Suicide Highway. Don Pendleton

into his stomach as he watched the trio charge toward the enemy gunners.

      THE EXECUTIONER WAS ON his feet in an instant. Even as one vehicle downrange was pouring on the steam in full reverse—opening fire on the gunners—he was taking advantage of time in slices that made the beat of a heart seem like an hour.

      The .32-caliber Tomcat was in Bolan’s big fist, but there was no way he was going to score fatal hits. The terrorists had picked their battlefield intelligently, well beyond accurate pistol range for most people, and behind cover solid enough to stop even the 5.56 mm rifle rounds of the Special Forces soldiers. With long, ground-eating strides, he pushed hard, knowing his only hope was to get inside the reach of his own weapon. Had he been armed with the Beretta 93-R machine pistol, or his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, he might have chosen to fall back.

      Unfortunately, he had a paranoid Special Forces A-team captain to thank for not having much firepower. He was aware of bodies racing behind him. Gunfire popped from his right, the chatter of an M-4 on semiauto. Tera Geren, not disarmed of her weapon, Bolan figured. To his left, he caught the sound of a magazine slamming into the well of another rifle. Laith was going to get into action with his M-92.

      “Colonel!” came the cry. Bolan turned and paused, holding out his hands as the rifle was lobbed to him. Laith made the toss and reached for his handgun in the same fluid movement.

      Bolan scooped the rifle out of the air, then turned his attention forward as rifle fire bellowed with increased fury. The Green Berets traded fire with the terrorists, but neither side was scoring a hit, as they were all entrenched behind solid cover.

      One thug spotted Bolan and whipped his rifle around.

      The Executioner didn’t even have time to get a grip on Laith’s rifle. He punched the .32 Beretta forward, opening fire and emptying out the 9-round payload of the little pistol. The rifleman jerked under multiple impacts, his face splashed with blood. Hardly the most powerful handgun on the battlefield, but the soldier remembered that long ago, some of his first shots fired in anger against the Mafia were from a .32. Size and power didn’t matter anymore. They were within thirty yards of the enemy, and the fusillade, even fired on the run, was dead on target.

      Bolan tossed aside the empty pistol and got both hands on the Zastava. The muzzle exploded in a blast of flame and thunder. The steel-cored slugs smashed through the slab of plasterboard one terrorist was using for cover. His body jerked back violently, leaving a bloody smear on wall behind him. The corpse slid to the ground in a messy heap.

      The Executioner held down the trigger for another short burst, a swarm of 7.62 mm slugs punching the skull of another Afghan rifleman. The gunner was still standing, triggering rounds blindly until a wave of 5.56 mm bullets from Tera Geren slashed open his chest and dropped him.

      Cover fire from the Special Forces team members, except for the sniper who had the high ground, stopped. Bolan and his allies were dangerously close to the attackers, and there was a good chance that even the Green Berets would accidentally hit the three people. It didn’t matter to the Executioner.

      There were more gunners, about four strong, holed up on the other side of a half-fallen wall. Bolan’s hand found the grenade he’d held in reserve and sent it sailing over the wall.

      “Fire in the hole!” he called.

      Bolan and companions hit the ground, gunfire raking the air over their heads now that the terrorists were no longer pinned down by enemy gunfire.

      The chatter of autofire was cut off as Bolan’s grenade ripped itself apart. The shock wave made the Executioner grunt. A severed arm and other debris landed in a heap right in front of his face.

      Bolan looked up and saw one Taliban mercenary staggering. The terrorist struggled to stay upright, holding his weapon one-handed and leveling it at the big man in black.

      Bolan fought to claw his M-92 from the pavement and get target acquisition, but the terrorist spun under multiple impacts. By the time his front sight was tracking the dying killer, he was already spilling over the half wall. Bolan glanced back, seeing a figure on the roof of the office complex shift, raising a fist in an “all stop” hand signal.

      Bolan lowered the rifle, then looked back to Geren, who was holding the earpiece on her headset.

      “They want us to stay put. Looking for more bad guys,” Geren said. She quickly reloaded her rifle.

      Laith skidded a spare magazine to Bolan.

      The Executioner reloaded, keeping a wary eye on his surroundings.

      “A little more excitement than you’re used to?” Laith asked.

      Bolan looked around. “No.”

      Laith wiped his brow. “The old curse bites again.”

      Bolan managed a smile. “May you live in interesting times.”

      CAPTAIN JASON BLAKE glowered at the man he knew as Colonel Brandon Stone. Stone had handed Laith Khan’s rifle back to him nonchalantly after running a perimeter search for more bad guys.

      Blake felt stretched like piano wire, and he was just as likely to cut into someone. He fought the urge to grind his teeth and tried to get some work done. “Good job. You’re bleeding, though.”

      Stone touched his arm and came away with fresh glistening blood on his fingertips. A rifle round had to have clipped him. He wiped his fingers on his sleeve and shrugged it off. “I’ll take care of it before it gets too bad. Right now, I want to check the terrorists.”

      “I have my team checking them. I have four intel-trained noncoms here, in case you don’t know the set up of a—” Blake was sneering.

      “I know the structure and training of a field deployed A-Team,” Bolan said, cutting him off. “You don’t have to treat me like an idiot.”

      “No, but I do have to treat you as an unknown quantity, Colonel Stone,” Blake answered. “You might look good on paper, but anyone can fake a good cover. Until you tell me who you really are, I don’t have to do fuck-all except treat you with skepticism and distrust.”

      There wasn’t any indignation on Bolan’s face. “Perfectly understandable, Captain,” he said.

      “And Laith, make that rifle compliant with curfew laws—now,” Blake growled.

      Laith ejected the clip and racked the bolt, all the while letting out a long, tired sigh. He stuffed the top round into a vent pocket and the magazine into an appropriate pouch. The young Afghan slung the rifle, then winked at Blake, pulled his pistol and did the same. “You forgot to warn me about my handgun.”

      Blake felt his cheeks grow hot.

      “Don’t worry. I remembered myself,” Laith added.

      Blake sighed and shook his head. “Find yourselves a place to bunk down for the night. You don’t have to go home, but you’re not sleeping here.”

      Laith shrugged. “Sounds like you’ve heard that order a few times before.”

      “Kid, you’re starting to get on my nerves,” Blake grunted.

      “Then it’s working,” Laith responded. “Because you’re getting on mine. Need I remind you whose nation you’re in?”

      Blake took a deep breath, remembering that as a member of the Army’s Special Forces, he was a diplomat of American goodwill as well as a soldier. “No. But I can’t break the rules for you. Otherwise, why have rules?”

      “Why not try recognizing who your friends are, and who they aren’t?” Laith asked.

      “Take it easy, Laith,” Bolan said. “I don’t suppose this incident has inspired you to lend me back my equipment for self-protection,” the big man asked the captain.

      Blake shook his head. “No luck. If you want an escort, I’ll lend you one of my men.”

      Bolan frowned, then noticed something, or someone, over Blake’s