Suicide Highway

There were more gunners, about four strong, holed up on the other side of a half-fallen wall. Bolan’s hand found the grenade he’d held in reserve and sent it sailing over the wall.

“Fire in the hole!” he called.

Bolan and companions hit the ground, gunfire raking the air over their heads now that the terrorists were no longer pinned down by enemy gunfire.

The chatter of autofire was cut off as Bolan’s grenade ripped itself apart. The shock wave made the Executioner grunt. A severed arm and other debris landed in a heap right in front of his face.

Bolan looked up and saw one Taliban mercenary staggering. The terrorist struggled to stay upright, holding his weapon one-handed and leveling it at the big man in black.

Bolan fought to claw his M-92 from the pavement and get target acquisition, but the terrorist spun under multiple impacts. By the time his front sight was tracking the dying killer, he was already spilling over the half wall. Bolan glanced back, seeing a figure on the roof of the office complex shift, raising a fist in an “all stop” hand signal.

Bolan lowered the rifle, then looked back to Geren, who was holding the earpiece on her headset.

“They want us to stay put. Looking for more bad guys,” Geren said. She quickly reloaded her rifle.

Laith skidded a spare magazine to Bolan.

The Executioner reloaded, keeping a wary eye on his surroundings.

“A little more excitement than you’re used to?” Laith asked.

Bolan looked around. “No.”

Laith wiped his brow. “The old curse bites again.”

Bolan managed a smile. “May you live in interesting times.”

CAPTAIN JASON BLAKE glowered at the man he knew as Colonel Brandon Stone. Stone had handed Laith Khan’s rifle back to him nonchalantly after running a perimeter search for more bad guys.

Blake felt stretched like piano wire, and he was just as likely to cut into someone. He fought the urge to grind his teeth and tried to get some work done. “Good job. You’re bleeding, though.”

Stone touched his arm and came away with fresh glistening blood on his fingertips. A rifle round had to have clipped him. He wiped his fingers on his sleeve and shrugged it off. “I’ll take care of it before it gets too bad. Right now, I want to check the terrorists.”

“I have my team checking them. I have four intel-trained noncoms here, in case you don’t know the set up of a—” Blake was sneering.

“I know the structure and training of a field deployed A-Team,” Bolan said, cutting him off. “You don’t have to treat me like an idiot.”

“No, but I do have to treat you as an unknown quantity, Colonel Stone,” Blake answered. “You might look good on paper, but anyone can fake a good cover. Until you tell me who you really are, I don’t have to do fuck-all except treat you with skepticism and distrust.”

There wasn’t any indignation on Bolan’s face. “Perfectly understandable, Captain,” he said.

“And Laith, make that rifle compliant with curfew laws—now,” Blake growled.

Laith ejected the clip and racked the bolt, all the while letting out a long, tired sigh. He stuffed the top round into a vent pocket and the magazine into an appropriate pouch. The young Afghan slung the rifle, then winked at Blake, pulled his pistol and did the same. “You forgot to warn me about my handgun.”

Blake felt his cheeks grow hot.

“Don’t worry. I remembered myself,” Laith added.

Blake sighed and shook his head. “Find yourselves a place to bunk down for the night. You don’t have to go home, but you’re not sleeping here.”

Laith shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve heard that order a few times before.”

“Kid, you’re starting to get on my nerves,” Blake grunted.

“Then it’s working,” Laith responded. “Because you’re getting on mine. Need I remind you whose nation you’re in?”

Blake took a deep breath, remembering that as a member of the Army’s Special Forces, he was a diplomat of American goodwill as well as a soldier. “No. But I can’t break the rules for you. Otherwise, why have rules?”

“Why not try recognizing who your friends are, and who they aren’t?” Laith asked.

“Take it easy, Laith,” Bolan said. “I don’t suppose this incident has inspired you to lend me back my equipment for self-protection,” the big man asked the captain.

Blake shook his head. “No luck. If you want an escort, I’ll lend you one of my men.”

Bolan frowned, then noticed something, or someone, over Blake’s shoulder. “Fine. I’ll take Staff Sergeant Wesley.”

Blake looked back at Wesley, who looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Is that fine with you, soldier?”

Wesley gave a curt nod. “Sir, yes, sir!”

“Good. You’re going with Colonel Stone and his party, then,” Blake ordered. “Just remember, I want you back here. Alive and in one piece.”

“Sir?” Wesley asked.

“I want you back alive. Even if that means that you have to abandon Colonel Stone. He’s proved he can take care of himself.”

“Sir!” Wesley answered. The man looked conflicted. He didn’t like the idea of letting fellow soldiers on the same side die.

Blake didn’t like it, either. But he had a duty to the men in his team. He ate, slept, and drank, sweated and bled with them. Their lives were important to him, more important than any other soldier’s. It was unit integrity, a knot of loyalty, duty, command and friendship that couldn’t be undone by a few strands. He wouldn’t like having Stone, Rosenberg and Khan die on his watch, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice even the most junior of his noncoms.

“I’ll make sure your man returns to you unharmed,” Bolan promised.

Blake tried to hide his surprise, but couldn’t.

WESLEY WATCHED skeptically as Rosenberg unlocked her safehouse door and let the men in.

“I’m not loving this idea, Theresa,” he told her.

She paused, confusion coloring her features for a moment. “You mean about having two men you don’t know hanging around with me?”

“Seems that since we’ve met this guy, you’ve come under enemy fire twice. And we only met them a couple hours ago,” Wesley said.

“Once an hour, that’s not so bad for him,” she said. There was an impish grin on her face. Those beautiful green eyes sparkled with wit and allure, making Wesley look away, inwardly wincing as he felt himself being dragged in by her beauty. “Robert?” she said.

“I’m sorry. I’m not looking forward to seeing you get hurt,” Wesley answered.

“Who says I’m going to get hurt?” she asked.