Read Online The Libya Connection by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Mystery & Detective, Men's Adventure, Non-Classifiable, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), Vietnam War; 1961-1975
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Fahima knelt beside the body of her father.
Bushir had caught one high in the chest. The old man had not been quite agile enough. He was sprawled onto his back with a gaping, pulpy hole above his heart that still pumped blood. His legs extended straight, his arms were flung out. He looked like a man crucified. He was dead.
Fahima was wringing her father's hand. She was in anguish, wailing in Arabic.
Bolan stooped, placed an arm around the young woman, and gently yet forcefully guided her to her feet.
"Fahima. Listen to me. You must run. Get away from here."
"My father!" she cried. Her features were twisted. "He's all I have... They've killed him..."
He slapped her gently, but sharply.
She snapped to attention, hysteria forgotten.
"You can come back," he pressed. "But stay now and you'll be killed. Get away from here, Fahima. It's me they want. I'll engage them. You go.
Now!"
He did not wait for her response. He turned and stalked back toward the rear entrance of the inn. He held the Galil with a finger on the trigger, his eyes constantly probing.
He heard soft words, carried on the night wind. Fahima's woman-child voice:
"Thank you, American. May Allah protect you."
He sensed Fahima moving off along the stone wall of the building, away from her father's body. Away from the killing ground.
Bolan regained the doorway that he and the others had just left. He hustled swiftly into the hallway that cut through the building. The Executioner hurried on soundless feet.
The merc terrorists over at Jericho's villa had undoubtedly heard the sounds of weapon fire out here in the bleak nowhere.
How would they respond?
As he hurried down the hallway and approached the stairs leading up to the main room, Bolan ran a quick review of what he had seen here so far.
Kennedy has ideas of his own. He's got a market for the cargo he's supposed to be guarding. The buyers are here tonight. The computation lacked one answer: Where is Eve?
Bolan heard raised voices as he approached the stairs to the main room. He paused and listened.
Kennedy was shouting.
"You can't do this, goddammit! We had a deal, you black bastards!"
"Watch your tongue, Mr. Kennedy." A heavily accented African voice; silky but with cold steel in it. "I do not know what is happening outside. But I suggest we leave here at once."
"You're damn right we'll leave here," snarled Kennedy. "And I'm taking my money with me." Then, over his shoulder, he called out: "Hymie — get in here fast!"
Bolan figured Kennedy was calling to the merc who had been guarding Fahima and Bushir. Bolan was about to respond when a door across the hallway burst open and two more African soldiers leveled AK-47s at the Executioner.
Bolan fell to one knee, pumped off two fast rounds from the Galil but not fast enough to stop one of the soldiers firing his own fast round.
But accurate enough to nail both black troopers with head hits that sent them toppling back into the room in a deadfalling tangle.
Bolan mounted the steps two at a time. He entered the inn's main room, Galil searching for targets.
There were four men in the dining room. A bodyguard, in the same uniform as the men outside; two chunky blacks who looked uncomfortable in their Italian suits. And Kennedy.
The gunfire from the corridor had interrupted their confrontation. All four men spun their attention to the doorway Bolan had burst through.
The bodyguard was already pulling up his rifle.
Bolan took the bodyguard first.
The Galil bucked death as Bolan squeezed the trigger. The bodyguard was tagged out with a rupturing throat hit that tossed him tumbling back to the floor, taking a table and two chairs with him on the way down.
Someone blew out the candle on the table where the principals of the meeting had been sitting. The room was pitched into darkness. There was a scuffling of movement. Mad and fast.
Bolan sidestepped away from where he had stood, went into a deep crouch. He heard a door opening on the other side of
Bushir had caught one high in the chest. The old man had not been quite agile enough. He was sprawled onto his back with a gaping, pulpy hole above his heart that still pumped blood. His legs extended straight, his arms were flung out. He looked like a man crucified. He was dead.
Fahima was wringing her father's hand. She was in anguish, wailing in Arabic.
Bolan stooped, placed an arm around the young woman, and gently yet forcefully guided her to her feet.
"Fahima. Listen to me. You must run. Get away from here."
"My father!" she cried. Her features were twisted. "He's all I have... They've killed him..."
He slapped her gently, but sharply.
She snapped to attention, hysteria forgotten.
"You can come back," he pressed. "But stay now and you'll be killed. Get away from here, Fahima. It's me they want. I'll engage them. You go.
Now!"
He did not wait for her response. He turned and stalked back toward the rear entrance of the inn. He held the Galil with a finger on the trigger, his eyes constantly probing.
He heard soft words, carried on the night wind. Fahima's woman-child voice:
"Thank you, American. May Allah protect you."
He sensed Fahima moving off along the stone wall of the building, away from her father's body. Away from the killing ground.
Bolan regained the doorway that he and the others had just left. He hustled swiftly into the hallway that cut through the building. The Executioner hurried on soundless feet.
The merc terrorists over at Jericho's villa had undoubtedly heard the sounds of weapon fire out here in the bleak nowhere.
How would they respond?
As he hurried down the hallway and approached the stairs leading up to the main room, Bolan ran a quick review of what he had seen here so far.
Kennedy has ideas of his own. He's got a market for the cargo he's supposed to be guarding. The buyers are here tonight. The computation lacked one answer: Where is Eve?
Bolan heard raised voices as he approached the stairs to the main room. He paused and listened.
Kennedy was shouting.
"You can't do this, goddammit! We had a deal, you black bastards!"
"Watch your tongue, Mr. Kennedy." A heavily accented African voice; silky but with cold steel in it. "I do not know what is happening outside. But I suggest we leave here at once."
"You're damn right we'll leave here," snarled Kennedy. "And I'm taking my money with me." Then, over his shoulder, he called out: "Hymie — get in here fast!"
Bolan figured Kennedy was calling to the merc who had been guarding Fahima and Bushir. Bolan was about to respond when a door across the hallway burst open and two more African soldiers leveled AK-47s at the Executioner.
Bolan fell to one knee, pumped off two fast rounds from the Galil but not fast enough to stop one of the soldiers firing his own fast round.
But accurate enough to nail both black troopers with head hits that sent them toppling back into the room in a deadfalling tangle.
Bolan mounted the steps two at a time. He entered the inn's main room, Galil searching for targets.
There were four men in the dining room. A bodyguard, in the same uniform as the men outside; two chunky blacks who looked uncomfortable in their Italian suits. And Kennedy.
The gunfire from the corridor had interrupted their confrontation. All four men spun their attention to the doorway Bolan had burst through.
The bodyguard was already pulling up his rifle.
Bolan took the bodyguard first.
The Galil bucked death as Bolan squeezed the trigger. The bodyguard was tagged out with a rupturing throat hit that tossed him tumbling back to the floor, taking a table and two chairs with him on the way down.
Someone blew out the candle on the table where the principals of the meeting had been sitting. The room was pitched into darkness. There was a scuffling of movement. Mad and fast.
Bolan sidestepped away from where he had stood, went into a deep crouch. He heard a door opening on the other side of
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