Captain Yuli Makal heard his cell phone warble and he plucked it from his pocket. He recognized the number. It was Gogin. “What’s wrong?”
“Baydur. He’s joined the chase for our mystery shooter.”
“Damn—”
“He didn’t buy the story about me getting hit during the mix-up with the Kongras,” Gogin explained. “That politically correct bastard is going to know something’s up when he finds out that Abood was armed. He might match up that it was her pistol bullet, not a Kongra-rifle slug, in my leg.”
“You got rid of the round, though, didn’t you?” Makal asked. Out the window, the Turkish countryside raced past. In the distance, smoke rose from the wreckage of Van, and his stomach knotted.
“Yes. It hurt badly when Sengor pulled it out, but Baydur isn’t going to find her 9 mm,” Gogin said. “We’re clean on that for now. But he’s going to try to take Abood and the mystery man alive.”
“He killed four Jandarma, and she shot you. They’re not going to take the Americans alive,” Makal answered. “If the West wants to give those Communist pieces of trash a soapbox to stand on, let them. That soapbox is going to be their coffin.”
“You’re going to leave that much for them?” Gogin asked with a chuckle.
“Maybe less,” Makal answered. “Keep me up-to-date on how Baydur’s doing. You can hobble around, right?”
“Yeah, but then the earthquake hit. Baydur made it a priority for the Jandarma to assist in search and rescue efforts. Finding our people is on the back burner for them,” Gogin stated.
“So that gives me some breathing room,” Makal concluded. “Good. Keep your nose clean, and don’t give Baydur any reason to think that he’s—Gogin?”
Makal looked down and realized that his cell phone had lost its signal. He sighed. Service only recently installed around the city had been spotty in the first place. The earthquake had to have left entire areas blacked out, and Makal would be cut off from his lieutenant. He turned to the rest of his crew in the vehicle.
“All right,” Makal told them. “We’re not going to be able to talk to Gogin reliably. Some cell-phone towers have been taken out by the earthquake. We’re not completely on our own, but we’d better watch our step. That coward Baydur doesn’t have the nerve to do what has to be done to stop the Commies. So, we have to find Abood and get the location of the warehouse out of her before she or the Kongras get to it.”
“What if the bitch won’t talk?” Sengor asked.
Makal flicked open his knife, then closed it. “Don’t worry. I’ll cut right to the heart of the matter.”
ABOOD SKIDDED THE CAR to a halt. She’d thrown her photographer’s vest over the steering column, and untucked her safari shirt to let it drape over her hips to camouflage that the car was hot-wired. She looked slovenly, but fashion wasn’t on her mind. Bolan had doffed his jacket as well, replacing it with a loose shirt that he’d grabbed off a laundry line. That concealed his two handguns and battle harness as well as the leather coat that now kept Lata and her mother, Terenia, warm.
“What’s going on here?” the sentry asked as Abood rolled down the window. Since Abood knew the language better than Bolan, she decided to do all the talking.
“My photographer and I ran into these people in a collapsed apartment building,” Abood said. “We were bringing them to medical assistance.”
The guard looked back to the relief station, then sighed. “We’re pretty crowded.”
“Don’t worry. Brandon managed to clean her wounds and bandage them,” Abood explained.
The guard leaned in, and Bolan gave him a friendly smile and a wave.
“Can I see your identification?” the soldier asked.
Abood handed over hers.
“His too,” the soldier added.
“He lost it…and his bag in the earthquake,” Abood said. “I barely pulled him to safety before the whole place fell down on us. All he has is the shirt on his back.”
Bolan turned out his pockets, which were empty, then shrugged.
“Doesn’t he speak Turkish?” the soldier asked.
“Do you speak Arabic?” Bolan asked haltingly, in that language.
The soldier frowned. “Yes. What happened?”
“I lost everything trying to help these people. I set down my camera bag to help the woman and her child, and the ceiling collapsed before I could get it back. If Catherine hadn’t yanked me through the window—” Bolan shuddered convincingly.
The soldier looked at the people in the back seat. He switched back to Turkish.
“Is what these people are saying true?” the soldier asked.
“Yes!” Lata spoke up. “He saved us! He knocked down a wall and everything!”
Lata flexed her slender arms, as if to show off her muscles.
Abood chuckled.
“So, Mr….?” the soldier asked, returning to Arabic.
“Brandon Stone,” Bolan replied. “Just helping out when I can.”
“Well, thanks,” the soldier answered. “Do you think you can find your hotel? It might still be standing, and it’s better than adding four people to this camp.”
“All right, sir,” Abood said, slipping easily into Arabic as well.
Lata and Terenia got out of the car, and the woman and girl leaned through the window and gave Bolan a grateful hug and a kiss. Bolan and Abood waved goodbye to them.
“I’m sorry,” the soldier explained. “We’re pretty packed here as it is. You’ll probably fend better with the other westerners.”
Abood nodded. “I understand.”
“Mr. Stone?” the soldier asked.
“Yes, sir?” Bolan waited for the soldier to speak.
“Thanks,” the Turk replied.
Bolan extended his hand and the two men shook.
“Good luck,” the soldier replied.
Abood pulled away and headed toward her hotel.
“Brandon, we’re running low on gas,” Abood said. She frowned. “I don’t think too many gas stations will be safe.”
“No. The underground tanks might have ruptured and leaked,” Bolan added. “Look,” he said.
A column of fire blazed at the corner of an intersection. Jets of flames spit up from where the gas pumps would have been. Here and there on rooftops, tar paper smoldered where licks and sparks landed from the pillars of fire. People gave the station a wide berth.
“This is some kind of nightmare,” Abood said.
The car sputtered and died.
Bolan looked at the dashboard and sighed. “I shouldn’t have left you driving around.”
“You were saving lives. Don’t apologize.”
Bolan looked around, trying to figure out where they could get more fuel. The gas station was indicative of the kind of horrors they’d run into if they went to other stations. While they wouldn’t necessarily be spewing flames, there would be the danger of sparks, or broken pumps from the earthquake, making it impossible to get more fuel. He scanned the surrounding area. He could siphon fuel from parked vehicles. Finding a length of hose would prove no problem.
The crack of a shotgun down the road cut through his planning instantly.
“Kill the engine and stay put,” the Executioner ordered.
More gunfire barked, fast and furious. Not quite full-auto, but enough to tell Bolan that there was more than one gunman.
“More trouble,” Abood murmured. “Let me—”
“Stay put and guard the car,” Bolan said sharply as he slid out the passenger door, USP Compact in hand. “This might be a distraction. Besides, if I’m lucky, I might get us something more substantial than our pistols.”
Abood nodded and disconnected the ignition wires. The engine died and she eased her hand under her open blouse, fingers wrapping around the thin rubber grips of her customized Beretta.
Bolan raced along, pistol aimed at the ground, finger resting along the frame over the trigger guard. The 9 mm gun had no safety catch, but it would only fire with a deliberate pull of the trigger. He didn’t want a stumble to discharge his pistol unintentionally. He tucked himself in a doorway and saw a trio of ragged-looking gunmen, armed with pistols and a shotgun, exchanging fire with someone hidden in a storefront.
Looters.
Bolan brought the pistol to bear, then lowered it. The gun was accurate, but the range was nearly forty yards to the concealed gunmen. The pistol fired 9 mm hardball ammo, which would limit the gun’s stopping power. He holstered the weapon and pulled out the more powerful Jericho. It would give him better reach, and the heavy barrel and frame made the .40-caliber handgun as accurate as it could be. He snicked off the safety, rested the silhouette of his front sight on the lower back of the shotgunner and eased back the hammer.
The shotgunner pumped his weapon again and took aim, and Bolan took that moment to trigger the Jericho. It roared once, a heavy-caliber slug crashing into the looter’s spine and shattering it on impact. The other two gunmen whirled as their friend fell, and Bolan swept the Jericho to chest level. He tapped out two more shots that punched into the chest of a predator who had spotted him before his partner. Both flat-point rounds hammered into the Turkish outlaw’s rib cage and threw him onto his back.
Bullets bounced off the ground as the second gunner triggered his weapon too low. One of the slugs knifed across Bolan’s thigh before the Executioner triggered a round into the looter’s throat. The jacketed lead shoveled through the would-be killer’s windpipe and burst in a gory mess through his neck bones.
Bolan was about to take a step forward when a man stood in the window of the store. The store owner worked desperately with the bolt action of his rifle, then saw Bolan step into the open, pistol pointed skyward, other hand empty.
“Go away!” the Turk shouted. He levered the jammed rifle at Bolan’s chest, but he didn’t have a good grip on the weapon. “Go away!”
Bolan stopped his approach, and realized that the man was too frightened to comprehend the Executioner was there to help. He put the Jericho away in its holster, then turned and walked back to the car. He didn’t look back as he finally heard the panicked store owner chamber a round into his rifle.
Bolan realized that even a half-empty shotgun would have given them an edge in case they’d run across Jandarma shock troopers on the hunt, but he wasn’t going to antagonize a frightened defender by looting for firepower.
Abood looked at him from behind the steering wheel as she twisted the ignition wires together.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Someone thought they could get a 9 mm discount at a store,” Bolan said, getting into the car. He sat back.
“You didn’t get anything?” Abood continued.
“It wasn’t worth the risk to press the issue,” Bolan explained. “We’ll have to keep our eyes open. We not only have Kongras and Jandarma, but there are looters as well. And stealing a car might be dangerous.”
“The citizens are over their shock, and those sticking by their homes aren’t going to take too kindly to thieves,” Abood said.
“Exactly,” Bolan answered.
Abood stepped on the gas pedal, but the car sputtered and died. She tried the ignition wires again, but there wasn’t even a spark as they touched. “Great. Battery died.”
“We wouldn’t have been able to get much farther,” Bolan conceded. “Let’s go.”
Abood got out of the car, tucked in her blouse, then put on her photographer’s vest. She looked back toward where Bolan had his firefight. “Can’t go that way.”
Bolan looked at the blazing gas station. “We’ll cut back and cross over a couple blocks.”
He looked at her. “Down that road is a direct line to the warehouse, isn’t it?”
Abood nodded. “Yeah.”
Bolan looked back in that direction. “So who did you find that out from?”
“I have my confidential sources,” Abood said, walking. Bolan had no trouble keeping up with her pace, even though she walked angrily at a ground-eating rate.
Bolan took a deep breath. “It was a relative of the teenaged boy the Jandarma tortured and murdered,” he said.
“Good guess,” Abood answered.
“But the boy had nothing to do with the theft. He just happened to have the wrong last name. So you’re angry at those thugs,” Bolan added.
“I’m sure you have no qualms about torturing information out of someone,” Abood growled.
“There’s a difference between questioning someone who might know something and putting the screws to someone who was directly involved,” Bolan replied. “The Jandarma crossed a line I never would.”
“That’s easy to say—”
“I’ve been around long enough to know that torture might work, but it takes too long and is far too unreliable,” Bolan said.
“They didn’t have to do that to him,” Abood snarled, trying to use her anger to disguise a sob. “I shot one of those scumbags in the leg and took off before they could spot me.”
“That doesn’t sound like impartial and balanced journalism,” Bolan quipped.
“No. And while it was stupid, it was my fault they did that to Recep,” Abood stated.
“The boy they tortured.”
“They handcuffed him to a pipe, and Makal was cutting strips out of his chest with a knife,” Abood said. She stopped walking, and she started to close her eyes, but stopped.
Bolan knew it was because every time she shut them, she could see the image of the young man being brutalized by Jandarma thugs. The emotional wounds were too fresh in Abood’s mind to sublimate them. It had been only hours since the atrocity.
A tear crawled down her cheek, and her lips twisted angrily. “They’d exposed half of his chest. Every time they cut loose skin, they’d burn it with a blast of flame from an aerosol can and lighter, cauterizing him so he wouldn’t bleed to death. So he’d live long enough to tell him what they wanted.” Abood’s right hand had clenched into a fist, her knuckles white with rage.
Bolan remained silent, knowing that she was volatile right now. One wrong word, and he’d never be able to recover the trust he’d gained with her. He needed her knowledge to reach the medical supplies first, before the Jandarma or the Kongras.
Abood looked up, noting Bolan’s silence and the look of concern on his face. “I was the one who’d led Makal to Recep.” She winced. “Recep had found out where the Kongras had hidden the supplies. He found out from his cousin Boz, who was in on the heist.”
She looked away. “Recep told me, and I was on my way to the warehouse. I forgot my notebook, and when I came back, they had him cuffed. I stood for minutes, just watching…I didn’t know what to do.”
Bolan reached out to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away.
“I stood still, stupid, not knowing what to do. He was crying, screaming, and I was paralyzed. By the time I got up the nerve, he was mutilated beyond any hope of repair, skinned and burned…”
Abood’s hand waved at the space between her and Bolan, as if warding him off. “I shot one of those bastards. I was aiming for his pelvis—”
She looked up. “Not to shoot him in the balls—”
Bolan nodded. “To cripple him. Break his pelvis. Make him into a victim.”
“Yeah,” Abood answered. “To let him live the rest of his life, weak and mutilated. Just like Recep…if he recovered. I told them to cut him down. I had the drop on those freaks, none of them had their guns out, their rifles were propped in the corner.”
“You did what you could,” Bolan said.
“Makal cut down Recep,” Abood continued. “He cut Recep down with a bullet in the head. And he told me I was next. I shot, but I don’t know if I hit anyone. I shot and ran, but they caught up with me.”
Bolan gently took Abood’s hand, and she tried to twist away. “You tried to help him,” he said.
“I got him killed. I got him tortured. It was my fault,” Abood answered as Bolan slid his arm around her shoulders. She started shaking.
“You tried to help him,” Bolan whispered.
She balled up her fist and struck him in the chest, a hard punch making him wince, a blow thrown from frustration. She hammered him three more times before she slumped against him, breaking down in tears.
“I should…I should have…I know things…I know how to…”
Bolan wrapped both arms around her, pinning and trapping her, more for her protection than his own. He hurt from where she’d battered him, but he was concerned that she might take out her anger on herself. She trembled from a mixture of rage and sorrow.
Abood’s tears finally stopped, her sobbing and struggles calmed down, and Bolan loosened his embrace.
“You’ve been there too,” Abood said.
Bolan nodded.
“Does it ever stop hurting?”
Bolan shook his head.
“Then what do you do?”
“You help others so they don’t feel like you do,” Bolan answered.
“Does that help you forgive yourself?”
Bolan stepped away from Abood. “It’s not about forgiving myself. And it shouldn’t be about you forgiving yourself. You weren’t the killer. You didn’t hurt him. You were there to save his life, and you did everything you could. And right now, what you need to do is make certain that his death wasn’t in vain.”
“The medical supplies,” Abood said softly.
Bolan rested a hand on her shoulder. “Others can be saved.”
Abood nodded, still numb. Her pain hadn’t abated, but her reason had once again asserted itself. “Thanks, Brandon.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bolan replied. “Come on.”
Abood and the Executioner continued walking toward the warehouse.
The doomsday numbers still ticked down.