Nuclear Reaction. Don Pendleton

      Southwestern Pakistan

      “The trick,” they’d warned him, “isn’t getting in or out of Pakistan. It’s getting in and out.” Eight hours on the ground, and Mack Bolan already had a fair idea of what they’d meant. He’d been here before.

      Aside from its northwestern quadrant, ruled by Pashto-speaking clans who’d never paid a rupee to the government in taxes and who’d rather strip an unknown visitor down to his skin than offer him the time of day, the bulk of Pakistan was long accustomed to a thriving tourist trade. British adventurers had led the way, when Pakistan was still a part of India, and during modern times there’d never been a dearth of hikers, mountain climbers, or exotic hippie-types who came to groove on Eastern vibes and drugs.

      The country welcomed everyone, but getting out could be a challenge. Departure meant an exit visa, often challenged by venal immigration officers at the eleventh hour, when they noticed various “irregularities” that triggered new and unexpected fees or fines. Export of anything resembling antiquities could land a tourist in hot water, as much as the drugs and weapons that were sold as freely in most market towns as fresh produce. Rugs purchased in Pakistan required an export permit, even when the local vendors ardently denied it and refused to furnish them.

      Getting in was easy, getting out required finesse.

      But at the moment, Bolan’s main concern was how to stay alive while he completed his work in Pakistan.

      The nation as a whole was dangerous, no doubt about it. Some observers ranked Karachi as the world’s most hazardous city, with an average of eight political murders each day, compounded by the toll of mercenary street crime.

      Shopping for hardware in Karachi had been easy, once the Executioner found the dealer recommended to him by his contacts at Stony Man Farm, in Virginia. Many Pakistani arms merchants, like the drug traffickers, would sell to foreigners, then rat them out to the police for a reward on top of what they’d already been paid. Bolan’s contact, he’d been assured, was “straight.” He’d sell to anyone and squeal on no one, understanding that his business depended on discretion as the better part of valor.

      In the dealer’s cramped back room, Bolan had surveyed the merchandise and had gone Russian for the rifle, picking out an AKMS with its folding metal stock, together with a dozen extra magazines. For antipersonnel grenades, he chose the reliable Russian RGD-5s. He’d gone Swiss for his side arm, choosing a SIG-Sauer P-226, the 9 mm with a 15-round magazine, its muzzle threaded to accept a sturdy sound suppressor. His final purchase was a fighting knife of uncertain ancestry, with a twelve-inch blade, serrated on the spine, and a brass pommel stud designed for cracking skulls. Once he’d put it all together in a duffel bag, he was good to go.

      Go where?

      He had directions and a detailed map, and a satellite phone in case he absolutely needed immediate help in English. If that happened, Bolan reckoned it would be before he met his contact.

      If he met his contact.

      Negotiating the Pakistani countryside was at least as perilous as crossing a chaotic street in downtown Lahore or Karachi. Dacoits—well-organized bandits who often worked straight jobs by day, then moonlighted as highwaymen—posed one potential obstacle to travelers. And local warlords might exact tribute from passersby while drug runners or traffickers in other forms of contraband were prone to spilling blood whenever they encountered a potential witness to their criminal activities. Plus, a thriving black market revolving around kidnapping for ransom, all ensured the backcountry was dangerous indeed.

      But so was Bolan.

      His potential adversaries simply didn’t know it yet.

      The Executioner kept a keen eye out for bandits and for government patrols as he drove north from Karachi toward Bela. He was supposed to meet his contact, maybe plural, at a rest stop west of Bela, and he didn’t want police or soldiers stopping him along the way, perhaps searching his Land Rover and asking why he needed military weapons for a drive around the countryside. The less contact he had with men in uniform, the better for his mission.

      Bela was nothing much to look at, once a visitor got past the gaudy marketplace, and Bolan had no need to stop or browse. He headed west from town, and fifteen minutes later saw the rest stop on his right, two hundred yards ahead, precisely where it had been indicated on his map.

      Slowing, he pulled into the graveled space and parked beside an old four-door sedan with several shades of primer paint laid on, in something very like a camouflage design. The car was empty, and he sat behind the Rover’s wheel, letting the engine idle while he waited for his contact to appear.

      A creak of rusty springs, immediately followed by a scrape of leather soles on gravel from his left rear told Bolan that he’d been suckered. He was half turned toward the sound when he heard someone cock a pistol. Turning more, he could see the weapon pointed at his face, held by a young man with solemn eyes.

      The gunman frowned and said, “The weather is not good for travel.”

      “But a soldier has no choice,” Bolan replied.

      Still cautious, the gunman dropped the muzzle of his Beretta 92 toward the ground and used the decocking lever to release its hammer harmlessly. He did not slip the pistol back into his belt, however. He shifted it to his left hand as he advanced toward the Land Rover, holding out his empty right.

      Having correctly answered with the password for their meeting, Bolan stepped from his vehicle, eye flicking toward the old sedan, its trunk ajar. Two more armed men stood watching him. They’d risen from their hiding place on the old car’s floorboards.

      “It was hot, I guess, inside that trunk,” Bolan said.

      His handshake indicated strength, the gunman thought. “Hot,” he granted, swiping at his sweaty forehead with the back of his right hand. “How was your journey from Karachi?”

      “Uneventful,” Bolan replied. “The way I like it.” Nodding toward the two other men, he inquired, “Are they with you?”

      “They are,” the contact said. “In these times, we take no unnecessary risks.”

      “Unnecessary risk is never wise,” Bolan said. “You want to trust me with a name?”

      There seemed no point in lying, and he’d never used an alias, in any case. “Pahlavi. Darius Pahlavi. Yours?”

      “Matt Cooper. Are we talking business here?” Bolan asked.

      “I think not. It would be unfortunate if a patrol should come along.”

      “Where, then?”

      “In the hills nearby,” Pahlavi said. “I have a safe place there.”

      The Executioner considered it, but only briefly. Making up his mind, he said, “All right. You ride with me and navigate. Give us a chance to break the ice.”

      Pahlavi didn’t hesitate, despite his natural misgivings. This American had traveled halfway around the world to meet him and assist his cause, if such a thing was even possible. Pahlavi knew that he had to draw the line between caution and paranoia at some point.

      “Of course,” he said, then turned and gave instructions to the others in Urdu, telling them to follow closely and be ready if the stranger should betray them. Neither one looked happy with Pahlavi’s choice, but they did not protest.

      As Pahlavi climbed into the Land Rover, he considered the risk he’d taken—communicating with the United States, when Washington supported the regime in power, mildly cautioning its leaders on their worst excesses while refraining from decisive action to control them.

      It had been a gamble, certainly, but once Pahlavi passed on what he knew, via a native said to be a contract agent for the CIA, the answer had been swift in coming. The Americans would send someone—a single man, they said—to see if he could help Pahlavi.

      Not to kill his enemies, per se, or see them brought to ruin, but