the warbirds ground up the Somalis with lead and Hellfires from above, and any capture of Dugula was all but lost. If their job was to cuff and stuff the world’s most wanted international terror mongers, then anything short of bringing Dugula and top henchmen to justice spelled mission failure.
Bolan left the Apache to its Hellfire-and-chain-gun demolition. The command post, with any radar and tracking goodies, was blown away by the warbird, six or so Somalis scythed by 30 mm doom as they were bolting from the flying rubble. Before that round of destruction, the warbird had plowed a missile into one of the transport trucks, dead ahead to Bolan’s twelve, wreckage spewing out of the fireball bowling another canvas-covered transport onto its side.
The soldier cut a wide berth around the hungry flames and oily smoke, his M-16 leading the way, the stink of burning diesel fuel and toasted flesh swelling the air, grinding into his senses as he closed on the cries of panic. His vector, if he nailed the enemy before him in seconds flat, would land him directly in the path of two technicals charging away from the ring of Cobra lead. It was a dust bowl near the C-130’s nose, armed combatants blazing away, he saw, commandos then chasing down Somalis who had decided it was better to flee than stand and fight. It was hard for the soldier to tell which was which and who was who, but a split-second assessment of the numbers of bodies flying from technicals signaled to him the Somalis were clutching the short end of the stick.
Maybe ten Somalis, he viewed, came crawling or staggering out of the bed of their dumped transport. They were lurching to their feet, punch-drunk from the hard topple, AKs jerking in different directions, uncertain where the next immediate threat would rear up.
Bolan took care of their confusion, finger caressing the M-203’s trigger. He dumped the 40 mm fragmentation bomb into their ranks—no point in wasting precious seconds when the prize was maybe on the fly. The blast ripped out the heart of the pack, torn figures kicked in separate directions. Three hardmen with the quickest feet and the most luck, knocked down by the concussive force but clearing the fireball and shock waves, scurried to get back in action. The Executioner tagged the trio with a raking burst of autofire, left to right and back, bodies flung into tight corkscrews, dropping. Two of the warlord’s goons then popped into the soldier’s gun sights on the other side of the downed transport, running for the oncoming technicals, arms flapping as if they were hailing a cab.
Bolan shot them both up the back, flinging them ahead, their arms windmilling, faces hammering down with such force their legs flew up. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Asp charging the Hummer at a group of Somalis pouring AK-47 autofire from the bed of a technical, Python opting to help hose down those survivors still in the fight with his M-16.
Bolan cut his path hard and fast toward the racing technical, drawing target acquisition on three gunmen in the jeep’s bed. Rotor wash from the Black Hawks, hovering thirty yards behind, kicked up a cyclone of grit and dust, obscuring confirmation until the technical was nearly on top of the warrior.
But Bolan pinned down their man, Dugula’s face of terror and outrage framed from the shotgun seat of the technical, the soldier’s attention shifting back to the M-60 gunner who swiveled the machine gun in his direction. There was a moment’s hesitation from the hardman on the M-60, a spray of bullets flying wild past the soldier, before he hit him with a burst of 5.56 mm tumblers and sent him flying. Two Cobra Hummers then burst out of the dust storm, an M-60 roaring, other Cobra commandos racing on foot ahead to help lay waste to the pack of Somalis in the trailing rig.
The Executioner focused on the big catch charging his way.
Dugula, Bolan glimpsed, was flailing his arms, raging at his driver, when he hit the M-16’s trigger. The windshield imploded, a crimson halo where the wheelman had sat bearing grim testament that Dugula was the last passenger. The Executioner sidled away from the unmanned jeep, one last Somali launched from the bed of Dugula’s getaway, then he blew out the port tires with a long burst of autofire. He let it surge past, saw Dugula’s eyes bugging out, mouth vented, a silent scream lost to the din of autofire from some point downrange. Deflated tread slammed down into a rut, and the jeep shot up and over a jagged rip in the land, sailing a few yards, before it flipped onto its side.
THE WORLD WAS a shattered hell of noise, foul smells and choking dust from where he lay, slumped against the door, spitting flecks of blood and glass chips from his lips. Dugula heard the bitter chuckle next, but the sound was chased away by the Black Hawks, the bleat of massive blades a pounding racket that washed fire through his brain. They were nightmare specters suspended in the sky, two giant prehistoric birds of doom.
American commandos! He hadn’t clearly seen the faces of their attackers, but he had been there in Mogadishu when the infidel forces had come to supposedly restore order to a lawless country, when he had been on the shortlist of kill or capture. The infidels had returned.
Black Hawks. It was happening again, only this time it appeared the invaders would create a different outcome. The three white devils had maneuvered him into this trap; he was sure of it. But if they were working with his own Muslim handlers, why? It made no sense, a preposterous riddle without the first clue. He had made every accommodation possible to the freedom fighters, arming them, refuge inside his borders, food, women and qat. Or had they, too, been deceived? Beyond his sense of outrage over the betrayal, pure fear began writhing in his belly.
“You’ll know when it’s begun.”
He ran those words through his mind again, hatred burning. Now what?
His clansmen, he was sure, were all dead. If there were any survivors, could they stand and fight while…?
What? Should he attempt to flee again, but this time on foot? That he was still alive was no guarantee he wouldn’t be shot down in the next few moments. Where was his AK-47? And what would he do if he found the weapon? He was outnumbered, outgunned, alone most likely, autofire withering, no more screams, the lopsided battle winding down. There was a silence beyond the whapping rotors that sparked new fear. There really was no choice, he decided. Escape clearly wasn’t going to happen. Best to die on his feet. If this was the end, it was God’s will. So be it. The least he could do would be to kill as many of the enemy as he could before he was sent to Paradise.
Pinned by Muhmar’s deadweight, he shoved him away, grunting with the effort before he had him wedged between the seats. He scrabbled his hands through the bed of glass on the floorboard, crying out as a sliver jabbed his finger. There. He plucked up the assault rifle, aware at least that one of his enemies was close by. He hadn’t had a good look at the commando who had blasted out the window, sent the jeep careening out of control, trapping him now on his side, but he glimpsed enough of the eyes of the tall dark man to know his own doom was certain, the infidel probably circling the wreck even then.
How could this have happened? he wondered, rage clearing the sludge in his limbs. The attack had been unleashed, all thunder and lightning, instant death and destruction, so fierce it left little doubt they were there to kill him. It had been so easy before, intimidating the UN and Red Cross relief workers, seizing shipments…
It was over.
With the stock of the assault rifle, he punched out a jagged shard, groaning as pain knifed down his neck, reaching a point of fire between his shoulder blades. Nothing felt broken, but he assumed any pain was moments away from ending altogether.
Dugula squeezed through the opening, AK in shaky hands, the warlord unmindful of sharp glass tearing at his clothes. He sensed a presence behind him as he rose, the AK-47 swinging around, ready to kill whoever it was, however many were at his rear. He heard himself snarl, cursing all of this hideous misfortune, finger taking up slack on the trigger, pure murder pumping in his heart. It was the tall dark commando, rolling through the dust, coming out of nowhere, a floating wraith, right on top of him
