"And so do I. I believe I face an enemy within.
"Is it coincidence that I am to be a target tonight, on my last night in your country? Your Mr. Brognola informs me only a few hours ago that a murder squad has located me. How can it have done this?
"In the hours since, I have given it some thought, I can assure you. And so have you. But I know certain facts. I know that I have nothing to do with Iran's real enemies. I sincerely doubt that I am a victim of Tehran's secret intelligence. I am not worth it to them.
"The real enemies are the young people of what is called the People's Mujadeen. They are well-educated Islamics who think Marxism. This has nothing to do with me. I am not and never have been a socialist."
"Excuse me, General," interrupted Bolan, "But I believe Khomeini's enemies are also those who stole money from the country. Are you not the target of the Ayatollah's revenge because you systematically ripped off your own nation...?"
"Bah!" stormed Nazarour, banging his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. "That is bullshit, Colonel, if you'll permit me my favorite American expression.
"Iran can survive any number of capitalists, as it has in the past. My country has certain strengths, you know. It may puzzle you as to how Iran has survived the murderous regime of the Ayatollah.
"I will tell you how. It is in the ingenuity of the peasants, the slum dwellers of South Teheran and the folk of the rural areas. Their strengths once outsmarted the Shah's businessmen, and these strengths continue to overcome the privations of the strife and the embargoes of today.
"Persia is historically a land of thousands of tiny workshops that improvise brilliantly the production of otherwise unavailable spare parts. It is also a land of smugglers. That is how it is done. People like myself are not a central threat to Iran's destiny."
The general paused. His grim face suggested a measure of wisdom, despite its dissolute features. Bolan knew there was truth to what he was saying, knowledge born of the observation of history.
"No," continued Nazarour, "I am not the victim of Iranian spies. I am the victim of someone around me here, someone who wants me dead. My enemy is within my own security...."
Suddenly there were sounds from beyond the study windows, outside in the night.
Dangerous sounds.
Shouts, then the rattle of automatic weapon fire.
The report of answering fire.
More shouting.
Bolan swung toward the bar, regaining his weaponry. "So much for Persian destiny," he muttered. "We'll have to continue our conversation later, General. In the meantime, I would advise holding hands with those two bruisers outside."
"It is happening so soon?" Nazarour's knuckles were white as he clutched the sides of his wheelchair.
"Maybe they're shooting rabbits," grunted the big guy as he slung the strap of the Uzi over his shoulder, ensuring that the gun would ride in the small of his back. He belted up with his collection of garrotes and other silent killing instruments, plus the custom-made British Special Service style flash and concussion rifle grenades.
"I guess you might all kill each other this night," he added. "And I'm in the goddamned middle. That is the special ferocity factor of this new war," he muttered to himself. But he was keen to begin.
He next unzipped the leather carrying case, hoisting and rapidly checking the action on the M1. The impressive weapon sported the Smith & Wesson Startron passive infrared night sight. The Startron magnified what little light there was, so that a warrior could easily pinpoint his position in combat in relation to anyone using an active night spot. The Startron/M1 combo would serve well tonight. The Ml fired 150-grain .30-caliber ammunition and threw it hard and fast, so that a 600 to 800-yard first round kill was not only possible but probable. Bolan always preferred accuracy one round, one kill as opposed to spraying bullets all over the place. In addition to an automatic mode that enabled him to fire short bursts if necessary, the M1 was equipped with a rifle grenade attachment.
With the .44 AutoMag riding at his right hip, the big warrior was ready for extreme action. And he had armed himself fully in less than twenty seconds.
Bolan had to move fast.
He must meet the assault head on, with full fury.
He didn't waste time with any parting comment to the general. He hit the light switch, plunging the room into darkness, and stepped out into the hallway.
The guards were up, their guns were out, but they seemed instinctively to eye Bolan for instructions. His orders were curt and sharp: kill all the house lights, get everyone in the main group accounted for, and sit on them.
The guards obeyed with alacrity.
So much for preparations.
There was more firing from outside and the sound of a small engine being gunned to its max, approaching the house.
The numbers were completely gone now.
The attack was on.
Bolan left the house to engage the enemy.
11
The small engine being gunned that Bolan had heard from inside was that of Minera's souped-up golf cart. The small contraption came flying full speed around the darkened Olympic-size swimming pool and shuddered to a wild fishtailing stop on the cobblestone walk near Bolan, who had hurried down the front steps to meet Minera.
The security honcho's surliness had disappeared. His eyes were bugged out. There was a sliver of blood along his right cheek. Bolan could see that the back of the cart was riddled with bullet holes.
The head cock leaped from the cart, holding his Dirty Harry .44 and eyeing Bolan with profound relief.
"Am I glad to see you! All hell's broke loose!"
The guy was close to losing it. Bolan spoke to calm him, quietly yet forcefully.
"You're throwing a party and not inviting me? What happened?"
"Damned if I know," Minera grunted, making an attempt to pull himself together. "I was out checking on the dog patrol. On my way back in, I couldn't see anybody moving around in Gatehouse Two. I was gonna pull in and take a look, but I never got that far. Some guys were already coming around from the front gate on foot.
"We saw each other at the same time, and they opened fire. I got a few rounds off, then got the hell out of there to find you. I don't know what the hell went down out front, but I'd say we've been invaded!"
"What about the guardhouse on the driveway?" Bolan snapped.
He had already set out at a stiff jog away from the golf cart, along the cobblestone walk that ran the circumference of the pool, heading toward the front grounds.
Minera stayed with him, trying to catch his breath.
"The boys in the guardhouse have a light machine gun," he told Bolan. "They should be able to hold 'em for a while."
The sound of a chattering chopper drifted in on the night air, as if on cue, from the direction of the guardhouse, a distinct nine hundred yards down the driveway from where they stood.
Bolan and Minera had come to the far edge of the pool, away from the house.
"We split up one hundred yards short of the guardhouse," said Bolan. "We'll close in on both their flanks. You take the left; I'll take the right. Let's just hope your boys with the chopper keep 'em pinned down and busy."
Minera seemed more than happy to let Bolan assume command.
"Just don't expect too much from me, partner." The guard boss tossed a nod at Bolan's weaponry. "Looks like you came prepared. All my heavy hardware is back at the goddamn command post holyshitl What's that?"