War Drums. Don Pendleton

As in, who do you work for? How much information have you gained concerning our operation? Believe me, you should be advised to tell me what you have sooner rather than later. Holding out will only prolong your suffering. I am indifferent to that. In the end we will only kill you, so believe me when I say this place is where you end your days. There is no going back from here.”

      Just behind Kerim, the impatient Yusef was making an effort to hold himself back. From the expression on his bruised face he wasn’t doing a very good job. His free hand was clenching and unclenching. Bolan knew he couldn’t take the kind of punishment the man handed out indefinitely. Yusef’s interrogation technique was crude, but effective. If he was allowed free rein he would eventually beat Bolan to death. A simple fact. Inescapable but true. Kerim wanted answers. If he kept Yusef on the interrogation, he might lose Bolan altogether. The soldier had nothing to tell the man, but Kerim had no way of knowing that. He would keep Bolan alive for as long as he thought necessary.

      Kerim noticed Bolan’s glance in Yusef’s direction. He made up his mind and flicked a hand to motion Yusef forward, speaking to him quietly. Yusef nodded and moved in Bolan’s direction.

      “Keep him away from me,” Bolan said.

      “Or?”

      “Or you’re going to need a new dog to bark for you.”

      Kerim translated Bolan’s words for Yusef, which galvanized the big man into action. He came at Bolan in a rush, his uncoordinated lunge avoidable. The Executioner didn’t step away this time. He waited, tensed, and as Yusef loomed large, he struck.

      His first blow was a savage strike at Yusef’s throat, the crushing jab collapsing the man’s cartilage and windpipe. Yusef came to a sudden halt, gasping as he vainly attempted to inhale through his ruined airway. He was still trying when Bolan’s second blow landed, coming up from his waist, the upturned heel of his right hand impacting with Yusef’s nose, driving bone shards into his brain. A gush of blood from the shattered nose spread out across Yusef’s face as he toppled back, dying even as he fell. His body curved in a single spasm before he lay spread-eagled at Kerim’s feet.

      Bolan stepped back, his gaze fixed on Kerim’s face. For an instant there was a gleam of respect in the man’s eyes. He recovered quickly, snapping his fingers at the two guards.

      “Enough of this. Take him away. Put him with the other prisoner and they can convince each other it will be best they cooperate. I will talk to him later.”

      Kerim’s dismissal was complete. He turned away to deal with other matters as the armed guards escorted Bolan from the tent.

      Walking just in front of the guards Bolan took the opportunity to look around the camp. Tents and parked vehicles. The helicopters on the slight rise beyond the main area. A couple of stone buildings, one, just beyond a low stone wall, well guarded. He was taken away from the tents to a single stone building with barred windows and a heavy wooden door. The door was opened and Bolan pushed inside. A filthy passage led down to another door, which was barred from the outside. While one man covered Bolan with his rifle the other freed the door and held it open. The muzzle of an AK forced the big American in through the door. He was given a final push, sending him to his knees in the middle of the cell. Behind him the door was slammed shut and the bolts rammed home.

      Bolan heard a slight movement on the far side of the cell. He glanced up and realized he wasn’t alone.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      Bolan pushed to his feet and checked out his cell partner.

      The man was of medium height, with wide shoulders and lean hips. He was clad in torn, stained black clothing that was covered by a loose robe. His neat black beard framed a light brown face that had undergone recent hard treatment. Bruises and bloody cuts marked his flesh and his hooked nose was badly swollen. Dried blood crusted his mouth. He regarded Bolan with a fierce stare. His dark eyes held an undiminished gleam that his rough treatment hadn’t dimmed.

      “Do you speak English?” Bolan asked. “I ask because my Arabic is not good.”

      “Of course I speak English,” the other replied in a tone that suggested he was talking to a child. “Do you think I am just another desert savage?”

      “No, I was hoping to make conversation with a fellow warrior.” Bolan had recognized the configuration of the man’s dress. The black garb and flowing robes, the Jalabiyya, of a Bedouin. His head was covered by the traditional Arab kaffiyeh, the black cloth held in place by the double-corded agal. The man’s interest brought him closer, examining Bolan’s own black attire. “You are a warrior, too?”

      “So I’ve been told, though I would never class myself in the same league as a true Bedouin.”

      The man straightened, staring into Bolan’s eyes. His expression showed approval. His stance, though regal, wasn’t from vanity. The Bedouin tribes, though much decimated, were men of enduring pride in their long and noble history. Monarchs of the desert lands, they had once been many, ruling their dusty kingdoms with a fierceness little could equal. Reduced to dwindling numbers and with many of their kind having deserted the almost barren terrain, the few who remained close to their roots upheld the nobility of their past and retained their customs.

      “You are American?”

      “Yes.”

      “They know of the Bedu in America?”

      “Men of wisdom and influence know of the Bedouin. Of their history. Their great deeds.”

      “Good. I am Ali bin Sharif of the Rwala.”

      The Rwala, Bolan recalled, were one of the Bedouin tribes who wandered the dusty terrain of Syria and Jordan and the northern parts of Saudi Arabia.

      “Then I am in good company,” Bolan said.

      “How are you called, American?”

      “Cooper is my name.”

      Sharif spoke the name to himself, nodding as he registered the strange word.

      “If they have brought you to this pigpen, Cooper, then you must be an enemy of these dogs, as I am.”

      Bolan smiled at that. “No doubt about that, Ali bin Sharif. I am their enemy.”

      “Then we are allies.”

      “How did you come to be in this place?”

      “Two of my fellow warriors and I stumbled across this place. We rode in asking for water and we were attacked. My friends were shot down in front of me even though we came in friendship.”

      The Bedouin had moved to stand and stare out through the tiny square in the wall that served as the only window in the cell. Bolan sensed he was stifled within the confines of the room, longing to be back in his wide, clean desert.

      “If we stay, they are going to kill us,” Sharif said as he turned, reluctantly, from the window. “I know this. They took great delight in telling me I would die when they poison me with the weapon they plan to use against the Israelis.”

      Bolan tensed. “Tell me what you have heard, bin Sharif. It is important that I know.”

      “Did you see the stone building standing on its own? Just beyond the wall?”

      When he had arrived Bolan had made a silent appraisal of the camp’s layout. Recon was important when it came time to effect an escape, something always at the forefront of Bolan’s mind whenever he found himself disadvantaged. Thinking ahead and formulating an escape route could make the difference between staying free—or failing completely.

      “Look beyond the window,” Sharif said. “At the eastern edge of the camp. Do you see the wall?”

      Bolan nodded. “And the square stone building thirty feet out?”

      “Yes. In there they store weapons. Guns and ammunition. Explosives. And the weapon they will kill the Jews with. Those