Abood vaulted forward and grabbed her handgun.
“Get out of the way!” the man shouted as Abood swung toward the Turkish captain, but Abood triggered two shots. Makal twitched as a 9 mm hollowpoint round ripped through his arm. The fireplug-headed goon raced into the woods.
Abood whirled and the tall man lowered his rifle.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Abood brushed her mouth. One corner was swollen and tender to the touch, but the blood flow had stopped. “It’ll be awhile before I play the saxophone again….”
The man regarded her. Though his skin was tanned a deep, rich brown by exposure to the sun, he was most decidedly not a Semitic man. Too tall, too classically Anglo. Abood couldn’t exactly place him by look, and thought if he wore sunglasses to conceal those cold, ice-blue eyes, he could have fit in anywhere from a Marrakech market to a Hong Kong casino.
“It was a joke,” Abood said, her words slurred slightly as right side of her mouth reacted numbly to her words.
“They didn’t do any permanent damage?” he said.
“No. I’ll be okay,” Abood answered. She looked down and saw blood spattered across her torn blouse. “Most of this blood isn’t mine.”
He extended a hand to her. “Name’s Brandon Stone,” Mack Bolan said, using a cover identity.
“Catherine Abood, Newsworld magazine,” she introduced herself. “Everyone calls me Cat.”
A hint of recognition showed in Bolan’s face. “You did an article on a white slavery ring operating in Lebanon last year,” Bolan said.
“Yup. Would I know of your work anywhere, Mr.—”
“Colonel,” Bolan corrected.
“Colonel Stone?” Abood asked.
Bolan shook his head. “Nothing I could confirm or deny.”
Abood nodded. “One of those kinds of guys.”
“Afraid so,” Bolan replied. “We’d better get out of here.”
Abood nodded, and she stepped over to the Jandarma soldier who lay stunned beside her Jeep. She picked up his rifle and grabbed a couple of magazines, stuffing them into the voluminous pockets of her vest. She stuffed her Beretta back into its holster after reloading it. “They took out my equipment.”
Bolan looked around. “What did you witness?”
“They skinned a teenaged boy and lit his hair on fire,” Abood answered softly. She was disgusted at how easily she could repeat the events. “They saw me and chased me down.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t just kill you,” Bolan stated as he headed toward one of the jeeps. “Who were they? Kongra-Gel?”
“Jandarma,” Abood answered.
Bolan stopped and frowned, his hard eyes suddenly troubled. His gaze refocused. “They’re official in this province?”
“Official enough that the government never prosecutes them for excessive force if there’s not enough evidence,” Abood said.
“Like photographs taken by a foreign journalist,” Bolan suggested.
“Right,” Abood replied. “After that, it would be my word against theirs…if I survived.”
“The government wouldn’t have believed your accusations without photographic evidence,” Bolan stated. “I know these types of groups.”
“Intimately?” Abood asked, slightly nervous.
“We’ve butted heads more than a couple times,” Bolan said.
“Yeah,” Abood agreed with a sigh. “You look like a tough customer, but you are definitely not one of these scumbags.”
Abood chewed over his words for a moment. “You’re from New England too. Lost most of the accent, but I can still hear it.”
“Massachusetts,” Bolan replied. “New Hampshire?”
Abood nodded. “Yup.”
“We’ll have old-home week on the way out of here,” Bolan told her. “Right now, I want to get you to safety.”
“I can handle myself,” Abood said, defiant.
“I’m sure you can,” the Executioner answered, no condescension in his tone. “But you were in over your head. Get in the jeep.”
“Who’ve you been butting heads with over here?” Abood asked, climbing into the shotgun seat.
“Sorry, I don’t have time for interviews,” Bolan stated as he started up the vehicle and tromped on the gas.
“It’s not an interview. I just want to know what’s gotten you spooked.”
Bolan sighed as he performed a hairpin turn. “Kongra-Gel.”
“The bombing in Van,” Abood said. “I was investigating that when I ran afoul of the storm troopers back there.”
Bolan looked in the side mirror.
Abood looked over her shoulder and saw what had caught the big man’s attention. “Shit.”
“Yeah. The one you winged just waved down some buddies,” Bolan said as he looked at the trucks in the distance. He gunned the engine, squeezing more speed out of the vehicle.
“No wonder you were in a hurry,” Abood said, settling down in her seat.
“Hang on tight. This is going to get a little bumpy,” Mack Bolan told the reporter as he swerved around a bend in the road.
3
Kandilli Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute
“Sir, I believe we’re heading toward a major disaster. We have to let the media know,” Vigo Pepis said to Kan Bursa, the director of the observatory.
“Nothing is clear on the graph, though,” Bursa answered, concern coloring his features. “And none of the other seismologists have been able to confirm on their readings.”
“I know. The background tremors caused by the bombing and the collapse of the buildings in the area have masked any readings in the city,” Pepis explained. “But just take a look at what I’ve recorded. Outlying sensor reports seem weaker, meaning that the epicenter is going to be right beneath Van itself.”
“There’s nothing to reinforce that fact,” Bursa replied.
“That’s because of Lake Van,” Pepis explained. “Sensors can’t pick up anything because we couldn’t place the ground sensors in a conventional perimeter. With the closest western land more than one hundred miles away, we’re not going to get properly effective readings.”
“How about the data we’re receiving from NASA?” Bursa asked.
“The satellite placed in orbit over Turkey is currently being worked on by their shuttle,” Pepis stated. “It’ll be another eighteen hours before we have a current observation of thermal patterns. However, there was a lava buildup on the infrared scans of the area before the scope went down.”
Bursa