Abood nodded and got up as the Executioner paused at the trunk, flicked the selector switch to semiauto and put the front sight on the head of an adventurous Jandarma rifleman who had broken cover. Bolan stroked the trigger and the AK-47 punched a bullet through the gunner’s upper chest. The Executioner noted how far off the sights were from the results of his shot, and took the break in the Jandarma pursuit to continue after Abood.
After two more minutes of running, Bolan and Abood cut southwest toward Van, passing a stream and disappearing into the forest on the other side of the water. After five minutes, Bolan stopped so that Abood could catch her breath. The pair rested behind a copse of bushes.
Bolan breathed slowly and evenly to recover his breath while Abood gulped down air.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just not in as good shape as I’d like,” Abood answered. “Then again, I’m not usually running for my life with fifty pounds of rifle and ammunition.”
“Sorry about that,” Bolan replied.
The woman shrugged. “You’re the reason I’m still alive to bitch about it, Stone.”
The soldier smiled. “Glad you could keep it all in perspective.”
“It’s a talent,” Abood answered. “So what’s the plan?”
Bolan pulled a laminated map from a pocket of his blacksuit. “Judging by how far we’ve come and the direction we’ve taken, Van should be a forty-five-minute walk.” He pointed. “That way.”
“You’re going to need clothes,” Abood mentioned. “Unless you don’t mind sticking out like a NATO Dense Pack.”
“I’ve got a stash in a roadside ditch, about a forty-minute walk from here,” Bolan said.
“Always prepared?” Abood asked.
Bolan nodded. “A friend of mine once referred to me as the original hard-core Boy Scout.”
Abood sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just goes to show. I joined the Girl Scouts, but they would never give me a merit badge for marksmanship.”
Bolan chuckled. “It’s a bit late for that now. Come on, before the Jandarma expands its search for us.”
“And what about the Kongra-Gel?” Abood asked. “I take it you have unfinished business here.”
“Very observant,” Bolan replied. “Once I drop you off somewhere safe, I’ll get back to what I was doing. Don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t worry about me, either. This is about the missing drugs, right?” Abood asked. “Listen. I know people. My dad associated with a lot of folks, SEALs, federal cops, all kinds of folks who go into dark places. I don’t know what organization you’re with, but I do have a feeling that you’re more than just some spook busting Turkish Commies.”
Bolan remained silent.
“First, you broke cover and started a fight with the Jandarma to protect me, someone you don’t know. Second, you expressed some concern when it looked like you could have killed official people, but once you remembered what the Jandarma was, you didn’t let it bother you. Third, your plans include making sure I’m safe and secure before you continue your mission,” Abood said. “You’re not some macho man. You actually care about what you’re doing, and there’s a lot of lines you’re not willing to cross to get it done.”
Bolan shrugged. “Or I just could be a sucker for a pretty face.”
Abood smiled. “I’ve been on the same case. If you promise to bring me along to cover the story…”
“There’s no story,” Bolan explained. “Not with me.”
“Then I’m not going to tell you what I know,” Abood said defiantly.
“I can live with that,” Bolan answered, and he started walking.
Abood jogged to catch up with him. “You can live with that?”
“I have my own ways to get information,” Bolan explained.
“Even if the drugs are going to be shipped out to Erzurum tonight?” Abood asked.
Bolan paused. “I know I’m up against a deadline. I also know I’m not going to risk you underfoot, no matter how good a shot you are.”
Abood grumbled. “And if those drugs end up on the black market, or destroyed, how many thousands are going to suffer?”
Bolan stopped, his jaw set firmly.
“You’re willing to risk your own life to save those people, fighting against the Kongra-Gel all by yourself. But are you willing to risk thousands of refugees if you fail?” Abood asked. “What’s one life more in the fray?”
Bolan regarded her coldly. “What’s one more life?”
Abood stepped back, stunned by Bolan’s voice.
“What’s one more life? Plenty. I’ve lost enough friends and allies over the years. Far too many buddies, too many bystanders. You mentioned that I’m someone who cares about what I’m doing, and that I have lines I won’t cross,” Bolan said. “You’re right. And watching another person die because they got in over their heads is something I refuse to do.”
Abood frowned. “But—”
“I know you’re used to risking your life, but you do it to get stories. I stay out of the limelight. If you want to save lives, then you tell me what I have to do to keep those drugs from getting out of Van,” Bolan told her. “Unless you’re willing to risk thousands of people for your own little byline.”
“Stone, wait….”
Bolan started walking again. “You’ve got forty minutes to make your choice. If you haven’t made a decision by the time I get to my stash of clothes, I’m walking one way and you’re taking a hike. You’ve got guns. You look after your own safety.”
Abood fell silent.
Bolan knew that his decision wasn’t appreciated, but he also had his duty. He was as much a defender of lives as an avenger of victims. When it came down to it, anything he could do to deny the Reaper another soul was gravy. If he had to be tough, then so be it.
Better that they lived resenting his rough manner than they died because he was too polite to say what needed to be said.
4
Cat Abood checked her watch. They reached Colonel Stone’s stash of backup supplies a good four minutes early, but then, she knew that Stone hadn’t counted on walking at a pace to escape his frustration. She looked at the big man as he paused and checked the rugged chronometer on his wrist.
“You’ve still got four minutes to make your decision. I promised you that much,” he said curtly.
“I’m not the enemy. This is more than just about a story. Do you think you can do everything by yourself?” she challenged.
Bolan remained as silent as his namesake as he pulled off his battle harness. He slipped on a pair of jeans over the skintight leggings of his blacksuit, then slid the Jericho into its holster and cinched the belt tightly. He unhooked his shoulder holster from its place on the combat harness and slipped it and the sleek machine pistol that it housed across his broad back. A rumpled leather jacket came out of his war bag, and he threw it on over the outfit. “Three minutes.”
He busied himself, snapping on a sheath for a concealed knife and spare magazines for his two handguns as well.
“Can