Plains Of Fire. Don Pendleton

expressions. They assembled in front of their vehicles, all of them packing high-tech French FAMAS rifles.

      One man stepped forward. If the clusters of medals on his left breast hadn’t set him apart from the rest of his crew, the broad smile on his lips did. Bolan searched his mental mug book, comparing the African to known members of the Thunder Lion hierarchy, finally deciding that the commander was Major Antoine Bashir. The major had a particularly notorious reputation, having started his career as the chief muscle for a Corsican arms dealer.

      That explained the presence of French rifles and sidearms. A quick examination of the SUVs in the darkness reinforced the link between the Thunder Lions and the Union Corse. The four off-road vehicles were top-of-the-line Peugeot designs. They sat low on their wheelbases, betraying their armored status, meaning they’d “fallen off a shipment” meant for the French military.

      “Cheer up, lads,” Bashir said, clapping Bolan on the shoulder. “You’ll be back floating to the Baltic, rotting your guts out on vodka before dawn.”

      Bolan held his tongue, keeping an eye on the militiamen spread out in front of him. All it would take would be a step back and he’d fall off the pier and into the waters next to the ship, taking him out of harm’s way for a moment. He had no doubt, though, that the rifle fire from the railing would punch through the old docks and into the water after him. The AK-107 in his hands was a modern update of the highly successful AK-47, right down to the powerful 7.62 mm ComBloc round. The only changes were synthetics replacing wood, and modern metallurgy increasing the old design’s already rock-solid durability and reliability. The other Russian smugglers were similarly armed.

      Encizo and James were only carrying pistol-caliber machine pistols. This was supposed to be a stealth infiltration, meant for sabotage. The addition of a platoon of militiamen to the mix was unexpected.

      “Hull ripper charges set,” Encizo’s voice said through Bolan’s earpiece. “Give the word.”

      Bolan looked at Bashir strolling up the gangplank. The militia officer would provide the Executioner with a wealth of information. However, plucking him from between his own armed soldiers and the paranoid Russian gangsters would require a major distraction.

      “Fire ’em up,” Bolan said out loud. He whirled and charged up the gangplank toward Bashir.

      The Thunder Lion riflemen jerked in reaction to Bolan’s sudden movement, their FAMAS rifles rising after a second of hesitation. On the railing, the Russian smugglers, already on edge, simply had to pull the triggers on their own rifles, spraying the militiamen.

      The freighter shook violently as spiderweb-shaped charges, strung along her hull, erupted. Detonating high-explosive cord cut through the sea-weathered steel at high velocity, shearing half a dozen five-foot breaches in her belly. The sudden influx of hundreds of gallons of water disturbed the balance of the freighter.

      The gangplank bent deeply, buckling as the weight of the old steamer shoved on it. Finally the wooden walkway splintered, but not before Bolan snaked an arm around Bashir’s neck and yanked him over the guide rope. The Executioner and his captive hurtled through the darkness toward the rapidly fluxing gap between the ship and the pier.

      Bashir grunted in response to the sudden capture attempt as the two of them sliced through the air, dropping past the guillotine formed by the freighter, and the pier snapped shut. Planks splintered under the impact of thousands of tons of upset steel, the jolt knocking both Russian and African gunmen off balance. Their weapons chattered, but the jarring lurch of the ship against the dock kept either side from maintaining any semblance of accuracy.

      Under the churning surface stirred up by the suddenly sinking ship, Bashir thrashed wildly in Bolan’s grasp. While the Executioner had been ready for the daredevil dive, filling his lungs on the way down, the African militiaman was not so prepared, aspirating water. Bolan kicked along, trying to escape the currents formed as six holes in the belly of the ship provided a direction for the water to go. If he didn’t keep pushing toward the surface, he’d be yanked into the ruptured hull and trapped.

      Bashir’s hand lashed out, clawing at Bolan’s face. The Thunder Lion’s thumb raked across the Executioner’s eyelid, the nail scratching skin. Bolan grimaced, and tightened his grip on Bashir’s throat, the choke hold jolting his captive. Instead of going after his adversary’s face, Bashir struggled with the arm snaked under his chin.

      It would have to be enough, Bolan thought as he used all the power in his legs and his free arm to drag himself and his captive toward the surface. Rushing water pushed in the opposite direction, but the Executioner was a strong swimmer. Years of warfare had given him the physical prowess necessary for him to breach the waves and fill his lungs with a lifesaving gasp of air.

      Then it was Bashir’s turn, Bolan rolling on his back and shoving his face up into the air. The militia commander gurgled, vomiting up a lungful of water and sucking down a fresh breath before Bolan folded his body, knifing into the depths again. On the surface, the big American had heard the chatter of automatic weapons as the Russians and Africans engaged in a firefight. He was certain that James and Encizo were batting cleanup, making sure that neither side received an advantage. Their suppressed MP-5s enabled them to snipe with impunity, as autoweapons produced flash and noise. Invisible amid the roar of enemy rifles and the burning flares at their muzzles, the Phoenix Force warriors could fire from cover and concealment. It would make up for the reduced range and power of their machine pistols.

      Bolan’s powerful limbs pulled him under the water, and he swam with his captive until they reached a jetty twenty yards from the stern of the lurching craft. He reached up and anchored himself on the low-slung dock.

      Bashir had recovered enough of his senses to break loose, hammering Bolan in the stomach. The African had intended to knock the wind out of the Executioner, but his fist’s power was blunted by rock-hard abdominal muscles. Instead of catching Bolan while both of his hands were occupied and he was off balance, Bashir only elicited a sudden surge, Bolan snapping the African’s forehead against the hard edge of the jetty. The water-worn wood met Bashir’s skull with a stunning impact, splitting the skin on the man’s forehead.

      Stunned, blood pouring down his head and stinging his eyes, Bashir was a docile charge that Bolan heaved up onto the planks. With a kick, and the power of both of his arms, Bolan launched out of the water and knelt next to his stunned captive.

      Bashir wiped his eyes free of the blinding blood and began to sit up when he noticed the massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle leveled at his nose.

      “Don’t move,” Bolan ordered. He planted his knee into Bashir’s chest, then looked toward the gunfight between the smugglers and the Thunder Lions. Broken planks and dented hull were fused together, and the Russian and African factions had ceased their mutually destructive battle to escape being sucked under the water by the sinking ship. The Peugeots and the transport trucks lurched and slid off the dock, creating fountaining splashes as they hit the water.

      Bolan looked back down to Bashir. “Roll over and place your hands at the small of your back.”

      “Don’t kill me,” Bashir begged, his face a glistening mask of blood.

      “Do as I say, and you’ll live at least another day,” the Executioner promised.

      Bashir glanced at the carnage, watching men scrambling across railings and broken piers and splashing helplessly in the dock waters. In the space of a few seconds, his captor had turned a major arms deal into pure mayhem. He rolled onto his stomach and assumed the position of surrender.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Calvin James gunned the engine on the Fiat, swinging it around to rendezvous with Bolan.

      The Executioner strode forward. He had Major Antoine Bashir by the collar, his hands bound behind him, the omnipresent Desert Eagle screwed against the prisoner’s ear.

      “That’s a hell of a souvenir,” James said, pulling up to the end of the boardwalk. Rafael Encizo sat in the shotgun seat, MP-5 at the ready, scanning for the opposition. The Russians and the Africans