War Drums. Don Pendleton

must not be aware I am Rwala, of the Bedu.”

      “What did this weapon look like? Liquid? Was it gas in cylinders?”

      “In round glass balls. Big enough to fill my palm. Inside was a green-colored liquid. One of those Fedayeen laughed in my face when he told me one drop would spread all across my body and eat me alive.”

      A reactive bioagent that became active when it made contact with living tissue. Bolan had heard about the varying strains of biological weapons, created in labs by men to use against other men. Another of the vile products of the endless search man immersed himself in to destroy his own kind. He wondered briefly where the Iranians had gotten hold of this particular strain. Not that it mattered right now. The where could come later.

      “Did they say where it would be used in Israel?”

      He shook his head. “If they send it into Israel it will set this whole region alight. Iraq. Iran. Why cannot these fools be satisfied with what they have? When will they be content? Only when we are all fighting each other? Or dead and the desert is rid of us all?”

      “Ali, we can stand around all day discussing the worst. Or we can get out of this place and stop what these men are planning.”

      The Bedouin thought about it for only a moment. “You are right, Cooper. So what is your wonderful plan that will release us from this miserable dung pit?”

      “The truth?”

      “Always.”

      “I have no plan.”

      Sharif smiled, stroking his dark beard and said, “Then we must do it anyway.”

      “Do they feed you?”

      Sharif laughed. “If you can call it food. I believe it is the slop that even the camp dogs refuse to eat. But they say I must eat to keep up my strength. So that when they use their chemical I will be strong and resist better.”

      “That suggests they’re not sure of its power. They need to test it.”

      “Is that good?”

      “It means they may not have worked out how to use it. So there might not be a date for attacking Israel. It gives us an edge.”

      Sharif frowned. “An edge?”

      “Time to destroy the cache.”

      Sharif grunted, deep in his own thoughts. “If we could break free and gather my brothers, we could return and attack this place.”

      “My own thoughts exactly.”

      “You have seen the helicopters they possess. They would track us.”

      “The Bedu aren’t afraid of helicopters,” Bolan said.

      Sharif slapped him on the shoulder. “Of course not. If you believe that then I am not the only mad one in this cell.”

      They waited. According to Sharif, midday was when his food was delivered. Bolan’s watch showed they weren’t far from that time.

      He sank down on his heels, his back to the wall, and let his body relax, conserving his energy. He still hurt from the punishment he had received from Yusef. The only good thing to come from his recent confrontation with Kerim was being locked up with Sharif. Kerim deciding to delay his interrogation might yet prove to be Bolan’s way out of his current situation. While his body rested, his mind was busy, evaluating the information he had gathered since becoming fully involved in the convoluted twists of the mission. There was a repeated strain of deceit embedded within the relationships he had come in contact with. Mistrust permeated every strand. No one was comfortable with the next in line. It loosened the secrecy that should have knit the whole thing together, allowing Bolan to extract information with less effort than he might have expected. It also meant those involved were acutely nervous and liable to hit out unexpectedly. Sudden violence was chosen as the swiftest way of resolving problems. Bolan was always aware of that during mission time so he never took anything for granted. There were still times when even his keen awareness failed him. He had only to look around the cell to confirm that.

      “Cooper.”

      Bolan glanced across at Sharif. The Bedouin nodded in the direction of the cell door. He picked up the soft whisper of footsteps moving in the direction of the cell, a murmur of voices.

      “We have a choice. Die of poisoning from the execrable food they are bringing, or the cleaner death from a bullet.”

      Pushing to his feet Bolan lounged against the rough wall, head down, and he remained in that position as the door was unbolted and pushed wide. Sunlight streamed into the cell, bright, with swirling dust motes in the hot shafts. Then the fall of light was partially blocked by a man carrying an AK-47. He paused to check the position of the two prisoners, then stepped aside to let a second man enter. This one carried two wooden bowls of steaming food. He bent and placed them on the floor.

      Sharif began to berate the two guards in wild, explosive Arabic. Bolan didn’t know what he was saying, but the tone and phrasing suggested he was delving deep into his knowledge of his language’s obscenities. The unexpected outburst delivered in a ringing volume caught the guards by surprise, if only for a fraction of time. In those scant seconds each man turned his startled gaze on the ranting Bedouin.

      With only the briefest opening Bolan moved, powering himself away from the wall to launch a blistering strike at the guard with the rifle. His sweeping kick drove the toe of his combat boot into the guy’s groin, producing a shocked grunt. The guard began to double over, tears welling from his bugging eyes. Bolan slammed his bunched right fist into the exposed throat, feeling flesh and bone cave in under the unrestrained power of the strike. The choking guard fell back against the open door, wide-open eyes seeing nothing. He offered no resistance as Bolan stepped in close, snapped an arm around his neck and yanked the guy off his feet. As they dropped, Bolan spun the helpless guard back across his knee and snapped his spine. The guard uttered a final gurgle of agony as his entire body became limp.

      As Bolan took the AK-47 from the dead guard, Sharif went for the second man as he grabbed for the pistol holstered on his belt. The Bedouin moved with the speed of a striking snake, one big hand clamping over the guard’s pistol, preventing him from lifting it, the other driving full-force into the man’s face. The solid impact of the blow was accompanied by the sound of breaking bone as the guard’s nose was crushed into a bloody pulp. Without pause Sharif hit the guard again, this time delivering a hefty punch that drove the target’s lips into his teeth and snapped his head back. Sharif snatched the guard’s heavy weapon from his belt and used it to hammer the guy’s skull, driving him to the floor.

      Following Bolan’s lead, the Bedouin dragged the downed guard away from the door and deeper into the cell. Bolan crouched beside his man and checked him for additional weapons. He was going to have to be content with the AK. The 30-round magazine had a second taped to it for quick reload.

      “Tell me about this gun, Cooper,” Sharif said, thrusting the pistol at the American.

      Bolan checked it out. It was a 9 mm Glock 17, with an extended 31-round magazine. He made sure the safety was off, then handed it back to Sharif.

      “Just aim and pull the trigger,” he said. “Thirty-one bullets in the mag.”

      “Like this one?” Sharif asked, showing Bolan a second magazine he had pulled from the guard’s belt.

      Bolan nodded. “When the magazine is empty the slide will lock back. Press here and the empty mag drops out. Snap in the fresh one, release here and you’re ready to go again.”

      Sharif nodded. “I understand.”

      They left the cell and moved down the passage to the main door. Bolan eased it open so he could check outside. Their most likely mode of transport was one of the dusty trucks.

      “See the trucks?”

      “Yes.”

      “That’s our way out. We break for them.”

      Sharif