sarin artillery shells. The rest of them appear to be spread out inside on two pallets. We’ve got no time for any more surveillance, or stealth. Sharif’s inside, third man on the left, and he’s got nine buddies with him. They’re all armed with AKs and are chewing on khat.”
The faces of the four men remained grim.
“Ordinarily, I’d flip them a grenade,” Bolan said. “But we can’t afford to set off that nerve gas or we’ll all be facing a very unpleasant end. So you three move to the far end.” He pointed at Johnson, Washington and Miller. “Vargas and I will hit them first. Controlled fire, aim high, avoid hitting those gas shells or it’s all over.”
“Can’t we just back off and call in an airstrike?” Miller asked.
Bolan shook his head. “No time.”
“How about the Black Hawk?” he suggested.
“He’s got enough to do, and I don’t want to take the chance of his rotors stirring up any gas blowback. It’s up to us to take this stuff out. It’s a binary gas delivery system, so unless the rupture plate inside the shell separating the two gases is broken, the gas won’t be lethal.”
Miller grimaced, then nodded quickly.
“What about Sharif?” Johnson whispered.
Bolan considered that. He had a Taser that they hoped to use to stun the terrorist so he could be brought back alive, as ordered, but his first responsibility was to accomplish the mission and bring his men back safely.
“Let’s see how it plays out,” he said. “Chances of taking him alive are slim, and I’m not about to announce ourselves and ask him to surrender. If we can, we’ll recover fingerprints and DNA for identification, but our survival and the destruction of the sarin are our first priorities here.”
The men nodded again and spread out to approach the curtain from either side. Bolan crept back to the right side and adjusted his select lever to full-auto. He waited a few more seconds to give the others a chance to get into position, but then, fate intervened.
The curtain was ripped back just as Johnson was making his way across. The Arab’s face registered initial shock, but then the man shouted something and his comrades sprang for their weapons. One of them, whose weapon was on his lap, reacted swiftly and sent a deadly spray from his rifle. Johnson twisted in the air and crumpled to the ground.
Bolan shot the man firing the AK-47 first, and then the one at the curtain. As the guy dropped to the ground, the Executioner kicked his adversary’s weapon away, then ducked back behind cover and sent a short burst into one of the other gunners. Three of the Arabs crouched behind the forklift, and the others attempted to run for the far side of the room, away from the stockpile of gas-filled artillery shells. Using controlled fire and quick target acquisition, Bolan picked off three more of the fleeing terrorists. That left four more, including Sharif.
Johnson lay in the center of the gravel expanse. Bolan tapped his helmet directing the others to provide cover fire. He then moved toward Johnson, firing his weapon on full-auto as he ran. The others sent a blistering volley toward the jihadists hiding behind the forklift. As Bolan grabbed his Johnson’s vest handle, several rounds zipped by him. He sent a spray of bullets in the enemy’s direction and began dragging his injured comrade toward the protection of the stone archway. Vargas stepped out and grabbed Johnson’s arm and pulled. More bullets bounced around them as they yanked the man to temporary safety.
“See how bad he’s hit,” Bolan told Vargas. His voice sounded distorted and far away, despite the specially designed earplugs that blocked all sudden noise in the dangerous decibel range. The Executioner then reloaded and made another assessment. Two adversaries were still crouched behind the forklift. Two more, one of them Sharif, were running down a long corridor into the darkness going deeper into the building. Bolan concentrated his aim on the farthest man by the forklift and fired. The man ducked back, the rounds generating sparking flashes against the metallic cover. The closest man glanced around, then stood up. He raced forward, shouting in Arabic while turning and firing his weapon at the pallets containing the shells.
“The son of a bitch’s trying to set off the gas!” Miller shouted.
The other Arab’s eyes widened, and he got up and began to run.
The Executioner zeroed in on the shouting terrorist and fired. The man’s head jerked back, then he collapsed to the ground. Miller sighted on the back of the running man and squeezed off a burst, sending him sprawling, face-first to the ground.
Bolan keyed his mic. “Doerr, sitrep.”
“Still at my post, sir. Looks like a hell of a firefight.”
“Keep alert for any reinforcements. Johnson’s down. We’re going inside.” Without waiting for a reply, Bolan motioned for Washington to accompany him, leaving Vargas and Miller at the opening. “Set some charges on these shells. We’ll be back.”
They moved cautiously down the long corridor, cognizant that an ambush most probably awaited them at some point. Bolan took the lead. The residual light from the generator had completely faded, and he flipped down his night-vision goggles again. The area in front of him immediately materialized in a profusion of clear, green luminosity. Scanning the corridor, he saw one man crouching next to a stone abutment on the left aiming his AK-47 at them. Sharif had positioned himself on the other side of the corridor on his partner’s left. He was ensconced behind crumbled sections of large stones. Both men were obviously without night-vision assistance and most likely were relying on sound to locate their next targets.
Bad mistake, Bolan thought.
He fired a quick burst and zippered the first gunner’s chest. As the man fell, the Executioner quickly shifted to his left, flattening against the wall and far from the center of the corridor, anticipating that Sharif would fire at the last muzzle-flashes.
He didn’t disappoint.
A series of bright wisps of flames ignited in Bolan’s green-tinged viewfinder. Seconds later the definitive green world returned to its previous clarity, providing the Executioner with a clear vision of Sharif’s grimly twisted face. Bolan sent another burst into the man’s chest.
Sharif’s body jerked like an errant marionette whose strings had been severed, and he crumpled into a heap. Bolan moved forward at an oblique angle, as Washington moved in from the other side, stepping on the barrel of the first Arab’s weapon then pulling it free.
Bolan rolled Sharif over. Blood poured from the chest wounds.
“You are too late, infidel,” he said, the blood spraying from his lips as he spoke.
Bolan said nothing as he watched the dying man.
Sharif started to say something else, but convulsed several times, and then ceased moving, his eyes no longer focused on anything.
“He dead?” Washington asked.
“Yeah, he is.” Shifting his weapon, the Executioner squatted and tossed the AK-47 aside, then began to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing except matches, cigarettes and a wrinkled paper containing more khat. He keyed his mic to call Grimaldi, but got no response.
“No reception in here,” he said to Washington. “We’re too deep. Go back to the others and get Doerr down here. We’re shoving off as soon as
