12

The tableau held for taut seconds between Mack Bolan and Hohlstrom, the Swedish merc. The two men stood there eyeballing each other in the shadows of Bishabia.

The Huey choppers in the nearby villa were scheduled to take off within five minutes. They were Mack Bolan's last chance to reach Eve.

Hohlstrom knew Bolan's true identity. He knew that Bolan was not Rideout, professional merc.

"You're the Israeli agent," said Bolan. "Let's have it one piece at a time while we're moving." The muzzle of his rifle hovered menacingly as they entered the inn. Hohlstrom kept pace as the two men moved quickly toward the storage room where Bolan had found Fahima and Bushir — and the secret tunnel. "How much do you know about me?"

"I know that you are Colonel Phoenix and that you head an operation code named Stony Man," replied Hohlstrom. "You must be here for the same reason as I."

"Tell me the reason."

"You're here to stop Jericho. We can work together."

"I don't think so. You'll have to delay your mission. There's another angle I'm working."

They entered the tunnel, but not before Bolan set down the Largo-Star. It would be real hard explaining that away. He was counting on his and Hohlstrom's arrival to come so close to the lift off that Kennedy's subordinate, Doyle, would have no time for questions or explanations.

Hohlstrom evidently knew the way into the tunnel from his own intel probes.

"My mission is to destroy the shipment in the lead chopper, whatever it is," said Hohlstrom.

"Then it's a suicide mission."

They were jogging now, single file through the tunnel, Bolan leading the way.

"I'm going to blow that copter to hell, one way or another," insisted Hohlstrom. "The cargo is a product of your government's Nuclear Chemical and Biological program. It cannot be allowed to fall into Arab possession. Libya and terrorism sleep together, you know that." The guy's voice grew especially hard. "There must be no more holocausts in this generation. It cannot be allowed to happen."

Bolan tried a new tack. His last one before having to nullify this harmful ally.

"Hohlstrom, listen. The angle I'm working... we've got an agent in the middle of this. But Jericho knows. He has the woman."

"Woman?"

"A lady named Eve Aguilar. She's a good human being, Hohlstrom." Bolan could see the guy turning it over. He pressed on. "I cannot leave her inside to die. I've got air backup behind me. We may be able to pull that cargo out intact or destroy it and stop any deal between Jericho and Shahkhia, and rescue the woman as well. This doesn't have to be a suicide job for you."

A moment's hesitation from the merc.

Time had slipped away altogether. Hohlstrom could not be allowed to stand in Bolan's way.

They had Eve.

Hohlstrom hesitated, finally nodded.

"Okay, Phoenix. If they've got the woman, we'll get her out safely. If the thing breaks wrong... then we do it my way."

"You try to do it your way," corrected Bolan. "Me, I'll play it as it comes."

They reached the bottom of the stairs leading up to Kennedy's office. Hohlstrom came forward to Bolan's side.

"All right, guy. For now... you call it."

"Your people don't have any idea where we're headed?"

"None. That's why I've waited this long. I want to tear their whole thing down."

"Then we'll tear it down together," said the Executioner.

The conversation had taken less than two minutes.

The men moved up the stairway to the sliding panel into what had been Kennedy's office.

As the iciness of ascending combat-readiness flowed through him, Mack Bolan reflected on the allies with whom this mission had brought him into contact.

Fahima and Bushir. Lansdale. And now Hohlstrom.

And maybe Death.

Death was an ally when it kissed the other side.

On this mission, Death had been no ally at all. Thatcher had known of approaching death and sold out to get money for his family. Fahima had lost her father. Death was all around.

Mack Bolan had to find Eve Aguilar before she too was kissed by the Reaper.

He would tear down the walls of Jericho's world, whatever the man was hiding, to spare her from a bloody end.

That was Bolan's Something Big.

Jericho's Something Big was a nuisance factor he would eliminate en route to his supergoal.

The Executioner was on a collision course with a whole bunch of shit that stood in his way, and he would blast open a path for himself every inch of that way.

A path of rescue from distress — a high path, blazed by sacred fires.

13

April Rose was at the main communications console in the mission-control area of Stony Man Farm.

She ignored an urge to look at the time digits on the rectangular clock beside her, as she had promised herself she would when she caught herself glancing at it three times in one minute only a short while ago.

So far... nothing. No action pattern, no holding pattern, nothing since Jack had parted from Bolan at the airstrip outside Tunis.

Grimaldi was now on call aboard a U.S. carrier cruising the Med.

And April Rose was waiting, keeping vigil...

She looked at the clock anyway. 1430 hours.

With the six-hour time difference, that made it 2030 hours Libyan time.

April Rose was the person whose job was to keep the massive, complex mechanism of Stony Man Farm functioning smoothly. She was also a woman who happened to be very much in love with Mack Bolan.

She tried valiantly to keep her worry under wraps, the way most of the men did who worked around her. She tried not to be a woman.

But it didn't work.

She fretted about Mack Bolan every time her man took off on a new mission in this new war against the forces of international horror.

Hal Brognola came into the room. Stony Man Farm's DC liaison did not directly confront April's inquiring look.

Hal sank into a swivel chair by a smaller console. He stared straight ahead without speaking. He held an unlit cigar between his fingers, but both the stogie and April seemed utterly forgotten.

After a minute, she quietly said, "Hal, what is it?"

He looked at her.

"I just spoke with Layton, the major who's handling this out of the Pentagon's NCB office. Internal Affairs pushed for a briefing and called me in."

"Do we know what it is that Jericho has?"

Brognola finally lit his cigar, but slowly, methodically, as if concentrating on the smallest detail of the procedure.

"The bad news that Jericho has is a live virus called Strain-7. It is a pneumonic virus that has been developed to thrive on dry viscera. Its presence in the human body forces the body's water content to places of maximum dehydration from the heat of body friction. This dries out the flesh real nice for Strain-7. For the victim, it's either death from thirst in ten to twelve minutes, or drowning, literally, from the water intake you need to beat the dehydration fever. That takes two or three minutes.

"The worst minutes imaginable. And the stuff can infect entire populations in days or even hours. It would be an appalling end."

"It's ours, this virus, isn't it?" April asked coldly.

"Yes, April. Well, it was. But it isn't anymore. Now it's Jericho's." The stocky man sat stiffly in the swivel chair, turning the seat idly, in fact nervously. "Okay, we admit it, it's government stuff, acquired from a scientist in the NCB group. The army has been storing it mainly as a resource to assist in the development of its antidote by the government. The original scientist who produced the stuff, as a byproduct of his NCB work, is dead. Died of dehydration. Took about an hour..."

"Hal, why does our country get involved in a horror like that?"