Agent of Peril by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2013-09-10T04:00:00+00:00

11

Mohammed Kazan, heading out of his barracks, was halfway to the parked M1 tanks when they went up in a staggering flash. Unprepared for the detonation, he staggered backward, tripping into a Syrian guard racing after him. The collision between the two of them was a head knocker, and Kazan was slammed to his knees.

Even before he saw stars from his head bouncing off another man’s, he registered muzzle-flashes in the distance, swiftly following a small explosion. At first Kazan thought the blast had come from one of the barrels in the fuel tent, but his mind swiftly narrowed in on the sound of the blast originating toward the fence, on the far side of his tanks. His men started firing, and then suddenly…

Kazan cleared his head.

“We’ve got an intruder!” he bellowed.

Men were still torn. Those who were fighting the fuel fire were literally floored by the sudden shock wave. One man had been tossed into the blaze and came running out, screaming, covered in the flower of flame, arms flapping like some fiery phoenix. Others were picking themselves up, their FAMAS rifles raking through a thick cloud of billowing smoke, trying to track a target that was on the other side of the immolating tanks.

“We’ve got an intruder! Get him!” Kazan shouted, hauling a Beretta from his hip holster and charging forward. He cut around the back, vaguely aware of his men. He saw the camp’s fence and a single shadow disappearing over the top of the ridge.

Kazan opened fire, his Beretta cracking, spitting brass and flame. His fellow gunmen cut loose too, but he knew it was already too late.

He turned to look at the ruptured tanks that were vomiting flames. This single man had found the weakness of his mightiest weapons and torn them apart. He didn’t understand why the whole camp hadn’t been pounded into oblivion by a sudden assault of strike fighters, but he knew that if the mysterious saboteur was allowed to go free, the camp and its Syrian specialists were compromised.

“We need to get to the trucks, now!” he barked to his men.

BOLAN FELT THE BULLETS slicing the air over his head, an entire swarm of high-velocity slugs parting the air with their miniature sonic booms. His boots skidded in the sand as he cut down the other side. His wheels, a Volkswagen Beetle, lay waiting across a hundred-yard dash over scrub and sand. Long legs pumped, digging in on the loosely packed ground, making each step take more effort than it should, but Bolan clutched the MP-5 tightly, knowing that if he slipped and stumbled he’d lose precious moments.

He was under no illusion that the camp wasn’t awake and ready to tear across the roads of Lebanon to hunt him down, even if they were in a section of the nation that Syria didn’t “allegedly” control. Hezbollah was known to allow the Syrian army to enter their area of control to shell civilian areas in Israel itself. After fifteen seconds, Bolan was at the VW, and he skidded to a halt, body slamming against the curved little car.

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