Mack Bolan flexed his knees as the ground rushed up to meet him. He rolled when he hit, hurrying to slap the quick release on his parachute. The black chute billowed behind him once he was free of it, carried by the high winds that had made his high-altitude, low-opening jump that much more difficult.
The man once known as the Executioner rolled and caught the chute, pulling it to his chest and folding it several times. In the moonlit darkness he would be nearly invisible, but there was nothing to be gained by leaving the chute floating around the desert where it could alert some passing patrol.
Crouching, using the night sky to silhouette any enemies who might approach, Bolan checked his gear. He wore a KA-BAR-style combat knife inverted on his web gear, which was concealed by a lightweight three-quarter-length jacket. Over his chest was slung his canvas war bag, which contained most of his munitions. Holstered in custom leather under his left arm was his action-tuned Beretta 93R, while a Desert Eagle in .44 Magnum was tucked in his waistband, in a Kydex IWB holster behind his right hip.
He’d been told his local contact would provide him with heavier weaponry on an as-needed basis. It wasn’t practical for him to drop in with much more equipment than he had, so he’d opted to max out his weight limits on loaded magazines and grenades rather than adding an assault rifle to his kit. Toting two handguns and a knife, he wasn’t exactly unarmed…but if a patrol found him out here, where there was no cover and nowhere to go, he would definitely be outgunned.
Arid scrubland, broken by hills and promontories of rock, extended in every direction. The night sky was brilliant overhead. Bolan checked his direction against the stars and faced north, as he’d been instructed. There was no telling how long he might have to wait. He settled into his crouch, prepared for the long haul, knowing that the night would grow much colder before dawn. He didn’t relish the thought of spending hours out here, but he would if there were no other choice—
Bolan froze. His nostrils flared.
He put two fingers to his left ear as if activating communications gear. The motion concealed the slow drift of his right hand to his combat knife.
“Zero one zero,” he said in a stage whisper, loud enough for anyone within ten meters to hear. “This is Space Commander Alpha One. I’ve touched down at Zulu Marker Zeta. Mortars are on standby.” It was nonsense, but it didn’t really matter what he said. Those listening would not be native English speakers. Chances were they spoke no English at all. As he wagged his left elbow, trying to draw attention to that side of his body, the fingers of his right hand curled around the rubberized handle of his knife.
He shifted his foot. Dirt and pebbles moved under the toe of his combat boot. He pretended he didn’t feel the answering movement, the barely concealed reaction to his presence.
His nose twitched again. The smell was unmistakable. It was human body odor, and if he was smelling that, it could mean only one thing.
There were enemy soldiers right here, right now.
“I’m getting ready to dig a foxhole,” Bolan told his imaginary radio contact. “Standing by in four, three—”
He ripped his knife free and slammed the blade into the dirt next to his knee. A horrifying scream welled up from the ground below. Blood darkened the arid soil. Bolan left his knife where it was lodged and threw himself into a forward roll.
The ground erupted around him. Half a dozen soldiers, concealed in shallow gravelike depressions, popped up all around him. It was like something out of a zombie movie, Bolan thought, as the soldiers pushed themselves to their feet, their weapons and web gear trailing plumes of dirt. Weapon-mounted lights cast hazy beams in the dusty air.
Bolan’s suppressed Beretta pistol was already in his fist. He pivoted on one knee, tracking the weapon lights, keenly aware of the short window in which he had to work. Only his faster reflexes and his experience saved him.
The Beretta coughed out 3-round bursts as the Executioner tapped out a Morse code of death on the trigger. He fired, rolled and fired again, changing position with each shot, staying low in the darkness to keep his enemies against the sky. The hollow metallic clatter of Kalashnikov rifles rolled over him; the shock waves of the multiple discharges hammered his eardrums as the enemy weapons ripped the earth around his body.
The Beretta’s 20-round box magazine cycled dry. Rather than dump it and attempt a reload, Bolan shifted the weapon to his left hand. He drew the Desert Eagle with his right, still avoiding enemy gunfire. The triangular snout of the .44 Magnum Israeli hand-cannon belched flame each time he pulled the trigger. He was careful not to look directly at it, doing his best to salvage his night vision.
He heard the shots before he saw the new shooter. The sound was different; it was higher, from another angle, and he threw himself backward in the dirt before he could fix the new threat’s location. The chopped AK, a Krinkov with a folding stock, cut down the last two soldiers in the circle of resistance. Bolan had swung his Desert Eagle in the direction of the approaching form but stopped himself before pulling the trigger.
The figure that came to stand over him pulled a desert scarf from mouth and nose. Bolan saw, against the night sky, long hair falling free of the square of cloth. The distinctive sound of a classic fuel-oil lighter snapping open was followed by a flare of light. In the flame, a beautiful woman with dark hair and darker eyes looked back at him.
The desert was suddenly very quiet. Bolan could hear the flickering of the lighter’s flame in the night wind.
“Are you…lighting a cigarette?” he asked.
“I do not smoke,” the woman said. She wore a military field jacket and fatigue pants that did little to hide the curve of her hips. The hilt of a Jordanian-military-style jambiya combat knife was visible in her belt. The tube of an RPG launcher was secured over her shoulder. “But if you see me, perhaps you will not shoot me.”
“You think so?” Bolan said.
“If you are Matt Cooper,” the woman replied. “If you are not, I may shoot you?”
Bolan almost laughed. “Yes, I’m Matthew Cooper, and no, you should not shoot me. Either you’re my contact or the operation is compromised.”
“I am Sabeen Yenni,” the woman said.
The name was the right one, the name Hal Brognola had given him only hours ago, when Bolan was preparing to board the flight to Syria.
“Your contact,” the big Fed had told him through the scrambled satellite link, “is a double agent named Sabeen Yenni. Intelligence has been aware of her for some time. She has a network of her own, or more accurately, several networks, which extend into some pretty deep, dark areas of that region. Formerly she was with an al-Qaeda women’s brigade in northern Syria, but she was co-opted by US elements and brought on board to work for us. She still claims to be a spy for the Syrian loyalists, whom she’s supposed to be selling out.”
“I’m not up on the latest in Syria,” Bolan had admitted. “Loyalists?”
“Loyal to the previous regime, Striker,” Brognola said. As head of the Sensitive Operations Group and the man to whom the Stony Man Farm counterterrorist teams answered, Brognola was also one of the few people alive who knew Bolan’s history as the vigilante called the Executioner. “Recently, there was a coup in Syria. The new regime is like a political unicorn, something we never thought would fall in our laps. They’re nominally open to normal relations with the United States. The new Leader for Life of Syria is one Basram Hahmir, who was fairly highly placed in their military before he used it to take over.”
“Funny how that works,” Bolan said.
“Hahmir is something of a golden boy to the Man right now,” Brognola revealed. “As part of the agreement through which the United States and the UN Security Council formally recognized the new Syrian government, Hahmir traveled