as they used him and didn’t care if they knew it.
Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Israel, Kenya—all had suffered from his wrath. But still he felt empty; nothing filled the void that he dragged around with him. Maybe, just maybe, the emptiness would go within a day or two, for then would come his greatest attack, one so simple that the Americans would have no time to respond, just as Aya and Ajmi had had no time to respond.
Qutaiba shook himself out of his reverie, closing the door on the ghosts. Blinking, he sat up on the camp bed, cursing as the pain of pins and needles surged through his sleeping left arm. Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabbed the half-filled plastic cup of cheap red wine and took a sip. Not being a devout Muslim had its advantages. He grimaced. The wine had warmed. Awful. Scraping his tongue against his teeth to remove the foulness of the warm wine, he replaced the glass next to a notebook, which he knew he should not have. But there were certain details of the operation that he needed to be reminded of and the notebook was invaluable.
The wooden door opened, and the candle almost gutted itself as an imposing figure stepped into the room. The door slammed shut behind him, the figure neither caring about noise or the intrusion. Qutaiba didn’t need to look up from his position to know who it was. Only Hakim Haddad would enter so, only Haddad lacked the manners and the sensibility to knock first. Only Haddad could repulse him more than all the Americans and Israelis put together. The man was a complete animal, and Qutaiba had to wonder if Haddad had finally come to kill him. Qutaiba’s AK-47 was propped against the wall next to the door, now out of reach. He tried and failed to suppress the shudder that ran through him. To hide it, he reached out for the wine, preferring its foulness over the presence of the Afghan visitor. He heard Haddad’s sharp intake of breath and smiled slightly, noting once again how easy it was to rile the fanatic.
“What do you want, Hakim?” The tiredness in his voice came as a surprise.
“The first group has arrived at the destination. They will begin their attack at the correct time. The rest of our group will arrive shortly. The men are eager for battle. They wish to bathe in the blood of infidels.” Haddad’s voice was a growl, and Qutaiba wondered if Haddad wanted to bathe in his blood, as well. The man certainly viewed him as an infidel, and only the orders of the Mullahs had kept the two men apart. Qutaiba finally turned to look up at the towering Taliban dressed in traditional Perahan Tunban clothing. Whereas Qutaiba grieved the loss of his child every moment, Haddad had actively murdered his own daughter in an honor killing, never blinking, never mourning. The very thought revolted Qutaiba. He wanted the monster gone, out of his single mud-brick room.
“Anything else?”
“I sent extra patrols out. Some men saw something fall out of the sky. They went to look.”
“Fall out of the sky? A bird?”
Haddad glowered. The man was a powder keg; the slightest perceived insult would provoke him. Qutaiba tried to keep his mocking tone in check.
“Perhaps. Or it was a spy or a robot drone. I sent them to look.”
“Yes, Hakim, you did well. Keep me informed.”
Haddad’s demeanor didn’t change as he turned and left the hut. The hate stayed in his eyes. Qutaiba closed his own eyes. It was so debilitating to work with these people, but it was a necessary evil. They were nothing more than cannon fodder. They would all be dead and gone within the next few days; maybe even he would be dead. There was an escape plan, one the pawns did not know about, but Qutaiba didn’t know if he wanted to use it. That empty aching void was dragging him down. The plan would kick into action soon, an attack against the hated enemy, one that would not be forgotten. And during that attack, he would make his peace with Aya and Ajmi, begging their forgiveness as he rushed to join them. It would happen soon.
Nothing could stop it.
* * *
MACK BOLAN, LYING on his stomach, observed the comings and goings of the terrorists from his vantage point atop a large sand dune. Even in the predawn gloom he could clearly see that the men were no normal villagers. Armed with AK-47s, they kept up a loose, sloppy guard. These were men not expecting trouble. They seemed more excited about something than keeping an observant lookout. Bolan could occasionally hear their enthusiastic conversation, even from three hundred yards away, the words too indistinct to discern. He had found this outpost an hour earlier and been in position ever since. It was obvious from the ground that this was no true village. Not one of the mud-brick buildings had been finished, there was no main road leading anywhere, and there were no animals of any kind, not even a chicken.
Situated as it was between the hills and sand dunes, Bolan could conclude that the village had been constructed for only one reason: a hiding place for terrorists. They would know that drones regularly flew overhead, so hiding out in the open made perfect sense. But this place wasn’t yet completed, and that ruined the illusion. Plus, the buildings were too uniform, ten in total, five facing five, with a dirt track between them. No, the village wasn’t complete. They should have waited before occupying the buildings. Yet they didn’t wait, which meant to Bolan that an operation was being planned.
He had counted ten men so far, but no doubt there were more. He managed to identify the barracks building. It was the largest at the end away from him, and most of the activity was focused there. Qutaiba would not be there, being too important too mingle with the common troops. The building opposite was equally large, designed to house vehicles. There was a slight glow emanating out of the darkness, the only unnatural light to be seen. The soldier thought that he could make out a fender of one vehicle but was too far away too be sure. The other buildings were much smaller; the smallest was closest to him. It could contain only a single room, and he had just witnessed a large man enter for a few moments before leaving again. An outhouse, maybe?
Dawn was approaching. He needed to quickly scout out the village, a quick in and out before the morning sun truly arrived. The activity down below seemed to be increasing, and Bolan suspected that the enemy would move out soon, assigned missions to kill and destroy. Time to pay them a visit.
Bolan waited for the two-man patrol to return. In the darkness they had passed him, supposedly on duty but in reality discussing a whorehouse in Aden. He had learned rudimentary Arabic some time ago as part of his ongoing war against terror, and while tough local dialects were hard to follow, these two had spoken clearly enough to be understood.
They were fast approaching, eager to return to the barracks, discussing something about boats and trucks and laughing quietly to themselves. Bolan pushed himself back into the sand as he quietly raised his Beretta 93-R. Once again they passed by Bolan, paying him no heed. He couldn’t wait much longer. In seconds they would be in sight of the village.
With the Italian pistol cupped in both hands, he settled himself on his elbows. Using the luminous dots painted onto the iron sights, he pointed and fired, once, twice, a quiet sneezing of the sound-suppressed weapon that would be inaudible in the village. A red hole appeared in the first man’s head, followed by a hole in his partner’s. There was barely time for a look of surprise before both terrorists collapsed onto the sand, dead.
Bolan waited a moment to see if the sound of the dying men had been heard. It hadn’t. He holstered the pistol, crawling over to the two corpses. Both had stopped twitching. He quickly removed the two AK-47s, examined them, checked the corpses for extra magazines. One rifle was scratched, pitted, uncared for, and Bolan discarded it after removing the banana-shaped magazine. The other weapon was better. One corpse gave up a single, half-full magazine. The other had
