Aftershock. Don Pendleton

turned toward a safe path down the cliff and started jogging.

      Abood was right on his heels.

      Stony Man Farm, Virginia

      “A FEW MINUTES BEFORE the earthquake, we picked this up,” Barbara Price said as she handed the translation to Hal Brognola.

      “Tall man, six, to six-and-a-half-feet tall, heavily armed, indeterminate nationality,” Brognola murmured as he read it. “Who put out the word?”

      “That was under Jandarma’s known frequencies,” Price answered. “Bear thought it best to keep our ears open on the police scanners, give Striker a bit of assistance in the region if he should call in.”

      Brognola frowned. “I wished he’d taken the time to hook up properly with us before tearing off after the Kongras.”

      Price sighed and folded her arms. “Striker said that time was of the essence. The Kongras wouldn’t hold on to the stolen medical supplies for more than forty-eight hours, maybe even less. He said he had to be on the ground and operating before they had a chance to move that stuff out to the black market.”

      Brognola squeezed the wrinkled knot between his eyebrows, then blinked away his frustration.

      “Hal, you’ve known him longer than almost anyone,” Price said. “You know that Mack isn’t going to turn his back when he can do some good. Now, it’s even more vital than ever for him to get those relief supplies.”

      “How bad was the earthquake?” Brognola asked.

      “Kandilli Research Institute measured it at 7.8,” Price responded. She set aerial photographs of the city of Van in front of Brognola.

      “Christ, it looks like it’s been hit by a bomb,” the big Fed stated.

      “According to Aaron, a 7.8 earthquake is nearly as powerful as the bomb that hit Hiroshima,” Price stated. “Or it at least released the same amount of energy as an atomic weapon.”

      Brognola shook his head. “What do we have in the region that can help out?”

      “Not much. Turkey is still sensitive about the Iraq invasion, so our resources in the area have been drastically trimmed,” Price stated. “Politics will keep people dragging their feet, and even if there was a way to get major supplies in, it would still take at least three days before we could have a strong enough presence there.”

      “What would we be talking about?” Brognola asked.

      “The President has two aircraft carriers he can deploy,” Price stated. “One off Kuwait, and one in the Mediterranean. Between their desalinization plants, they can airlift enough fresh water to turn the tide.”

      “Airlift fresh water?” Brognola asked. “There’s a huge lake right near the city.”

      “It’s a saltwater lake,” Price answered. “It’s not fit for drinking or irrigation. The best we can hope for is for one carrier to make port in Iskenderun and ferry supplies across four hundred miles of Turkish airspace.”

      Brognola pursed his lips. “And the Turkish government is still sensitive about our craft using their airspace to penetrate Iraq airspace. “All right. What about the teams? Can we dispatch them to give Striker some backup?”

      “Able Team and Phoenix Force are fully occupied. Able Team would be free in thirty-six hours, then factoring in travel time…. There’s nothing we can send right away,” Price stated.

      “None of our assets in the region are available?” Brognola asked. “We have former blacksuits in every branch of the military and a lot of embassy posts.”

      “Nobody on hand,” Price admitted. “Our military people have their work cut out for them, and any who would be dispatched to the scene are going to be busy with conventional relief efforts.”

      Brognola picked up his cigar and began chewing on it to relieve his frustration. It took a moment for the old stress mechanisms to take effect, and his mind cleared. “Just keep your ears open for Striker. You never know. He might be able to contact us. I want the cyberteam to give him every assistance and up-to-date satellite intel. Paths through the city, aftershock warnings, what we hear from the Jandarma…”

      Price nodded.

      Brognola looked at the translation. “He killed them while they were questioning an American journalist.”

      “You know how the Turkish paramilitary forces work, Hal. If Striker dropped the hammer on them, the only questions asked were ‘who do you want to rape you first’ or ‘head or gut, where do you want to be shot?’”

      “Yeah. It’s just going to make things a lot more difficult if we have to call in some favors to help him out,” Brognola stated.

      “I put the word out to our people. If anyone’s cozy with the Jandarma, we won’t ask them for help. It’ll narrow down our resources, but…”

      “Just do it,” Brognola said. “I’ll inform the President that we have Striker on the ground.”

      “Hal,” Barbara spoke up.

      “Mack will be okay. He’s been hunted by far worse than the Kongras and the Jandarma.”

      “The Mafia and the KGB might have had better technology, but the Kongras and the Jandarma are as brutal as anything he’s ever faced,” Price stated. “They’ll peel a man alive for a week just to make him hurt.”

      Brognola looked back at the photos. “You don’t make reassuring you any easier.”

      Price nodded. “Reassurance is one thing. Outright lying is another.”

      Brognola frowned. “If Striker’s alive, he’ll make it through. It’s what he does. He’s survived on his own for so long….”

      The head Fed’s words trailed off as he looked at the stricken city in the photograph. If Mack Bolan had survived the earthquake, he’d do as much as he could to recover the relief supplies and save the shattered people of Van. Bolan was a man who would move heaven and earth to save lives, no matter what odds were stacked against him.

      But Brognola realized full well that with two renegade paramilitary armies, and the aftermath of an earthquake against him, the Executioner was in for the struggle of his life.

      7

      The first car they found was unlocked, and Mack Bolan counted himself lucky. He knew the faster he could cut across Van, the more lives he could save. He threw open the door and even though no keys were in the ignition, he had hot-wired enough automobiles to do it on autopilot. He stabbed his knife into the steering column and tore away its plastic housing when he heard a faint distant cry.

      “What’s wrong?” Abood asked.

      “I heard something,” Bolan answered. He put his fingers to his lips and concentrated. He heard the call for help again and got out of the car.

      “Someone is going to ask us what we’re doing around this car,” Abood stated.

      Abood was right. The longer it took to steal the automobile, the more chance they would be caught by Jandarma forces on patrol. But if there was someone in danger, Bolan’s instincts called for him to do something.

      “Stay with the car,” Bolan said. He stripped the wires and sparked them together. The car turned over in an instant. “Drive it around the block. I’m going to look for the source of those cries.”

      Bolan turned from the car as Abood scooted into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. “Stone—”

      “I’ll be careful,” Bolan told her. “Just keep the car warm.”

      Abood nodded and Bolan strode off, loping along at a ground-eating pace. He immediately saw where the cries originated from. A small girl stood alone, in the doorway of a half-collapsed