Armed Response. Don Pendleton

at anything that moved. She eyed the situation, watching as the figure believed to be Bolan slipped into the largest building.

      “The Yemeni army?”

      “Is on standby, just outside Aden. The government has been protesting being kept in the dark about foreign incursions on their sovereign soil,” Brognola stated.

      Price grimaced again. There were elements in the Yemeni army that would love to send a warning to their terrorist friends. So far the Yemenis had been told nothing, only to keep a focus on a certain direction, the opposite from which Bolan now operated.

      She watched the large screen as the terrorist patrol entered the village, the sudden gathering of men around them, of Bolan slipping out of the building, working his way around the back to the smallest hut, stopping, moving in, waiting…then a bright flash where the group of terrorists were. Flickers of light, probably muzzle-flashes from Bolan’s position.

      Engagement!

      “Instruct Cannon to take out the truck with the most terrorists. Hold back on the other Hellfire missile. Striker might need it later.”

      Kurtzman hurriedly relayed the orders; hopefully a pilot would be able to engage the truck in time. Then all three watched as the Executioner went to war, fighting overwhelming odds. Again.

       Yemen

      FIRST LIGHT.

      The garage was to be his first destination. Bolan decided to disable all the vehicles, bar one, which he would commandeer for his extraction.

      The soldier had surreptitiously worked his way around the village, avoiding the men who would shoot him on sight. None of them were Qutaiba, of that he was almost certain. None of the terrorists showed any deference to a leader. They seemed satisfied with talking among themselves. Bolan was now content that this was a transit camp. There was no litter, no animal dung, nothing to suggest previous habitation. When the drone strike came, no civilians would be injured or killed.

      The soldier worked his way around the back of the mud-brick buildings, crouching, head down. He passed through a narrow alley, more of a gap, between the fourth structure and the garage, taking in the main street, two clusters of men, the closest twenty feet away. Bolan slipped into the garage unobserved.

      He found three 4x4 vehicles, all identical. One was parked slightly forward of the rest, its fender protruding slightly outside the building. All three were dark green UAZ-3151 all-terrain vehicles, sometimes referred to as GAZ-69, former Soviet Union. Bolan hadn’t seen this type of vehicle for a while. The UAZ, like the AK-47 rifle, was known for its easy maintenance and reliability. With the collapse of the USSR years earlier, many had been sold off. It was the perfect transport for the terrorists: old enough not to be noticed and reliable enough to get them quickly around the desert. All three showed their age, both inside and out, but that did not bother Bolan. What did interest him was the ignition key in the first vehicle’s slot. Bolan smiled grimly. At least something would go right on this mission. The only question was would the vehicle start?

      Bolan turned sharply at a sudden noise that emanated from the rear of the building. Somebody was moving around by the third UAZ. Bolan drew the silenced Beretta and crept forward. He could now see a faded light beneath the vehicle, a flashlight whose batteries were all but finished. A man was working his way from under the UAZ, yawning. The Executioner moved fast, stepping over to the terrorist. The man saw him, mistook his identity due to the poor light and opened his mouth to say something. Bolan fired a single Parabellum round. The guy’s head snapped against the concrete, the bullet ricocheting out the exit wound in the back of his head. The terrorist died without making a sound.

      Bolan ducked behind the second 4x4, waiting for someone to respond to the noise. Nobody did. He rose slowly, weapon ready, expecting trouble. Nobody was waiting for him to appear, no shouts of alarm. Bolan turned his attention back to the UAZs. He pocketed the keys from the first vehicle before approaching the second two. He worked his way around both 4x4s, removing the ignition keys and flinging them as far as he could into the sand.

      To counter the chance that somebody would have a reserve set, he returned to the corpse. Placing his AK-47 on the floor, Bolan removed his knife and began cutting chunks of cloth out of the mechanic’s clothing. Then he rolled the cloth into balls, which he stuffed into the tailpipes of the UAZs, pushing each in hard with the tip of his knife. He repeated the procedure several times for both vehicles, wanting to be sure that the engines would choke out on the built-up gases in the event that somebody did manage to start both 4x4s.

      The Executioner glanced up from his work and realized that he was out of time. It was now light enough to see by, the sun having risen fast. He finished sabotaging the two vehicles and stood, quickly cutting away the robe. The garment would only hinder him now. He ducked as two terrorists entered the barracks opposite the garage. They paid no interest to the motor pool. Bolan crouch-walked to the entrance and peeked around the corner. Very little had changed in the time that he’d been busy. There were still two groups of terrorists, and it appeared that neither contained Qutaiba. He exited the garage quickly, silently, back up the way that he had come. The sound of raucous laughter reached his ears. The men were too preoccupied to notice anything amiss; all was working to Bolan’s advantage. He reached the space between the second unfinished building and the outhouse, its door facing the opposite building’s wall.

      He was about to move between the two buildings when he heard raised voices, recognizing several words.

       American! Intruder!

      The silent probe was over. It was all about to get noisy. Bolan raised his AK-47, moved to the corner of the second building, observing what the terrorists were doing.

      Two new men had arrived, hurrying into the village, talking excitedly, clasping something large between them. The largest knot of men had stood back, allowing the patrol to present their findings to a large, bearded thug. Bolan recognized the type, a man who used his intimidating presence to bully others, killing those who were not in awe of him. The men moved around, trying to get a better look at the discovery, and for a second Bolan saw it, as well.

      It was his gear bag, which he had cut loose during the parachute jump.

      Bolan cursed softly to himself. He slipped a hand grenade from his web harness, watching as the bearded thug upended the gear bag, tipping the contents onto the sand. There was consternation from the men, then the Beard began shouting orders, pointing in different directions. Bolan pulled the pin on the grenade and let the bomb fly, aiming for the pile of equipment at the Beard’s feet. Bolan ducked behind the corner of the building, counting off the seconds. There were shouts and screams as the terrorists recognized the grenade.

      The bomb detonated, a loud crump among the yells. Bolan spun out of his hiding place, his liberated rifle raised to his shoulder. Several men, including the Beard, were on the ground, dead or getting there fast. More were picking themselves up or standing still in shock. Bolan opened fire, the AK-47 on full-auto. Years of experience helped him keep the bucking rifle under control; the muzzle rising only slightly, Bolan swept it from left to right. Men screamed and died as a storm of metal cut through them, sending them to join the Beard in whatever hell awaited them.

      Chips of mud brick exploded above Bolan’s head as a terrorist from farther back along the street attempted to return fire. In his excitement his aim was off by at least a foot. There would be no second chances for the man. Bolan fired a quick burst, on target, the shooter shuddering as the high-velocity ammunition cut through him, throwing him onto his back. The soldier released the magazine from his weapon, unsure of how many rounds were left, slammed another one in, arming the rifle even as a group of terrorists tumbled out of the barracks, weapons at the ready, looking for something to shoot. Bolan supplied them with a target as he opened up, delivering a greeting card of death. The three screamed and shook as they were cut down, not having a chance to respond. A fourth man stood in the doorway, clearly seeing Bolan’s position, then ducked back into the barracks. The soldier fired several shots into the open door, wanting to discourage any resistance. A rifle muzzle poked around the base of the frame, firing in his general direction, no hope of hitting anything. Bolan dodged back, preparing to retreat to