Assault Force. Don Pendleton

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