Charter Arms Bulldog snugged in an ankle holster, a last-minute gift from John Kissinger before leaving for the mission.
He was loaded for bear, sure, but so were the two men, and perhaps a third, trying to kill him. Death, Grimaldi could handle, but he was the barrier standing between these men and his old friend. If they wanted to get to Striker, they’d have to do it over the ace pilot’s dead body.
It sure as hell wasn’t the first time someone had tried.
Peals of gunfire echoed throughout the alley, intensified, telling Grimaldi that the men had seized on his pause to reload. Whipping the Ingram around the corner, he fired blind, emptying one-third of a clip in his attackers’ direction. Chew on that, you bastards, he thought. He followed up with a second, more intense burst. Judging by the pause in return fire, he’d driven them under cover, at least for a moment.
A slight shift in the building’s shadow caught his attention. Even before it clicked in his mind, instinct warned him of immediate danger. Still crouching, Grimaldi folded his body around the corner, saw a gunman slipping along the length of the building toward him. He triggered the Ingram. The stubby weapon roared to life, spitting jagged columns of flame, a cloud of acrid smoke. Rounds drilled into the approaching man’s chest and throat, stopping him cold and pushing him backward. The man’s assault rifle clattered to the ground as he crumpled in a dead heap.
Even as the dead shooter fell, Grimaldi was turning his attention to the hardman situated behind the car. A hand popped up over the trunk and Grimaldi saw that it clutched something.
Grenade!
Firing low, Grimaldi swept the Ingram in a tight arc, dispatching a swarm of .45-caliber rounds underneath the car. The way he saw it, this was his best bet. If he gunned for the hand, he had a better than average chance of hitting it. If he tried for the man’s crouching body, and more specifically, his legs, the pilot improved his own odds of survival.
He hoped.
As the Ingram clicked dry, he heard the man scream. Shifting back into the doorway, Grimaldi folded in on himself. If he was lucky, the guy had dropped the grenade, releasing the spoon and activating the explosive. The man and the armored vehicle would absorb most of the explosion and shrapnel.
If he was lucky. If not…
The weapon exploded, sending waves of heat and shrapnel buzzing through the alley. A grinding noise, metal on concrete, followed and Grimaldi had to assume the explosion had knocked the car up on its side.
Grimaldi reloaded his weapon and got to his feet. He peered furtively around the wall, trying to present as small a target as possible. He saw the vehicle on its side, corpses spread around it.
He felt something behind him, turned, his muscles tensing for another confrontation.
“Easy, Jack,” Bolan said.
Grimaldi relaxed, grinned. “Easy? Easy my ass. This is some of my best work.”
MINUTES LATER Mack Bolan shoved his POW hard into a chair, causing it to creak and slide back several inches. The man, a Pakistani dressed in jeans and a gray athletic sweatshirt, glowered at his captors. A few extra minutes of drawing breath apparently had emboldened him into thinking he was in the clear.
Bolan was about to show him the error of his ways.
“Shallallab. Where was he going?” Bolan asked.
The man sat mute.
“Was he going to see Ramsi al-Shoud?”
A flicker of recognition lighted the man’s eyes before fear doused it back out. He remained silent.
“Where is al-Shoud?”
Nothing.
Grimaldi spoke. “The problem with you, Striker, is, you give people too damn much leeway.”
“Shut up, Ace,” Bolan growled.
“I’m just saying—”
“I’m just saying shut up. So shut up.”
“Maybe he doesn’t speak English.”
“He speaks English.”
Grimaldi turned back to the man. Raising his voice, he asked, “You speekie English?”
The man looked insulted, but said nothing. “I think you’re wrong,” Grimaldi said. “He doesn’t speak English. Hell, he doesn’t seem smart enough to speak his own language.”
“Bullshit,” Bolan said. “He spoke English like a pro ten minutes ago. He’s just playing stupid.”
“Doing a good job of it, too,” Grimaldi said. “So I suppose we’re going to sit here all night, coddling this dumb-ass until he decides to talk. Him. A guy that doesn’t speak English. I’m telling you, you’re wasting your damn time with this.”
Bolan made a grim face, turned away from the prisoner. “So what the hell do you suggest?”
“Remember Kabul?”
“Don’t even go there with me, Jack.”
“See that’s what I’m talking about. You’re too soft on these people.”
“And you’re mental.”
“I’m just saying it worked in Kabul. It’ll work here. That guy suddenly remembered his English really good after we did that to him.”
“I’m not letting you cut this guy’s balls off, Ace. It’s not going to happen.”
Bolan glanced over his shoulder, saw the man sitting stiff, eyes about to pop out of their sockets.
“What about his ears?” Grimaldi asked. “Can I cut them off?”
Bolan thought about it for a moment. Finally he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “That’s not so bad. You know, you can’t just go around cutting off a guy’s privates. Not right out of the gate, anyway. You gotta at least give him a chance to cooperate. It’s only fair.”
Grimaldi pulled a switchblade from his jacket pocket. He clicked it open with a metallic snick, held it up to the light so it glinted.
“But the ear’s okay?”
Bolan shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
An evil grin twisted at Grimaldi’s lips. “Righteous,” he said.
The words practically exploded from the man’s lips. “Please,” he said. “I will talk about Shallallab and al-Shoud. I want to tell everything.”
And he did.
BOLAN AND GRIMALDI climbed aboard a Black Hawk helicopter and slipped into the front seats. Each man carried a heavy gear bag packed with weapons and equipment, Bolan had laid his next to his seat, allowing him to perform a last-minute weapons check during the flight.
His right foot positioned on the gear bag to keep
