Disclaimer and Notes: Mack Bolan and related characters are property of Gold Eagle.  Not written for profit.

The Nine Horsemen

by Dan F. and Raine Wynd

Across the globe, nine uniquely talented men moved with a purpose.  From the West Coast, one man traveled alone, driving through the night in an unassuming sedan with a few minor under-the-hood adjustments.  Three were arriving from South America, where they had just eradicated one more menace to freedom. Five were flying on a MAC flight because commercial travel back to the States was out of the question.  For all, their duty had never been more clear, or their emotions so close to the surface.

Sadness that terror had struck American soil on a monstrous scale chilled their hearts even as a righteous anger burned in their souls. Each was dealing with these acts in their own way, but all had a common goal: to kill the devils that perpetrated this evil act.

In the War Room, Katz and his staff compiled the data, facts, rumors, and hard intelligence that streamed in from across the globe. A wry smirk crossed his face as he reviewed reports coming from nations that he once fought to defend his native Israel. A part of his mind was tugged back to the horrifying sight of innocent men and women plummeting to their deaths to escape the greedy flames flickering around them.  He understood the logic – better a death chosen than one he did not choose – but he still found it tragic. 

A glance across the room to Barbara Price, her own face hardened with resolve, caught Akira Tokaido, the youngest of the cybernetic jockeys, in the visual sweep as he took a deep breath and changed CDs.  In that moment, Katz saw the second-generation Japanese-American had tears in his eyes.  For a second, Katz wondered if Akira had friends missing, presumed dead, and knew instantly that the answer was yes.  Still, there was work to be done, work that would ensure that the victims – including Akira's nameless friends – would not have died in vain.

With the same disregard for his personal feelings he'd had all the long miles of his endless war on the savages of the Earth, the solitary traveler better known as Mack Bolan was already calculating the logistics of penetrating a hostile country and evading detection by the UN forces set up to patrol this viper's den.  He'd fought all over the globe over the years, including Afghanistan; he had contacts Stony Man did not have.  It would take cash, determination, some finesse, planning, and a little bit of luck, but it could be done.  The terrorists who'd used hijacked planes as bombs had already proven that in spades.

Even Mack's stern will, however, could not keep him from reflecting back on the names and faces of those who had perished due to the damnable fiends that hacked at freedom.  For a moment, his mind flashed on the roll call of the dead, the ghosts he carried with him wherever he went.  A brief smile graced his lips as he remembered how he'd once seen his beloved April with tears in her eyes as she rose to the challenge of coordinating a response to a particularly grim terrorist attack.  A very calculated plan to strike at him and Stony Man had resulted in her death.  Now, an even more calculated plan would have to be executed to ensure that the perpetrators of the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon would pay.  That was fine for Mack.  Let the warrants be issued, the due process observed, the politics be played.  In his eyes, the ones responsible had already judged themselves.  He was merely the Executioner.

Aboard the specially requisitioned Air Force jet, Carl “Ironman” Lyons, leader of Able Team, was in a killing mood — the kind that had gotten him labeled three kinds of a scary, scary guy.  If there had been room to pace, he would have been wearing a groove in the floor.  As it was, he could only sit, strapped in, waiting to reach ground so that they could be transported to the Farm for their mission briefing.  Pol and Gadgets were tossing a mini-Nerf football between them, but their debate about football was half-hearted at best, the gallows humor forced, and they were completely ignoring him as the target for their humor.  That in itself worried him; if those two weren't bantering at their usual level, with him as the brunt of their jokes, then the images they'd seen via satellite link had affected them deeply.

Lyons had been a LAPD cop until The Executioner had crossed his path and turned his world upside down.  In the years since, he'd seen his share of combat, of fanatics and terrorists.  This incident, however, struck more deeply than anything else he'd seen before.  To kill these dogs was not enough.  Though he was not a man who advocated torture, having been on occasion the victim of torture, he felt a quick death for the persons responsible for the Tuesday tragedy was far too swift, too merciful, too unsatisfying for the rage that burned through him.  No, he wanted to squeeze the life out of each of them, wanted them to know that they are paying full retribution for their actions.  Nothing as impersonal as a sniper's bullet or a cruise missile, but death, death that gripped them and forced them stare at it with their eyes until everything turned black. 

In a MAC transport across the Atlantic, his counterpart with Phoenix Force, David McCarter, felt that same rage.  He didn't need to glance over to any of the four men who accompanied him to know they shared his feelings. Some part of him wished he wasn't the one in charge this time. Being in charge meant he couldn't unleash his impatience, go battle-crazy and just plunge headward into venting his frustration on the best target within his sights. He shifted in his seat and wished desperately for a cigarette or a Coke; either would take the edge off, but on this flight, both were denied him. 

In the seat beside him, Gary Manning, usually the one to calm him in the midst of his fury, restlessly sketched out a schematic on a piece of printer paper scrounged from their supplies.  For what, McCarter didn't think he wanted to know just yet. He not only knew Manning was one of the best demolitions engineers in the world; he relied on that expertise for the numerous missions they'd undertaken. If Manning was drawing, it meant he was planning, considering... and McCarter had learned enough about being a leader to know that it was sometimes better

Over the roar of the engines, he could catch snippets of Encizo's conversation with T.J.; it sounded like they were comparing notes on wars the U.S. hadn't been able to win and strategizing how they could have been, in between making jokes about the enemies they'd faced in the past and speculating on who they'd be facing next.  The cynicism and humor reassured McCarter, as did the sight of Calvin James, their resident medic, going through a checklist of supplies, and occasionally tossing in a comment into the conversation.  Beneath the talk and the busywork, McCarter knew they were incensed by what had happened.

They were all coping the best way they knew how until Stony Man pointed them at a specific target. The knowledge that if they turned cowboy and tried to figure out who to strike at would be immensely harder than if they waited to get assistance from Stony Man reined them in somewhat. They'd gone rogue before, but not with these kinds of stakes. Whomever had masterminded this plan wasn't your run-of-the-mill fanatic or drug-running cartel terrorist. No, whomever was behind this had had time, access, and funding. They would not be easily destroyed. In that respect, it reminded McCarter of the numerous times they'd struck against the KGB's various schemes, stopping a tragedy here, preventing a mass atrocity there. As before, he told himself that the small victories were enough reason to keep fighting.

He had to admit to himself, though, that right now, those small victories didn't seem like much. Not when someone could not only turn airliners into flying bombs, but succeed at it. He knew if he asked the other team members, T.J. at least would probably ask how the hell the entire Stony Man team had missed the signs. Even as he thought that, he knew the answer: there were so many damned fires to be put out, and only so many of them to try and monitor the sparks.

Their last mission had exhausted their supplies; if they were redirected in mid-flight, as had happened in the past, they'd need to be re-supplied on the ground.  In some ways, being limited to military transport would make it easier, but McCarter knew the advantage of surprise.  He was best at things military or paramilitary, including flying jets, and a part of him acknowledged the blunt simplicity of what the terrorists had accomplished.  Still, he chafed at the knowledge that his team was already at least twenty-four hours behind the terrorists, if not more.

As a member of Phoenix Force, McCarter had worked for the U.S. government for years now – far too long not to feel strongly about anything that happened to it or its citizens.  Even after all this time, he was still a British citizen.  As a result, McCarter had been saddened to receive word that some of his countrymen had perished in the attacks.  That, in his opinion, just made the attacks all the more personal.  There was only one thing he could do, and that was make sure the bastards responsible didn't get away with it.

“We'll find them,” Manning declared quietly, breaking into McCarter's reverie.

McCarter looked over at the Canadian, who continued to sketch.

“Hunt them down,” Manning went on, not looking up.

McCarter started to smile.  “And?” he prompted.

“Kill them, of course.”  Manning looked at him, and his eyes were coldly determined.  “What, did you think we'd give them wedgies?”

“Yeah, so we could string them up by their underwear,” T.J. deadpanned, his Southern drawl more pronounced than usual.  “Be a might righty hanging.”

“You sure it's not a 'might lefty hanging'?” James joked.  “'Cause that ain't no right-wing bleeding-heart liberal cause they're touting.”

“Didn't look like they were touting anything,” Encizo noted.  “Just death.”

“Oh, like we are?” T.J. asked innocently.

“We will be,” McCarter promised.  “That and more.”  He checked his watch just as the pilot came on the intercom.

“Sirs, this is Captain Williams, your pilot.  We're going to land in fifteen minutes, so please make sure you're all buckled in tight back there.  I've been asked to warn you that security is very tight on the ground; please have your identification ready.”

“Let's hope this briefing doesn't take too damn long,” McCarter muttered, anticipating the meeting at Stony Man.

For once, no one complained about his impatience.

Even with Presidential authority, their identification and bags were checked once on the ground.  No one was taking any chances, this time around, and if any of the commandos thought it was a bit like closing the gate after the horses all escaped, they kept the thought to themselves.  Nor did it escape their notice that the airfield was on full alert.  A Chevy Suburban waited to transport them to Stony Man, but not before McCarter verified the identity of the driver against the information T.J. had received on the team's laptop.

Within the hour, they were in the War Room, seated around the battered steel conference table.  A few minutes later, Able Team arrived, bristling with the same emotions Phoenix already felt.  Price and Katz were already in the room along with Kurtzman; all three had taken their usual positions.  Hal entered the room, carrying a file folder.

The steel door had barely closed when it opened again and Mack stepped through. He was a tall, well-built man with dark hair and steel-blue eyes. Those eyes held only brief glimpses of warmth as they met the gazes of each person in the room. McCarter said later that the last time he'd seen that look on Mack's face was during the mission that took place after April died. It gave nearly everyone shivers.

For a moment, those in the room could only stare at him.  Mack closed his eyes briefly, breaking the look. When he spoke, his expression was both tired but determined. “We have fought the hydra of terrorism many times over,” he said.  “This is no different.  Remember that.”

And with those words, the mission began.

****finis 2.12.02 ****

Alice's notes: Because I'm not going to imagine the scope of what Stony Man's response to this would be, I'm going to leave it to the reader's imagination to think about the team going full-tilt-no-holds-barred against this new threat. :-)

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