Dead Man’s Switch

Armed with weapons of mass destruction, three anti-American groups prepare to unleash a deadly war against the United States. Mack Bolan is sent in to stop the attack before the killing can begin. And he knows every second counts. There’s only one problem: the weapons are hidden in different locations around the world.

With millions of innocent lives at stake, Bolan has no choice but to accept the help of an ex-Hezbollah member who claims to have insight into the terrorists’ plans. Keeping one eye on the informant and the other on disarming the threat, the Executioner knows it’s time for him to do some massive destruction of his own.

The Executioner was a micro-second behind the bomber

The terrorist squeezed the trigger, and Bolan heard the hammer fall on an empty pistol.

Wasting no time, he sent a trio of rounds into the man’s face, knocking him against the shattered stained-glass windows like a spineless rag doll.

All the terrorists at the back of the chapel were now dead. And yet the danger was far from over. Bolan watched as the detonator fell from the bomber’s lifeless fingers to the tiled floor, skidding several feet before hitting the wall and bouncing back a few inches.

His Beretta in his right hand, he dove across the room, counting off the seconds as he flew through the air.

One thousand one...

Bolan hit the floor and snatched the detonator in one swift motion.

One thousand two...

He saw a series of buttons, but only one was illuminated. Did that mean it was the button that would halt the detonator or...? The Executioner had to make a lightning-fast decision. He had to take the chance.

Don Pendleton

Throw Down

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.

—Sun Tzu

In every war, you must know your enemy, be cautious of your allies and never go against your gut—it is what will keep you alive.

—Mack Bolan

The Mack Bolan 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.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jerry VanCook for his contribution to this work.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

PROLOGUE

February 20, 2003

The Iraqi dictator stared at the screen of his computer as he waited for the security program to kick in. He knew he was about to experience the most important online conference he had ever had. In fact, it was probably the most important meeting of any sort he had ever taken part in.

A moment later, the screen divided into thirds. First to come into focus was the left-hand side, where the Iraqi saw the face of Mohammed Parnian sitting at his desk in Damascus. Parnian was the Syrian president and, like the Iraqi, a Sunni Muslim. But he was of the Alawi sect, who approached the Creator directly rather than through angels or Muslim saints.

The Iraqi president hated the man. But at least he was Sunni.

The middle screen became clear and a similar picture emerged from Iran. The swarthy little man behind the desk wore a light colored suit with an open collar. Hamid Bartovi was, of course, a Shiite, and the Iraqi remembered the long war he had fought against this man’s country during the latter part of the twentieth century. Neither had won, and many lives had been lost on both sides. But even though he was Shiite, he, too, was Muslim.

Finally, the right side of the screen came into focus. The man sitting behind this desk had huge jowls hanging from the sides of his jaws and black hair slicked back by a comb. He looked angry. But, the dictator reminded himself, Pancho Martinez always looked angry. His face couldn’t be used to judge his mood. Martinez, the president of Venezuela, was not a Muslim of any sort. He claimed to be Christian, but the Iraqi dictator knew that was primarily for political reasons.

If truth be known, none the leaders who had gathered for this secured video conference were particularly religious. They used religion when it was practical and discarded it when it was not. They did, however, have two things in common.

They all loved power.

And they all hated the United States of America.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the Iraqi said in English—the only language all four of them spoke. “I trust things are going well for you.”

“As well as can be expected,” Bartovi said. “Under the current circumstances.”

“Things are quiet at the moment,” Parnian said.

“All is well here,” Martinez reported. “Particularly compared to you and your country.”

The Iraqi sat back. “Yes,” he said. “These are dark times for us. The U.S. invasion is inevitable, I believe.”

“And you can never win such a war,” Parnian said. “You must face that fact.”

“That fact, as you put it,” the Iraqi admitted, “is exactly why I have called this meeting.” He paused to take in a long breath, scratching his clean-shaven chin as he did so. “I must go into hiding, I am afraid.”

“A wise choice,” Bartovi said. “But for how long?”

“I do not know,” the Iraqi said. “But if the United States is true to form, they will take over my country, claim victory, set up some puppet regime and then go home when their citizens grow tired of losing American lives. It could be a matter of months. Then again, it might be years.”

“Vietnam taught them nothing,” Martinez said. “They are still quick to stick their nose into the business of other nations. But they lack the resolve to stay in place long enough to achieve their beloved democracy.” The Venezuelan curled his lips in distaste.

“They believe democracy should be forced upon the entire world,” Bartovi proclaimed. “Even nations that have no desire for it. In that sense, they are as bad as the Soviet Union used to be in spreading communism.”

“We can spend all day discussing politics if you like,” Parnian said. “But it will do nothing to help our friend in Iraq.” This time, it was the word friend that caught the dictator’s ear. It seemed forced from the Iranian’s lips. The Iraqi knew they were friends only in their opposition to the Western superpower.

“So,” Martinez said. “How can we be of service to you during your last few days in office?”

The dictator sat quietly for a moment, then said, “I would like to send each of you some presents.”

“And they are...?” Bartovi asked.

The dictator glanced at the side of his computer, assuring himself that the red security light was on and the meeting was being scrambled beyond anything the Americans might be able to piece together into coherence. “I must move out my weapons,” he said. “To Syria and Iran, I would like to send my biological and chemical supplies.” He paused again, taking in another breath. “For Venezuela, I have a very special gift.”

“Special gift?” Martinez repeated.

“I have one nuclear warhead,” the dictator said. “But no missiles that will reach the United States from Baghdad.” He paused yet again, this time for dramatic effect. “Launched from your country, however, Señor Martinez, it is another story.”

“Let us make sure we are all on the same page, as the infidel Americans say,” Parnian murmured. “You are expecting us to enter into a protracted war with the United States?”

“Of course not,” the Iraqi said quickly. “You would have no better chance of winning than I do.” A certain sense of satisfaction flowed through him as he spoke the words. His colleagues had reminded him that his forces could never defeat those of the U.S. It was gratifying to remind them in turn that they could be no more successful than he. “What I would like you to do,” he said, “is simply hide these weapons until it appears to the world that they never existed in the first place. When they have searched my country high and low and found nothing, the weapons of mass destruction, or WMDs, as their cowboy president loves to call them, will appear to have been nothing but a political ploy. Americans will believe their leader used them simply as an excuse to take over Iraq.”

“And they will turn against him,” Bartovi said, nodding on the screen. “The Americans are quick to do that.”

“Exactly,” the Iraqi said, and he found himself nodding, too. “And in the next election, they will vote for someone as different from their current president as possible.”

All four men chuckled softly. “They always do,” Parnian said. “Republican, Democrat, liberal, conservative. They bounce from one extreme to another, never happy with anyone they have elected.”

“Precisely,” the Iraqi leader said. “And I will wait them out. When they go home, I will emerge stronger than ever.”

“If they do not find you first,” Martinez stated, staring out from the screen. “If they do, you will be tried in the World Court in Geneva. And with all due respect, my fellow president, you will be found guilty and probably hanged.”

A surge of fear washed over the Iraqi, but he pushed it to the side. No one—not even the mighty Americans—would be able to ferret him out of hiding. Not here, in his own country.

The fear left his soul. For a moment, the possibility that his ego had overtaken his common sense replaced it, but he pushed that thought aside, as well.

“That will not happen,” he said, staring at Martinez. “But just in case the million-to-one shot comes through, I would like you all to pass my gifts on to some of our other friends. Friends who do not have obvious borders, or buildings and cities that could be bombed in retaliation.”

“You are speaking of al Qaeda,” Parnian said.

“And Hamas and Hezbollah,” Bartovi added.

“Indeed I am,” the Iraqi said. “Not to mention the Taliban. In the unlikely event that I do die or am captured, I want millions of American lives taken in revenge.”

For a moment, all four leaders were quiet. Then Martinez said quietly, “Send me your gift.”

“And to us, ours,” Parnian stated.

“We will comply with your wishes,” Bartovi said. “And even after you return to power, we can make good use of your gifts. Or rather, as you said, our freedom-fighting associates can.”

“It is time that the Middle East rose again,” the Iraqi said. And quickly added, “With, of course, our South American friends.”

“Then it is settled,” Bartovi said. “We are ready for delivery as soon as you are able.”

The Iraqi dictator smiled into the split screen of his computer. “They are already on their way,” he said. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good evening,” the other three men replied.

The Iraqi dictator reached up and tapped the button that shut down his computer. Then he sat back in his chair and found himself chuckling again.

The people of the United States were the smuggest human beings in the world, in his opinion. They would find that they were not as prepared to take over Iraq as they thought. He would disappear for the duration of the war—which would not last long, due to the Americans’ impatience. And when they had left again he would reemerge stronger than ever.

The hunted dictator’s chuckling became full-blown laughter. His plan was perfect.

What could possibly go wrong?

1

Mack Bolan had known it would be only a matter of time.

After all, what softer target could Islamic terrorists find than small, unguarded Christian churches?

The flutter of the helicopter blades above his head did little to drown out the gunfire Bolan heard below as Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man Farm’s top pilot, paused the chopper in midair above the tiny Catholic church standing out strangely in the middle-income residential area. Bolan recalled what he’d been told during the short helicopter “hop” from Chicago to Detroit.

The Catholic chapel had been built with money, and on a vacant lot, donated by an elderly retired schoolteacher who had never married. Having no heirs, she had passed on what little there was of her estate to the Church, with the request that the chapel be built in the medieval style reminiscent of many small Catholic churches in Europe. Her specifications had been followed to the letter, according to Stony Man Farm’s source of information, and Bolan was slightly surprised that the city had been willing to rezone the lot for the unusual building.

Looking down through the windshield of the whirlybird, Bolan counted an even dozen armed men hiding behind statues of saints and firing AK-47s. Others had entered the chapel and were shooting through broken stained glass windows.

They all appeared to be on the ground floor of the three-story building.

Atop the church, however, one side of the cross mounted on the steeple had been shot away. The sight caused Bolan, also known as the Executioner, to frown. Detroit Police cars and a pair of SWAT vans encircled the building. While some of the officers spoke into handheld walkie-talkies and cell phones, most were too busy returning fire toward the church. But surely none of them were such poor marksman that they had missed their targets by two stories.

“Bring her down another twenty feet or so, Jack,” Bolan told his pilot and longtime friend. “If I’m going into this gunfight I’d just as soon not start it with a broken leg.”

“You got it, big guy,” Grimaldi said, and reached for the control panel in front of him. Seconds later the helicopter began to drop through the air like a well-controlled butterfly. As they descended, Bolan saw the reason for the shot that had hit the cross on the steeple.

It had not been poor marksmanship. From this new vantage point, he could see that two of the terrorists had climbed all the way to the roof. Rather than blasting away with assault weapons, they were taking their time with bolt-action sniper rifles.

Bolan considered landing the chopper on the flat area of the church’s roof. So far, the enemies below hadn’t taken much interest in the helicopter. The cops, of course, wouldn’t shoot at him or Grimaldi. And the terrorists had probably surmised that the unmarked aircraft was from a news channel. They wouldn’t shoot, at least not until Bolan tipped his hand as an enemy combatant. Like all terrorists, they wanted all the news coverage they could get.

“Hold it here,” the Executioner said as he strapped the bungee cord harness around his shoulders, waist, and up between his thighs. The sharp cracks of rifle fire were becoming even louder. As Grimaldi continued to hover over the church, Bolan reached into one of the pockets of his stretchy, skintight black battle suit—known simply as a blacksuit—and pulled out his satellite phone. A moment later, he had tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm, the top-secret counterterrorist organization with which he maintained an “arm’s length” working relationship.

At one point in his career, he had been the Farm’s top agent. But Bolan was by nature a loner. And he had returned to his one-man war against evil in all its forms, while remaining on professional and friendly terms with Stony Man Farm.

The telephone call bounced off several satellites, via phony phone numbers, before reaching its destination. The few seconds that took were well worth it when weighed against the possibility of a criminal or terrorist group intercepting the call. In addition, every word Bolan spoke into the phone, and every word spoken to him, would be scrambled beyond recognition to anyone who might have stumbled across the frequency.

Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s chief mission controller, picked up the receiver. “Hello, Striker,” she said, using the Executioner’s mission code name. “Ten-twenty?”

“Hovering over the steeple right now,” Bolan replied. “Getting ready to jump out to the end of this rubber band and engage in a little target practice.” He paused, taking in a deep breath. “The only reason I called is to make sure word got to the cops that I’m on their side.”

“That’s been affirmed,” Price said. “The local law enforcement forces are expecting a Fed to come falling from the sky.”

“Good,” Bolan said. “I just told Jack I didn’t want to start this fight with a broken leg. I’m not too crazy about bouncing around on this bungee, either, while the cops below fill me with lead, like some monkey on a string.”

“They won’t,” Price assured him. “If you get shot, it’ll be by the bad guys.”

Bolan chuckled softly. “That’s a great consolation,” he said with only a trace of sarcasm. “And we’re sure the guys who’ve taken over the church are Hezbollah?” he added.

“Ninety-nine percent,” Price replied. “That’s what the informant was told, anyway.”

For a brief moment, Bolan thought of the unusual set of circumstances that had brought him from the aftermath of an assault on the Chicago Mafia to Detroit. He had barely fired his final shot, ending the life and criminal career of the Windy City’s godfather, when his satellite phone had vibrated, alerting him that there was trouble in Detroit and that Grimaldi would meet him at the airport in a helicopter. Hal Brognola, the director of sensitive operations at Stony Man Farm, had told him that a Catholic chapel in Detroit was under attack. The informant had said it was the work of Hezbollah—the terrorist group of which the man had once been a member.

The informant was a member no longer. He had been converted to Christianity by the Arabic-speaking priest of the chapel, and the terrorist group presently had a multimillion dollar contract out on his life. But he had not left Hezbollah before learning that they’d planned to place a bomb inside the chapel. And that they were going in heavy—with firepower—just in case they got caught during the act.

Which they had.

The new Arabic Christian had revealed this information during a confession to the priest, and since the crime had not yet taken place, and stood a chance of being prevented, Father Patrick O’Melton was not bound by the confidentiality code between clergyman and confessor. A former U.S. Army Ranger who had served his country during the First Gulf War, O’Melton had wasted no time contacting the authorities.

Bolan slid the single-point sling of his M-16 A-2 over his shoulder. “See you later, Jack,” he said as he opened the chopper door.

“I always hope so,” Grimaldi replied.

The fall was short compared to a parachute jump, and before he knew it Bolan was reaching the end of the bungee cord and being jerked back up almost to the helicopter again.

The men on the ground floor were at no vantage point to fire at him as he sailed through the air once more, but the snipers atop the building had taken note of the chopper, and finally realized it was not from any news station. They turned their bolt action rifles his way, and a pair of “bees” buzzed past the Executioner as he continued to bounce. But the slow operation of the weapons kept the terrorists’ fire to a minimum.

Twisting to face them on the end of the bungee, Bolan raised the M-16 A-2 in his right hand and cut loose with a 3-round burst of fire. The first round struck the bolt of a sniper rifle, sending up a flash of sparks from the weapon, and a scream from the mouth of the man holding it, as the .223 hollowpoint bullet split and struck his chest and abdomen. The second and third rounds took the sniper perfectly in the heart, and he fell forward onto his face with no further shrieks or cries of pain.

Bolan flipped the quick release snap on his bungee harness as the cord began to stabilize, and fell to the roof on his belly. With the M-16 in the prone position, he pressed the trigger again, and another trio of .223 rounds burst from the weapon, taking off the top half of the second sniper’s head.

The Hezbollah man, wearing olive drab BDUs—battle dress uniform—like the rest of the terrorists Bolan had seen, didn’t make a sound. He just stumbled a few feet backward, then toppled over the short retaining wall that surrounded the roof of the church. The last things Bolan saw of him were his boots as he fell “half-headed” over the side.

As the gunfire below him continued, the Executioner moved swiftly toward an open trapdoor near the center of the roof. Flipping the selector switch in his weapon to semiauto, he stared down into the darkened hole.

Were the two men he’d just killed the only ones who had ascended from the bottom floor? There was no way of knowing. Other terrorists could be hidden within, waiting quietly for an assault from the roof.

There was only one way to find out.

Pulling a small ASP flashlight from another pocket of his blacksuit, the Executioner risked training a two-second beam of light down the steps. He saw and heard nothing. So, with the M-16 at the ready, he began to make his way down the stairs.

It took time for Bolan’s eyes to readjust to the near darkness of the third floor of the chapel. But he waited, not wanting to risk giving away his position with another flash from the ASP. A small amount of light came down from the open trapdoor, so he moved to a corner of what appeared to be a Sunday school classroom. He was ninety-nine percent certain that no one was with him on the top floor of the chapel. But in case that one percent came through, he wanted the darkness to work for him rather than against him.

As soon as he could make out the blurry shapes of tables and chairs in the room, the Executioner glanced around. He saw no light switches or signs of electricity in any form. But on the tables, and built into the walls, were large candles and oil lamps. Moving toward the staircase in the middle of the room, he passed a large crucifix, then a painting of Jesus Christ with his hands folded in prayer. Continuing on toward a hallway and another set of steps, Bolan kept listening to the rifle rounds exploding below him. They had become more muffled since he’d entered the building, but were just as regular.

And, he knew, just as deadly.

When he reached the staircase, Bolan aimed his assault rifle downward and stared at the steps. The second floor of the small building seemed as deserted as the third, and he nodded to himself. The clock was ticking. There was a bomb somewhere inside the chapel. What kind of device, and how it was rigged to go off, had not been included in Brognola’s brief. Bolan had barely had time to find out how Stony Man Farm’s director had come across the intel in the first place.

He needed to talk to the priest and the converted Hezbollah man. This was a golden opportunity—a one-in-a-million chance to learn the ins and outs of what else the terrorist group had planned for the near future. But that was not the primary goal at the moment. Before he interviewed the informant and the priest, he needed to keep Saint Michael’s Chapel from blowing up. And to do that meant both ridding the world of the terrorists on the ground floor and deactivating the bomb without destroying the chapel and the neighborhood surrounding it.

The Executioner’s brain continued to roll near the speed of light. He suspected this was a fairly low-tech operation on Hezbollah’s part. That meant that as soon as the terrorists began to think they were losing the gun battle, they would detonate the bomb by hand.

Slowly and quietly, Bolan began to descend the steps to the second floor. With each creak his boots made he paused, listening, to see if the men below had noticed it. But the gunfire continued, drowning out his quiet sounds on the stairs. Bolan realized the men below weren’t likely aware that he’d taken out their two snipers. That meant he still had surprise on his side.

And he’d need it. He was vastly outnumbered, and surprise was the only advantage he would have in this ongoing firefight.

Reaching the second floor, Bolan saw that it was as deserted as the third, and he realized that the terrorists’ plan for rifle fire had been as elemental as their plan for the bomb. Except for the two snipers he’d taken out on the roof, all of them were on the first floor.

Bolan halted his progress again, rapidly analyzing the situation. He could probably take out the men below by suddenly bounding down the final set of steps and launching a furious barrage of fire from the rear. But if he didn’t get the individual in charge of the bomb, or if the explosives were connected to a dead man’s switch, which would go off as soon as whoever was holding it relaxed his grip, Bolan might as well blow up the chapel himself.

He paused another moment before starting down the steps to the first floor. He had to admit, Hezbollah’s attack might be low-tech, but it included a well-thought-out battle plan. Men who didn’t mind dying, and thought it bought them a first-class ticket to paradise, held an incredible edge over warriors who were trying to kill the enemy and stay alive at the same time.

Bottom line in this situation was that the sooner Bolan wiped out all the terrorists on the first floor, the sooner the bomb would go off and destroy the chapel and probably the police officers surrounding it. Not to mention him.

He was fighting himself on this one.

* * *

THE CHAPEL WAS SMALL in comparison to most churches, and built of irregular stones that formed both the inside and the outside walls. One main room per story, with the staircase near the middle of each.

That meant that from where he stood presently, at the top of the steps, Bolan had a clear view of about half the ground level. The up side to this situation was his superior position. The down side was that many men firing out through the shattered stained glass windows could see him if they turned around.

And there were bound to be more Hezbollah out of sight behind the open staircase.

Luckily, the three men he could see were too engaged in their battle with the police to pay attention to their flanks or rear. So Bolan crept farther down the steps, the M-16 A-2 aimed and ready. He squatted momentarily, resting the rifle across his knees as he again sized up the situation. Blasts from the firearms of more men—unseen but heard—confirmed his suspicion that there were other terrorists at the rear. Exactly how many murderers there were in all was anyone’s guess.

Squinting slightly, Bolan searched the men he could see for any sign of a bomb or a remote detonator. Several wore rucksacks, and such packs could hold anything from the most simple dynamite or nitroglycerine explosives to a small tactical nuclear device. But the scanty intel he had received from Brognola told him there was no nuke involved. Not in this strike, at least.

The Executioner took in a deep breath. At least that was something. He nodded to himself as the gunfire below continued. What he was facing was most likely plastic explosives—probably Semtex left over from the old Soviet Union that had found its way into Hezbollah hands. If he fired quickly on semiauto, he suspected he could put a .223 caliber hollowpoint round into the back of all six brains before whoever had the explosives even knew what was happening.

But what of the men he couldn’t see, in the rear of the chapel? What if the bomb was with one of them? They would have more than enough time to see what had happened to their brothers in terror and detonate the explosive no matter how fast the Executioner descended the steps to take them on.

The gunfire both out and into Saint Michael’s Chapel continued relentlessly. Through shattered remnants of stained glass still stuck in corners of the windows, Bolan could see dust floating through the outside air—the product of police rounds striking the stones of the walls around the apertures. As he continued to watch, one of the terrorists took a round in the head and fell backward, dead on the cold stone floor.

That was good. But it didn’t change things much for the Executioner. Shooting two men and then turning toward the rear of the building was hardly different from killing three. The bomb would still have plenty of time to go off.

The unusual history of the antiquated chapel, and how out of place it looked in the neighborhood, ran through the Executioner’s mind once more. He was surprised that the city inspectors would have passed the candle and oil lamp lighting. Even more remarkable was that the Detroit Fire Department would have allowed a three-story structure to be built with only one way up and down. The chapel would be a death trap if any of the lamps or candles was ever mishandled.

The realization struck Bolan suddenly: the building inspectors might have insisted on a second escape route. One he couldn’t see. And medieval architecture was famous for hidden rooms, staircases and tunnels.

Quickly and quietly, he rose to his feet. There was a second way down; he could feel it. A route the terrorists would undoubtedly be unaware of, so that he could emerge suddenly, with surprise on his side.

He just had to find it.

But time had become a factor, too. Every second he took searching for the hidden route down was a second during which the Hezbollah might decide that the gunfight had gone on long enough. And that they should detonate the bomb.

The Executioner retraced his steps to the second floor and moved away from the staircase. Crouching near a stone wall, where he felt confident his whispers would not be heard by the men below, he pulled out his satellite phone once more. A few seconds later, he had Stony Man Farm on the line.

“Hal,” Bolan said to Brognola. “I’m in a fix here. I can take out the men in front of me. But if one of them isn’t in control of the bomb, then whoever is—that person being out of my field of vision—is going to detonate it and bring this place down as if it was built of straw instead of rock.” He paused a moment, taking a deep breath. “Do you have contact with the priest and Hezbollah informant?”

“That’s affirmative,” Brognola said.

“This place is built to look like it came straight out of King Arthur’s court,” Bolan said. “The only obvious way up and down is the main staircase. But there’s got to be another way out. The fire inspectors would have never passed it if there wasn’t. What’s more, I can feel it.”

It was Brognola’s turn to pause. Bolan knew the man was thinking. And that what he had told him last meant the most of all.

The director of sensitive ops never questioned the Executioner’s battle instincts. He knew that if Bolan sensed there had to be another set of stairs, there quite simply had to be one.

“Hang on,” Brognola said. “I’ve got the priest and his new convert on the other line.”

Bolan heard a click and found himself on hold. The gunfire below continued, and the seconds ticked away, feeling like hours. He knew it was a strange and precarious predicament they were in. The better the Detroit police did in this gun battle, the closer they’d be to destroying the chapel and themselves.

Finally, Brognola came back on the phone. “I just talked to the priest,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And?” Bolan answered.

“You’re on the second floor now, right?”

“Right.”

“Did you see a painting of Jesus and a crucifix on the wall?”

“I passed them on the way to the stairs,” Bolan said. “There’s an identical setup on the floor above me.”

“Okay,” Brognola said, and Bolan could practically see the chewed stub of the ever-present unlit cigar in the director’s mouth. “The picture and the crucifix work in conjunction. Take the painting off the wall and set it on the floor.”

Bolan slung the M-16 over his shoulder and turned to the wall. He lifted the painting of Christ off a nail and set it on the floor. “Done,” he whispered into the phone.

“Good,” Brognola said. “Now, go to the crucifix.”

It took Bolan only two steps to reach the metal cross. “I’m there,” he said quietly.

“The painting and the crucifix work together,” the Stony Man Farm director said. “The painting acts as sort of a safety. Now that it’s off the wall, twist the crucifix to the right.”

Bolan reached out and grasped the bottom on the cross. “How far?”

“You’ll know when you’ve gone far enough,” Brognola answered.

Bolan twisted the crucifix. When it reached a 45-degree angle, a section of wall began to slowly swing backward, revealing an opening.

“You got it yet?” Brognola asked in Bolan’s ear.

“Got it,” he confirmed. He squinted into the dark opening. “I can just make out steps. Can you tell me where they come out on the ground floor?” As he waited for an answer, he slipped the sling off his shoulder and readied the M-16 in front of him.

“You’ll exit in the middle of the bottom room,” the Stony Man director said. “Facing the rear.”

The exploding gunfire below had not let up as Bolan stepped into the secret staircase and slowly descended. Brognola was still on the line as he did so. “Is there a peephole or anything like that, Hal?” he whispered into the satellite phone. “It’d be nice to get an idea what’ll be in front of me when I come out of this thing.”

“Sorry,” Brognola said. “No ‘coming attractions’ on this one.”

“Then tell me how to get out,” Bolan said.

“A more simple setup, since it’s hidden,” Brognola said. “Just to the right of the exit you’ll see a very modern-looking red button. Push it and the panel will open.”

“I hope this one moves faster,” he said, remembering how slowly the panel above had opened.

“I’m afraid not,” Brognola grunted. “They were set up to satisfy the building code and for use in case of fire. No one had armed men and bombs on their minds when the place was built. I’m afraid it’ll be just as slow.”

“Okay,” Bolan said simply. “Sometimes you have to go with what you’ve got. One more thing, though. You still have your informants on the other line? The priest and former Hezbollah man?”

“I do.”

“Ask them about the bomb itself,” Bolan said. He stepped down onto a small landing, then turned to take the last set of steps. “I need to know for sure if there’s a remote detonator, and especially if it has a dead man’s switch. And ask our informant if there are any identifying features about the guy in charge of the bomb.”

Bolan heard another click in his ear as Brognola put him on hold once more. He wondered briefly how long it would take for the men on the ground floor to realize what was going on once the panel began to swing open.

A few seconds later, the Stony Man director was back. “I’m afraid that’s affirmative on both counts, big guy,” he said. “Remote detonator and dead man’s switch. The only good thing I can tell you is that there’s a three-second delay between the time the bomber lets up on the button and when the explosives—it is Semtex, by the way—detonates. If you can get to it within that time frame and press the button again you’ll be okay.”

“How about the description of the bomber?” Bolan asked.

“Our new man here says he always wears a red-and-white-checkered scarf tied around his neck.”

“Well, that’s something at least,” Bolan said. He had reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the red button glowing in the semidarkness. If he was lucky, the men he was about to face would be so intent on firing their weapons out the back that they wouldn’t notice him immediately. He’d have to scan them as quickly as he could, find the one in the red-and-white scarf and kill the others before taking out the one with the dead man’s switch.

Not to mention getting to the remote within three seconds.

“Okay, Hal,” the Executioner said. “I’m ending this call now.”

“Good luck,” Brognola said. “Not that you’ve ever depended on luck.”

Bolan didn’t bother answering. He switched off the sat phone, stuck it back in his blacksuit, then reached up and pressed the red, glowing button with his index and middle fingers.

* * *

SURVIVAL OFTEN HINGED on decisions made at lightning speed and at the last possible second. Some men credited training for honing such decision-making. Others argued that nothing but real live experience—and luck in staying alive until that experience was obtained—was the key to success in life-and-death situations.

But a warrior such as the Executioner knew that neither school of thought was completely right or completely wrong. And while it would be unlike Bolan to ever put such an idea into words, in his mind he knew that he fought out of instinct.

Vincent Van Gogh had been born a painter. Charles Dickens had been born a writer.

And in his very soul, Samuel Mack Bolan knew God had put him on this earth to be a fighter. His inborn talent was in taking up the slack when strong but vicious men of the world attempted to take advantage of their good but weaker brethren.

The wall creaked slightly, then began to move as Bolan made one of those last-minute decisions. This next step in saving Saint Michael’s Chapel and the police officers surrounding it called for stealth. So before the panel had opened even an inch, he had set the M-16 down and drawn the sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R. Forgoing the use of the folding front grip on the machine pistol—Bolan knew his other hand had a far more important task to fulfill—he thumbed the selector switch from safety to semiautomatic.

The escape door had swung out another two inches when Bolan saw the first of the Hezbollah at the rear of the chapel, and snaked the Beretta through the opening to aim it at him. The man was wearing the same OD green BDUs as the terrorists he’d seen on the roof and at the front of the chapel. On his head was a dirty white turban that jerked slightly with each shot the man fired from his AK-47. There was no red-and-white scarf around his neck.

The panel had opened roughly four inches when Bolan depressed the Beretta’s trigger and sent a subsonic 9 mm hollowpoint bullet from the barrel. The ignition made a soft, hissing sound, with the clank of the slide moving back and forth across the frame actually louder than the explosion itself. A thousandth of a second later, in addition to the BDUs and turban, the Hezbollah man wore something new.

A 9 mm hole in the back of his head.

The hidden staircase’s panel continued to swing wider and Bolan thrust his arm through the opening. The man next to the one he had just killed wore a scarf around his neck, but instead of red-and-white it was solid black.

Had there been a mix-up in communication? Had the alleged Hezbollah-terrorist-turned-Christian gotten the color wrong? Bolan knew it was often little mistakes like this that determined the success or failure of a mission. But when he turned his focus to the man’s hands, he saw they were wrapped around the pistol grip and fore end of another AK-47. And that sight caused him to pull the trigger once again, downing the man in the same fashion he had the first.

By this point, the door to the chapel was half open, and Bolan thrust his head around the still-moving panel. With a 180-degree view of the rear of the chapel, he spotted another terrorist to his far right—who did have on a red-and-white scarf. The man had noticed when his two comrades fell.

Bolan noted that in one hand, the terrorist held an old Soviet Makarov 9 mm pistol. But in the other was a device that looked little different than the remote control box for a television or a DVD player.

The Executioner had identified the bomber.

But there was a problem. There were still two Hezbollah firing out the broken windows at the other end of the room. And as quiet as the Beretta 93-R might be, they, too, had seen their brothers fall. The one nearest Bolan had begun to turn his way.

Bolan knew that as soon as he shot the man in the red-and-white scarf, he would have to dive forward to get to the dead man’s switch. Such a task would leave him in no position to return fire. But if he shot the others first, the man with the Makarov would have more than enough time to sight him in and kill him with the Soviet pistol.

Either way, Bolan would be unable to get to the detonator. He’d likely be dead even before the bomb went off, killing everyone else inside the chapel, as well as many of the cops surrounding the structure.

His decision was made faster than he could measure. Bolan had two gunners about to shoot at him from the far windows, and only one—the man with the Makarov and detonator—at the other. Two men with assault rifles had a better chance of killing him than one with a pistol, so he turned the Beretta to his left. As he fired another quiet round from the 93-R, Bolan heard the Makarov explode, and felt a 9 mm round sear past his ear. With the nerves of steel for which he was famous, he stuck with his plan as that first round from the Beretta sent a hollowpoint slug through the temple of the man he’d aimed at.

The Makarov exploded again, and this time Bolan felt heat on his forehead as the bullet passed within millimeters of his face. Every survival instinct he had screamed for him to alter his plan of attack and spin toward the man with the detonator. But years of hard-core battle experience trumped those instincts, and the old adage Never change horses in midstream crossed his mind.

Bolan took careful aim and sent a 9 mm twisting through the brain stem of the man next to the one who had just fallen. Behind the terrorist, splatters of blood and gray brain matter flew out of the fist-size exit wound to splatter against the wall and out through the chapel’s broken windows.

Another Makarov round caught the shoulder of Bolan’s blacksuit, ripping it open. The skin beneath felt as if someone had held a lit kitchen match to it, but Bolan could tell no real damage had been done.

Finally swinging toward the terrorist in the red-and-white-checkered scarf, he found that the man had turned to face him. The Executioner could see his frustration. He had missed three shots at reasonably close range, and was trying to line up his sights to keep from missing again.

The Hezbollah’s arm stopped in place just as Bolan swung the Beretta toward the red-and-white scarf. But the Executioner’s finely focused brain told him it was of no use. He was a microsecond behind the terrorist, who was carefully using the sights and this time would not miss.

A split second later, the man squeezed the trigger.

And Bolan heard a metallic clink as the hammer fell on an empty pistol.

The Executioner wasted no time. The Hezbollah bomber had run his weapon dry shooting from the windows, and had used his final three 9 mms trying to get Bolan. That was his bad luck. And Bolan was determined to make sure that bad luck stayed on the terrorist’s side.

Flipping the selector switch to 3-round burst, he sent a trio of rounds at the man’s chin and eyes. The Hezbollah terrorist flopped back against a shattered church window like a spineless rag doll as blood, gray matter and bits and pieces of skull flew out the back of his head.

All the terrorists at the rear of the chapel were dead.

But the danger was far from over.

Bolan watched as the detonator was jarred from the bomber’s lifeless fingers. It hit the floor, skidding several feet across the slick tile before hitting the wall and bouncing back a few inches.

Bolan kept the Beretta in his right hand as he dived across the room like a wide receiver going after a pass with too much lead from the quarterback. As he flew through the air, he counted off the seconds in his mind.

One thousand one...

The Executioner hit the floor and snatched the detonator off the tile in one swift motion, turning it face-up in order to read it.

One thousand two...

As he lifted the instrument to his eyes, he saw a series of numbers, with only one illuminated. Bolan had no idea if the light meant that button would halt the detonator or not. But he had to make another lightning-fast decision, and take a chance.

He pressed the button with his thumb and continued to count.

One thousand three...one thousand four...

He counted all the way to ten before allowing himself to feel certain the bomb would not go off. For most men, it would have been the longest ten seconds of their lives. Bolan had faced similar danger more times than he could recall, so it wasn’t the longest ten seconds, but it had to be close.

Finally looking up from the detonator, he saw the bomb itself for the first time. The Hezbollah had made no attempt to hide it; it had been placed against the back of the staircase, where Bolan had been unable to see it, coming out of the secret passageway. From where he presently sat, with his back against the wall, he could tell it was a relatively simple device constructed of Semtex, as he’d guessed it would be. He shook his head slightly, realizing he had passed within inches of it when he’d emerged from the hidden door.

Bolan stared at the bomb. He suspected he could disarm it himself if he had time. But he didn’t have time. He could still hear rifle fire from the front of the chapel, which reminded him that the battle was not yet over. There were still five men out there, doing their best to kill the SWAT officers and other cops on the street. Since he had control of the detonator, it made more sense to eliminate all the Hezbollah terrorists and leave the bomb neutralization to the Detroit PD bomb squad.

He paused a moment, listening and thinking. Luckily, there was no indication that the terrorists out front had taken notice of what happened behind them.

Bolan’s eyes rose slightly and he saw yet another crucifix on the wall, just above the body of the last man he had shot before going after the terrorist with the red-and-white scarf and the detonator. Was it truly luck that had kept the other men from noticing as he took out the bomber and the rest of the gunners at the back? Or was there indeed something more powerful working for him, here in Saint Michael’s Chapel?

Bolan didn’t know the answer to that. But he did know—deep in his soul—that if a force greater than he was guiding him, that force expected him to utilize the talents he’d been given to neutralize this situation.

The Executioner picked the Beretta up off the floor, dropped the partially spent magazine and replaced it with a full box mag from one of the carriers on the shoulder holster beneath his right arm. He had more work cut out for him. And it would have to be done one-handed if he wanted to keep the detonator depressed. He reached up and felt the torn cloth of the blacksuit on his shoulder. The skin beneath it still burned, but no real damage had been done. He thought of the three rounds the man in the red-and-white scarf had fired at him. He had missed all three times—at relatively close range. Most rookie cops could have put those rounds into the X ring of a silhouette target their first time at the shooting range.

And then, when the man finally did take his time and line up the sights, he had run the Makarov dry.

Again, Bolan had to wonder if there wasn’t something more than so-called luck at work here within the chapel.

Bolan cleared his mind. The time for action was at hand; there would be opportunity for philosophical reflection later. No more stealth now; a hundred percent full-court press was needed to eliminate the Hezbollah terrorists at the front of the chapel. And Bolan could not allow himself to be killed or disabled while doing so. The bomb would go off just as surely as if he had dropped the detonator after taking out the man in the red-and-white scarf.

Drawing the mammoth .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from his hip holster, Bolan kept the remote button depressed with his middle finger, and used his index finger and thumb to pull the slide back just far enough to make sure a copper jacket was chambered in the barrel. Then he flipped the safety off with his thumb.

And with the Desert Eagle in his right hand, the remote “dead man” detonator in his left, he started toward the front of the chapel.

* * *

CoMPARED TO WHAT HE ’ D already been through, the rest of the battle seemed like a cakewalk.

When Bolan emerged from the side of the staircase, he saw that the police out front had found their mark on yet another of the Hezbollah men shooting back at them. A terrorist with long black hair, partially covered by a green baseball cap, lay facing away from the windows. The corpse’s hands were still wrapped around his throat in what had proved to be a vain attempt to curb the blood flow brought on by the round that had sliced through his carotid artery. His BDU blouse was soaked with blood, and what had undoubtedly been a gusher not unlike a freshly tapped oil well had subsided into a mere trickle of red running down his neck.

The man’s caramel-colored skin had turned white in death.

Bolan dragged his eyes away from the body. Two of the six terrorists were down. That meant four more needed killing.

Taking his time, Bolan raised the Desert Eagle and aimed it at the back of the head of the man on the far left of the row of windows, then tapped the trigger. The Desert Eagle exploded, far louder than the 7.62 mm rifle rounds going the other way. And as it hit its mark, it drew the attention of the Hezbollah men still engaged in the gun battle.

All three turned as one.

Bolan swung the Magnum right, firing a round into the face of a man wearing a checkered kaffiyeh. The blast made the tail of the headdress blow back as if caught in the wind, and the features of his face disintegrated into a mass of blood, muscle and bone.

Bolan’s attack was little different from a bowling pin pistol match, in which competitors kept swinging to the right in order to knock over the wooden pins. Bolan did so again, and the shot he aimed at the next terrorist caught the man in the throat as he attempted to rise from where he’d been firing out of the window.

The round went between the carotid artery and the jugular vein and took out his larynx. He coughed and sputtered spasmodically as his chest jerked in and out. He would die from the wound, Bolan knew. But he might not die fast enough to keep him from returning fire if Bolan moved on. So, as AK-47 fire from the last terrorist began to whiz past him, Bolan put another round between the choking man’s eyes.

That .44 Magnum ended the choking and coughing. For eternity.

Bolan swung the Desert Eagle toward the last man, who had, like the bomber with the Makarov, suddenly run his weapon dry. But you could tell the terrorist was a practiced warrior in the smooth way he dropped the empty mag and reached for a full one in the sash tied around his waist. He was fast.

But the Executioner was faster.

Bolan sent a double-tap of .44 Magnum rounds into the man’s chest, and the magazine fell from his left hand, the rifle from his right. He collapsed onto the floor, which had become a mass of OD green BDU uniforms soaked black, and several ever-growing pools of bright red blood.

Rounds were still exploding from the police outside the chapel. But they began to slow as no more return fire flew back at them from within Saint Michael’s.

Bolan pulled out his satellite phone and tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm. “Let them know it’s all over in here, Hal,” he said into the instrument. “Tell them I’ve got the detonator and it needs to be turned over to the bomb squad.”

“Great work as always,” Brognola said. “Anything else I should tell them?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said drily. “Tell them not to shoot the big guy in the stretchy blacksuit.”

The Executioner ended the call. Two minutes later, SWAT teams and explosive experts had entered the chapel. Bolan carefully turned the detonator over to the captain in charge of the bomb squad as other members of his team removed the bomb itself and gingerly carried it out to their van.

2

The hotel room on the third floor of Detroit’s downtown Hilton looked no different from thousands of others across the globe. It contained two double beds separated by a nightstand and lamp, with a Gideon Bible tucked in a drawer. At the foot of the beds, centered along the wall, was a wooden desk and chair. The bedspreads were generic, as were the pictures hanging on the cream-colored walls.

The room looked much like all the others weary travelers occupied the world over.

What was different were the occupants.

Bolan had changed out of his combat blacksuit while still at Saint Michael’s, using a downstairs closet for privacy. He now wore khaki slacks, a navy blue blazer, a white shirt open at the collar, and black-and-oxblood saddle shoes. For all the world to see, he appeared to be just another businessman who had taken the liberty of removing his necktie and folding it into a pocket of the blazer.

What could not be seen, however, were the weapons beneath that sport coat. The sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R was once again fully loaded, with the first round already chambered and the selector switch thumbed to safe. Opposite it in the leather-and-nylon shoulder rig hung an extra pair of 15-round 9 mm magazines, with subsonic loads that also helped keep the weapon down to a whisper when he pulled the trigger.

Almost in direct contrast to the Beretta was the bigger pistol he wore on his right hip. The Desert Eagle sounded like a nuclear bomb when it went off inside a building, and not much quieter outside. The .44 Magnum was loaded with 240-grain semijacketed hollowpoint rounds, and extra box mags for it were secured behind Bolan’s left hip.

In addition to the big firearms, he carried a North American Arms .22 Magnum, rimfire, single-action minirevolver in the right pocket of his blazer. The tiny firearm could be hidden in the palm of Bolan’s big fist or secreted in any number of other places around his body, as the situation called for. At the moment, it was doing double duty as a “last ditch” backup, and also as a weight that allowed the tail of his jacket to be swept back from his side, for a lightning-fast draw of the Desert Eagle.

Bolan’s final weapon was the newly manufactured Spyderco Navaja. With the ancient Spanish navajas—sometimes known as “caracas” due to their ratcheting sound when opened—as its prototype, the Spyderco was an updated, four-inch-blade version built with the latest innovations in steel and technology.

Bolan had found the Spyderco folder with its one-handed opening hole to be an indispensable tool, and sometimes weapon.

He sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door, facing a man who was just as unique, in his own way, in the cookie-cutter motel room. Father Patrick O’Melton wore a black suit and cap-toed black dress shoes. But above the equally dark tunic, his white Catholic priest’s collar stood out in bold relief. His sandy-red, wavy hair had been combed straight back, barely covering the tips of his ears at the sides. The priest’s nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and a long scar, almost as white as his collar, extended from his left ear down the side of his face to his chin, parting the short, stubby beard that covered the rest of his jaw.

The two men had just entered the room and sat silently for the few seconds it took to check each other out. Bolan, never known to beat around the bush, broke the silence. “My people tell me you were a U.S. Army Ranger.”

O’Melton nodded slowly and his lips curled into a small smile. “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “First Gulf war. I got to sneak around Baghdad dressed like an Iraqi, and help guide our missiles and bombers onto target.”

Bolan tapped his throat, then gestured to the priest’s collar. “This was a pretty dramatic career change, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, it was dramatic,” O’Melton agreed, his head still bobbing. “But not as strange as it might seem at first.”

When Bolan didn’t respond, the priest went on. “It was toward the end of the war,” he said. “When Saddam Hussein was pulling his troops back to Iraq and setting fire to all the oil wells he could on the way. The deciding moment wasn’t all that colorful, I’m afraid. I just pretty much thought okay, you’ve killed a lot of bad guys, and that was what you were supposed to do. But now it’s time to do your best to save some.”

Bolan finally nodded in understanding. He leaned forward slightly, clasped his hands together and said, “Tell me about this snitch of yours.”

“He’s a diamond in the rough,” O’Melton said. “Former Hezbollah terrorist. He knows a lot of the ins and outs of the organization—but not everything, of course. Each cell in each terrorist organization—Hezbollah, al Qaeda, or any of the others—operate on a need-to-know basis, just like a lot of our own intelligence agencies. But my man says he’s willing to help.”

“How’d he come to tell you about the attack on Saint Michael’s?” Bolan asked.

“He told me in confession,” the priest said. “And since it was a crime that hadn’t yet occurred, I wasn’t bound to the confidentiality pact. In fact, I was bound by law to report it.” Father O’Melton held a fist to his mouth and coughed slightly.

“He was in confession,” Bolan said. “Are you telling me that he’s given up Islam for Christianity?”

“That’s what he told me.”

“Well, his intel was great,” the soldier said. “The attack on the chapel came off just as he told you it was going to. If the Detroit PD hadn’t gotten advance notice, instead of a few dozen bullet holes in the walls, your chapel wouldn’t even be standing now.”

“He was on the money right down to the tiniest detail,” O’Melton agreed.

“And he’s willing to help us go after Hezbollah and other terrorists, as well?”

“That’s what he said.”

For a moment, the two men fell silent, staring into each other’s eyes. But Bolan hadn’t missed the slight tone of voice change, or the ambiguity, in two of Father O’Melton’s answers. When he asked if this snitch had converted to Christianity, instead of a simple yes, the priest had said, “That’s what he told me.” And when questioned about the informant’s willingness to help, O’Melton had answered, “That’s what he said.”

Father O’Melton might be a man of God, but he wasn’t naive by any means. He knew what double and even triple agents were made of, and that there was always the possibility his informant was trying to play him and the feds rather than help them.

Bolan finally broke the silence again. “There’s something in how you’re answering my questions, Father. The tone of your voice. And the fact that your answers come in sort of a neutral way, such as ‘that’s what he told me’ instead of just a simple ‘yes.’”

“I’m just reporting to you as best I can,” O’Melton said.

“That’s good,” Bolan stated. “But there’s one thing that bothers me.”

“It bothers me, too,” the priest said. “Christianity and Islam are similar in some ways, but quite different in others. For a Christian to deny Christ is a mortal sin. But Muslims are allowed to masquerade as Christians or Jews or anything else they find advantageous in order to further their Islamic jihad.” He paused to cough again, then said, “The typical American—and I might also include the typical American Christian—either doesn’t know that or chooses to ignore it. But it’s right there in black-and-white in the Koran.”

Bolan nodded. “I’ve read it.”

O’Melton smiled again, but this time looked more sad and weary. “What that means for us,” he said, “is that if we use this guy, we can never be sure we can trust him until the op is completed.”

Bolan leaned back on the bed. “You say ‘us,’” he said. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I want to go with you,” O’Melton said. “I feel a calling to help. I speak reasonably good Arabic and Farsi. And I’m well-trained to assist you, both in combat and in helping interpret any theological leads that might come up.”

“The heavens didn’t open this time, either, I’m guessing,” Bolan said.

O’Melton threw back his head and laughed. “No, again it wasn’t that dramatic. Just a feeling God’s given me. Like maybe this was my calling all along—to be trained as an Army Ranger, then go to seminary for training as a priest, then combine the two in order to help save the world from...well, who knows what?”

The Executioner sat quietly for a moment. If Father O’Melton could remember what it was like to use a gun, he might indeed be valuable during this mission. And what, exactly, was that mission? Bolan wondered. At this point, it was to meet the priest’s informant and run him for all he was worth, taking out every Hezbollah terrorist or other threat to the world until they’d exhausted the man’s use.

But Bolan was getting his own “feelings” at the moment. And one of them told him that this could turn into a much larger operation than they were able to see at the moment.

He sat up straight again. “Well,” he said, “let’s take your man and go with him. Where is he?”

The priest didn’t answer verbally. He just stood up and walked to the side of the room. Bolan had noticed that they were in a connecting room when he’d first entered. He watched O’Melton unlock their side of the twin doors and rap his knuckles on the other.

A moment later, that door opened, too.

And standing in the doorway, Bolan saw one of the scruffiest looking men he’d ever seen.

* * *

ZAID AHMAD WAS PERHAPS five feet five inches tall if he stood on his toes and stretched his neck as high as it would go. Bolan estimated he’d tip the scales at a hundred forty pounds—if the dirty BDUs he wore were soaking wet. Ahmad sported long hair like some young prophet from another century, and his beard looked to be at least a foot long. Both hair and beard were just beginning to sparkle with tiny patches of white.

Father O’Melton stepped back and let the man shuffle across the carpet.

Ahmad’s dark brown eyes darted nervously from the priest to Bolan and then around the room. The Executioner didn’t blame him. Brognola had already told him that Hezbollah knew Ahmad had turned on them and even tipped the authorities off about Saint Michael’s. So the swarthy little man had a price on his head. In fact, he was probably number one on the Islamic hit list.

O’Melton took the frightened man’s arm and guided him toward the desk, pulling out the chair and turning it around so he could sit down. Ahmad did so, then leaned forward with his hands folded and his arms between his legs, looking as if he was trying to further shrink his already diminutive size.

Bolan had seen such behavior thousands of times in the past. Even when the subject wasn’t obsessing on it, his subconscious mind always held the knowledge that he might already be marked for death. In this case, Ahmad’s body language suggested that he was trying to make himself the smallest target he possibly could.

Of course, there was another viable answer to the man’s nervous demeanor. He might just be one heck of a good actor.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Bolan said. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Zaid is my first name. Ahmad my second. Please choose whichever one you like.”

“Okay, Zaid,” Bolan said. “Father O’Melton tells me you’ve turned to Christianity.”

For a second, the informant’s eyes lit up. “Yes,” he said. “I have accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.”

Bolan continued to stare into the man’s face. “What caused this drastic change?’ he asked.

“In addition to the Koran,” Ahmad said. “I began to read the Bible. Especially the New Testament. I cannot explain it to you any more than I was able to explain it to Father O’Melton, but a change came over me. And I recognized the writings of Paul the Apostle and the other writers as the word of God.”

Bolan waited while the man in the desk chair caught his breath. Then he said, “Who all knows about your conversion? Your Hezbollah buddies?”

“I have heard that they do,” Ahmad said. “At least the Hezbollah men here in the U.S., on assignment with me. I have even heard that there is a bounty out on my head. I fear I would be killed immediately if they find me.”

“So how is it you were allowed to stay away from Saint Michael’s during the attack?” Bolan asked.

“I wasn’t,” Ahmad replied. “I was dressed and ready. I even entered the chapel with the other men. But in the confusion that followed, I was able to sneak back out and get away.”

Bolan’s eyebrows lowered. The story had holes in it big enough to ride a camel through. “So explain to me how it was that, if they knew you’d changed sides, they allowed you to come along on this strike. And tell me how you got away.” He stared deeply into the man’s dark eyes, looking for any sign of deception. “I’m assuming you had on the BDUs you’re still wearing, and were armed.”

“I had a pistol belt, extra ammo and an AK-47,” Ahmad said.

“And you’re telling me that with all the hoopla going down at the chapel, nobody—not just your own Hezbollah team—”

“My former Hezbollah team,” Ahmad interrupted.

“Okay, former team. How is it that none of them, or any of the cops who’d already arrived at the scene, saw you sneak back out of the chapel in full terrorist battle gear?”

Father O’Melton cleared his throat. “I can answer that,” he said. “I was waiting for him a block away in my car.”

That statement made Ahmad’s story a lot more plausible. Not a lot. But some.

“So you think you can still help us with future Hezbollah strikes?” Bolan asked.

“I do,” the man in the green BDUs said. “That is, if the suspicions the Hezbollah men had about me died here, with them. If they didn’t pass them on before the gunfight.”

“I’m assuming you mean other Hezbollah cells back in Lebanon and Syria,” Bolan said. “But even if word never left the men who died here today, how are you going to explain to your people back home that you survived the attack on the chapel when all the other men died?”

“By telling the truth,” Ahmad said. “Or at least part of it.”

Bolan’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “I think you’d better explain a little more, Zaid.”

“I will contact another Hezbollah cell and tell them I pretended to convert to Christianity to further the jihad,” he said. “And that a priest helped me escape.” For the first time, a smile crossed the man’s face. “They will think it’s hilarious.”

“That sounds like it might just work,” Bolan said. “But I’ve got one more question for you.”

“Please ask it,” Ahmad prompted.

“How am I supposed to know which side you’re really on?”

A long and uneasy silence filled the room. It was clear that Ahmad knew as well as Bolan did that it was impossible to be certain of where his true loyalties lay. Finally, the little man cleared his throat and said, “All I can do is tell you that I believe Jesus, born to a virgin, was God on earth,” he said. “But he was also a man—a man who resisted all temptation from Satan and lived a sinless life. I believe he was crucified to pay for the sins of all who accept him, and that on the third day he arose from the dead.”

Bolan continued to stare at the man. He knew no more than he had before Ahmad’s last speech. The little Hezbollah man could have read the New Testament, just as Bolan and O’Melton had read the Koran, and learned exactly what he was supposed to say if he was pretending to be a Christian.

It could all be a ruse. And only time, and Ahmad’s actions in the operation they were about to undertake, would prove he was telling the truth or lying.

“Okay,” Bolan said. “Assuming you’re on the level, what can you tell me about upcoming Hezbollah activities?”

Ahmad seemed to shrink even smaller in his chair and his eyes flittered around the room once more, as if he was afraid someone besides Bolan and the priest might hear. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Ever since the death of Osama bin Laden, all Islamic jihad organizations have been aching to hit the U.S. with a strike that exceeds the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks.”

“Has Hezbollah united with al Qaeda?” Bolan asked.

“No,” Ahmad said. “There are too many philosophical differences between the two groups.” He paused, then took in a deep breath. “The fact is, the two hate each other.”

“They just hate America more,” Father O’Melton interjected.

“‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’” Bolan quoted.

“Precisely,” Ahmad said. “But as far as I know, there are no joint operations currently being planned.”

“So just tell us what you do know,” Bolan said.

“I cannot tell you the details of any small future strikes such as the chapel,” he said. “We were never given details until the last minute. But I do have information that I believe will help America, and Christians and Jews throughout the world.” When he drew in a breath this time, the long shaggy tails of his mustache were sucked into his mouth along with the air. Carefully, he pulled them back out with a thumb and forefinger. “There are things being planned that are far bigger and more destructive than the attack on the chapel. Things that will make the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks pale in comparison.”

“Give them to me in a sentence or two,” Bolan said. “Then I want you to go down to the barbershop in the lobby. I want your hair cropped short and your beard gone.” He stood up and stretched his back. “If you’re going to be running with us, you need to look like us. And while all the Hezbollah men in your cell are now dead, there’s always a chance we’ll run into some other terrorist who recognizes you.”

Ahmad just nodded.

“So tell me what you know,” Bolan said.

“I know that Saddam Hussein did have weapons of mass destruction,” the little man on the desk chair said. “But he had time to ship them out of Iraq to sympathetic and allied countries before the United States invaded.”

For a moment, the Executioner was struck silent. He had expected Intel, but nothing this big. “Do you know what they were and where they went?” he asked.

“There were large stores of chemical and biological weapons, and one medium-range rocket with a nuclear warhead.”

“Tell me,” Bolan said, with a trace of suspicion in his voice. “How does a Hezbollah soldier such as yourself come by such ‘inside’ information?”

Ahmad shrugged. “For many years now, Hezbollah has transported both weaponry—rifles, ammunition and the like—as well as documents from Iraq to Syria and back. We did not always know what we were delivering. It is one of the duties we perform in return for the protection both countries provide for us.” He stopped speaking for a moment, then said. “Allow me to rephrase that last part. My English is not always so good, and I should have spoken in the past tense. These jobs are done in exchange for the protection both countries provide for my former comrades in Hezbollah. In any case, as you might guess with any peoples, rumors abound under such conditions. I cannot be certain, but I suspect Syria took possession of large quantities of biological or chemical agents. My reasoning for this is that only a few days before the U.S. invaded Iraq, we drove the largest and longest convoy of supply trucks we had ever taken from Iraq to Damascus.”

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