later, as dusk began to settle over Pakistan’s capital, causing the temperature to plummet, Bolan reached his quarry’s home. Ensconced in nearby shadows, the soldier scanned the ornate home and the reinforced iron gates that secured it. A trio of black Mercedes, engines running, headlight beams knifing through the wintry gray, waited in the driveway. Was the man coming or going? There was no way for Bolan to know for sure.
A well-lit street separated Bolan from Shallallab’s estate, making a stealthy approach that much more difficult. He knew he’d have to ditch the hooded robe, switch to the combat black-suit hidden underneath and sneak into the grounds. It could add several minutes onto his approach, but Bolan knew it couldn’t be helped. If these men knew about their dead comrades, they’d be on the lookout for an intruder.
A pair of fighter jets flew over low enough that Bolan almost could read their markings. The jet engines’ whine momentarily drowned out all noise and set Bolan’s teeth on edge. As the sounds echoed for another moment in his ears, he smelled cologne, heard the faint scrape of a shoe sole disturbing gravel.
Unleathering the Desert Eagle, Bolan whirled. A bulky man stood behind him, a pistol clutched in a two-handed grip.
“Your mistake,” the man said, grinning.
Fire and sound exploded from the pistol. Bullets pounded against Bolan’s chest like a sledgehammer, the blunt force stealing his breath, causing white flashes of pain to erupt in his vision. His mind raced as an overloaded nervous system tried to assimilate the fiery sensation spreading through his chest. The soldier reeled back, his legs rubbery, and fell to the ground. His skull hit the pocked asphalt, but the pain seemed little more than a distant echo of the pain created by the impact of the bullets.
The man closed in, sighted down the pistol. Bolan knew the kill shot was a heartbeat away.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER, Mack Bolan, sitting in Stony Man Farm’s War Room, studied a photo of former CIA director James Lee. From the chin up, Lee looked as if he were sleeping, eyes shut, but not squeezed tight, mouth parted an inch or so, as though snoring. From the chin down, he looked as though a bear had clawed out his throat, leaving behind a shiny mess or ragged flesh and spilled blood. Bolan stared at the close-up digital image of Lee’s face and felt his stomach knot at the sight.
The Executioner already had seen accounts of Lee’s death in both the Washington Post and the New York Times. He had a cursory knowledge of the situation. Lee, the former CIA director, had been gunned down in an alley in Islamabad less than twenty-four hours earlier. A four-man squad of Diplomatic Security Service officers, all highly skilled with weapons, had also been killed. An unidentified woman had been rescued by local police.
Surrounded by Stony Man chief Hal Brognola, mission controller Barbara Price, pilot Jack Grimaldi and armorer John “Cowboy” Kissinger, Bolan clenched and unclenched his jaws as he memorized the image down to the smallest detail. The fallen man’s left hand rested next to his head, a smooth, gold band encircling the third finger.
“He had a family,” Bolan said.
Brognola cleared his throat, nodded. “Wife, two kids. The kids came later in life, and the youngest is still in high school. I knew Jim. He was a good guy. Bit of a politician, but he believed in what he did, cared about his country. He didn’t deserve this.”
“No,” Bolan agreed, “he didn’t. What do we know?”
“You’re staring at the exit wound from a 9 mm hollowpoint round,” Brognola said. “Judging from the powder burns on the back of his neck and the path of the bullet, someone stood over him, put the barrel against his neck and fired. Jim knew it was coming.”
“He was dead instantly.” It wasn’t a question; Bolan was trying to piece together the facts, picture things just as they went down. What he saw in his mind’s eye thus far made his blood boil. “Who found him?”
“Pakistani state police. Since he was an American citizen, they called in the local FBI team to help investigate. They recovered the round that took out Lee, along with a few dozen stray slugs and shell casings. It was a damn bloodbath, Striker.”
Bolan nodded, but kept his icy blue gaze locked on the picture. “How many nut job extremist groups are claiming responsibility?”
Brognola leaned forward, pushed a folder Bolan’s direction. The soldier trapped it under his big hand and dragged it toward him, found it to be about the thickness of a rural community’s telephone book. Setting the dossier on his lap, he fanned it open and gave its contents—stacks of paper, several with photos held to them with a paper clip—a cursory glance. He knew he’d have plenty of time later to pore through it. He shut it and returned his attention to Brognola, the head of the Sensitive Operations Group.
“To answer your question,” Brognola said, “five extremist groups have taken credit.”
“How many are credible?”
“That’s the real question,” Brognola said. “Four of them are little home-grown groups. Got some AK-47s, some whacked-out ideals and plenty of bad intentions, but not the expertise to pull off something like this. Forget about them.” To punctuate his point, the big Fed waved his right hand dismissively. With practiced ease, he snatched up his cigar from his ashtray, clenched it between his teeth and started chewing.
“You said four don’t have what it takes. What about the fifth?”
“That’s where things get more plausible,” Brognola said. “Barb?”
Using a nearby laptop, Price changed the image on the screen. “This is Ramsi al-Shoud.” A brown-skinned man with raven-black hair and an unruly beard and mustache of the same color stared at the assembled group. The man’s hair had receded well off his forehead, but he’d let it grow down to his shoulders.
Price continued. “Al-Shoud is a former Pakistani army officer. More recently, he was an officer with Pakistan’s intelligence service where he spent a lot of time arming, funding and training extremists so they could terrorize India. It’s estimated that he’s directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of more than two hundred Indian citizens. He also helped give aid and comfort to the Taliban before we went to war with them.”
“You spoke of his affiliation with the Pakistani government in the past tense,” Bolan said.
“Right,” Price said. “The CIA knew about his behavior and had for years. Once Pakistan allied itself with us after September 11, we strongly encouraged them to fire him. They grudgingly complied and retired him four years ago.”
“I take it he hasn’t been puttering around the house, playing with the grandkids,” Bolan said.
Price smiled. “Hardly, Striker. He’s just taken his hate show on the road, but without official sanction, of course. He hates Americans, wants them expelled from the country. We believe he’s behind a recent car-bomb attack on our embassy in Islamabad.”
“Kill anyone?”
“Twelve Pakistanis, no Americans.”
“I assume that’s our fault, too,” Bolan said. He caught the bitterness in his tone and scowled. He’d seen so much innocent slaughter in the name of religion and nationalism that his anger toward extremists groups sometimes spilled over.
“The
