out. “He must have dropped it when he lost control during the free fall. The problem is these two guys.” On the screen they could clearly see two shapes advancing toward the gear bag. The bag contained not only Bolan’s long-range weapons but also the transmission equipment needed to contact base. The two men were believed to be a foot patrol, one of several that monitored the area.
“When they open it and find the guns, they’ll run all the way back home and show their treasure to the boss. If it is Qutaiba, then he’ll disappear, and a hunting party will be looking for Striker.”
“And there’s no way we can contact Striker to have him intercept the patrol.”
“No way at all,” Kurtzman confirmed.
“Inform our contact in Yemen that there’s a problem. See what assistance he can offer,” Price ordered.
Kurtzman nodded and immediately got to work.
Southern Yemen
MACK BOLAN STAYED at the landing site for ten minutes, waiting, watching, ignoring the cold night air. Nobody came. He had quickly regained his breath; he had hundreds of hours of experience with parachute jumps and had been extensively trained in what to do when things went wrong, but even so, an uncontrolled free fall was something to be avoided. It wasn’t his first bad experience during a jump, and most likely it wouldn’t be his last.
His biggest worry now was the loss of his specialist weapons and equipment. The electronics would be smashed, the guns damaged beyond use. He was now only armed with two pistols, a .50-caliber Desert Eagle and a Beretta 93-R, with its custom sound suppressor. Two hand grenades hung from his combat webbing. He also had a garrote, the knife he cut the chute with, a small map and compass, a tiny flashlight and two hundred US dollars along with several spare magazines of ammunition in various pouches and pockets. Everything else was gone.
Bolan considered the situation for a moment. The mission objectives hadn’t really changed. He would be able to find the terrorist camp from the map; he would still be able to locate and identify Qutaiba. The only difference was his inability to communicate with the Farm. They would in all likelihood still have him under observation via the drone. If he could find a way to signal them, then the mission was still a go. And if he was unable to do so, then he would find a way to remove Qutaiba himself. Then get out of Dodge, avoid the Yemeni army should they show up, rendezvous with the contact and leave Yemen as fast as possible.
Yes, the mission was definitely still a go.
A thousand things could yet go wrong. The drone might have been called off. The powers that be might decide to fire the drone’s Hellfire missiles despite Bolan being unable to report in. His main parachute might be discovered, alerting the terrorists. And who knew where his gear bag had landed. The mission could go to hell in an instant, but the soldier had been in tight spots before and knew exactly how to get out of them. This time would be no different.
Bolan buried his reserve parachute in a shallow hole that he dug with his bare hands. The warm jumpsuit joined the chute in its grave, unlikely to be seen ever again. Now dressed in his combat blacksuit, he quickly checked his weaponry for damage and for sand blockage, before withdrawing the map and compass. Using the miniature flashlight, he roughly worked out his position. Returning the navigation equipment to a pouch on his combat webbing, he straightened and started a slow jog across the loose sand in what he believed to be the correct direction.
The Executioner had a date with a terrorist.
The solitary candle flickered in the draft from the tiny open window, its flame creating and erasing shadowy images in an instant. The black cloth that covered the opening billowed slightly, held in place by four nails hammered hard into the surrounding wall. Zaid abu Qutaiba lay on his camp bed, his left arm tucked behind his head, using it as a pillow since there was no real one to be found. The arm had long since gone to sleep, and Qutaiba knew that it would hurt like hell when he did eventually move. For now he ignored it, lost in the imaginary world that the candlelight formed.
The dancing shadows shaped themselves into the face of a devil, before shifting to a flower, before reimaging into a racing cheetah. Qutaiba’s eyes remained unfocused, seeing but not seeing. In his mind’s eye he focused on only one image set against the backdrop of the yellow light—that of an old, long-lost photograph of his wife and young son smiling happily. It worried him that he was unable to recall their expressions, their mannerisms, their real faces. The only recall was of the photograph, which he had lost when Mossad had closed in on him in Tel Aviv, when he had been forced to dress as a woman to escape their clutches. The loss of the keepsake felt like a betrayal to their memory, and as punishment, it had made his memories of them decay.
Qutaiba could feel a wet line running from his eye to his ear, but ignored it. It was the Americans, of course, always the Americans. There were plenty of Shiite versus Sunni killings. Those were bad with their constant car bombings and suicide attacks, but the Americans had killed his beautiful wife and son; they were the ones who’d sprayed indiscriminate bullets around the marketplace in Kirkuk, not even sparing a backward glance when they left behind the torn bodies of the “insurgents,” including a five-year-old boy and his mother.
Qutaiba had not been there. Having survived the American-led invasion as a captain in the Republican Guard, he had thrown away his uniform and joined the newly reformed police force instead. He’d never cared for Saddam or his warped sons and wanted so much to help rebuild Iraq, even if it meant cooperating with the American occupiers. They would leave eventually, he had reassured his wife, Aya. But they didn’t leave soon enough. A new phenomenon appeared in American warfare—private armies. Supposedly hired to guard diplomats and protect foreign workers, some of these men took their duties too far and saw Iraq as a free-for-all. Anything could be done. No repercussions.
When a patrol of these private mercenaries had stones thrown at them in the marketplace by disenchanted youths, they had retaliated with extreme violence. The youths were gunned down, along with many other shoppers. When their magazines were dry, the mercenaries clambered back into their jeep and left. He could remember the call of the dispatcher over the scratched and battered radio, summoning all to the scene of the massacre. When he had arrived, he had been physically held back by colleagues, who had found the torn bodies of his family.
There was a blank after that, a large blank. Qutaiba imagined that he could remember the funerals the next day, but there was no definition, no clarity. There was a vague image of throwing away his police uniform, which he had been so proud of, but again that could also have been a fictional memory. What he did remember, like a searing pain, was that there had been no claim of responsibility from the Americans. Nothing. No mention of it anywhere. It was just gone, denied as if Aya and his son, Ajmi, had never existed. He’d felt his faith die along with his family. Revenge, vengeance, hate, it all became the same.
He’d sought out the company of the rebels; he’d known who they were and where to find them from his police days. At first they’d been skeptical, but Qutaiba had showed them what he was made of, leading a devastating attack on the Iraqi offices of the private soldiers responsible for the deaths of those he most valued. He’d slaughtered the men inside, shooting the corpses in their faces until all identity had been erased.
The insurgents had been impressed, but Qutaiba had wanted more. He was hungry for it. He’d vowed to kill Americans and their allies wherever they were to be found. He began kidnapping Western soldiers and civilians, making bargains with them in front of the rebels: if they could kill him in single combat with a knife, then they could go free. The prisoner was
