The Killing Urge

by Don Pendleton

  "We are doing something," Bolan said. "We're waiting."

  "Maybe I was wrong to insist on staying put," Ottoni said. "Maybe moving out is the best course. Maybe you should drive me somewhere else."

  "It's too late for that now," Bolan told him. "We're committed. Just relax... trust my judgment."

  "I don't even know who the hell you are." The steady intake of alcohol made Ottoni slur his words slightly. "Why should I trust you?"

  Bolan just stared at him and changed the subject. "The guards at the main gate, what do they know about all this? Are they expecting trouble?"

  "They know everything," Ottoni replied swiftly. "It's taken care of."

  Bolan eyed him suspiciously. The way Ottoni had answered him so quickly, his defensiveness, made the Executioner wonder if the man was telling the truth or not. He was about to follow his suspicion when the walkie-talkie on the sofa beside him squawked loudly. Then Roy Carver's voice came booming through the static. "Belasko. Come in. Over."

  Bolan picked up the receiver, and spoke into it. "This is Belasko. What's wrong? Over."

  "Maybe nothing," Carver returned. "I'm not sure. I want you to come up here and check if you could."

  "I'll be right there." Bolan shut down the instrument without even signing off. Turning to Meredith, he stood and said, "Everybody on alert. Get to your places just in case. Ottoni, hide somewhere."

  He left the house through the door to the patio. The ladder leading up to the first level of roof was set firmly on the concrete of the patio. He hurried up it, the chill of the night slicing right into him.

  He reached the first roof level. The house was tiered up this high, with five or six different flat roofs butting up against one another. He climbed from roof to roof, meeting Roy Carver atop the highest. The sky was magnificent all around them, with no bright city lights to cover up the multitude of stars poking through the curtain of black that stretched to infinity. From up here they had an unhampered view not only of Ottoni's neighborhood, but of the entire lake and the surrounding countryside for miles.

  "What have you got?" he asked Carver.

  "Shapes," Carver replied, taking off his binoculars and pointing with them in the direction of the roadway. "I think something's moving. After a while your eyes start playing tricks on you and everything looks like it's moving."

  Bolan took the field glasses from him, and stared through them in the direction that Carver had pointed. He saw nothing but darkness at ground level. Without city lights, the vista that was so magnificent during the day created nothing but problems for one trying to stand watch.

  Then he saw movement, just a glimpse of movement, like the shadow of an airplane flitting quickly across the ground a couple miles distant. It almost seemed as if there were dark forms moving at street level — a lot of dark forms. More than seemed reasonable. If only he could get some definition. He pulled the glasses down, straining his eyes and his ears in that direction, wishing for an infrared scope.

  "What do you..."

  "Shh. Listen."

  He could see nothing, but a sound was reaching him just on the edge of his range of hearing, a small sound, like a fly buzzing. No — more than one fly, a swarm.

  "Get down and get into position," Bolan said, handing him back the glasses. "Something's up. I think they're coming in without headlights."

  "This is it?" Carver said.

  Bolan looked hard at him. "Shoot to kill," he said.

  The Executioner ran the length of the roof, jumping from level to level, then climbing down the ladder. Once again, the method of attack had changed. Unless he missed his guess, they were coming in on motorcycles — and there were a lot more than three of them.

  He hurried into the house. Running into the living room he saw Joan armed with a MAC-10 SMG, a bandolier of extra clips wrapped around her shoulder, hair tied back out of the way.

  "This is it," Bolan announced. "Is Benny on alert?"

  "He's in position," Meredith answered, pulling out her clip to check the load, then snapping it back into place. "How many?"

  "Might be a bunch, coming in without lights."

  Ottoni stood by the bar, frozen, staring, mouth open. "Th-they're... really coming?" he whispered, his face drained of color.

  Bolan nodded. "Are the guys at the gate supposed to notify us if they spot trouble?"

  The man looked confused. "Yeah... no... hell, I don't know what..."

  "Did you warn them what was happening?" Bolan demanded, striding across the room to face the man.

  Ottoni's eyes shifted. As he raised his glass to his lips, Bolan slapped it out of his hand and it shattered against the bar.

  "Did you warn them?" he repeated loudly.

  The man just stared at him.

  "You set those people up to die," Bolan yelled, "just to keep your name a secret."

  "So what?" Ottoni finally said, leaning against the bar for support. "Who gives a damn about them?"

  Bolan grabbed the guy's shirtfront, slamming him against the bar. "Where's the phone number for the gate?" he demanded.

  "On the p-pad next to the phone." Ottoni pointed to the kitchen. Then he slipped to the floor and rolled over on his hands and knees, throwing up on the carpet.

  Bolan ran to the kitchen, passing Carver on the way in. The man was carrying the ladder he'd used to get on the roof. "Secure the patio door!" Bolan yelled.

  He ran to the ktichen phone. The pad was filled with emergency phone numbers. Running his finger down the list he at last found the number for the front gate. As he ripped the receiver off the hook, he hoped he wasn't too late.

  * * *

  Burnett led the procession in his white Cadillac. Big Larry's van was close behind, followed by twelve motorcycles riding two abreast. About a block from the fancy neighborhood Burnett stopped to look over the layout.

  "Quite the place," Coolie commented from the passenger seat.

  "Yeah," Burnett replied, excited at the prospect of screwing up some rich bastard. "And it looks like the front door's the only way in. Sit tight for a minute."

  He climbed out of the car and walked back to Big Larry's van.

  Larry rolled down his window and poked his head out. He had a beer can in his hand. "What's up, brother?" he asked.

  "Wait here while I take out the security guard," Burnett told him. "When we go in, let's kill the bike motors until we're almost there. No point in giving them early warning."

  Larry smiled. "You're the man." He climbed out of the van to go back to talk to his people. The bikers carried twenty-five thousand dollars in half bills, the other half in Burnett's pocket for safekeeping until the job was finished.

  Burnett got back in the Cadillac and turned to the back seat to face Juke. "I want you to do me a favor."

  The man brightened. "Sure, Burnett."

  "I'm going to drive up and talk to the man in the guardhouse. I want you to help me shut him up... quietly."

  Juke smiled, nodding his head with enthusiasm. "I can do that. Sure I can do that."

  Burnett turned and started the car, knowing that the Cadillac would get him right up to the gate of a place like this, no sweat.

  Slowly he drove up to the gate, where a man barely out of his teens put down a book and opened the sliding window to poke his head out. "Can I help you?" he asked.

  "Yeah," Burnett replied as Juke opened the back door on the side farthest from the security man and slipped out quietly. The guard didn't even notice the simpleminded mercenary as he crept around the back of the vehicle. "I'm trying to get to Red Rock Park," Burnett continued, "and I think I've gone too far."

  "You came down the canyon road?"

  "Sure."

  Juke crouched by the rear bumper, waiting for the man to look away.

  "Well, I don't know how you could have missed the cutoff," the guard said. "It's right after you pass Morrison..." A phone in the guardhouse rang. He broke off at the sound, saying, "Just a minute..."

  As he turned to answer
the phone, Juke sprang up, grabbing him by the arm resting on the windowsill and pulling. Yelping in surprise, the guard was yanked right through the window into Burnett's lap. His shoulder hit the horn, which blared loudly. Burnett swore, pushing at the struggling man to get him off the horn. "The Ka-bar!" he yelled to Coolie. Coolie reached to the floor and ripped the knife out of Burnett's boot.

  The phone continued ringing while the man flopped like a grounded fish. He managed to get in a weak punch to Burnett's stomach. The mercenary boss bashed him on the side of the head with his free hand.

  "Knife!" Coolie yelled. Burnett snatched the weapon, and immediately plunged the point in the guard's ear and pushed down hard.

  The guard jerked spasmodically, blood gushing up out of the ear like a fountain. In seconds it was all over. The guard jerked several times, then lay still.

  "God, what a friggin' mess." Burnett looked at the blood all over his hands, arms and clothes. Juke pulled the body out of the car and slid it back into the guardhouse.

  The phone finally stopped ringing.

  Burnett climbed out of the car to operate the controls for the gate through the guardhouse window. The gate opened smoothly and he drove in, followed by Big Larry and his people.

  The procession moved quietly down the street, then stopped in front of the gate leading into the pigeon's house. Like most of the houses in the neighborhood, the place was dark.

  "Looks like they don't want no company." Juke laughed. Burnett turned to look at Coolie. "Go back and unload the grenades. We'll blast through that gate."

  * * *

  All over the house lights were being turned off as Bolan listened to the phone ringing unanswered in the guardhouse. At last he hung up and took a deep breath. They were in the neighborhood.

  He turned off the light by the phone, then walked through the spacious kitchen. Carver had turned a table on its side and shoved it up against the patio door, then piled chairs against the table. He was squatted behind the breakfast bar armed with an Uzi SMG and a stack of extra clips. "They're through the gates," Bolan told him. "Keep low."

  In the living room, Benny Young crouched behind a small bookcase that had been pushed up against the window. He held a shotgun, and a .38 lay beside him on the carpet. "Make it count, Benny." Bolan put a hand on the man's shoulder. "They'll be easy targets if you take your time."

  Joan Meredith stood in the blackness of the formal dining room just off the living room. A breakfront had been pushed against the window, blocking it except for a space at one side, no wider than a foot, for her to shoot through.

  "They're out there," she told Bolan when he walked up. "I thought I saw one of them messing around the gate."

  "I don't know how many there are, but it's more than three. Where's Ottoni?"

  She shook her head, looking around. "I don't know. Hope he hasn't gone for a walk."

  Bolan eased his Beretta out of its harness and released the safety. He looked through the window across fifteen feet of artificial turf to the front gate.

  The darkness in the house was all-pervading, mood-altering, as shadows took on substance and the atmosphere of fear grew stronger. He hated the waiting. If they were coming, let them come on. They just needed to...

  An explosion rocked the front gate, orange light flared and a rush of white smoke blew across the lawn like dirty fog.

  "This is it!" Bolan yelled as engines roared to life outside and headlights glared. Motorcycles screamed through the gate, emerging like one-eyed monsters from the smoke haze.

  "Fire!" the Executioner shouted as he took out the first man through the vapor with a clean shot from the Beretta. Immediately automatic fire raked the front of the house, driving him and Meredith back, the curtains dancing as 9 mm slugs tore up the breakfront, smashing dishes and splintering the walls all around.

  The volley died. Bolan and Meredith were up again, firing. The yard was filled with screaming bikes and screaming men. Benny began shooting from the living room, cursing loudly as he fired. A bike buzzed the house. Meredith unseated the rider with a burst from the Ingram. The cycle ran up on the porch and smashed into the front door, shattering it except for the massive iron bar.

  Return fire was minimal, and Bolan wondered why as he picked another target in the buzzing confusion. He took the rider at head level, blasting through helmet and bone to scatter brains all over the yard. Then he saw the reason for the quiet guns.

  "Grenades!" he yelled. "Get down!"

  He hit the floor, pulling Joan with him as objects began bouncing off the walls and porch like hailstones.

  There was a second of dead silence, then the whole world came apart in blinding flashes, falling objects and earsplitting rumbles. Large sections of the front of the house blew inward, debris and plaster dust choking up all visibility. The chandelier fell from the dining room ceiling on top of Bolan and Meredith. The breakfront disintegrated in pieces all around them.

  Bolan pushed the chandelier off them and rolled to his feet. The house was unrecognizable, a jumble of destruction and floating plaster dust. Small fires blazed here and there in the haze, contributing to the choking atmosphere.

  Again the cycles roared outside. They rode directly at the house, bouncing up the porch and entering through the holes in the wall. The bikers fired wildly from the hip as they drove in.

  Benny was up, returning fire. Bolan and Meredith joined him. One... two men fell from their bikes, the big machines skidding crazily across the floor to smash into the wall.

  Bolan charged through the alien landscape, firing at shadows in the dust- and smoke-filled house. In the sunken living room he leveled a shot at a denim-clad back. The rider jerked in his seat and his bike ran full speed into the wet bar, smashing in two. A ruptured water pipe spouted a fountain into the air.

  "In here!" Roy Carver called from the kitchen as Bolan fired up at the open library above. One of the punks took 9 mm death at chest level and fell forward over the railing with a scream, landing crumpled atop the corpse and motorcycle already tangled up in the remnants of the bar.

  Bolan fought his way to the kitchen. Roy Carver, bleeding from several wounds, was busy reloading his Uzi as a huge man burst through the glass of the patio door, shoving the table and chairs out of his way as he went.

  Carver snapped the clip and fired at the man, whose torso exploded in bloody froth. But the oxlike punk continued lumbering forward, grabbing the cursing Carver and lifting him over his head, all the while screaming without words.

  Bolan launched himself like a missile, hitting the big man at knee level. Knocked off balance, the giant buckled beneath Carver's weight, and crashed to the floor. But he had breached the defenses, and motorcycles now charged through the opening created by the huge mercenary.

  Carver was up on his knees, pounding the big ox's face with his gun butt. Bolan rolled away, firing at the men coming in. He took out the first with a head shot from the Beretta. The man's face exploded. He fell beneath the wheels of his bike as it bounced over him, continuing riderless into the living room.

  The next bike came right at Bolan, the rider going up on one wheel as Bolan tried to aim.

  "Watch out!" Bolan called to Carver as the bike roared toward them. The driver jumped at Bolan. Carver rolled to the side just in time, as the bike fell atop the giant. The hot pipes crashed into the bruiser's face, and his life drained away in gurgling screams as Bolan caught the rider in mid-jump. The two of them slammed into the linoleum floor, with the Executioner on top.

  The biker cocked a beefy fist, but before he could connect, Bolan lashed out with a stiff arm and open palm to the base of the punk's nose, driving the cartilage straight back into his brain. His mouth and eyes rolled back crazily, and his mouth gaped wide. Blood bubbled out of his ears, nose and mouth. In seconds, he was gone.

  "Roy!" Bolan called.

  Carver waved weakly to him from the kitchen. "I'm okay!"

  Bolan jumped up as another bike shot through the wrecked door, and rip
ped Big Thunder out of his webbing.

  In the dining room Meredith and Benny Young worked the cross fire, blasting dark forms moving through the smoke, laying out a stack of bodies. Then Benny yelled as a biker jumped him and they grappled in a hand-to-hand fight.

  His cry distracted Meredith's attention for only a second. She had taken one step in his direction, when an arm flashed out from behind the wreck of the breakfront, slamming her viciously across the face. She blacked out for a second, then felt herself falling. Excruciating pain shot through her whole body as she hit the wall and went down in a heap on the floor. Stunned, confused, she looked up to see the ghoulish form of a skinhead, picking his way toward her through the smoking debris. He wore old army fatigues and half gloves, and he held a knife with a bloody blade in his hands.

  "Oh... you're mine, bitch," he cooed, and his tone, almost sexual, made Meredith shudder. His eyes were glazed, and his tongue kept licking dry lips. A thin layer of plaster dust had settled on him, giving him a ghastly, spectral appearance. In her confusion, with the fires and the smoke and devastation all around, she felt that she could have been in hell.

  Shakily she got to her feet, her weapons lost somewhere in the madness. The man stalked her slowly, delighting in her fear the way a cat savors its kill beforehand. He was barely four feet from her now. He changed the blade from hand to hand as he smiled wickedly.

  "I'm gonna do you, lady," he rasped. "I'm gonna do you real slow."

  She caught his eyes, saw the madness there. Her mind hardened, falling back on her years of training and her instinct. If she went down, it would be after giving this son of a bitch the fight of his life.

  She continued to watch his eyes and when they flashed again, she threw herself at him just as he lunged for her. She hit him in the chest, pushing him back into the breakfront. The punk groaned in surprise as he fell among the shelves full of shattered dishes and glasses.