Sabotage

by Don Pendleton

  The tires were burning and smoking as Bolan negotiated the angle. He managed to smash a mailbox on the corner. Parcels and letters flew everywhere as the mangled metal box came to rest on the side of the street.

  “Do it now!” Bolan said as they hit a straightaway. “Do it while there’s time!” He put his foot flat on the floor, urging as much speed as possible from the SUV, trying to give Delaney distance in which to work. The intervening space had to be just right. Too far, and she wouldn’t be able to tag the tires. Too close, and she would be in range of the enemy’s guns, an easy target despite the movement of both vehicles.

  Delaney started to fire. The recoil of the hand cannon seemed to startle her at first, but she hung in there gamely, aiming carefully with one eye closed and doing her best to steady each shot.

  Finally she scored a hit.

  The van behind them swerved and slammed into a light pole as the driver lost control. Bolan slammed on the SUV’s brakes, drawing a curse from Delaney as she was slammed around in the door frame. He heeled the SUV over and brought it around in a cloud of smoking tires. The surviving van was attempting to slow down and stop, but Delaney didn’t give the driver a chance. She started to fire and kept shooting until the Desert Eagle ran empty.

  The second van slowed, then crashed into the first, coming to a stop. The driver inside slumped over the wheel. The windshield was starred with a series of .44 Magnum holes, where Delaney had walked her shots in and tagged the driver.

  The sliding doors on the sides of the vans moved back. Uniformed SCAR mercenaries piled out, automatic weapons in their hands.

  “Get down!” Bolan yelled.

  Delaney did as he instructed, snaking back into the SUV and crouching behind the dash. Bolan half crouched, staying upright enough to steer, and jammed on the accelerator again. The SUV shot forward.

  Bullets pocked the hood and spiderwebbed the windshield as the SUV absorbed bullet after bullet. The engine block protected the pair as the soldier and the FBI agent played out the only hand available to them.

  One of the mercenaries waited a moment too long in the face of the speeding SUV. While his comrades jumped aside, he stood, firing into the windshield. He was still shooting as the grille of the SUV slammed him back into the metal sidewall of the first wrecked van.

  He slumped over the hood of the truck and was still.

  Bolan and Delaney jumped out of the vehicle, Bolan wielding his Beretta 93-R, Delaney holding her MP-5 K in both fists.

  Bolan circled the SUV, using it for cover. Delaney went in the opposite direction. The SCAR gunners backtracked, using the van for cover.

  Then Bolan heard it.

  The sound of a bicycle bell.

  The kid came out of nowhere, riding a purple bicycle. She shot from the alleyway between two buildings, apparently taking a shortcut. Bolan thought this was a school day, and this little girl definitely belonged in class if it was. She was maybe twelve and blonde, looking for all the world like the quintessential innocent bystander. Bolan silently cursed the luck that had brought her here.

  One of the SCAR mercenaries saw his chance. As the girl rode up the sidewalk on the side of the street, marveling at the wrecked vans and the debris strewed about them, he leaped out and grabbed her, whirling to put her between himself and his opponents. The remaining SCAR gunners fell in behind him, arrayed to either side in support. They pointed their guns in every direction. Bolan had to admit that their training was good. Seeing the terrified look in the girl’s eyes, though, he was anything but okay with their tactics. To use an innocent like that was wrong. He was going to make them pay for it.

  “Ease down!” the lead mercenary called. “Just ease down, and nobody gets hurt!”

  Bolan took up a position behind the engine block of the SUV, aiming the Beretta over the hood. Delaney angled over behind the van, using the space between her and the mercenaries to her advantage.

  “We just want whatever you took,” the mercenary said.

  “There isn’t anything to give you,” Bolan said. “You’re out of luck.”

  “We know you were in the network!” the mercenary said. “The security station lit up like a Christmas tree when you were in there. Just give us the data you took and nobody has to die!”

  “You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out of here, do you?” Bolan said.

  “Cooper!” Delaney rasped, audible over the transceiver. “What are you doing? You’ll set him off.”

  “Trust me,” Bolan said quietly.

  The little girl began to cry.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Bolan said to her. “I’m a policeman. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Shut up!” the mercenary holding the girl shouted. “My men are going to come forward,” he said. “They’re going to take you in hand and they’re going to search you. You are going to cooperate, and your friend behind the van is going to stand there and do nothing. Fail to obey my orders and I will kill this girl.”

  “Delaney,” Bolan said quietly, “I need you to trust me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Just trust me. Promise me.”

  “Okay.”

  The mercenaries moved out, flanking their leader and the girl. They brought up their guns.

  Bolan broke cover. Moving forward, gliding as he stepped from heel to toe, he triggered a single shot. The first of the mercenaries went down.

  “Son of a—” one of them shouted.

  The bullet in his forehead cut off the rest of his words.

  Bolan turned, fired, turned incrementally and fired again. He kept firing until all of the mercenaries, believing their hostage gave them an advantage over the enemy, fell to the asphalt. They had learned the hard way that no hostage could stop a foe who was determined not to play by the enemy’s rules.

  “You stupid bastard!” the mercenary yelled. He pressed his Glock 17 pistol to the girl’s temple. “You stupid son of a bitch! Do you realize what you’re going to make me do? Do you?”

  “Go ahead,” Bolan said calmly. He advanced on the mercenary, his machine pistol held in both hands. “Go ahead. Kill her.”

  “Cooper!” Delaney whispered hotly. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want him to murder her?”

  Bolan didn’t try to respond. He moved closer, his weapon still on topic. The girl squirmed in the mercenary’s grip. He held her more tightly, sweat streaming down his face.

  “I’ll do it!”

  “No,” Bolan said, “you won’t. Not because you have any decency, of course. If you did, you’d never have grabbed a child in a the first place.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” the mercenary demanded.

  “You’re going to let her go,” Bolan said, “because you know that if you hurt her, you’ve lost the only leverage you have, and I will shoot you where you stand. You’ll be staring into the black pit of forever, and you’ll find out just what it means not to exist anymore. You’re not sure how you feel about that. In fact, you’re scared to death of it. You don’t want to know what’s on the other side.”

  “Stop talking! Stop talking right now!”

  “We’re going to come to an understanding,” Bolan said, still moving closer, “that starts with the sure and certain knowledge that if you harm that little girl, I will make you hurt before I put you down.”

  “Stop! Just stop!” the mercenary screamed. He was near hysterics.

  Bolan judged he had pushed it as far as he dared.

  “Now,” he said, “I’m going to lower my weapon. I’m not going to put it down. I’m not going to let you out of this quite that easily. But I’m going to lower it. And you are going to lower your own weapon and let that girl go. If you do, you just might live past the next thirty seconds.”

  “I want assurances,” the mercenary ventured. “I want to know you’re going to keep your word.”

  “I’ve given you no word to keep,” Bolan said. “You have no options.”

&nbs
p; “Back off, then,” the mercenary said. “Back off and I’ll let her go.”

  “No,” Bolan said. “Not good enough.”

  “Step back, I said!”

  “I’m going to count to three,” Bolan said. “When I get to three, I’m going to take very careful aim, and I’m going to shoot you through the head. Hiding behind the girl won’t save you. I’m a very good shot. You are much larger than she is. You can’t hide behind her, not completely.”

  “Stop talking!” the mercenary demanded.

  “Even if you manage to shield your skull,” Bolan said, relentless, “I’ll find another piece of you, put a bullet in it and then shoot you through the brain when you stick your head up. You have one choice only.”

  “Stop!” the mercenary roared.

  “Let the girl go. Now. One.”

  “Listen,” the man started to plead. The girl in his grip began to shove against him. “We can cut a deal.”

  “No deals. Two.”

  “I said I’m willing to cooperate!”

  “Do it now. Three.”

  “Okay! Okay! Don’t shoot!” The mercenary shoved the girl away from him. She stumbled but didn’t fall. Crying a little, she ran. Delaney scooped her up as she neared the sidewalk, grabbed her bicycle and walked both girl and bicycle hurriedly into the alley from which the girl had emerged. Over the transceiver, Bolan could hear the FBI agent talking to the girl, soothing her, telling her that this was all a misunderstanding and that the police would take care of the very bad man.

  Bolan would take care of the very bad man himself.

  “Lower your gun.”

  “You lower yours!”

  “Do you think you’re faster than me?” Bolan said. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll both do it, and you can face me man to man. If you win, you can go. I’ll give you a head start. Look the other way.”

  The mercenary lowered his weapon to the ground as Bolan did the same. When both guns touched the pavement, the soldier allowed his fingers to part, leaving the gun where it was. The mercenary did the same.

  They stood and regarded each other.

  Bolan bent his knees slightly. His hands came up, palms open and out.

  The mercenary adopted a martial-arts stance of some kind, his hands straightened into blades.

  “Come on, you son of a bitch,” he said. He suddenly attacked, throwing a flying kick at Bolan’s midsection.

  Bolan sidestepped and punched him in the chest. The mercenary went down, rolling out, coughing and shaking his head, but still mobile. Then he was up and charging in again, this time throwing a flurry of forward kicks. Bolan smashed each kick down with his forearms, battering them away as fast as they came in, stopping them from making solid contact. Then he took the initiative, driving in and forward, slamming his knee into the man’s thigh and spinning him off balance. The mercenary howled as Bolan drove an uppercut elbow into his chin, then followed by hooking the back of his neck, bending him forward and driving a knee into his gut.

  The man made a retching noise as the wind was driven from him. Bolan swept his legs out from under him, allowing him to land on the pavement face-first. He made a tortured sound as his nose was crushed. Bolan couldn’t tell for sure from the angle at which he stood, but he thought the guy’s nose was broken.

  “Get up,” Bolan ordered. “Come on, tough guy. Get up.”

  The mercenary struggled to his feet, blood streaming from his flattened nose. He made a halfhearted attempt at a reverse punch. Bolan sidestepped it easily and drove a hard fist up and under his chin. He followed that with a cross and then a horizontal elbow. The mercenary hit the pavement, hard, and stayed there. He was out cold.

  Bolan searched him, relieved him of a folding knife and his wallet, and secured his wrists behind his back with a set of plastic riot cuffs. He and Delaney would drop the man with security at the airport before they left, and allow the locals to process him and question him. They probably wouldn’t learn anything of value, but another of Trofimov and Twain’s SCAR hirelings would be off the streets.

  Delaney approached. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

  “What did you do with her?” he asked.

  “She told me where she lived,” Delaney said. “It was very close. I just walked her over and made sure her mother knew she was okay. The mother had heard gunfire. I gave her my contact information and showed her my FBI identification, just in case. She’ll be fine. Probably have a story to tell her friends that none of them will believe.” She shrugged.

  “Good,” he said. “Thanks for taking care of that.”

  “Cooper,” Delaney said, “you had me scared witless there. I thought for sure you’d lost it. I thought maybe you were really some sort of mindless thug, deep down, finally getting a chance to play the macho game with an opponent.”

  “I would hope, even after so short a time, you know me better than that.”

  “Yeah,” Delaney said. “But I was never out of range, Cooper. I heard every word. And I saw most of the fight. Does it come easily to you, to do something like that?”

  “The fighting?”

  “Not that so much,” Delaney said. “The, well, the way you mind-screwed him. That was disturbing.”

  They returned to the SUV. Bolan looked over the damage. The dead man slumped over the hood was where they had left him, and wouldn’t be going anywhere without help ever again.

  “The mind of the predator is easily enough understood,” Bolan told her. “That’s what this man is.” He nodded to the mercenary as he opened the rear door of the SUV and dumped the man in the back.

  “You’re not really going to drive away with him like that?” Delaney asked.

  “I was going to,” Bolan said. He could hear sirens again. “I think we’ll be able to give him directly to the police, though.”

  “That sound seems to follow everywhere you go, Cooper,” Delaney said. She surveyed the wreckage around them. “And scenes like this.”

  “It goes with the job,” Bolan said. “Predators can’t be reasoned with, Delaney. Those who prey on others, who hurt innocents, who take from others, they understand only force. They operate in the realm of force. They give no quarter, even if they expect it from others. They have no mercy, no pity, no remorse and no empathy…again, even if they expect it from others. The societal predator is more than a parasite, and more than a criminal. He’s a taker, and he’ll take whatever he can get and never feel the least bit guilty. Decent people, innocent people, don’t and can’t act that way. But this man—” he jerked a thumb to the unconscious mercenary “—well, that’s a way of life for him.”

  “A philosopher, too,” Delaney said. “I’m impressed, Cooper.” She reached into the cab of the SUV, brushing pieces of safety glass off the seat. She came up with the empty Desert Eagle and handed it, butt first, to the Executioner.

  “Like it?” he asked.

  “Kicks a lot,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Bolan sat behind the wheel of the Chevy Suburban, a vehicle appropriated for him by the Farm. It had been waiting for them at the airport.

  “That’s it, all right,” Delaney said from the passenger seat, watching the other side of the street through a small pair of binoculars. “The address matches, and it matches the photo found in the files.”

  “Then we’re ready,” Bolan said.

  They were facing a building on the outskirts of Jacksonville, Florida, a building referred to in the SCFI data simply as “the Vault.” According to that data, the Vault was many things, but first and foremost, it was Trofimov’s repository for his doomsday assets: gold, silver, diamonds and other precious goods, as well as stockpiles of weapons. There were hints that more went on in the extensive property than just the stockpiling and secure storage of Trofimov’s wealth, but the Farm had been unable to determine exactly what. What Price had been able to tell Bolan, beyond the location of the structure, was that its perimeter was hardened against assault. There were guards stationed in spec
ially designed watch-units on the outer perimeter of the long, low, wide structure, and the main entrance was a steel gate controlled from a guard hut. To the casual observer, the entire facility looked like—and was ostentatiously marked as—a repository for collectible coins. That probably wasn’t too far from the truth, as Bolan stopped to consider it, but very few coin collectors employed private armies of illegally armed mercenaries.

  “Ready?” Bolan repeated, this time making it a question.

  “Definitely,” she said.

  “Strap in,” he said. They both put on their seat belts. Bolan gunned the engine several times, dropped the big truck into gear and tromped the accelerator.

  They hurtled across the street. They could both see the expressions on the faces of the guards as the truck rammed its way past the metal gates to the Vault property. Then they were in, the engine compartment smoking, twisted wreckage from the metal gate surrounding them. Bolan leaped from the truck with his M-16/M-203 over-and-under combo at the ready, while Delaney had her MP-5 K up and waiting.

  The nearest guards scrambled from their watch enclosures, firing handguns, shotguns and submachine guns. Bolan and Delaney took cover behind the engine block of the Suburban, using the truck to thwart the enemy gunners’ targeting. Bolan dropped first one man, then another with precisely aimed shots from his M-16. Delaney’s stuttering MP-5 K claimed several more of the SCAR shooters.

  “Go, go, stay moving,” Bolan ordered.

  They moved farther into the depths of the Vault. They blasted their way past a series of security doors, Bolan chewing up the locks with withering fire from his M-16. They eventually ran out of doors but came to a much stronger, reinforced portal. “Back up, back up,” Bolan instructed his partner. He would have to use the grenade launcher, and for that they would need more space.

  Several of the SCAR gunners had regrouped and were now trying to tag them from behind. Delaney kept them back with furious bursts from her machine pistol, as Bolan punched a hole through the reinforced portal with a grenade from his M-203.

  The blast rocked the Vault. They ran for it, heading for the cover of the rooms beyond.