Bolan fisted the Desert Eagle, rode out the grenadeâs blast
With the killzone secure, the Executioner sprinted toward the alley, ready to back up an old friend with whom heâd spilled more blood during his War Everlasting than he cared to remember.
A moment of eerie silence had fallen, followed by a chorus of anguished cries. Damn!
Before Bolan could take another step, a roar reverberated throughout the canyon of buildings, followed by the tortured sound of grinding metal and a loud crash. A massive front of singeing heat whooshed out, forcing him to involuntarily cover his face.
What the hell had happened to Jack?
Baghdad, Iraq, April 2000
Tariq Riyadh stared into the face of a madman and felt rage building. Everywhere he turned in the city, his birthplace, his home, it was the same. Saddam Husseinâs damnable face, his arrogant smile following Riyadh and his fellow countrymen as they went about their lives, trying to coexist with a murderous dictator who cared more about power than people. For years, Riyadh had watched as Saddam ground Iraq, a resource-rich, well-educated society, under his boot heel, killed its people with impunity, made Riyadhâs homeland a polarizing force on the geopolitical landscape.
All that changed this night.
The still-warm desert breeze blew over Riyadhâs face, tousled his salt-and-pepper hair. He stared at the painting of Saddam erected on a neighboring building and smiled at his enemy. The paintings, monolithic testaments to Saddamâs arrogance and narcissism, dotted the country, as innumerable as grains of sand in the desert. Like his fellow countrymen, Riyadh suffered daily under Saddamâs mocking glare, through the ever-present paintings, through the eyes of the Republican Guard, through Saddamâs network of spies, all ready to kill for the slightest treachery, real or perceived.
Riyadh knew his first order come morning would be to tear down the paintings, bring them together in a pile and burn them in a huge funeral pyre marking the passing of an oppressive regime.
He squeezed his left arm against his rib cage, grateful for the reassuring bulk of the Beretta 92-F he carried in a shoulder holster. If all went according to plan, heâd use the weapon only once, a single shot into the dictatorâs face, watch fear replace Husseinâs smugness. Change history with a single squeeze of the trigger.
Riyadh smiled and excitement tickled his insides. He stood on the balcony of his apartment, watched as troop carriers, soldiers and citizens milled about him ten stories below. If he shut his eyes and listened, Baghdad sounded like any other teeming metropolis at night. Honking horns, sirens, relentless footsteps, voicesâall were audible even at this height. Perched several stories above it all, he couldnât feel the fear, the repressed anger that gripped the country, gnawed at it like a cancer. It was the righteous anger of an oppressed people, a people with no voice because it had been stolen by a despot.
Riyadh wanted to rule Iraq, to transform it into a progressive state that other countries would marvel at, perhaps even mimic. And he would get his chance to do just that. The Americansâ promise had been explicitâwith Saddam gone, Riyadh would step in as Iraqâs president, run the government until Iraq stabilized and then the people would choose their own leader in democratic elections. Pride surged through Riyadh as he realized heâd bring freedom to his people and they would love him for it. He had no doubt they would do the right thing, elect him as president. Over and over.