Syrian Rescue. Don Pendleton

There would be precious little time for aiming once Sadek had shown himself, but he would do his best and hope that it was good enough.

      He had not told the others what he planned to do, preferring to surprise them after some had treated him with disrespect. Let those who questioned his authority be startled and amazed when he saved them. Anyone who challenged him from that point on would face Sadek’s enduring wrath.

      Or maybe they would laugh at him for failing, after he was dead. But then, it wouldn’t matter.

      Allah promised a reward for soldiers slain while serving Him. If these were to be Sadek’s last moments, he would step willingly toward the open gates of Paradise.

      Sadek lurched to his feet, struggling with the extra forty pounds balanced on one shoulder, then broke into a loping run. The moment he was visible, his enemies would do their best to kill him. Whether they succeeded was in Allah’s hands. Sadek’s job was to hold on long enough to aim and fire the thermobaric rocket, sending them to hell.

      One of his soldiers shouted something after him, but Sadek didn’t catch it. Gaining speed, be broke around the front end of the truck and angled toward the bullet-riddled Jeep, in time to see one of his enemies coming out to meet him. The man was not firing at him, did not even have a gun in hand, but his right arm was cocked back…

      Sadek understood too late. He knelt and tried to aim his RPG, just as an ovoid object dropped in front of him and wobbled forward, trailing wisps of smoke. A scream of rage had nearly reached his lips when the grenade exploded, switching off the lights in Sadek’s world.

      * * *

      MACK BOLAN HIT the deck and rode out the explosion, heard the shrapnel buzzing overhead and off into the desert’s dry infinity. When he opened his eyes, the runner with the RPG was gone—or, rather, most of him was gone. The F1 had exploded virtually in his lap, steel fragments ripping through his torso like a blender’s blades and shredding him before he fell.

      Dying, the guy had still managed to fire his launcher, but the rocket had been aimed skyward as shrapnel and the F1’s shock wave had blown him backward. Whatever kind of round he’d loaded, it flew high and wide, arcing a quarter-mile into the clear blue, then descending several hundred yards behind the Jeep, where it erupted into oily flame on barren ground.

      Bolan leaped to his feet and jerked his AKMS off its shoulder sling, charging the truck. His objective now was to catch the remainder of the team off balance as they ducked rounds from Azmeh’s carbine and recovered from the explosion of his other frag grenade.

      He charged around the truck’s front end, firing before he had a clear target in sight. His enemies, some of them wounded, hadn’t seen him coming, but they did their best—which wasn’t good enough.

      When all of the men were down and out, he called to Azmeh, then stood up and waved. The Arab came across to join him, cautiously eyeing the scattered dead, as if he thought they might be faking it.

      When he was satisfied, Azmeh told Bolan, “They’ve destroyed the Jeep.”

      No big surprise there.

      “Let’s check out the truck,” Bolan said.

      He walked around and dragged the body out of the bloody driver’s seat. He used the dead man’s keffiyeh to mop up the blood, discarded it and slid behind the wheel.

      It took a moment for the engine to turn over, but Bolan got it running on the second try. It sounded all right—no strange noises beneath the hood, no red lights on the dashboard. Bolan left it running as he climbed down from the cab and circled the truck with Azmeh, checking out the tires, peering underneath in search of leaks. The truck had taken hits, beginning with its windshield, and the right side was scarred with shiny shrapnel wounds, but nothing Bolan saw or heard gave any indication that the vehicle wouldn’t go the distance.

      “Better move our gear,” he said, already heading toward the Jeep.

      Bolan’s mobile arsenal was still intact, tucked down against the rear floorboard. The transfer only took a moment, then he climbed back into the driver’s seat, with Azmeh beside him.

      He still didn’t know exactly where they were going, other than the general direction, but they wouldn’t have to walk.

      At least, not yet.

       4

       Deir ez-Zor Governorate

      Roger Segrest squinted at the blinding sun through his aviators, wishing he’d been smart enough to bring along a hat when he was packing for the trip to Syria. Of course, he’d planned on spending nearly all his time indoors, with air-conditioning, and hadn’t given any thought at all to being shot out of the sky over a freaking desert in the middle of nowhere.

      Next time, you’ll know, he thought, and nearly laughed aloud. Just smiling hurt, with lips so dry and cracked. Another vital thing he’d forgotten: lip balm. And, of course, sunscreen.

      The funny part was that there might not be a next time. He could die out here, from thirst, exposure, snakebite, take your pick. Rescuers, if they ever came, might find him mummified, a desiccated husk with insects living in his empty skull after they ate his shriveled brain. Maybe his friends at State would stick him in the Diplomacy Center Museum, assuming it ever got built. His wife could help them with the plaque.

      Thinking of rescue troubled him and made him angry. They’d only been ninety minutes out of Baghdad when the plane went down, but here it was, day two, and still no help in sight. The worry came from knowing that all planes these days had emergency locator beacons on board, airliners usually packing more than one. The anger—most of it, at least—was currently directed at himself.

      Segrest had been outfitted with a homing beacon of his own before he’d left DC. He’d put it in his suitcase, which had seemed like the best place for safekeeping until a rocket had ripped the guts out of their plane and left the baggage scattered God knew where.

      Of course, the beacon hadn’t been turned on. Why would it be?

      “Stupid,” Segrest muttered to himself.

      “How’s that, sir?” Walton asked him, standing at his elbow.

      “Nothing, Dale. Forget it.”

      “Do you want some water?”

      Did he ever! Segrest checked his wristwatch and shook his head. “Too early.”

      “I just thought—”

      “No. Thank you.”

      After pulling the dead and wounded clear, doing what little could be done for the copilot, they had sorted through their supplies and rationed the bottled water found in the wreck. It just made sense, not knowing when they’d be picked up.

      Or if, he added silently.

      The pilot had been killed on impact; his sidekick had a broken leg, an ugly compound fracture; and the flight attendant had gone flying when the rocket hit, slamming his skull against one of the overhead luggage containers. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness for a few hours, then he’d succumbed to his head injury.

      And then, the goddamned storm had hit them out of nowhere. Tareq Eleyan had called it a haboob, and hearing that it was a fact of life in Syria had done nothing to lighten Segrest’s mood while the dust and sand buried them, forcing them to dig out of the shattered plane a second time after they’d taken refuge there.

      Segrest was worried about rescue, but that wasn’t all. Someone had shot them down, either for sport or with intent. In either case, the shooter was still out there, likely to come looking for his prize and