Thunder Down Under

by Don Pendleton

  As he scanned each page, it was photographed by the dual cameras hidden in the arms of his glasses. He had done the same with the video, recording a copy to send back to Stony Man using his own encrypted tablet. It wouldn’t be as good as working with the original, but he was sure Kurtzman could work his computing magic on it regardless.

  “Apparently not, although that’s not my area of expertise, either,” Tate said. “Next, you’ll want to talk with the head of our security division.”

  Bolan noticed that both men had been shot by a 7.62 mm round. Possibly from a high-powered rifle. Another odd piece of the puzzle—maybe a splinter group? “Actually, I would like to request a meeting with him or her,” he replied. “So if you could set that up, preferably before we head out tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”

  Tate’s mouth opened slightly, as if she was about to say something, but she just nodded. “Of course, Matt—”

  They both swayed as the sedan swerved and took an off-ramp to a less-crowded freeway. “Is everything all right, Brent?” Tate asked as she leaned forward.

  “I think so—thought I noticed a vehicle that appeared to be following us a bit too closely for my liking,” the driver said. “Nothing to worry about, but we’re gonna take an alternate route to your hotel, mate, just to be safe.”

  “Whatever you prefer,” Bolan said with a quick, reassuring smile at Tate as he glanced around. Although there was still traffic here, it had thinned considerably from the packed jam around the airport.

  The blare of an approaching motorcycle reached his ears, even through the Mercedes’s soundproofing. He looked out the tinted windows as a pair of sleek street bikes, each one driven by a rider in leathers and black full-face helmets, roared up alongside the car.

  Although they had been going fast, they didn’t pass the Mercedes but slowed to match it. Bolan’s combat instincts sounded the alarm.

  “Get down—” he said to Tate as the nearest rider drew a pistol from inside his leather jacket and aimed it at their driver.

  Chapter Five

  As the pistol began spitting fire and lead, Bolan had already grabbed the puzzled woman’s shoulders and pulled her down below the windows. While this technically wouldn’t protect either of them if the gunman turned his weapon on the back seat, just getting out of the line of sight gave them a little more protection.

  “Whoa!” Dever jerked the wheel to the right as the driver’s window starred then shattered, spraying glass pellets across both seats. The Mercedes turned toward the concrete divider, the right fender hitting it with a crunch. The entire car shuddered and then swerved to the left as Dever fought for control. He jammed on the brakes, making the sedan start to screech to a stop. Horns blared and tires shrieked as other vehicles swerved to avoid them.

  “No, keep going!” Bolan shouted. “They’re trying to take the car!”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Dever demanded as he struggled to hold the steering wheel straight.

  “Those were gunshots! That biker was shooting at us!” Bolan replied as he raised his head just high enough to look out the window. Sure enough, the two bikers, both now armed with pistols, were converging on the sedan. The shooter was turning on the narrow shoulder to come at them against traffic. The second biker was approaching from the rear, intending to catch them in a cross fire. “Go now!”

  “Damnation!” Dever didn’t need any more coaxing. The Mercedes shot forward. Bullet holes starred the windshield as the oncoming motorcyclist fired at the sedan.

  “Hold still, you bastard!” Dever shouted, hunching in his seat as he aimed for the rider. But the biker nimbly dodged the vehicle’s path while putting three more shots into the passenger side as he sped by.

  “Jesus!” Dever grunted, leaning over even farther, although the car never stopped moving.

  “Stay down here,” Bolan told Tate, who was already on her hands and knees on the floorboard.

  The biggest problem at the moment was that he wasn’t armed—a holstered weapon had been delivered to the US Consulate in a sealed diplomatic pouch, which he’d intended to pick up later in the afternoon. If he was found with heavier ordnance, his cover could be in jeopardy, so he’d decided to only risk carrying a pistol.

  Kicking his feet up over the middle armrest, he slid into the front passenger seat to get a look at Dever. “Do you have a—” he began before seeing the man’s injury. The driver was hunched over, clutching his right side with his left hand while still driving. Blood leaked out between his fingers.

  “He’s been shot,” Bolan called back to Tate. “I need you to help me get him out of the seat.”

  She tentatively started to rise, but more glass shattering from behind them drove her to the floor again. Bolan also hit the deck as much as he was able to, the sound of ripping leather indicating the shooter was getting far too close for comfort.

  “Get pistol...key fob...hit last button on key fob...twice,” Dever wheezed.

  Spotting it in the ignition, Bolan did so. The glove compartment in front of him clicked and fell open, revealing a SIG Sauer SP-2022 and three magazines. Bolan snatched the pistol, slid home a mag and chambered a round. “This should even the odds, but we have to get you out of the driver’s seat.”

  “I can...drive,” Dever insisted through gritted teeth. “You get out there...and nail one of those bastards.”

  Bolan nodded. “On my signal, start slowing down. Let’s see if we can draw one in. As soon as I start shooting, punch it.”

  Dever nodded. Bolan cleared the remains of the shattered passenger window with his gun butt while trying to keep an eye on both motorcyclists. They had joined up again and were pacing the speeding Mercedes about thirty meters back, easily keeping up with the car.

  Bolan knelt on the passenger seat, facing the rear of the vehicle. His gaze passed across two bullet holes in the seat, making him acutely aware of how vulnerable he was. Nevertheless... “Okay, now.” He glanced at Tate, still on the floor. “Whatever happens, do not get up.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s zero chance of that happening!” she replied. Then he heard her say, “Hello, police? We’re being attacked by two armed motorcyclists on the southeast-bound Tullamarine Freeway. No, I am not fucking kidding...we’re getting bloody shot at!”

  Meanwhile, Dever had let off the gas pedal and the sedan immediately began slowing down. The two bikers began inching toward the car. Bolan let them get as close as he dared, the distance between them getting shorter. Almost there...almost... Now!

  He popped up and braced his arms on the seat as he let off two quick shots at each rider. Caught by surprise, the two .40-caliber rounds tagged the biker on the left in his center mass. Instead of going down, the motorcycle wobbled, the rider regaining control and swerving to put the car’s left rear roof support between him and Bolan’s bullets. Damn it, they were wearing ballistic armor!

  The second rider, having a split-second’s warning, hunched down as he accelerated to escape the lead storm coming his way. Even so, Bolan’s last round ricocheted off his helmet, leaving a bright white furrow in the shiny black ceramic. The biker rocketed forward, passing the sedan on the driver’s side while firing into it.

  Dever grunted again and this time slumped over, the car immediately losing speed. Bolan looked at the driver to see his ashen face as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  “Damn!” He stuck his pistol out the passenger window and fired three times toward the back. The sudden scream of the motorcycle’s engine made him suspect that if he hadn’t tagged the shooter, he’d at least made him back off.

  “Cindra, help me!” He pulled the driver’s body half out of the seat and into the back. “He got shot again—get him into the back!”

  “Wait, what!” she exclaimed as Dever’s upper body flopped down over her.

  “Get him in the back seat right now!” Bolan said as he shoved
the driver’s legs over the headrest, then slid behind the wheel. “If we don’t get moving again, we’re all dead!”

  “All right, all right! Oh, my God, he’s bleeding bad!” The sound of ripping cloth assured Bolan that Brent was in capable hands, so he concentrated on getting them the hell out of there.

  Unable to see through the bullet-hole-starred windshield, he put three more rounds into the top of it, got his right foot up and broke out the whole thing with three well-placed kicks. The view that greeted him wasn’t pretty. The biker who had sped ahead was already turning to come back at them. A glance at the side mirror showed the rear rider about to make another pass, as well.

  “Gotta get off the freeway, find somewhere that takes away their maneuverability,” the Executioner said, scanning for an off-ramp while accelerating. The front of the car had taken on a decided shimmy that he didn’t like, but the engine still seemed sound. It was lucky they hadn’t yet gone for the tires.

  “Get off the freeway? Are you nuts!” Tate said from the back seat. “We just have to keep moving until the police arrive.”

  “By the time they get here, we’ll both be in as good a shape as Brent there,” Bolan replied. “Get down and hang on!”

  The front biker was beginning his next pass and Bolan was ready for him. The car and motorcycle approached each other in a game of chicken, each driver firing at the other as they closed the gap.

  Even mostly behind the wheel and steering column, Bolan sensed the passage of close rounds and felt the sting of metal and plastic fragments hit his face from near misses. A ricochet would have been catastrophic. Fortunately none of the rounds got him.

  Bolan emptied the rest of his pistol at the shooter, hoping a round would get him in the visor or perhaps catch him in a less-protected joint. He thought he saw one round catch the biker in the arm, for there was a spray of something, but although at least three rounds of his fusillade hit, the shooter didn’t go down and was about to speed past them.

  That was all right, however, because Bolan had another trick planned. As the biker was about to shoot past on the left, he jerked the steering wheel over, basically performing a pit maneuver into the side of the biker.

  He didn’t hit dead-on like he had hoped—the motorcycle was moving too fast—but he did catch the rear wheel, which was enough. The bike wobbled wildly, the rider dropping his pistol as he fought for control. The motorcycle went down, skidding across the pavement as the rider tumbled free and rolled over and over. More cars squealed to a stop and at least one accident was caused as drivers tried to avoid running over the motionless person suddenly appearing in their midst.

  “One down, one to go! You all right back there?” Bolan called to Tate as he leaned over and grabbed another magazine from the glove compartment.

  “Yeah—somehow—but Brent is in really bad shape!” she told him. “Where are the goddamn cops?”

  “Even better question, where’s the nearest hospital?” Bolan asked while reloading. “If we can get there, that other biker wouldn’t follow us in.”

  “Where are we now?” Tate glanced around for a road sign. “Oh, I know where the nearest one is—take the 37 exit on your left!”

  That worked perfectly for Bolan. “Hang on!” he said as he cranked the wheel, sending them shooting across three lanes to make the off-ramp. Even more horns sounded at the flagrant disregard for driving safety, but they made the ramp with about a meter to spare. Unfortunately the remaining biker was right on their tail, weaving in and out of traffic to hit the ramp only a few meters behind them.

  “Got an idea. Brace yourself, stay down and make sure Brent doesn’t go anywhere.” Bolan fought to keep the shaking car in the lane and to not hit the outer guardrail. If they stalled here, they were as good as dead.

  As he’d hoped, the biker, sensing weakness, moved a little closer, drawing a bead on them with his pistol. Bolan let his speed drop a little and the motorcycle got even closer. Then Bolan made his move.

  Not accelerating, but braking as hard and as fast as he could.

  The big sedan shuddered to a stop in the middle of the road in a shriek of protesting tires and scorched rubber. Bolan was already turned, his pistol extended and firing out the rear.

  The rider was good, Bolan had to give him that. Even with the car’s sudden stop and bullets whizzing through the air all around him, he still managed to snap off two shots before wrenching the handlebars to the left to avoid a collision. The biker shot past the rear corner of the Mercedes, missing it by a hairbreadth. The rider still put three bullets into the right front fender before speeding ahead to merge with the cars on the new road they were entering.

  Bolan pressed the gas pedal down to go after him, but the Mercedes hesitated then lurched forward as a plume of steam erupted from under the hood. He was barely able to wrestle the vehicle to the shoulder before it died with a loud clunk and a final wheeze.

  “Hear that?” Tate cocked her head at the faint sounds of approaching sirens. “The police are here—finally.”

  “Yeah...” Bolan narrowed his gaze as he watched the shooter disappear among the traffic ahead of them. “Just in time.”

  Chapter Six

  Barbara Price had been out for a jog and just entered the farmhouse when she received a text from Kurtzman: Striker under attack in Melbourne. Her heartbeat sped up but she maintained her calm demeanor even as she quickened her pace, heading to the tunnel that led to the Annex. This inauspicious start to her day didn’t bode well.

  Entering the Computer Room, the first thing she saw was the wall of large-screen monitors facing Stony Man’s cyber team. At the moment Akira Tokaido was multitasking between three computer screens. One looked like it was frozen on an overhead view of some kind of industrial site in the desert. The second displayed a scanned page from a report. The third monitor showed a first-person view of a shot-up car, along with an attractive young redhead bent over an unconscious man with a heavily bleeding chest.

  Striker—from whose viewpoint they were observing the current situation—wrenched open the rear door of the Mercedes as two paramedics with a crash cart ran up to him. He started relaying the necessary information on the driver as they carefully began extricating him from the back.

  Aaron Kurtzman sat at another computer station, also hunched over, his hands dancing across a keyboard as he backed up the younger hacker. Even so, he noticed Price’s presence and finished his task—something to do with a very large database of what looked like a company personnel list—before turning his wheelchair around and wheeling over to her.

  “What’s his status?”

  “He’s fine,” Kurtzman said and they both shared a brief, relieved smile.

  “Give me a current sitrep, please,” she said with a frown. “I thought he’d just touched down not that long ago.”

  “Thirty-eight minutes, to be precise,” the computer wizard replied. “They’d barely left the airport when they were hit on the freeway. Two motorcycles, both riders armed. Their driver got shot up pretty good, he’s going to the hospital in serious condition. Striker and the woman are unhurt.”

  “Wait a second—you mean someone was waiting for him? That they knew he was coming?”

  “Well...” Kurtzman scratched his thick beard. “Either armed bikers are following every WN car, hoping to strike it big...or yeah, they knew he was coming.”

  Price shook her head. “Great...it sounds like Wallcorloo has a mole. That’s going to be fun to try to chase down while he’s trying to get to the bottom of what’s happening out there.”

  “It also puts Striker at incredible risk, since he can’t trust anyone,” Kurtzman pointed out. “He’s going to have to watch his back every minute of the day around their personnel.”

  “I assume you’re checking on current WN personnel and—”

  “Cross-referencing them for convicted or suspected cr
imes and/or connections with any protest groups, radical or otherwise, going back to college,” Kurtzman finished with a wry smile.

  “Of course. Thanks, Bear.”

  * * *

  “All right, Striker, glad to hear you’re all right. We’ll connect with you once you’re in your room,” Tokaido said then took off his headset and turned to Kurtzman and Price. “Well, the spy-eyes worked pretty much flawlessly—right down to getting a first-person view as they fought off those gunmen, or whoever they were.”

  “So, no identifying markings or features?” Price asked.

  The young hacker shook his head. “Nope, they were dressed head to toe in riding leathers and full-face helmets. Striker took one down on the upper freeway, but the police said they only found a damaged motorcycle on the road, no rider. So either the hitter was able to get away under his own power—”

  “Or someone else picked them up.” Price finished his thought. “Akira, you’re able to get license plates off that footage, right?”

  He nodded. “You bet. I’m already processing the footage for physical measurements of both assailants as well as scanning for plate records. I’m even trying to figure out where they got their pistols. If we can lock that down, we’d probably solve this mystery before lunch.”

  The mission controller nodded. “Regardless of what you both find, it’s obvious that we may have underestimated this AFN group—if indeed the AFN is involved. I’m going to review what Mr. Payne sent over, but as I expect it will be woefully inadequate, get me a detailed report on the organization, current officers and recent activity.”

  “It’s already in your inbox,” Kurtzman replied. “Although you’re not going to be thrilled with what we found—there’s no smoking gun there. These guys are strictly peaceniks.”

  “And you found no evidence of an internal rift?” Price asked. “Someone who wasn’t pleased with how things were going and may have split off to start their own organization?”