“Praise be unto him,” Bitturumba repeated.
Kartennian looked at the brandy remaining in Bitturumba’s glass. “You really should not drink.”
Bitturumba looked down. “I am a warrior, embarking upon a battle that will shake the world. Did not the Prophet allow for true believers to partake of hashish in order to gird their will?”
“But…”
“Did he not?” Bitturumba asked. “And yet, where is your gift to me, the warrior who will bring God’s will to this continent?”
“Alcohol is the devil’s tool,” Kartennian mentioned.
Bitturumba tapped the glass. “Then Satan’s swizzle is pretty damn transparent.”
Kartennian managed a laugh.
“My mind and heart are clear. Satan has placed no words in my mouth,” Bitturumba told him. He wrapped his beefy paw around the glass bottle. “I hold the wick of the devil and control it.”
“Peace be with you,” Kartennian stated with a nod. “I shall speak with our Egyptian brothers.”
Bitturumba dismissed the Turk with a smile. Naturally, Kartennian’s communications would be monitored.
One did not become a god of thunder and war without keeping an eye on even those who’d claimed to be allies. If Kartennian betrayed him, his head would be mailed back to his family with a grenade jammed in the neck hole.
“Praise be unto that, you idiot fanatic.” Bitturumba spit, tossed back another swig of brandy, then planted the glass upside down on the table next to his machete.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
AARON KURTZMAN SAW the flagged communication pop up on his monitor. There was no secret that Unit 777 of the Egyptian military kept a close eye on the Muslim Brotherhood. The elite counterterrorist organization gathered its own intel on the renegade extremists who threatened the cold peace between Egypt and Israel. Stony Man Farm and the Executioner had allied with the highly trained commandos in the past, so tapping their information was hardly an intrusion.
In this instance, Bolan had informed Kurtzman to keep an eye on the rogue Egyptians. If the Thunder Lions were going to seek backup in Alexandria, it was going to come from the Brotherhood. Kurtzman opened the communication socket and took a close look at the conversation captured by Unit 777’s electronic intel.
“Our brothers in the Lions require assistance in Alexandria,” a Turkish-accented voice said. Brognola took the recorded snippet, copied it and fed it into the known voice database of international terrorists for identification. As each voice had its own unique signature and frequency, the match would be a definitive means of finding out who was assisting Bitturumba.
“How much assistance?” a Muslim Brotherhood named Zambron asked.
“As much as possible. The one we dare not name has arrived in Alexandria,” the Turk said.
There was an audible gulp. Kurtzman allowed himself a grin. Even though Mack Bolan, the Executioner, was officially dead, a myth that was supposed to have faded into antiquity, the terrorist world was fully aware that a superpredator stalked the shadowy alleys of the world, hunting down insurgents and criminals. It wasn’t the same as when Bolan was still officially alive, hunting the mafiya in his one-man crusade against organized crime, mainly because various terrorist organizations had different names for the Executioner, but the legend still existed. It was just another tool in the warrior’s arsenal, a means of cowing the thugs.
“I have four score men assembled,” Zambron replied. “Where to?”
“Our hotel,” the Turk stated.
“How many allies can we count on?” Zambron inquired.
“There are twenty left among our soldiers,” the Turk explained. “He has given us a terrible rout.”
“Undoubtedly.” Zambron sighed. “I’ll have them ready. When?”
“We believe he will strike tonight,” the Turk said.
“Count on our assistance,” Zambron promised.
Kurtzman made another copy of the conversation, forwarding it to Bolan, Encizo and James. The three of them would have to change their plan of action, but the Stony Man cyberwizard remembered the Executioner’s order of battle. Drawing out the enemy while making them think he was the victim of their trap was one of Bolan’s most successful tactics.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” came a quick e-mail response from the Executioner.
It was an efficient, almost flippant response to the knowledge that a terrorist army was waiting in the wings to pounce on him.
Kurtzman smiled.
Now he was positive that the Executioner was counting on extra backup for the Thunder Lions, and wasn’t slightly concerned.
Kurtzman felt a pang of guilt for the doomed terrorists who thought they had their prey dead to rights.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alexandria, Egypt
The cliché “forewarned is forearmed” was a vital part of Mack Bolan’s arsenal. Clichés endured because of their veracity. With the Executioner, every bit of knowledge was a tool to be used. Now that he was aware that the Thunder Lions’ compound was a trap, the raid had the potential to double its rewards. Bolan had crossed swords with the Egyptian terrorist organization known as the Muslim Brotherhood before, and the opportunity to strike a blow against their membership was irresistible.
“I’d rather be on the ground backing your play, Striker,” Calvin James said over the hands-free radio.
“Yeah, you’re the best sniper of the three of us,” Rafael Encizo added. “We’re the close-quarters types.”
“Cal’s an excellent long-distance marksman,” Bolan countered. “He’s been Gary’s backup sniper on hundreds of occasions, taking out sentries simultaneously with him. And the both of you are Phoenix’s designated grenadiers. I need you two to be my force multiplication. The Brotherhood will bring everything they can, and the two of you can plant a 40 mm shell into their lap accurately and quickly.”
Bolan couldn’t help the feeling of gratitude that the two Phoenix Force commandos were willing to take his place directly in the line of fire. They stopped their complaints, seeing the wisdom of Bolan’s strategy. James and Encizo were skilled and capable and the Executioner couldn’t have asked for better backup, save the aforementioned Gary Manning, Phoenix Force’s sniper and a long-distance rifleman who rivaled Bolan’s own skills.
“We’ve got your back,” James said. “Put some boot to ass.”
Bolan remained silent. He was in the strike zone and had a sentry in his sights. Not literally, because right now Bolan had only a knife with a black phosphate blade in his hand, and the suppressed MP-5 machine pistol cinched over his shoulder. He was prepared for close-quarters combat, falling into the profile that his prey were told to expect. As long as he was only going against the Thunder Lion militia, James and Encizo were to hold their fire. Their guns were reserved for shattering the spine of the Muslim Brotherhood ambush.
Bolan lunged at the Thunder Lion sentry, his black-bladed Cold Steel Recon Bowie knife driving deep into the guard’s sternum, piercing the abdominal wall and spearing into his heart. The African’s dying cry of pain was strangled and trapped in his throat, cut off by Bolan’s forearm crushing into his windpipe. The kill was over in the space of a heartbeat, completed with no more noise than the rustle of a bird’s wings as it took flight. Bolan hauled the corpse into a set of decorative flower bushes, stowing him out of sight. He took the dead man’s rifle and his