Bursa chewed his lower lip. “I’ll put out a warning, but Van is already under martial law. The military, police and Jandarma are on the hunt for the bastards who attacked the relief workers.”
“Then we have an infrastructure already in place,” Pepis said. “That’s good.”
“They’re hunting for terrorists,” Bursa explained. “If something does hit, they’re going to be spread doubly thin.”
“You don’t think that the Kongras would strike in the aftermath of an earthquake, do you?” Pepis asked.
“They might not,” Bursa said. “Usually, when we’ve had big earthquakes in the past, we’ve been able to rely on a general ceasefire to keep everyone in line.”
“But they already hit the medical supply warehouse,” Pepis stated.
“And relief workers,” Bursa added. “I’ll talk to the minister of defense and the minister of the interior, but right now, the earth isn’t the only threat we have to deal with. I’m sorry, Vigo.”
Pepis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He nodded in quiet acceptance.
“How bad do you think it will be?” Bursa asked.
“Huge,” Pepis answered softly. “At least a 7.0.”
“You think it’ll be worse.”
Pepis nodded, almost spasmodically.
“I don’t have to remind anyone in the ministry of the interior that a 7.2 earthquake killed thousands of people a few years back,” Bursa grumbled, watching his best seismologist’s reaction.
“I’m praying it’s not going to be that bad,” Pepis said. “But sometimes your prayers don’t get answered.”
Bursa looked at the map of Van. “Bombings, civil war…and now an earthquake. If that city ever needed heroes, it needs them now.”
THE EXECUTIONER’S BATTLE instincts were on alert. He saw the Jandarma jeeps racing to keep up with his vehicle, and even though they were loaded down with armed riflemen, they kept a decent pace with the much lighter jeep he was steering. Something else kept him on edge, though. Bolan didn’t believe in psychic phenomena, but he had enough experiences with subconsciously detected threat cues to realize that there were senses many people possessed that provided them with early warnings.
Bolan had survived years of war against Animal Man simply because he’d managed to make his subconscious observations a part of his conscious thought. A bulge here, scuffed dirt there, the whisper of a foot across blades of grass or even the whiff of drying blood on a blade were all noticed by his intuitive bubble of early warnings. It wasn’t a sixth sense per se, but his mind processing all the data brought before it by his other five senses.
Something was nagging at him, and even as he twisted the jeep around another bend, his mind sought what made him uneasy.
Bolan’s soft probe, only an hour ago, had been interrupted because the sentry who had raised the alarm had been on his way to see why the guard dogs in their kennels were on edge and barking. Bolan had slipped into the training camp and made an effort to avoid the dogs, staying upwind of them and keeping out of their finely honed sense of smell. When he moved, he moved with the crescendo of background noise and walking feet so as not to tip off the guard dogs’ acute hearing.
So what had set the animals off?
Bolan heard Abood gasp and he yanked on the hand brake, spinning the jeep into a 180-degree turn. Another group of vehicles was racing along the hillside, and Bolan recognized them. They were from the motor pool at the Kongra-Gel camp, and they were joining the merry chase. All this took a heartbeat. The soldier released his handbrake and the jeep raced toward the onrushing Jandarma hunters.
“Who’s that?” Abood asked quickly.
“Kongra-Gel,” Bolan answered abruptly. “They’re after me.”
Abood shook her head and gripped her confiscated AK-47. “You make friends everywhere you go?”
“Yeah. Some of them don’t even try to kill me,” Bolan said. He glanced at the side mirror and caught sight of the Kongra-Gel hunters pushing their vehicles off their road and racing down the scrub-clotted slope to get even with their quarry.
Rifle fire opened up, spraying between the two parties of hunters as they recognized each other. Bolan glanced back as the Kongra-Gel cadre tore past the turning Jandarma pursuit team, their AKs spraying the slowed vehicles. The Turkish security force drivers struggled to keep them in the chase and the crews of their jeeps opened fire on the Kongra-Gel terrorists.
Bolan swerved and plunged his own vehicle off the road, knobby tires slipping on crushed bushes and loose shale, but he steered into the direction of any drift. In a few seconds, Bolan swung his jeep onto a lower road, hooked a hard right and tore down the snaking path through the forest. Automatic fire chattered, but it was wide of the target. Trying to get accuracy out of a moving vehicle, hitting another moving vehicle, was beyond the marksmanship skills of most untrained gunners.
The cut down the side of the hill had bought the Executioner and Abood a ten-second lead, keeping them ahead of the mayhem, but the jeep felt sluggish. Bolan scanned both side mirrors and saw that the right rear tire was at an odd angle. The vehicular gymnastics and off-road racing had twisted the axle and bled some speed. The tough little jeep would keep rolling, but it kept Bolan from reaching top speed, and that would be enough to allow the heavier pursuit vehicles to catch up.
“I wrecked the suspension,” Bolan announced. “We’re not going to be able to outrace the Jandarmas or the Kongras.”
Abood twisted in her seat and looked back down the road. “I caught a glimpse of a front bumper.”
Bolan tromped the gas, but the accelerator wasn’t giving him more speed. “I’m going to have to slow them down.”
Abood looped the sling of her rifle around her shoulders and extended its folding stock. She pressed it tightly and got a good cheek weld. “Just keep driving.”
Bolan nodded and hit a straightaway on the road. As the enemy rounded the bend, Abood cut loose with her rifle. Brass rained in the Executioner’s hair and one hot casing landed between his skintight top and his battle harness. It was hot, searing his skin, but the fabric of his blacksuit would prevent any permanent damage. A swift glance in the side mirror told him that the lead jeep had turned violently to avoid the stream of automatic fire.
“Thanks for keeping the jeep steady,” Abood said. “I still didn’t take them out.”
“Slowed them down,” Bolan told her. “Good shooting.”
“My dad’s a gun writer,” Abood explained as she reloaded her rifle. “He even let me play with some of the law-enforcement-only toys he got to review.”
Bolan nodded. “Keep up the good work.”
The soldier swung around another curve and hit the brakes. Abood glanced back and Bolan grabbed his rifle. She saw the headlights of a large truck racing toward them on the road.
“Abandon ship,” he ordered. “Don’t know who they are, but they just cut us off.”
Bolan and Abood raced away from the jeep and into the trees. A couple of jeeps rounded the curve too quickly and rear-ended their abandoned vehicle, smashing it between their fenders. The truck slammed into the other end of the jeep and threw the other two aside.
Jandarma gunmen clambered out of the back of the transport truck, and Bolan cursed as he saw a contingent racing into the woods after them while the others rushed to deal with the Kongra-Gel pursuit team. The road erupted with automatic fire between the warring parties, the Jandarma thugs charged through the grove of trees.
“Keep running,” Bolan said to Abood.
Bolan stopped and dropped to one knee. He fired two bursts,