NO MAN’S LAND

A missing U.S. nuclear scientist resurfaces as a member of a guerrilla women’s rights organization in Pakistan, raising all kinds of alarms in Washington. Armed with fissionable material—and the knowledge to use it—the scientist is soon targeted by rebel fighters determined to get their hands on the nukes at any cost.

With the stability of the entire region on the line, Mack Bolan is tasked with extracting the woman and bringing her Stateside, even if she doesn’t want to go. But as the rebels close in and the rights group realizes its combined weapons and skills can’t compare to those of trained fighters, Bolan and his allies—a handful of Pakistani soldiers and an army officer—are forced to join the battle. Their team might be small, but the Executioner has might on his side.

“He’s supposed to be on our side!” Davis yelled.

Suddenly, a burst of fire came from behind them. Bolan spun around and saw Patel charging toward them, spraying bullets.

“Take her,” Bolan said, thrusting the struggling Lasi into Davis’s hands while he carefully aimed his rifle at the charging Pakistani soldier. Whether it was a temporary flash of insanity, an indication of his hidden hostility toward the women’s rights group or just frustration at a mission gone fugazi, there was no doubt that Patel had murderous intentions. Bolan needed a clean shot to take the man temporarily out of the game.

He was still drawing a bead when a burst of fire from behind him chopped Patel down as he ran. He stumbled as the bullets exploded across his chest, and he pitched forward as his momentum carried him beyond his failing legs.

Bolan swung around, ready to return fire. Two women, poorly concealed, with their rifles in plain view. He didn’t want to take out PWLA members, but they were leaving him little choice.

Bolan took aim. He could only assume they were about to fire again. Davis’s voice cut through everything and made him stop short as his finger tensed on the trigger.

“Colonel, no—that’s Shazana Yasmin.”

Savage Deadlock

Don Pendleton

Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves.

—Abraham Lincoln,

1809–1865

Every person, man or woman, has the right to choose their path. I will join any fight to take down the oppressors of this world.

—Mack Bolan

THE

LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quote

The Legend

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Copyright

Chapter One

Shazana Yasmin looked out over the river as the evening faded into dusk. She loved coming back here to where her family had settled after the city life of Quetta had ceased to have any appeal. Her father was attached to the mountainous regions of Balochistan, Pakistan, close to the borders with Afghanistan and Iran, and had stubbornly refused to move back to civilization, even though the hilly terrain was now dangerous to pass at times, as bandits and revolutionaries prowled the land.

Despite this, she still saw it as a tranquil haven away from the city and the academic life that had enveloped her, and she liked to travel here when she could. Since her mother had passed away, her father had become more reclusive and curmudgeonly, allowing his sons to run the businesses that had bought them this palatial villa, nestled into the hills and overlooking the peacefully flowing river.

As the dusk closed, so the insects became bolder, and their buzzing grew louder in her ears. Idly, she swatted them away, her thoughts far from the peace of the countryside.

“Malaria, fever of some kind if they bite...then maybe hospitalization, which isn’t easy in the back end of beyond. I don’t know, maybe by the time they get you there, you’ll be dead. And think what a loss to humanity that would be. It doesn’t really bear thinking about.”

“Go boil your head,” she answered without turning around.

“That’s a fine way for a nicely brought up girl to speak to a man. Especially one who is her elder,” murmured her brother, who now settled himself on the veranda railing beside her, resting his arms so that he could lean out over the rocks below. “It’s a long way down,” he added.

“Then you should make sure that you balance yourself on those ape arms of yours,” she replied, staring at his thick, hairy wrists. “I don’t know how you came to look like that, Mahmood. Dad is totally bald, and Mom—”

“Was as delicate and beautiful as you are, Shaz,” he answered. “Not as prone to answering back and being disrespectful, but I blame that on your inevitable Westernization.”

Her mouth fell open, and she prepared to abuse her brother even further before catching the spark of humor in his eyes and realizing she was being had.

“Funny...you’re a very funny man,” she said with a slow nod. “Especially as you spend eight months of the year in Canada rather than Lahore, and you have even more of an accent than I do.”

Mahmood Yasmin shrugged. “I like the West. It is what it is. Here...’ He paused. “Here there is no knowing. This is a country in flux, Shaz, and if Dad had any sense he’d sell up this place and join me in Toronto. It won’t be safe for him, soon. There’s a radicalism in the air that has no place for the likes of him. It has no time for the pragmatic man who seeks to make the best for his children, bending to the times in which he lives. It knows only its own unyielding standards.”

“Dad’s not going to leave. It took him long enough to earn the money to build this place. All his memories of Mom are here. He’s not going to give them up easily.”

“He may not have the choice. If he doesn’t give it up, then it’ll be snatched from him. This is a new dark age, Shaz, and he won’t be safe. Neither will you. You shouldn’t come back here anymore.”

“Why not? You do,” she posited.

Her brother gazed out over the river. “I have to. Someone has to look out for the old man. See that?” He indicated distant, winking lights downriver. “That’s the nearest villa. It’s got to be about twenty kilometers, right? And not on an easy road. Things could happen out here and not be discovered for a long time.”

Yasmin shivered. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good, I should be,” he answered bluntly. “Listen...’ He gestured her to silence, and for some time they stood listening to the quiet of the evening. The river ran beneath them, and they could hear their father in the house behind them, cooking dinner and mumbling to himself. The buzz of insects was a steady hum. Yasmin studied her brother with bemusement. He indicated that she listen harder.

In the far distance, she could hear the crack of rifle fire.

Mahmood nodded as he saw that she had registered the sound. “It’s there all the time, now. It’s so much a part of the background that you don’t notice it unless you actually stop and listen hard.”

“But it’s miles away,” she said dismissively.

“Is it? Sound travels across these hills, I know. It’s clear air. But even so, that means all sound. The gunfire is clear over a lot of other things. And there’s more of it every day. I won’t be happy until you’re out of here, Shaz. I don’t just mean this region, I mean the whole damned country. You shouldn’t have left MIT.”

She shook her head sadly. “I would have thought you understood. This is my country, and I love it. It’s not perfect, I’ll grant you that, though I couldn’t say the U.S. is, either. Balochistan gave me a good education—”

“It didn’t give it to you, Shaz. You earned it. You earned it because you’re a genius.”

“Hardly.” She shrugged. “Though if you want to think that and treat me like a princess, then I’ll let you. Seriously, Mahmood, I really feel like I could make a difference here, help drag this land into the twenty-first century and put it up there with other nations.”

He snorted with derision. “It’s being dragged into the twenty-first century all right, but not in the way you’re hoping. This world is undergoing a polarized split, and I’m not sure Pakistan is going to be on the right side of that.”

“Then we have to fight to make sure that it is,” she said, her calm tone laced with steel. “It’s up to us to make sure that it falls the right way.”

“Now you really do sound like Mom,” he said with a smile. “I’ll still be happier when you’re as far from the border as you can get, though.”

They turned and went in, hearing their father’s call to dinner. Over the meal, neither sibling mentioned their discussion, although Yasmin was sure she could still hear the distant gunfire, even as she settled down for the night.

It lulled her to sleep, but not for long.

* * *

YASMIN WAS DREAMING of MIT again. America had been good to her, and she had enjoyed her time there. Often, these days, she found that her dream world was populated by the faces and places of those days. Coming home to bring her specialist skills to the Pakistan authorities had been her aim, but it had soured as the bureaucracy and outmoded attitudes of those around her had taken their toll. Worse still had been the way that many had looked at her. In their eyes, despite the results she achieved, she was still “just” a woman.

If this country was truly to drag itself into the twenty-first century, then there was still a long way to go. It was inevitable that shortcuts would have to be taken.

A sudden noise jolted her out of her dream world, her heart thumping and her mouth dry. She lay there in the darkness, trying to stop her body from shaking as the adrenaline pumped through her veins.

The door to her bedroom was pushed open, and by the light from the hallway outside she could see a small figure, face swathed in scarves, standing in the doorway. The figure was black against the light, though she could clearly see the outline of an assault rifle held at a downward angle. The fear came back up in her throat, like bile.

Was this an enemy?

It was only when the figure spoke in feminine tones that she felt herself relax.

“It’s time. Hurry,” the figure said.

As she withdrew into the hallway, Yasmin rose and began to dress quickly. She already had a bag packed, and within a couple of minutes she was ready to go. As she stepped into the hallway, the other woman beckoned her toward the large living room of the villa. Yasmin could see that there were four other women there, all of them armed. With rising alarm, she realized she could not see or hear her father or brother.

“You said nothing would happen to them, just that it would be made to look like there had been a break-in,” she began, the anger in her voice tempered by an edge of fear. She quickened her pace and almost fainted with relief when she entered the room and saw her father and brother seated side by side on a long sofa, clutching teacups and looking bemused (her brother) and almost incandescently angry (her father).

“Shazana, what is this?” he began as he saw her and rose to his feet. “Why have these women come into my house with guns, and why are they asking for you?”

Despite herself, Yasmin was amused. Even faced with weapons, her father showed no fear—he couldn’t believe that mere women would harm him. In this instance he was correct, but that was purely incidental.

“Sit down, Dad, or someone might get nervous and fire one of these things,” she said, indicating the women’s rifles.

“Sit down? Why should I sit down in my own home just because some little girl waves a gun in my face and wants to take my daughter away?” her father continued. Still, he allowed his son to gently grasp his arm and pull him down.

“Dad, I’m not being taken anywhere that I don’t want to go,” she said softly. “You have to believe me when I say that.”

Her father appeared confused, staring at the women with guns and then at his daughter. Mahmood, on the other hand, seemed to understand, even if his words were disapproving.

“So this is what you meant when you said you wanted to make a difference? To go and join a group of rebels?”

“There are rebels and there are rebels, Mahmood,” Yasmin said gently. “You said it yourself—it’s become a polarized world. If we want Pakistan to go one way rather than the other, then we have to try to make that difference ourselves.”

“But why this?” he asked her. “Why the charade? Why not just go?”

“And have people ask you questions that you cannot answer? Have them detain you and maybe do more than ask? I don’t want that to happen. What I know would push the government—and others—to take drastic actions. This way, it looks like I was taken against my will. How could you know anything if that was the case? It’s the best way I can think of to keep you and Dad safe. Now let me go, and tell anyone who comes calling about the guns. They always believe you if you’re at the point of a gun. It’s the only language they can understand...”

Chapter Two

“The National Command Authority will not be happy with this, General. Fortunately, it will not be my ass in a sling when they find out. That dubious pleasure will fall to you.”

Major Usman Malik smiled, and General Tariq Sandila could see the betel stains on his teeth. In this day and age, chewing betel was a peasant throwback, and it made Sandila dislike the major even more. He looked around the sparse office, trying to focus on anything other than the disgusting sight of his superior’s teeth. Although Sandila technically outranked Malik, the General had been fast-tracked to his position, given his rank for his specialist credentials rather than military achievements. For now, Malik was in charge. They were in the old government building in Lahore, which dated back to the colonial era and was used mostly as a repository for old files that predated computerization. The civil servants who prowled its corridors seemed to be of a similar vintage, and all in all Sandila felt horribly out of place. Maybe that was why Malik had chosen this as his temporary headquarters while the investigation was underway. It would make sense. The thought of Malik in black and white like some old newsreel from the days of Nehru cheered Sandila in an oblique manner.

Emboldened, he spoke freely: “Major, the expression ‘shoot the messenger’ is a little outdated these days, surely? My superiors—your superiors—if they followed such a line would surely be more likely to blame the man heading the investigation. I’m just your leg man.”

The sly smile on Malik’s face froze and died. He and Sandila had been at loggerheads since the general had joined the team a few weeks before. Seconded because of his experience with the nuclear program and his PhD in physics, Sandila was one of the new breed of army officers who looked at technology rather than manpower. Malik had been in military intelligence all his career, and came from the days of the ruling generals, when the fact that such a small country had the eighth largest military force in the world counted for something. In Malik’s younger days, the army ruled with an iron fist, and he still expected such control.

Sandila, on the other hand, found the phrase army intelligence an oxymoron, and thought of Malik as the personification of that philosophy. An impression that had only been reinforced when he realized what had been going on: his forceful statement of such had cemented the animosity between the two men.

Malik rotated the laptop screen so that it faced Sandila. It was a purely dramatic move, as it was Sandila’s own report that the major was showing him. Malik said, “You expect me to present this? Saying that we’ve been negligent? That women—women, dammit—are behind this? Have you any idea what kind of an uproar this will cause in the government?”

Sandila shrugged. “There may well be an uproar, but the fact is that it has happened.”

“You have no proof,” Malik spluttered. “It’s all supposition.”

Sandila chose his words carefully. He spoke as though explaining something simple to a child, which was—he felt—exactly what the major was acting like.

“You asked me to investigate the disappearance of Dr. Yasmin. Obviously, I was aware of her reputation, and I had already read a couple of the papers she prepared when she was at MIT. Her reputation was second to none, and it is to her credit that she returned to our country and turned her back on what could have been a very lucrative career in America—”

“She is a woman.” Malik gestured dismissively. “There is no credit. She did only what she should.”

Sandila held his tongue and continued, trying to ignore the words of his superior. “Dr. Yasmin, in returning to her homeland, declared her desire to be part of our nuclear program and so help us not merely in the buildup of tactical armaments, but also to provide our nation with the power it needs to progress.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Malik waved an irritated hand at Sandila. “I do not care for her motives, only for the thugs who kidnapped her. Instead I get this gibberish about women and her going of her own will. This despite the evidence of her father and brother who—let me remind you—are well-respected men who have contributed heavily to the campaign coffers of our prime minister.”

“And of course that is why we should ignore the fact that they are lying,” Sandila snapped.

“Why would they lie?” Malik’s voice rose almost to a screech.

Sandila took a deep breath and looked around the room, composing himself. He wondered how many such outbursts of idiocy these buff-painted walls had absorbed over the decades. Too many, he surmised.

“They are lying to protect themselves, and also to protect Dr. Yasmin. I have been to the research institute, and I have also studied the files and the security system. There is no doubt that for some time now someone has been copying every research report and experiment. The IP address for this copying process was disguised, but unfortunately Dr. Yasmin is not the genius with computers that she is with nuclear fission. The trail leads back to both her login PC and also to her personal devices. She’s been taking copies. Why?

“Further, there were emails between herself and a woman who is known to be part of the political movement for the education and emancipation of women. This should be no surprise. After all, with her education and time spent in the West, it was inevitable that she would believe in an equality for which, it must be said, Pakistan lags behind. I examined the evidence from her father and brother and also the photographs and forensics collected in their villa.” Sandila sighed heavily. “I have to say, Major, that if that represents the level of competence usually shown by your men, then you need to seriously think about weeding some of them out.”

Malik interrupted him by banging his fist on the desk, making the laptop vibrate.

“You watch your mouth, Sandila. Do you dare to say that I do not know how to run my own department?”

Sandila looked at him stonily. “If it comes to that, then, yes, I do say that, Major. Their work is shoddy. There is no physical evidence of the kind of attack and forced entry that they say took place. There is some evidence to suggest that a group of people came to the villa and were inside...but forced their way in? I don’t think so. Possibly uninvited, but certainly not unexpected by at least one person present...I would venture that this was Dr. Yasmin. There’s no indication that there was any struggle on her removal, and indeed some of her belongings are missing in a manner that suggests she had time to pack.”

Malik was seething. “Are you suggesting that men of the caliber of her father and brother colluded in this event?”

“No. But I am suggesting that they are covering for her. I do believe that they didn’t know her plans in advance, but that they’re in a position where anything they say would suggest collusion. I’ve watched the interviews. These are not comfortable men, Major. As for those who came for Dr. Yasmin being women—well, I have no hard proof. But I can’t see her going willingly with a Taliban party, as your men implied. Come to that, I can’t see the Taliban wishing to work with a woman who presumes to take a man’s role,” he added with a wry grin.

Malik threw up his hands. “But if this stupid woman has gone of her own free will, then how can we find her without causing national outrage? At least we’ve been able to keep this under wraps until now. If we pursue her and it turns out she’s part of some ridiculous women’s group...it will be like that little girl who was taken to England. We will look stupid.”

Sandila considered the case to which Malik referred. A young girl had been shot by the Taliban for daring to demand an education for herself and other young girls. Her near-death caused an international storm and showed the regime and their reaction in a poor light. Rightly so, in the general’s view. However, in this instance he agreed with the major, if for different reasons.

“You’re right that it would cause a storm of publicity worldwide. That would be a bad thing. But my reasons for feeling that way differ from yours. There’s something I couldn’t put in the report.”

Malik kissed his teeth. “Now you have something else? All conclusions should be put in writing so that they can be circulated to the relevant offices. There is a procedure—”

“Major,” Sandila interrupted with urgency. “This information is so sensitive that it can only be shared with a few people at this stage, and by word of mouth only.”

Malik hesitated, then indicated that Sandila continue.

“As part of my investigation,” the general said in a low voice, “I was at the laboratory where Dr. Yasmin conducted practical experiments. I made an inventory of the fissionable materials there. It was, I presumed, routine. Sadly not—there was some material missing. Only a flask, but that is enough.”

“Some mistake in the initial inventory, perhaps,” Malik murmured, sweating as the import of the general’s words hit him.

Sandila shook his head. “I had hoped so, too, but I had to be sure. I got your local men to go back to the villa and sweep it with a Geiger counter. There were anomalous readings...”

“She stole it?” Malik whispered.

“She certainly had the flask with her at some point. And it damn well isn’t there now. I had your boys take the villa to pieces. The father may well complain—”

Malik brushed that aside. “He can do what he likes, the lying bastard. There can be no protection or deference for him now. No politician will cover his ass, no matter how much money he has. Do you know what this means?”

“Of course I know what it means,” the general snapped. “That’s what I’m telling you. Shazana Yasmin went of her own free will, most likely to join up with a women’s group. There is only one I know of with any real strength in numbers and a desire to fight—the Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army. If they have her, and they also have some fissionable materials, then they have one hell of a bargaining tool to get whatever they demand.”

The major swore heavily. “It’s worse than that. If they’re still in Balochistan—”

“There have been no sightings to suggest anything else—”

“Then you realize they’re surrounded by several threats? There are any number of Islamist cells, Taliban units, Baloch rebels and other guerrilla forces in those hills. Even if they aren’t looking for those bloody women, chances are they’ll fall over them. And if that happens...”

“Then you see why this has to cause uproar in the government,” Sandila said softly. “They need to get behind us and act now. Because if any of those groups find Dr. Yasmin before we do, then they get that flask....”

* * *

FOR TWO WEEKS, Shazana Yasmin had been adjusting to life as a fugitive freedom fighter—at least, that was how she saw herself. The government of her country had let her down, and she was certain that she had the opportunity to put that right.

It was just that at the moment, it didn’t quite feel that way. The Pakistan Women’s Liberation Army, the PWLA, had its camp in the foothills of the mountains that dotted the Balochistan region. The hills had always been a harsh environment, but they also afforded shelter and sanctuary to those who endured the hardships to live there. Since she was a child and her father had first retreated to this region, Yasmin had grown up on the stories of the men who had defied the British Empire for so long in this rocky terrain.

She rose and washed herself, on the thirteenth morning since her supposed capture, in the clear stream that burbled between the rocks. Once clean, she stood and stretched her aching back while breathing deeply of the clean morning air.

Being a revolutionary and fighting for the rights of an oppressed minority was the kind of thing that had been romanticized in the books she had read as a student in the U.S.A. She had read about Berkeley, about student protest, about the idea that small but determined groups across the globe had been able to effect real change by going underground and using their wits and stealth to take on the monolith of government.

What those books had never described was the mind-numbing tedium of having nothing to do each day because “the time wasn’t right,” sitting around in camp and discussing tactics and plans and never coming to any real solution about a course of action. Bickering about rotis to cook and divvy up. Hunting and gathering fresh food to augment the supplies that had to be eked out until it was safe to make the next trip to the nearest town or village. Routine patrols in the hills that revealed nothing but goats and the odd, bewildered herdsman, and the ever-present sound of gunfire in the distance. Campfires on freezing cold nights and discussions of the future and how the country would change when emancipation was more than just a dream. The rhetoric usually kept Yasmin warm until she crawled into her tent, realizing that she had nothing in the cold of night but the certain knowledge that yet another day had passed with no actual progress.

All the while, lurking at the back of all this, like the gunfire that crackled at the edges of consciousness, there was the fear that a phalanx of militants would chance on their location. The PWLA was new, it was inexperienced and mostly made up of women like Yasmin who were from a relatively privileged and moneyed background, whose only experience of the arms they carried was in target practice. Those few who had run from their homes and fought fundamentalists and sometimes their own families in the bid to escape oppression had some familiarity with violence, and they tried to teach the others. But until the time came, no one in the camp knew how she would react.

It was terrifying if Yasmin stopped to think too hard about it. For the most part she tried to avoid such a train of thought. Still, on mornings like this it was hard to avoid. Soon the moment of decision would come. Would she be found wanting? Would any of them be found wanting?

She made her way back to the main section of the camp, exchanging a few words on the way. When she reached her tent, she checked the contents of her backpack. There, nestled among the few belongings she’d bought with her, was the sealed and insulated flask.

She took it out and sat looking at it, trying to guess what had happened since she’d left home. Her father and brother would have been given a tough time by the security service, but she figured they could ride it out. There had been no official communiqué from the PWLA to the government as yet, but it wouldn’t take too much for any half-intelligent security man to work out what was going on. She was sure her disappearance would be investigated, and the information she had gathered would eventually be noted. She had been careful, but she was no industrial spy. And then it would be only a short leap to the discovery that this flask was also missing.

With the security of the Pakistan nuclear program breached, she knew that there would be a panic in the corridors of power. This could only be good for her cause. She had little regard for the average intelligence of the political mind, and less so for the average military mind. First they would yell for revenge and mindless action. It was only after they had passed the initial flush of testosterone and adrenaline that they would start to think about what they could really do....

That was when the negotiations would begin.

The fear of biting reality gnawed at her gut.

It couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Three

The early morning wind was biting as it swept along the National Mall. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was running through the green. He felt sharp and awake, ready for Brognola’s brief about the current situation—whatever it was.

He soon had his chance. The big Fed was sitting at a bench they often used for outside meetings. Brognola was looking down, lost in thought, but the sound of the soldier’s pounding footsteps approaching caught his attention. He had two coffees, and as Bolan came to a halt, stretched and then sat down beside him, Brognola handed one over without a word.

Bolan sipped the warm liquid. “Whatever’s up, it must be serious to drag you out this time of the morning.”

Brognola stared out at the monuments for a moment before speaking. “Yes, something has come up. It’s a delicate one.”

Bolan chuckled. “It always is, Hal. Always...”

The big Fed rose to his feet and indicated that Bolan follow him. The two men walked along the Mall in silence. Taking his cue from Brognola, Bolan refrained from questions and took in the memorials and statues that they passed on their route. For each example of heroism and achievement, he knew there were hundreds that remained unremarked and unnoticed. Maybe it was better that way. Certainly there were times when it was better that the people had no idea of how close to disaster they had come.

He didn’t bother to speculate on what Brognola had lined up for him. A clear mind was always the most receptive.

Even so, he was a little surprised to see two men in Pakistani Armed Forces regalia seated in uncomfortable silence in the private room Brognola had rented in a Georgetown restaurant. From their body language, it was apparent that neither was pleased to be there and that they had a frosty relationship with each other. Hal introduced the older, bulkier man as Major Usman Malik of Pakistan Military Intelligence, and the younger as General Tariq Sandila. Bolan was interested to learn that the higher-ranking officer was younger than the major, and was clearly his subordinate. Neither man seemed happy about the inversion of ranks, and Bolan surmised that that might color whatever was about to come next.

Brognola took his seat. Malik leaned forward.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brognola, but you have not introduced me to your associate.” He bristled. “This is a most delicate matter, and I would like to know just who is included in the information chain.”

Bolan noticed the ghost of a smile and the slightest indication of a head shake from the younger man.

“Major,” Hal began carefully, “my colleague is operative...consultant. As such, discretion and security are paramount. It would be best if you knew as little as possible about the way we work. Just be assured that we do. After all, it was your National Command Authority who authorized your approach. Now what do you say we stop quibbling and get down to what’s important.”

“Very well. Sandila will brief you,” Malik snapped with barely disguised irritation. Bolan noted the dismissive way he had referred to the general.

Sandila seemed to be used to this. Ignoring the slight, he powered up the tablet on his lap and ran through his report briskly and efficiently, relaying the salient points.

Brognola was obviously familiar with this report, but Bolan listened attentively. He spoke only when Sandila had finished.

“Surely this is an internal matter?” he asked Brognola. “I thought it was policy not to interfere unless there were U.S. nationals endangered, or the interests of the administration were compromised.”

“That is the case,” Brognola answered smoothly. “And that is also the qualification. Shazana Yasmin became a naturalized U.S. citizen during her time studying at MIT. Her decision to return to Pakistan and work for her homeland doesn’t change this.”

Bolan’s eyebrow quirked. The scientist was obviously fiercely patriotic to Pakistan, and seeking naturalization in the U.S. had most likely been a matter of convenience.

He directed his next questions to Sandila. “General, do you have any reason to suspect that there may be a religious or ideological element to this?”

The younger of the Pakistani men smiled indulgently. “I know you in the West think that we are a hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism, but I think your own homeland security would have identified Dr. Yasmin as a potential threat if she were. I’m sure her defection isn’t based on religion. It is, however, ideological. And this is where I am concerned. Not because the PWLA is a strategic threat, but because its members are inexperienced. They are not, from what we know, trained fighters. Their vulnerability makes them dangerous.”

Bolan could see his point. These freedom fighters were fuelled by ideology, but they had no preparation for their chosen path, hiding out in a region that was rife with hardened Taliban fighters and other militant groups. Plus, they possessed both fissionable material and the knowledge to make it work. More than that, they were women. Their gender alone would enrage their opponents.

“Then our task is to locate Yasmin and bring her in, along with the fissionable material. How much, and how volatile?”

“A small flask, no larger than that coffee there,” Sandila replied, pointing to the large cup Brognola had carried in from the Mall. “As for its safety—well, that depends on the kind of treatment it receives in the wilds. A laboratory flask is lined and secure, designed to withstand a certain amount of punishment. But in the hands of someone who doesn’t really know what they’re doing?” He shrugged. “It could be a real problem. Prolonged exposure would have the inevitable effect.”

Bolan nodded in understanding. “Do you have any way to locate her? Does she have a cell?”

Sandila grinned. “She took her phone. At least, it wasn’t at the villa. But out there, you have no chance of getting a signal. If it had been that easy, I would have gone and gotten her myself a week ago. No, this requires a more specialized approach.”

Bolan acknowledged the implied compliment. “What about manpower? Will I be expected to work alone or will there be backup?”

Sandila was about to speak when Malik cut in. “You will have a detachment of men from the Special Service Wing. They have taken part in joint exercises with both your forces and the Chinese. They are our crack troops. You will be given command of six men who know the Balochistan region and the enemy forces who roam across it. They will add their specialist knowledge to yours.”

“That’s good,” Bolan commented, noting the look that Sandila cast at both him and Malik. “General, I would like to go over your report with you after this meeting, if I may. My associate here—” he indicated Brognola “—will need to finalize details with you, Major. Perhaps you could do this while General Sandila and I go over the report. It would save time if we attend to the smaller details while you deal with the important liaison.”

He caught Brognola’s glance from the corner of his eye. Brognola nodded slightly at Bolan and rose to his feet, gesturing to Malik. “Major, if you would come with me, then we can speak to the Foreign Affairs directorate about how this is handled. By the way, have you ever seen the Oval Office?”

“I have never had the opportunity to visit Washington before,” Malik said with a smug smile as he deferred to Brognola and allowed himself to be ushered from the room. Bolan could hear Brognola soft-soaping him as the door closed behind them. He turned to Sandila.

“Tell me, General, how come he’s your superior officer even though you outrank him?”

“Pakistan, like India, still has many hangovers from the days of Empire,” Sandila replied. “It will take a few more generations until that has been eradicated. You have to understand, the major is not a bad or stupid man per se. It’s just that he comes from an older tradition and believes fast-tracked officers who are seconded because of specialist criteria—even if they have a nominal superiority—are not to be trusted.”

“Your specialty?” Bolan queried.

“Physics. It was Dr. Yasmin’s position, as much as her gender, that was of importance. There is something I feel I must emphasize, Mister—” He paused.

“Stone. Colonel Stone,” he added for emphasis.

“Colonel, my point, for what it is worth, is this—the push for women’s emancipation is growing, and as it does, it stirs up feelings that had previously remained latent. The major is a strong example of this phenomenon. He can’t believe that a woman could take this action, despite the fact that next to her intellect, he is a child.” The general chuckled. “His hostility is restricted to mere words. Out in the field, when faced with women with guns, no matter what their orders, I could not say for certain how the attitudes of the average Pakistani man would reveal themselves. If the attitudes of the men I encountered during my investigation at the Yasmin villa were anything to go by...” He let the words hang in the air.

Bolan considered this. “I think you may well have a point, General. I’ll take note of it, even if your major would not. With that in mind, take me through your report again, only this time leave in the things that had to remain unsaid. Tell me everything you know concerning the search area.”

Sandila assented, looking relieved. He brought up the report on his tablet, and then added topographical maps of the region. “You want full details? I hope you have plenty of time, and that your chief can keep Major Malik occupied....”

Bolan grinned as he thought of Brognola having to keep the major amused. “Don’t worry, General. He’s used to difficult customers.”

Brognola proved the worth of this statement, as he kept Malik away from the restaurant for two and a half hours while Bolan went over the report carefully, closely questioning Sandila about every point raised. The general answered with candor and provided insight that Bolan stored away for future use. Then they turned to the topographical map. Sandila ran him through the general terrain and the known movements of both the militant cells that roamed the hills and the PWLA. He outlined possible routes of progress and points of encampment, and Bolan took mental note and ensured that the general added notation to a copy of the file that he would send to the soldier’s smartphone.

“What might help you, Mr. Stone, you are welcome to,” Sandila said when they were finished. “Yet it would benefit no one if Major Malik had access to these extra notes. He would not betray his country, but there are those around him who would not necessarily see the eradication of Dr. Yasmin as a betrayal.”

“I understand, General,” Bolan said. “Believe me, it’s not just your nation that has these issues.”

By the time Brognola returned with Malik, the two men in the private room were exchanging small talk. Malik, seeing this, grunted and raised his eyebrows as if to indicate his disgust at the willingness of underlings to slack off.

When the two Pakistani intelligence officers had departed to pick up the military flight that would take them back to their consulate in New York City, Brognola leaned back in his chair.

“Got everything you need, Striker?”

“General Sandila is a good soldier,” Bolan said. “Thorough. Uses his head, too.”

“I’ll prepare a route to take you out to Lahore, and from there you’ll be picked up by Malik’s men and taken to Quetta. It’s still a long hike from there to the region where Yasmin went missing, but at least you can pick up ordnance and your team.”

“About that,” Bolan said. “If Sandila is right, then I might be better flying solo at some point. That won’t sit well with Malik, though, and he could cause ripples.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Brognola replied, shaking his head. “Listen, Striker, I could see how Sandila felt about him, and after a couple of hours listening to the man, I understand.”

Bolan sighed. “As long as we’re on the same page, Hal.”

Brognola shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, about that, Striker...”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I think I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”

Brognola looked up at the ceiling. “It’s like this. Because the Pakistan NCA approached the U.S. military directly, rather than coming through Foreign Affairs, there was an extra layer of interference to run before the matter came to me. An extra layer that had something to say, and doesn’t want to relinquish that say.”

“Bureaucratic bull, Hal. It has nothing to do with me. I have a job to do, and although there’s nothing wrong with our military, they’re on display and there are things that they just can’t be seen to do that I can.”

Brognola grimaced. “I understand, Striker. Hell, I agree with you. But—and this is crucial—they have a very good case for keeping an eye on this. Yasmin may not want to come willingly. Okay, so you could just extract her like she was a captive, but that might make further negotiation with her difficult for both the Pakistani administration and for ourselves. However, what if there was someone with you who had worked alongside her at MIT? And what if that person was also female, and so more likely to be able to relate to the issues that drove Yasmin to such action?”

“Come on, Hal—it’s not about her being a woman, but are you seriously suggesting I take a civilian into what might as well be a war zone?”

Brognola coughed. “That’s the thing, Striker—the woman I have in mind isn’t a civilian. She’s a soldier. A serving officer. A little like General Sandila, she has a physics degree as well as a military rank. She’s a captain.”

“What kind of combat experience does she have?”

“Two tours of Afghanistan. She’s familiar with that part of the globe. Even if she hasn’t actually been into Balochistan, she does at least have an understanding of the territory, both physical and political.”

“It’s better, but it’s still not ideal.”

“It’s a done deal, Striker. She’s here, waiting. Captain Tamara Davis.”

Chapter Four

It happened on the sixteenth day. Maybe she was tiring of the wait and her mind was wandering? Maybe she was beginning to realize that idealistic dreams were one thing, but actually making them happen required a skill set that was completely alien to her? Whatever the reason, Yasmin had let her vigilance slip, and it was disastrous for the whole group.

Yasmin had been on night patrol. Along with Benazir Suri, a former politics student who had become radicalized while studying the Red Army Faction and believed that some of their tactics in 1970s Germany could be applied to Pakistan in the 2010s. It was dubious reasoning, in Yasmin’s opinion, but perhaps it was a measure of both her naivety and her desperate desire for change.

For both women, the harsh reality of living in a camp in the hills had been a wake-up call. Adjusting to rough living after a wealthy upbringing and academic life was proving to be hard. It might have seemed a little more worthwhile if their movement was gathering steam, but several of the women in the group—the villagers who had run from virtual slavery and who had the knowledge and skills that Suri and Yasmin sorely lacked—were frustratingly taciturn and patient. They were content to sit and wait.

The terrain around them was not the lush riverside that Yasmin had been used to. As they traveled farther from the river’s lifeblood, the streams became trickles that snaked in and out of rock, running too deep in places to be easily accessed. The steeply rising crags of rock made it hard to gain sustenance from the ground or seek shelter from the extremes of heat and cold. The moss, lichens and tufts of wiry grasses offered little for the emaciated goats that roamed the area. The few villages in the region scraped an existence off the land and the goats that young shepherds nervously gathered in, keen to avoid the wrath of any bandits who found camp and fought their desultory battles in the unforgiving landscape.

As the sun fell from the sky that evening, Yasmin and Suri started to tramp across the rocky paths and ravines that dotted the hillsides. There were ample hiding spots, but that also meant there were ample places for enemies to conceal themselves. Once the light had faded from the sky, the two women used only the moon and stars to guide them, perpetually praying for the night to remain cloudless as their eyes and senses had not had the lifetime of adjustment to the dark that the hill-born women had.

As they picked their way along the designated route, which circled the camp at a radius of half a klick, give or take the odd hundred meters to detour around impassable rock falls or clusters, they talked about what they wanted, and about their frustrations, punctuated by cursing as they stumbled, turned their ankles, and gashed and grazed themselves on terrain that seemed to mock their very presence.

“If we’re going to do anything other than rot out here and wait for a bunch of men to come and try to smack us down, then we need to take some kind of action soon,” Suri moaned as she sat on a rock and massaged an ankle. Even though they both wore stout walking boots and had their ankles bound for support and padding, they were still limping at the end of each night’s patrol.

Yasmin was small and compact. Her father used to worry that she might be physically weak, but she was nimble and wiry. Suri, on the other hand, was tall and slim in a way that Yasmin had seen English writers describe as “willowy”—almost as though she had grown too tall for her own strength. Yasmin doubted that her companion could survive in the wild for long. She herself was finding it hard, but Yasmin would bet on herself for the long haul once she had adjusted.

“I know why you want to act,” she said with meaning, “and I want to, as well. But the question is what kind of action? It has to be something that counts. We’re small in number, so we could be easily overwhelmed. We need to make an impact that will rally others to our cause and put us on the international stage.”

Suri snorted. “Maybe we should pretend we’re peasant girls and get ourselves shot in the head.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just tired, cold and pissed off.”

“We all are.” Yasmin grinned. “But we do have one major advantage. The NCA will know by now what I took. Even if they write me off personally and get another research scientist, they know what I’m running around with, and that’ll scare the living crap out of them. They’re not going to risk charging in and shooting without asking, just in case one of their trigger-happy boys has an accident.”

“Well, yes,” Suri said slowly. “Of course we can use it as a bargaining tool, and of course it gives us some protection. The problem is, if we just sit on our asses with it, they have no demands to meet.”

Yasmin sighed. “It would be good if we could agree on what the demands are and actually move this forward.”

Suri laughed. “You sound like you’ve spent too long working for the government. ‘Move this forward...’”

Yasmin punched her friend in the shoulder. “Get your lazy ass up and let’s get going. The last thing we want is to be caught standing around like a pair of idiots.”

Suri dragged herself to her feet, swearing softly as she put pressure on her aching ankle, and followed in Yasmin’s wake.

* * *

IFTIKHAR AND AYUB had not been expecting to hit the payload when they had taken this sortie. Their ten-man militant cell was twenty klicks to the west, deep in the foothills of the peaks that separated Pakistan from Afghanistan and Iran. The range was long and—if not impassable—accessible only to those who had spent years learning its contours. Their group was part of a supply chain that took food and ordnance from one country to another, feeding the needs of rebel factions on each side. Their pipeline was partially supplied by sympathetic Pakistani military men, mostly in quartermasters sections, who were discontented with the Westernization of their country and wanted the government to become more Islamist. This gave the rebels on both sides of the divide access to new Chinese and American hardware, rather than the aging Russian guns and South American copies of Russian weaponry they had been forced to rely on in the past few decades.

It also meant that the rebels running this pipeline kept their ears to the ground about any developments in weapons transportation, new shipments that were to arrive in Pakistan and any potentially new hardware leaks.

Inevitably, despite the blanket of security that Major Malik had attempted to cast over the disappearance of Shazana Yasmin and General Sandila’s subsequent discovery of the missing fissionable material, rumors had surfaced that could not be dispelled. Some of these had reached the Islamist groups and rebels in the foothills, and they had added the small physicist and any potential package she may be carrying to their checklist. It was known that the PWLA was hiding out in the region. The women were already on the checklist, as their very existence was an affront to the ideals and morals of the Islamists. Yet they were a low priority since they presented no real threat.

Now, with the knowledge that Yasmin was likely to be carrying nuclear material, the PWLA had moved up the list from an irritant to a group of interest.

For the past week, Iftikhar and Ayub’s cell had been running missions across the plateaus and ravines of the range, trying to locate the PWLA camp. If they could pinpoint their target before any of the other rebels or Taliban units in the region, then they would hold the whip hand.

Word of Yasmin’s supposed capture by the PWLA was whispered, and her location sought. Iftikhar and Ayub had, so they thought, drawn the short straw in having to take the sortie that carried them farthest from their base camp. Now, they felt differently.

They had become aware of the two women as they scuttled across an outcrop of jagged rock that overhung a narrow pathway cut into a hill. The rock formed a kind of roof that seemed to peter out into thin air before achieving a covering arc, and looked far too fragile to take the weight of a man. In truth, it had stood this way for centuries, and the thick strata at the base end gave it a tensile strength that its appearance belied. Iftikhar had lain flat across it when he heard the rattle of loosened rock along the trail followed by unholy cursing in a high, female voice. Holding his breath, gesturing at Ayub to stay back, he had lain still and listened to the exchange between the two women. He couldn’t believe their luck. At the end of a cold, hard and seemingly pointless mission, they had lucked into a situation that would put their cell in a prime position and boost their own standing among their compatriots.

Now they had to play this right. Iftikhar clung flat to the rock as the two women passed beneath him. He waited as they continued down the narrow passage for a few hundred meters, then he crawled back to the ridge where Ayub lay waiting. Iftikhar could see from Ayub’s face that he, too, had been listening. Without speaking, the two men communicated that they should follow the women at a distance in the hope that they would lead them to the PWLA camp.

Silently, the two men set off in pursuit of their prey. The women were obviously inexperienced, and their clumsy attempts at keeping their progress quiet were almost laughable. Certainly, if the two rebels had made any noise of their own, it would have been masked by the sound the two women were generating as they blundered forward.

It soon became apparent that the women were on a regular patrol, and if nothing else, the circumscribed route would give the two rebels a fixed area in which to search for and track down the PWLA camp...if the women did not lead them directly there.

After several hours of stuttering progress, the two rebels found that the women were novices when it came to covering their own tracks and being aware of their surroundings. On several occasions, the two rebels came within a few meters of the women, who didn’t register their presence.

If all the women in the PWLA were like this, then it would be simple for a task force to raid their camp and wipe them out, taking the scientist and her cargo. The men exchanged predatory grins as they followed the two women to the edge of their camp.

As the sun rose, Iftikhar and Ayub withdrew. They were on a plateau above the small valley where the PWLA had pitched camp, and they would be exposed in the light of dawn. They had counted the tents, and based on the number of women who had started to emerge, they estimated the maximum number of PWLA members in camp. When they were at a safe distance, they began to realize the import of what they had stumbled on.

“They are stupid, my friend,” Ayub murmured. “Do they really think they have any chance of success, with such a small number?”

“They’ll count on the backing of the West,” Iftikhar replied, spitting to emphasize his disgust. “They don’t need bodies when they have the scientist woman and her nuclear filth. That will be enough to have the idiots in Lahore groveling at her feet.”

“They’ll have to do more than grovel if we get to it first,” Ayub returned.

“True. They won’t put up much of a fight, but that would be true no matter who attacked them. The women aren’t the problem here. We must act quickly—if we can find them easily enough by accident, then anyone else could stumble on them in such a way. We must ensure that our men strike tonight.”

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