Plains Of Fire. Don Pendleton

telescopic intel gathering, Bolan took his sputtering SUV back to the warehouse that he’d set up as his base. The duct tape patch was loosening on the radiator, but the engine wasn’t being stressed by off-road travel or high-speed pursuit. Normal street traffic was still enough to start wisps of steam and smoke to dribble from under the hood. Bolan kept his speed low, nurturing the vehicle until he pulled into the loading dock. The engine finally seized up, overheated.

      “This is my nice shiny new ride?” Encizo asked from the doorway. He scanned the road behind Bolan out of ingrained habit. Though the Cuban’s partners in Phoenix Force and the Executioner were all skilled in the art of evading pursuit and tails, complacency was a mind-set that would get him killed. Bolan knew that Encizo’s Heckler & Koch USP pistol was supplemented by an AK-47 propped behind the loading-bay door. Had someone proved stealthy enough to avoid Bolan’s attention, Encizo’s belt-and-suspenders approach to security would have picked them up, and the Phoenix warrior would be ready for battle.

      “If you wash it, it’ll shine,” Bolan noted. “But you might want to fix the radiator first.”

      Encizo chuckled.

      “Got anything interesting from Bashir yet?” Bolan asked.

      “We’re taking a short break. Bear let us know you were coming back to us,” Encizo stated. “As it is, we’re held up on Bashir. He’s not healthy enough to handle a full-court press.”

      “I figured that Cal might have to shore him up from blood loss.”

      “If I didn’t know that you had spoken to Aaron a half hour ago, I’d swear you were psychic.”

      Bolan shrugged. “Bashir seemed stabilized when I left him with you.”

      “We had to aggravate the cut you put on his forehead,” Encizo noted. “Don’t forget, we’re not the Executioner. People’s bowels don’t turn to ice water when we glare at them.”

      Bolan patted his friend on the shoulder, chuckling. “You two can do things I can’t. That’s why I have you on my side. C’mon, let’s go put a little scare into Bashir.”

      The pair secured the loading dock, then went to the interrogation room as Calvin James gave Major Bashir a refresher dose of scopolamine. Bashir’s eyes widened at the sight of the Executioner. Bolan’s lips turned up in a humorless grin.

      “Please,” Bashir sputtered. “I’m talking as fast as I can.”

      “Just keep talking,” Bolan told him, his voice as cold and hard as a gravestone. “I’m happy to listen.”

      Bashir sang, desperate to please the Executioner.

      Darfur, Sudan

      BITTURUMBA KNEW IT WAS early, but he poured himself a tumblerful of brandy, his eyes tracking across the desk to glare at Kedzi Kartennian.

      “So we lost the second shipment of canister shells?” Bitturumba asked.

      Kartennian nodded.

      The general sloshed the brandy around, not caring that he was bruising the body of the liquor. He took a deep swig and grimaced. “To whom?”

      “Aflaq called in and said that it was an American. The Russians described him, as well, as someone they feared,” Kartennian stated.

      Bitturumba looked over the olive-skinned Turk. “You’re kidding, right?”

      Kartennian shook his head. “One man, they said.”

      “I sent twenty-four fully armed men!”

      “And only seven, including Aflaq, survived.”

      “Where’s Bashir?” Bitturumba asked.

      “Aflaq said he’s at the bottom of the harbor,” Kartennian said.

      Bitturumba sneered. “Where did he get that information from?”

      “From the lone crusader,” Kartennian stated. “Who’d disguised himself as one of the Russian smugglers.”

      “So Bashir is alive,” Bitturumba mumbled.

      “What?”

      “Bashir’s alive. I don’t know how well he is, but he’s in enemy hands,” the Thunder Lion chief stated. He took another swig, looking at the big machete lying on his desk. It was a well-worn blade, its edge gleaming and slender from multiple sharpenings, the thick spine displaying a slight curve from countless impacts as it sheared through bone and heavy muscle. He reached out and flicked a speck of flesh from a small crack in the spine.

      “Any chance of recovering him?” Kartennian asked.

      Bitturumba shook his head. “No worries. Bashir knows where our bases are in the Sudan, but he doesn’t know the actual plan. He’s expendable.”

      “And the others?” Kartennian pressed.

      “Have them go on soft alert. I’m pretty certain that Aflaq was followed back to the fallback,” Bitturumba stated. “This American’s going to close in on him, and I want to provide a delaying action. Perhaps even expend some of this mysterious warrior’s resources.”

      “The American has always been said to fight alone,” Kartennian noted.

      Bitturumba smirked. “If he even exists. It’s a psychological ploy. He has backup, and he has resources. We lay a trap for him. Call your friends in the Muslim Brotherhood. We won’t let Aflaq know that he has backup. I want a ring of fire and steel ready to collapse on the American and his allies when he goes after the backup base.”

      “Why would he go there?” Kartennian asked. “He knows that we’ll be ready for him, and that we might even call in additional support for our people.”

      “I’ve heard this man’s legend. He is nothing if not thorough,” Bitturumba stated. “He will visit flame and death upon our organization. He will destroy our forces in Alexandria, leaving their corpses as a signpost to our inability to maintain our security.”

      “To send a message to us,” Kartennian mused.

      Bitturumba nodded. “He’ll wait a while, so we have time to marshal a force to bolster the remaining men. Let Aflaq know that this is to be a scorched-earth defense. No amount of sacrifice is too much.”

      “He told me that you’d say something like that,” Kartennian relayed. “He told me that he was willing to die for the cause. We will cleanse our lands of the unbelieving scum, praise God.”

      Bitturumba looked at Kartennian, then mechanically muttered, “Praise be unto him.”

      The burly militia commander paid lip service to the Muslim Turk’s utterance. While he’d been raised by a moderate Islamic mother, Bitturumba had no real stake in any organized religious faith. He put on the facade of one of the faithful, however, only because those fanatics threw their support behind him. Bitturumba used their blind insanity to bolster his climb to power, creating one of the most powerful militias in Africa. The Prophet, however, held no sway over Bitturumba’s decision-making, no more than the Christian Messiah held any sway over his half brother Alonzo Cruz.

      There was only one god that Bitturumba surrendered himself to, and that was himself. As the Thunder Lions grew in power, so did he. Many in the militia had transferred their worship from the Prophet to the African thunder god who wielded a hammer that would rock the entire world. His half brother, a European sorcerer who had forged an even more powerful thunderbolt for him to wield, was the Loki to his Thor. It was only fair that the two gods would unite to begin their own pantheon. Bitturumba was the embodiment of war, Cruz the master of misery and suffering. Together, their intellects and resources combined were far more powerful than they were alone. Bitturumba didn’t mind. He loved his sibling, and knew that the sum was greater than the parts, power growing exponentially from their united effort.

      Kartennian was one of Cruz’s gifts to Bitturumba. The Turkish rebel had branched out, bringing about the hardcore Wahabite