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 nothing.
Seventy-five rounds. Not enough to kill a terrorist group with.
But enough to make a start.
The second of the two corpses was the larger of the two, and Bolan began to strip the dead man of his clothing, intending to masquerade as an Arab in the predawn gloom. His appearance might survive a glance, but if somebody stared for more than a few seconds, the flimsy cover would be blown. Bolan pulled the long garment over his head, only to find it was too tight in several places.
Using his knife, he cut several large holes along the seams, under the arms and down around his legs. When it came to combat, the robe would have to be quickly discarded. Replacing the knife in its sheath and slinging the AK-47, Bolan slouched as he made his way down to the village, hopefully looking like a sentry who was bored and tired to anyone who happened to glance his way. The sand shifted under his feet as he trudged down the side of the dune. Would they notice his combat boots under the robe? One of the dead terrorists wore running shoes, while the other had on flip-flops.
His plan of action was foolhardy in the extreme, but he wanted to know if Qutaiba was there. The drone’s Hellfire missiles would blow the place to kingdom come, and if there was no body left to identify, then Qutaiba could very well be elsewhere. Besides, Bolan was also more than a little curious about what the terrorists were plotting.
He fully intended to find out. The hard way if necessary.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
It was ten o’clock in the evening when Barbara Price returned to the Computer Room in the Annex. Other business had taken her to the farmhouse. She found Hal Brognola—liaison between Stony Man and the White House and joint founder of the Farm—sitting next to Aaron Kurtzman, peering bleary-eyed at the cyberwizard’s monitor. The drone’s-eye view showed Bolan’s location in real time.
Brognola looked up and gave Price a weary nod. She handed him a weak, tired smile before sitting. Kurtzman transferred the image to the main wall screen.
“Status?” Price queried.
“While you were away, Striker eliminated a two-man patrol and is now circling the village. My guess is that he’s making his way toward this building.” Kurtzman used a laser pointer to indicate which building it was. “We believe that it’s a vehicle pool. Striker probably intends to disable anything he finds there.”
“How much longer can the Reaper drone stay in the area?”
“It will stay as long as needed,” Brognola stated. “The President has given this op special consideration—the pilots at Cannon are aware of that.” The Reaper’s pilot was operating the drone out of Cannon Air Force Base near Clovis, New Mexico.
“I sense a but,” Price said. “A big one.”
The men looked at each other briefly before looking back at Price. “Striker may be in a lot of trouble within the next few minutes.” Kurtzman sighed. “We’ve been monitoring this patrol hurrying back to the village. We believe that they’ve found the lost bag.”
“So security will be suddenly increased. That will be awkward. And?”
“And two trucks are rapidly approaching the area. One is full of warm bodies. The other less so.”
“More troops and increased awareness. Can we take out the trucks?”
“The drone could do it, but the explosion will alert the camp. Cannon is on hold, waiting for instructions. There is an Air Force colonel itching to take the place out, man on the ground or not.”
Price grimaced. The military was always looking to fire its guns at anything that moved. She eyed the situation, watching as the figure believed to be Bolan slipped into the largest building.
“The Yemeni army?”
“Is on standby, just outside Aden. The government has been protesting being kept in the dark about foreign incursions on their sovereign soil,” Brognola stated.
Price grimaced again. There were elements in the Yemeni army that would love to send a warning to their terrorist friends. So far the Yemenis had been told nothing, only to keep a focus on a certain direction, the opposite from which Bolan now operated.
She watched the large screen as the terrorist patrol entered the village, the sudden gathering of men around them, of Bolan slipping out of the building, working his way around the back to the smallest hut, stopping, moving in, waiting…then a bright flash where the group of terrorists were. Flickers of light, probably muzzle-flashes from Bolan’s position.
Engagement!
“Instruct Cannon to take out the truck with the most terrorists. Hold back on the other Hellfire missile. Striker might need it later.”
Kurtzman hurriedly relayed the orders; hopefully a pilot would be able to engage the truck in time. Then all three watched as the Executioner went to war, fighting overwhelming odds. Again.
Yemen
FIRST LIGHT.
The garage was to be his first destination. Bolan decided to disable all the vehicles, bar one, which he would commandeer for his extraction.
The soldier had surreptitiously worked his way around the village, avoiding the men who would shoot him on sight. None of them were Qutaiba, of that he was almost certain. None of the terrorists showed any deference to a leader. They seemed satisfied with talking among themselves. Bolan was now content that this was a transit camp. There was no litter, no animal dung, nothing to suggest previous habitation. When the drone strike came, no civilians would be injured or killed.
The soldier worked his way around the back of the mud-brick buildings, crouching, head down. He passed through a narrow alley, more of a gap, between the fourth structure and the garage, taking in the main street, two clusters of men, the closest twenty feet away. Bolan slipped into the garage unobserved.
He found three 4x4 vehicles, all identical. One was parked slightly forward of the rest, its fender protruding slightly outside the building. All three were dark green UAZ-3151 all-terrain vehicles, sometimes referred to as GAZ-69, former Soviet Union. Bolan hadn’t seen this type of vehicle for a while. The UAZ, like the AK-47 rifle, was known for its easy maintenance and reliability. With the collapse of the USSR years earlier, many had been sold off. It was the perfect transport for the terrorists: old enough not to be noticed and reliable enough to get them quickly around the desert. All three showed their age, both inside and out, but that did not bother Bolan. What did interest him was the ignition key in the first vehicle’s slot. Bolan smiled grimly. At least something would go right on this mission. The only question was would the vehicle start?
Bolan turned sharply at a sudden noise that emanated from the rear of the building. Somebody was moving around by the third UAZ. Bolan drew the silenced Beretta and crept forward. He could now see a faded light beneath the vehicle, a flashlight whose batteries were all but finished. A man was working his way from under
