SuperBolan 51 Thermal Strike by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Executioner had decided to try to take the young terrorist alive.

When Bolan had glanced down into the basement and confirmed he was up against one man, he had promptly changed tactics. Instead of coring the terrorist's brain with a lead-jacketed slug, as he could easily have done, he had retreated up the hallway.

The Feds needed more intel if they were to track down the Golden Jihad. If Mehmet Akbar had known which cities the Jihad were going to hit, he'd taken the information with him to his grave. The young fanatic was the last hope the Feds had of averting the single greatest terrorist act in U.S. history.

So Bolan had backed off.

He put himself in the young terrorist's shoes. There was always a chance that the man would slay the woman, then commit suicide. But the soldier rated that a slim prospect. Most fanatics liked to go out in a blaze of glory. It had seemed more likely that the terrorist would try to escape. Simple logic dictated the man would use Azadeh Anderson as a shield.

Acting on those assumptions, Bolan had looked for the ideal spot to jump his prey. The corridors had been out of the question, since he couldn't possibly get close enough without being seen. The rooms were mostly too small and contained few hiding places. By process of elimination, he'd narrowed it down to one of the three doors out of the house.

Picking the right one hadn't been very hard. Bolan had doubted the terrorist would go out the side door, where the arbor limited his field of fire. He didn't believe the man would go out the back, where there was no cover at all. That left the front.

It had taken but a moment for Bolan to scale a post and lie on top of the porch roof.

He'd heard the terrorist's threats to kill the woman, but the stakes were too high for him to put the welfare of an individual before all else. Although it went against everything he stood for, he had done nothing.

Then the terrorist's shouts had gotten louder, and Bolan knew they were close. He gripped the edge of the roof and coiled. The squeak of the screen door and the tread of steps on the old porch let him gauge exactly where the fanatic and the woman were. When she appeared on the short steps below, Bolan knew his moment had arrived.

With a whipcord flip, the soldier swept his legs out in front of him. The soles of his shoes slammed into the terrorist's chest.

Nasrallah was flung backward into the doorjamb. His spine cracked hard enough to jar his teeth to their roots, and bright points of light pin-wheeled in front of his eyes. In sheer reflex, his finger tightened on the trigger of his Madsen. He was holding the SMG with just one hand, so the recoil whipped his arm to the right, the slugs gouging into the porch.

Bolan let go of the overhang and dropped lightly onto the balls of his feet.

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