Assault Force

He was moving away from the steps, about to clear his throat and call to Vikholic, when he heard what sounded like a loud thud. Instinct flared to angry life. Visions of commandos storming the suite taking shape in his mind like winged demons, he whirled toward the foyer, cigar snapped off between clenched teeth. He was digging out his pistol when he spied the object, spewing a funnel of smoke, before it arced overhead, sailing on. A glimpse of armed invaders in gas masks, then the acrid cloud swarmed Golic, legs folding as a black veil dropped over his eyes.

HAMID BHARJKHAN CAUTIONED himself against overconfidence. They were in. There was never any real doubt about initial penetration—Spanish operatives had been planted as employees a year earlier with the assistance of their financiers—but this simply started the clock. Head shrouded in a black hood as were the others. He unleathered the sound-suppressed Spanish 9 mm Star automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and marched off the private security-service elevator. The halls were clear, but why wouldn’t they be?

He waved an arm and they raced into action. Two large bellhop dollies, heaped with black bags, rolled off the cage. Assault rifles were set on the carpeted floor, and two teammates went to work. One of them opened the panel, wiring the elevator car immobile, but slated to rise for the south edge of the lobby should the order come down, while the other freedom fighter, he glimpsed, was priming the plastic explosive for his radio remote box.

As he led the armed wave toward the open door of the main security-surveillance room midway down the narrow hall, he knew it was a moment to shine, absorb the divine power of Allah. How many months sweating it out in the North African sun, the endless hours of operational planning, running mock-ups? The forged documents, holing up, a day or so at a time, in cities across France, then Spain, to smoke out any tails. Bribing or forcing key individuals to get the critical wheels turning to pave the way, swearing them to secrecy under the threat of sudden death. Slipping their teams into the hotel as guests, with gear and weapons, two and three at a time.

The future was theirs to seize.

Point men for the dollies, four of his brothers hit the corridor on his right wing, AK-74s poised to blast anyone who wasn’t where they were supposed to be right then. Stairwells, air vents that could double as insertion points from up top, the self-contained plant powering utilities, all were committed to memory from blueprints. The demo team vanished from sight, gone to rig the netherworld. In the event they needed to blow a crater, a series of massive explosions—or so the educated guess went—could take out the entire first floor. There was talk, during the final brief, that the blasts could so damage the foundation, the first floor and walls all but gone as support, the whole building could collapse. Recalling their laughter over what they envisioned as a possible miniversion of the World Trade Center, he only hoped he was clear when the floors began to pancake, shoving the image of being buried alive beneath tons of rubble from his mind as he led his six remaining fighters of Team Black to the door.

Two lagging behind to watch the hall, Bharjkhan charged through the doorway. He took a sweeping head count, believed they were all present, as his warriors barged past him, weapons raking the room. They were frozen, men and women in their seats or where they stood, eyes bulged in shock and horror. Someone screamed as his men shouted in Spanish for them to get their hands up and stretch out on the floor. Bharjkhan showed them a smile through the slit in his mask. They had been gathered there by the head of security to wait for a priority but phantom briefing on possible terrorism. As they stared back at their living nightmare, Bharjkhan nearly laughed out loud at the swift ease of the moment. Other than a suicidal fool, who would dare to stop them now?

4

“I think the movie star was the main attraction of that little scene. If I am not mistaken he hit that man when his bodyguard grabbed him. Bret something or other,” the other beautiful woman stated.

The show over, Mack Bolan noted the entourage, ringed by added security, rolling in herd toward the hotel, presumably seeking shelter from any more storms. “I wouldn’t know who he is,” he replied.

“You are American. You never see movies?”

“I never seem to get the chance.”

“Really. What does a retired homicide detective from Baltimore do with, I would imagine, so much time on his hands?”

“He starts over.”

“In Barcelona?”

“Could be.”

She seemed to think about something, then said, “Perhaps there is too much time, lonely time to pass. Someone you may care to spend such time with.”

He nodded, sipped his beer. “I’m doing that now.”

“Kat. You can call me Kat,” she said, smiling.

He felt her stare, the stunning Ukrainian blonde probing him closely from the other side of the table. “I remember. Kat to your close friends, Katerina Muscovky to everyone else.”

“Among other things to remember, I hope. And you, are you more than a close friend to Kat? Forgive me,” she quickly added, turning away to watch the crowd, shifting in her chair. “I had no right to imply there is anything more than what there already is.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Kat.” He looked at her. “I couldn’t have dreamed of time better spent with such a beautiful woman.”

She paused, then, shifting gears, said, “You do not belong here.”

A curve ball, but he kept his look and voice neutral. “How’s that?”

She sipped her drink, weighing whatever was on her mind for a long moment. “I do not know…there is something about you. Different. You are not like any man I have ever met. Certainly not like these jet-setters and playboys, most of whom because of their money pretend to know what being a man is all about. You, on the other hand…well, beyond what is already obvious to me, I sense you are only passing through, coming from some place I could never begin to understand. Two nights we have been together, making love, and you tell me so little about yourself. I do not know who—perhaps what—you really are.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond, said, “I am prying, but I cannot help myself. I should know better, having seen both the good and the bad the world has to offer. You do not mind if I act like some infatuated teenaged girl?”

“Kat, there are men right now who would like nothing more than for me to drop dead just for the chance to sit here with you.”

An enigmatic smile passed over her lips. “The way in which I caught the movie star look at me perhaps? Not that it would matter in the least to me. He is not a true man, only concerned about how he looks, whatever pleases him. I have seen fame, it does not impress me. What the famous show the world, what others think they love and aspire to be like is rarely what they get in person.”

Mack Bolan thought she could have spoken no truer words. The ex-super model fell silent. She was done fishing for the moment about Matt Cooper, appearing content to watch the crowd, work on her drink, enjoy time spent together. The silence was comfortable enough, the kind, he supposed, shared between lovers where trust and respect didn’t require an out-pouring of talk to keep their bond from being severed.

He began scanning the crowd, nagged suddenly by a troubled feeling he couldn’t pin down. Relax, reflect, recharge the warrior, let physical wounds heal, scars on the heart fade from witnessing firsthand man’s inhumanity to man. Or so—urged by Hal Brognola, his longtime friend from the Justice Department—this brief stint of R and R was meant to do.

Strange how it never really worked that way, he decided, not in his world, where he would soon enough return. His companion couldn’t possibly fathom the dark, bloody arena he came from. But she was right on one point. She was unaware of his real identity, the real man behind the concocted cover story he’d given her in one of the hotel’s bars the night they met. No, he would never fit in with this crowd of rich and famous types, worlds apart even from the few vacationing families he’d seen. His own experience was light-years from this fleeting illusion where all was money, pleasure and bliss. Where life was just one big party.

Different worlds, no question, as day to night, life to death.

And they would never know it, of course, but the man also known as the Executioner waged a War Everlasting on their behalf, prepared, in fact, to give the ultimate sacrifice, if need be, so they could live free whatever their lives.

He was out of his element, he knew, a lion in a cage. Certainly it was not in his warrior’s nature to kill time in a resort, rub elbows with the privileged elite while standing down. Similar in remote orbit, he supposed, but another universe removed nonetheless when compared to the humble man of the cloth he’d spotted. The priest struck him as if he wished he was anywhere but there, if he read the agitated body language right. And who were the loners? Six, maybe seven or eight at last count. Swarthy guys, hardly unusual for this part of the world, all with similar black bags in hand, smart business suits, strolling the pool deck, trying to look casual behind the shades.

Why couldn’t he just unwind?

He recalled Spain was lately becoming an incubator for the kind of fanatics he hunted to extermination, a magnet for all walks of life, it seemed, legit and otherwise from all over Europe and Russia.

He’d been in France, and the chartered flight had allowed him to bring the Beretta 93-R and .44 Magnum Desert Eagle along, both stowed in a customized briefcase charged with an electrified field to jolt the curious or the thief into instant but nonlethal collapse. Bearing that in mind, he tried to will himself to relax but he felt a stalking invisible presence, one he knew all too well from sixth sense earned the hard and old-fashioned way.

“The hotel management is throwing a party in the ballroom for its guests in honor of its one-year opening. Or we could just order room service and…” He realized Muscovky was still speaking.

Her voice faded as Bolan spotted the white-haired man emerge from the bar. Just a strong hunch, but he sensed the guy didn’t belong. The Executioner knew the type, having seen it countless times: a predator. Only this one, Bolan thought, was uneasy in his present appearance and environs but holding it all together around so much choice meat. The look was right, hard and lean, the gait military, but loose and oiled, proud of the way he could handle himself thanks to hard-earned experience. The man had a stare that devoured the model’s flesh. A penetrating search lingered on Bolan, the guy doing his damnedest to figure him out, but coming up short. That same sixth sense told Bolan the man was dying to look back, but he kept heading for the doors, bag in hand, walking with purpose.

“Matt? Hello? Did you hear me?”

Bolan hoped the forced smile masked his inner rumbling. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat, and said, “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d prefer just us. Unless…”

“No,” she said, her puzzled expression softening into a smile. “It is what I had hoped you would say. So? Your room…or shall we use my place again?”

“Your place. The view’s better,” Bolan told her with a smile. He held the expression, feeling she wanted to push it, then she nodded.

He preferred to stick to her suite, lest she be tempted to ask questions, such as why, when he was so far from home, did he have only the briefcase and a small duffel with a change of clothes. The soldier considered stopping by his second-floor room, just the same. Then again, switching the weapons to his duffel, or putting the briefcase in her suite might only arouse female curiosity, questions nonetheless.

Still, all the dead enemies burned down in his wake, many of whom were sure to have vengeful surviving allies, friends or relatives—a chance encounter or stalking him—there was always the possibility, slim as it might be considering his surroundings…

Leave it, he told himself.

He felt that dark nagging again, thinking he should be within easy distance of his weapons, no matter what. Was it just old habits not wanting to die for one second? Take it easy, he told himself. Enjoy one more rare night off the battlefield with a beautiful woman. He reached over to take Katerina’s hand.

“One more drink?” she asked.

“Sounds good to me,” Bolan said.

5

The woman’s sniveling about being a mother darkened his rage as her cries edged toward hysteria. Her ample stomach told him she was pregnant. Good, he decided. When they had something they were so terrified of losing—beyond their own lives, of course—then total compliance was all but assured. Her plight alone should make a perfect example to the others. Obey, or his wrath knew no limits, no outrage too great.