Appointment In Baghdad

CHAPTER THREE

Bolan heard chairs scrape across the floor from inside the mosque’s kitchen and backpedaled from the door as it was thrown open. Light spilled into the gloomy hallway like dawn rising, and Bolan dropped to one knee and swung up the MP-5.

The first of the kitchen cabal rushed into the hallway. Raneen Ogedi held his Skorpion machine pistol at hip height as he emerged from the cramped room, his head already turning toward the far end of the hall where the footsteps of numerous men could be clearly heard thundering up the fire stairs. He looked stunned to see the black-clad Bolan crouched in the hallway. Ogedi leveled his weapon. The chugging sound of the silenced MP-5 was eerie as Bolan pulled down on the terrorist. His spent shells were caught in the cloth-and-wire brass catcher attached to the weapon’s ejection port. A 3-round burst of 9 mm Parabellum slugs ripped into the Iraqi’s face with brutal effect.

Blood splashed like paint onto the wood of the door and stood out vividly against the pale linoleum of the kitchen floor behind the man. Ogedi turned in a sloppy half circle and bounced off the kitchen door before dropping onto the ancient carpet of the hallway.

The next figure in the frantic line stumbled into the door frame. Bolan cut loose again and put a tight burst into the chest of the pistol wielding Sourouri, who had raced into the hallway directly behind the Iraqi killer. The man’s eyes were locked on the fallen form of his jihadist brother, and they lifted in shock as Bolan’s rounds punched up under his sternum, mangling his lungs and heart.

Blood gushed in a waterfall over the lips of the man’s gaping mouth and he tripped up in Ogedi’s legs and went down face-first. Bolan saw Bakr frozen at the edge of the kitchen door, hands held out and empty, his eyes locked on the grim specter of the Executioner.

Down the hallway the fire door burst open and Bolan glimpsed three men in suits, pistols drawn, as they raced into the hall. The lead man had a leather wallet open in his left hand and Bolan caught the dim flash of an RCMP badge.

Bolan rushed forward, hurtling the tangled mass of the two fallen terrorists. He slammed his shoulder into Bakr and knocked him out of the way. The old man grunted under the impact and spun off Bolan, stumbling backward over a chair and falling heavily to the kitchen floor. Something in Bolan, some sense of mercy or propriety, kept him from killing the man.

The soldier used the momentum of his impact with the man to spin to one side, putting himself at an angle to the fumbling Aram Hadayet, who was attempting to bring his pistol to bear. Bolan gripped his MP-5 in both hands and chopped it down like an ax, using the long sound suppressor like a bayonet.

The smoking, cylindrical tube struck the youth in his narrow almost-feminine wrist with a crack, and he dropped his weapon in surprised shock. Bolan swept the submachine-gun back and then thrust it forward, burying it in the Syrian’s soft abdomen. Hadayet folded as he gagged, and Bolan cracked him across the back of the neck with the MP-5’s collapsible buttstock. The youth went down hard to the floor. A cell phone skidded out of his hand and slid across the floor to bounce off the stove before sliding back to Bolan’s feet.

The Executioner heard footsteps pounding in the hall and sirens wailing outside as more police cars raced into the alley below the kitchen window. In the hall men were shouting, identifying themselves as police officers. Bolan caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Hiba Bakr scrambling to escape the kitchen.

Bolan let the man go, hoping he would slow the plainclothes police officers outside as he made good his own escape. Two hardcore killers had been put down and two intelligence coups left for the authorities to question. Bolan’s code of ethics wouldn’t let him fire on the police, even in self-defense, and he had an aversion to killing holy men.

He heard Hadayet moan at his feet, and he twisted to fire a burst across the room, shattering the glass. Beyond the window he saw the spiral reflections of flashing red emergency lights. In the hallway officers ordered Bakr to “Get down! Get down now!”

Bolan used the distraction to bend and secure the loose cell phone dropped by Hadayet. He rose and sprang toward the window across the kitchen. An RCMP officer, rushed the door with his pistol up, a mini flashlight attached below the barrel of the handgun. As Bolan passed the kitchen table, he turned and flipped it up so that it flew back and landed in the doorway.

The officer ducked back around the corner of the kitchen door to avoid the flying furniture. Bolan dropped the MP-5 and let it dangle from its sling as he scrambled up onto the counter. The leather sleeve of his jacket protected his arm as he knocked splinters of glass away from the window frame.

He stuck a leg through the window and prepared to duck out onto the fire escape. He looked back toward the kitchen door as he slid out and saw the officer he had distracted swing back around the corner, his service pistol held in both hands.

Bolan threw himself to the side as the man fired his weapon. A 10 mm slug cracked into the wall just to the soldier’s right, creating a pockmark, and the roar of the pistol was deafening in the acoustic chamber of a tiny room.

There was a frenzy of activity beneath him. Two separate police cruisers had entered the alley behind the mosque from either direction, and more sirens heralded the arrival of backup. Men shouted up at the fire escape from below, excited by the pistol shot.

“I have sights on. I have sights on,” Manning said over the com-link. “You want me to put their heads down?”

Bolan kept rolling as he fell, turning over his shoulder. He reached out with his hands and pulled himself upright by grasping the cold iron bars of the fire escape ladder. He hauled himself up and gathered his feet under him. Set, he scrambled upward, running hard up the rungs.

“Negative, negative,” Bolan snarled. “I’m still good.”

Below him the Canadian cop thrust his body out of the window and shouted for Bolan to stop, raising his weapon. Bolan ignored him, his lungs burning as he scrambled upward. Sparks flew off the metal rung in his grasp, and the fire escape rang as a bullet ricocheted away. An almost indiscernible second later he heard the pistol bark.

“Your call, Striker. Copy,” Manning said.

At the fourth floor Bolan spun and raced up the last length of fire escape. Bullets peppered the walls around and below him as police officers on the ground began to fire. The sharp barks of the pistols echoed up between the narrow walls of the alley.

Diving over the edge of the roof, he hit the tar-papered platform and rolled across his back, coming up quickly. He crossed the roof and looked down onto the main thoroughfare. Three more police cars had pulled up in front of the mosque, their occupants running forward to the storefront.

Bolan turned away from the edge. He knew the police would be hard on his heels, and he felt a certain admiration for their tenacity and courage. He crossed the rooftop at a dead sprint, heading for the next building, a long, two-story, used-furniture store.

The soldier hit the waist-high wall circumventing the roof like a rampart. He lowered himself and slid his chest across the cinder-block divider, swinging his feet over until he dangled off the wall, holding on by only his grip. Bolan looked down to make sure his landing area was clear and then let go.

He fell straight down, struck the lower roof and rolled over hard onto his back. The maneuver, left over from his paratrooper training, absorbed much of the force of his fall but he still struck hard enough to nearly drive the air from his lungs.

Bolan gasped in the frigid air and forced himself to his feet. He rose, setting his sights on the tenement building rising up on the other side of the used-furniture store’s roof. Windows faced out from the apartments onto the roof, and lights were snapping on in response to the gunfire and police sirens.

“I’m heading for the tenement,” Bolan barked into the phone.

“Roger. Jack says he’s over the rally point. You want me to come get you?”

Bolan began to run toward the tenement building, starting to skirt a large skylight set in the middle of the rooftop. From behind him he heard the voice of the policeman who had dogged his every footstep since the hallway. A white pool of light from the officer’s mini-flashlight cut through the night. The officer shouted his warning.

Bolan refused the cop’s third warning and the officer began to fire.

“Negative. I’m going to try for my vehicle for now, stay in overwatch,” Bolan answered.

“Okay, but you got a street full of good guys.”

Bolan didn’t have time to answer.

Bullets struck the roof as the Executioner ran, and he knew he’d never make it. Already the bullets were falling closer, and if the RMCP officer settled down, he had a very good chance of striking the fleeing Bolan.

The soldier pushed back the edge of his jacket and swept up the MP-5. His heart was pounding as he leveled the submachine-gun. He heard the crack of the officer’s pistol behind him as Bolan squeezed his trigger. The H&K submachine-gun cycled through a burst, and the skylight just ahead of him shattered.

Bolan felt a tug at the hair on his head as he ran, followed by the pistol report and he knew how close he’d come. He hunched down and dug his legs into the sprint. The lip of the broken skylight rushed toward him and Bolan leaped into the air.

Bolan hurtled across the open space. The black hole of the broken skylight appeared under him as he jumped, and he brought his legs together. At the zenith of his leap he plunged through the broken window.

Glass shattered under his feet, and he could feel sharp glass spikes tear at his leather jacket as he smashed through the smaller opening he’d initiated with his gunfire.

The bottom of his jacket fluttered up behind him as he dropped into the darkness, and he felt a jolt of apprehension as he fell, completely unaware of where he would land or on what. Splinters of glass scattered and fell around him like shards of ice, and the buildup of icy slush on the window cascaded down in an avalanche.

Bolan tried to prepare himself for the impact, knew it could be considerable enough to snap his legs or even kill him if he landed wrong, but it was impossible because of the tomblike darkness of the store interior to know for sure.

The soldier grunted with the impact as he struck a countertop and it was unfeasible to roll. His legs simply folded under him and his buttocks hit the hard wood with enough force to snap his teeth closed.

He spilled out on his back, and if not for the sling around his shoulder he would have lost the MP-5. His head whipped down and bounced off the countertop so sharply he saw stars before his momentum swept him off the counter. He fell another five feet onto the ground, striking his knee painfully on the concrete floor under the thin, rough weave of the cheap carpet.

His outflung arm made sharp contact with something large and the object was knocked to the floor. The item landed with a crash beside him and an internal bell rang, telling Bolan he had just tipped over the store cash register. The empty door on the register shot open with a pop like a gunshot as he landed, and the flesh of his palms split as they made rough contact with the floor. He winced at the sudden sting.

Forcing himself to his feet, Bolan clung to the counter for support. Adrenaline filled him and he gritted his teeth as he forced himself up. Once he was standing he ripped off his balaclava and stuffed it inside his coat. Through the store’s big front windows he saw police lights flashing. They cycled through the dark store, illuminating the interior briefly.

Bolan hobbled into a pile of furniture and out from underneath the broken skylight. If he knew the character of the cop on his tail, the man would be there soon. He saw other cops moving out in the street, their attention focused on the building housing the mosque.

The Executioner forced himself forward, heading directly toward the front of the building, dodging around furniture displays set up to look like living rooms or bedrooms or dinning areas. He spoke into his throat mike with blood-smeared lips.

“Striker, here,” he said. “My ride is a no-go. You ready for extraction?”

“Affirmative,” Manning answered.

“Copy,” Bolan said. “As soon as it’s clear, I’ll blow the distraction.”

“I’m coming now.”

Bolan moved forward until he was clear of the furniture displays and could see out onto the street unimpeded. Five police cars were visible, most of their occupants out of their vehicles and storming toward the grocery underneath the mosque.

The soldier looked at his own Toyota 4-Runner. No one appeared to be standing near the vehicle. He looked down the street and saw a black Ford Expedition abruptly round a corner three blocks up, lights blazing.

Bolan made his decision.

From the skylight behind him a beam of bright illumination shot out from the flashlight attached beneath the barrel of the RCMP officer’s 10 mm pistol. It cut through the shadows inside the furniture store and swept around, hunting for Bolan.

The soldier dived out of the way as the light tracked toward him and the officer fired. A 10 mm round burrowed into the floor with relentless force. Bolan desperately needed something to rattle the Canadian officer’s aim. He fell into a shoulder-roll, away from the illumination of the big front windows.

He came up out of his somersault and shoved a store mannequin toward the searching light. The figure toppled and the cop triggered his gun twice. The man’s second round struck the mannequin in the head, and the soft lead slug hammered a crater into the plastic statue.

Bolan shoved a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, grasped his key ring and pulled it clear. He looked down and located the electronic fob on the end. His thumb pressed the vehicle’s remote start option.

Out in the street the Toyota exploded in a sudden ball of flames with a deafening boom. The chassis leaped straight up, engulfed by fire and pouring black smoke. It came down hard and sent metal car parts scattering in all directions.

The ruined 4-Runner came to a rest in the middle of the street and burned like a bonfire. Up the street Gary Manning’s Ford Expedition locked its brakes with an angry squeal. Bolan swept up his MP-5 and fired at the plate-glass window. Spent shells clanged together as they rattled into his brass catcher.

The window shattered and heavy shards of glass cascaded like icicles to burst against the concrete outside the window. Bolan slung the weapon as he raced forward.

He heard pistol shots from behind him, but had no idea if they came close or not as he stepped off his lead foot and sprang into the air.

He hurtled the bottom of the window like a track star and landed outside. He heard shouts coming from his left and risked a look as he landed in a crouch. He saw a squad of Toronto uniformed policemen, most of them on the ground and disorientated by the car bomb he had just detonated.

One patrolman was sufficiently together to lift an arm and point, shouting out a warning as Bolan pivoted and began to sprint up the slushy sidewalk toward the Ford Expedition gunning straight for him. His breath billowed out in front of him in silver plumes as he charged forward. His breathing was loud in his ears, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest.

He saw Manning clearly through the windshield of the Expedition. The Phoenix Force commando locked up the emergency brake, and the tires screeched in protest as he swung the back end of the SUV in a smooth bootlegger maneuver. Bolan dived toward the passenger door.

Pistol shots rang out from behind him.

He saw Manning lean across the front seat and open the passenger door. A bullet struck the rear windshield and pebbled the safety glass. Another round sparked off the bumper. Bolan reached the front of the SUV and threw himself inside.

Manning didn’t wait for his passenger to close the open door but instead stood on the gas. Tires screamed, turning fast, digging for traction. Then they caught and the Expedition lurched forward like a bullet train leaving the station, throwing Bolan back into the seat.

“Grimaldi ready?” the soldier panted.

“Always,” Manning stated as he sent the SUV into a power slide that took the fugitive vehicle off the street and out of sight of the policemen firing on them. “He’s put the Little Bird down on the top floor of a parking garage six blocks over. We’ll be in the air in two minutes.” He looked down at a digital clock display. “One minute,” he corrected.

Bolan nodded. He reached inside his jacket pocket and checked for Hadayet’s cell phone. If they moved fast, he thought, they just might have a crack at Scimitar.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Stony Man team switched out the Little Bird for a clean JetRanger at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport and proceeded south. In a reasonable amount of time the helicopter was following Skyline Drive along the backbone of the rugged Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. The base for the Special Operations Group was only fifty-odd miles southwest of Washington, D.C., and dawn was breaking as the aircraft approached the installation.

A Chevy Blazer was waiting beside the landing strip where Jack Grimaldi put down the JetRanger.

“You guys go on ahead,” he told Bolan and Manning.

“I’m going to do some postflight checks.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Bolan said.

He and Manning ducked under the slowing props and crossed over to where Buck Green, chief of security, waited behind the wheel of the SUV. He smiled as the Stony Man commandos approached.

“How was Canada?”

“Chilly,” Bolan replied.

“He warmed it up a bit,” Manning noted, his voice dry.

“So they tell me,” Greene laughed. “Get in. Gary, you’ve got some time off coming. Later tonight David wants your help running an op-for exercise against the blacksuits,” Greene said, using the slang term for Stony Man’s security detail.

Manning grunted. “What have you cooked up?”

Greene grinned. “It’ll be good. I want to focus on the orchard approach to the compound.”

Manning shrugged his acceptance and climbed into the back of the Blazer. If he’d wanted a life of leisure, he could have chosen a thousand other occupations. He was dedicated to the Stony Man cause without question. Even the covert action inside his homeland hadn’t bothered him. He’d operated surreptitiously under the nose of his host country, the U.S., on many occasions. Slaying dragons was a pannational vocation.

“What about me?” Bolan asked.

He climbed into the front seat and slammed the door shut. He gave a lazy salute to Grimaldi as Greene pulled the Chevy onto the narrow road leading from the airfields toward the central complex and the Stony Man farmhouse.

The security chief snorted. “Oh, no rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

“Hal?” Bolan asked, knowing the answer.

“Yep, Hal’s here. He’s very interested to hear what you got in Toronto.”

“I got time for breakfast? Maybe some coffee? Most of what we’ll decide will depended on what Aaron can get out of this cell phone I recovered.”

Greene nodded and reached down to pick up the Blazer’s radio. “I’ll call ahead to Barbara,” he said. “She’ll make sure the kitchen gets you what you want.”

Greene meant Barbara Price, the honey-blond mission controller and sometime Bolan paramour. She ran Stony Man with cool competence and considerable ability. If she gave the word, the Farm’s kitchen would prepare a feast. She was also the only one likely to keep Hal Brognola quiet about waiting.

After the fall he’d taken from the skylight in Toronto, Bolan wanted nothing more than a long, hot shower and to eat a good meal before his debriefing. However, the link he had discovered to Scimitar was tenuous. Most high-ranking insurgents in the Iraq theater never stayed in one location for more than twelve hours.

If Stony Man was going to have a shot at Scimitar, the clock was already ticking.

B OLAN SAT in the War Room.

The multimedia compatible meeting room was as secure as anything one could find at the NSA or CIA headquarters and as comfortable as a New York City law firm’s boardroom. It took up approximately one-half of the basement space of the main house, and Bolan knew the room intimately after all his years at the Farm.

Hal Brognola sat at the head of the conference table, chewing on an unlit cigar. Price and Bolan occupied two other chairs, while Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman sat in a wheelchair off to one side. Nearby was a high-tech console that controlled the War Room’s media displays and lights.

Bolan had brought his breakfast with him. He pushed his empty plate away and pulled a large mug of coffee closer.

While eating he’d gone over the details of the Toronto takedown. Brognola acknowledged that an inquiry had been made to the Department of Homeland Security regarding an operation against Hiba Bakr. Official channels had been able to respond honestly that they had neither authorized such an illegal incursion nor were they aware of such an ongoing operation.

Since Bolan had chosen to leave Bakr to Canadian intelligence, the CIA had requested that an agent join CSIS for the interrogations. Brognola had learned that the diplomat father of the Syrian youth had already filed a protest with the government in Ottawa and the UN regarding the arrest of his son. The company of known international terrorists notwithstanding, it was likely his request for release would be granted.

“This means Scimitar could already be alerted. In fact we have to assume so,” Brognola said. “Carmen is running those cell numbers into Iraq right now, cross-referencing NSA databases. We’re hoping for a triangulation. When we’re done here I intend to fly back into D.C. and follow up on some things Barb has put into motion.” He looked over at Barbara Price whose face was carefully neutral, a sure sign of her displeasure. “Certain operational contingencies we’ve already had in place, in the event that Stony Man was ever called upon to act in Iraq.”