Combat Machines

by Don Pendleton

  By then Sevaron was back up and coming at his adversary. The pressure from the bullets striking her head had done a number on her face, as well. Her nose had taken a round, tearing it away, and another slug had ripped off her upper lip, leaving a smear of blood and exposed gum behind.

  He charged her, hammering the butt of his pistol into her face, causing even more blood to spray. She lashed out with a booted foot, but her aim was off, and it impacted his thigh. Even so, it still contained enough power to make him stagger.

  Zimin came back at her from the side, charging through the plastic to ram into her. The woman deftly spun to avoid the attack, shoving her along and making her sprawl on the ground.

  Sevaron pressed his attack again, but with one hand, he was at a disadvantage, and the operative knew it. He was too slow in pulling back his hand after a strike one time, and that was all it took. She grabbed his wrist and broke it, sending the gun falling to the floor.

  Still holding his arm, she took a front kick from Zimin in her wounded side, which actually made her gasp. She blocked the next attack with her other hand, then tried to throw Sevaron into his partner, but got a surprise when he grabbed her with his injured hand, ignoring the flare of agony from it.

  Throwing his other arm around her, he drew her to him, squeezing her tight as he picked her off the ground. Her one hand was still free, however, and she rained blows mercilessly on his head and face while he walked forward—straight toward the open side of the building a few yards away.

  By the time he got there, his face was a bloody ruin. One ear was torn off, both eyes were swollen shut and his mouth was a jagged ruin of shattered teeth. Even so, he still had the strength to pitch them both off the side of the building, falling almost ninety yards to the ground.

  When Zimin reached the bottom, Sevaron was dead, yet the woman was still trying to pull her broken body out of the yard, dragging her twisted legs behind her. The Russian walked around in front of her, kicked the woman onto her back and aimed her weapon at the assassin’s battered, swollen face.

  “I just wanted this to be the last thing you saw before you died,” she said before pulling the trigger and emptying the magazine into the assassin’s head.

  That stopped her from moving—permanently.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Senor? Senor?”

  “Agent Cooper? Agent Cooper, can you hear me?”

  For the second time in as many days, Bolan regained consciousness to find people hovering over him. The Russian agent, Natalya Kepar, was there, as well as two armed and armored special weapons officers, and a pair of paramedics. Upon seeing him react to their words, the group of people visibly relaxed.

  Bolan blinked, then swallowed, grimacing as his injured throat rebelled against the stimulus. Feeling dampness on his face, he wiped his forehead and brought his hand down to see red-brown spots smeared on it. Looking down, he saw that his chest was also spattered with drying blood.

  He made a drinking motion with his hand, and a bottle of cold water was pressed into his palm. Bolan drank half of it, ignoring the smaller wave of pain accompanying each swallow, then handed it back to one of the medical personnel with a grateful nod.

  He pushed himself up to a sitting position, tensing as flares of pain radiated across his body. Looking around, he saw a sheet-covered body three feet or so away, and pointed.

  “Is that him?” he croaked.

  One of the tactical units pulled back the sheet to reveal the face of the turbaned man, now slack in death. “Looked like you emptied your entire magazine into him.”

  Bolan looked down to see his pistol lying next to him, the slide locked back. “That’s because I did.” He looked back up at Kepar, who looked as bad as he felt, with bruises on her face and one arm in a sling. “What about his partner?”

  “Dead,” she replied.

  “And Mikhail?”

  She shook her head. “He’s gone, along with our backup. I’m the only one left of our team.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Bolan said, and he was sincere. Despite what mission they shared or didn’t, it was never a good thing to lose personnel on an op, especially in a close-knit team. Then, realizing who else was missing, he looked around again. “Where’s Sergeant Palomer?”

  “She’s gone, too, Striker,” Akira Tokaido said in his ear. “While evacuating civilians from the plaza, she found another one of the bombs, which was apparently about to detonate. She covered it with her body just before it exploded.”

  That hit Bolan hard. He’d only known her for the past two days, but Marie Palomer had been a first-rate field agent, who took her duty seriously, and who he’d enjoyed working with. From what he could tell, she had died just like she had lived—doing her duty, with no thought to the personal cost or sacrifice.

  “Inform the DGSI, but have them keep it private for now,” Bolan ordered Tokaido as he got to his feet and looked around. “Then tell me you have something on the third operative.”

  “I think so, yes. We’ve been running facial recognition on everyone at the convention center since early this morning. We have a match confirmed at 93 percent in the same room the President is supposed to be speaking in tomorrow morning.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  Bolan looked Kepar in the eyes. “We’ve got a match back at the convention center. I’m heading there now to finish this. I’d imagine that you want to be there, too.”

  She nodded, her face stony. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “Now, who’s in charge here?” Bolan asked everyone as he looked around.

  “I am, senor.” A lean tactical-operations man with a salt-and-pepper goatee stepped forward. “Lieutenant Alfonse Macado. How can I help you?”

  “Once you’re sure that the area is secure, I want you to give a very specific press conference, and this is what I want you to say...”

  * * *

  A SMALL, SATISFIED GRIN on his face, Alexei Panshin finished securing the last ceramic cube to the ceiling of the auditorium.

  He climbed down the stepladder and folded it, carrying it with him as he headed back toward the main ladder. On the way, he wondered what had happened to Amani and Kisu. They hadn’t contacted him in more than an hour, which might have been due to one of several things, but most likely meant they had been intercepted or killed while executing their mission. It would be a shame if that had happened, but again, they would have given their lives in the service of their country, and that was all that mattered.

  As he started heading down the ladder, the public address system crackled to life: “May I have your attention, please. We have just been informed that there has been an incident in the AZCA financial district of Madrid this afternoon. At least two persons planted and detonated explosive devices in a public plaza and opened fire on bystanders. Several people were injured, and at least three were killed before the gunmen were killed. The police have assured us that the area has been secured, and that there is no more danger. At this time, we are continuing to move forward with the summit as originally planned. Everyone is to continue their work as previously directed. Please see your section leaders if you have any questions. Thank you for your attention and cooperation.” The announcement was made in several languages.

  That pretty much clinched it—his teammates had fallen. Panshin could only hope they had eliminated as many of the people chasing them as possible. If he was lucky, they might think he was among the dead now, allowing him to make his escape unnoticed. But regardless of whether he lived or died, nothing could stop the carnage he had planned for this day.

  With the stepladder over his shoulder, he started down the left aisle toward the rear doors, intending to get to the truck and get out of the area. The normal buzz of people working throughout the room had lessened somewhat, but that made sense, as this space was just a
bout ready.

  Panshin reached the main floor, and was about to pass the last audience table when the black-haired man, looking like he had just been in a vicious fight, stepped through the left lower door only a few yards away, a black submachine gun snugged tight to his shoulder and aimed directly at Panshin’s heart.

  * * *

  “OKAY, WE’RE SURE that’s the operative?” From outside the room, Bolan watched on his phone as a redheaded woman came down the ladder, carrying a small stepladder. She stopped as the announcement about the incident in the city was broadcast over the loudspeaker. The main assassin in Paris was a male, and as Bolan knew these people were masters of disguise.

  “Affirmative, Striker,” Tokaido replied. “She’s been busy setting up some sort of series of black boxes on the ceiling. They’re supposed to be part of the lighting system, but could contain explosives, or a toxic gas dispersal system, or who knows what. The point is, that’s your guy, er, gal.”

  “Right.” Bolan glanced at Genoveva Prieto. “Is everyone in position?” They’d been watching the operative work for the past several minutes while pulling everyone out of the room one and two at a time and replacing them with undercover security personnel carrying hidden weapons. Now except for her, everyone else working in the auditorium was from the center’s security.

  “Yes, although I still wish you would let my people handle this—” she began.

  “Thank you, but with the US President scheduled to appear here in less than twelve hours, I’ve assumed command,” Bolan said. “Feel free to lodge a complaint with your higher-ups. They’ll find that I have the authority.”

  While he thought her people would probably do a good job, Bolan was going to finish this himself. He had to be sure it was over.

  Their target started walking down the aisle toward the speaker’s podium. “All security personnel are to go only on my mark,” Bolan said to Prieto, who nodded and spoke rapidly into her radio.

  He looked at Kepar, who was standing behind him, pistol in hand. “Ready?”

  She nodded. “Ready.”

  He pushed the door open and led with an HK MP5A braced tightly against his shoulder, aiming straight at the “woman,” who stopped and stared in shock at him. “What do you think you’re doing—”

  “I’m arresting you on the charges of murder, attempted murder, terrorism and a whole lot of other crimes I’m sure we can hang on you before we’re through,” Bolan rasped as Kepar stepped up to his side, her own weapon also pointed at the woman. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Any sudden moves will be responded to with deadly force.”

  Panshin calmly looked around, only to see the same thing in every direction—hard-faced men and women blocking every exit, all pointing pistols at him. Slowly, he began raising his hands...

  A jumpsuited young man with long hair pulled himself out from under a cloth-covered table, earbuds blasting music, and began to get to his feet.

  “No!” Kepar cried, but it was too late. Panshin struck like a pouncing panther, grabbing the totally unaware man around the neck and slipping behind him. In a moment, a small black pistol was aimed at his head as Panshin yanked the earbuds out of his ears.

  “Stop right there and let him go,” Bolan ordered.

  “Here’s what is going to happen now,” Panshin said. “You are going to clear the people from the back exit, and I am going to take my hostage out to my truck. We will be allowed to drive off the grounds without challenge and without being followed. I will drive three miles away, and then I will let the young man go. If I spot any tricks, or see anyone trying to follow us, the man will die first. Are we clear?”

  “I can’t let you leave—”

  “What you think you can or cannot do does not matter,” Panshin replied. “All that matters is allowing us to walk out of this building right now. If you comply with my directives, he will be released unharmed. If you do not, he will be the next one to die. It is that simple. I am going to start walking to the rear door now. If anyone tries to stop me, this man’s death will be on your conscience.”

  Panshin began heading toward the front of the room, with Bolan tracking him every step of the way. He was good, using the guy’s bulk to shield his body, with only about half of his face visible at one time. The distance between them was less than ten yards, but even if Bolan got a shot he could take, there was no guarantee that he would put him down with one bullet. All it would take was an errant muscle twitch or death spasm, and the young man’s brains would be sprayed all over the wall.

  He had almost reached the exit door by now, the two men nearer to it giving way to the operative. It would be now or never—if he let him get through the door, they’d have even less chance of stopping him.

  Bolan took a deep breath and let it out, pushing all of his pain and exhaustion aside. There was only the target now in his vision, a small spot, less than an inch wide, the crosshairs of his scope firmly centered on it. As his target reached for the door handle, Bolan exhaled, and in the space between heartbeats, squeezed the trigger.

  The 3-round burst of armor-piercing bullets entered the assassin’s head exactly where Bolan had aimed, through the left eye. Although the cavity was reinforced, the thin titanium shield couldn’t withstand the hardened steel penetrator core of the bullets, and let them all in to plow through the brain.

  It was like hitting a light switch. Before the echoes of the report died away, Panshin fell to the floor, the unfired pistol sliding from his hand. The terrified worker stumbled away from the twitching body as other security personnel rushed over.

  Bolan lowered his weapon with a weary sigh and handed it to one of the center’s security personnel.

  “It’s over,” Kepar said from beside him. “Thank you for allowing me to be here. Someone else might not have been so understanding.”

  Bolan nodded. “No, I get it. You’ll let your people know they’ve been stopped, right?”

  “Of course. In fact, there is no need for me to remain here anymore.” With a nod at him, she turned and slipped out through the approaching throng.

  “All right, Genoveva, you’ll probably want to clear the room and get the bomb squad in here to check out whatever she did to the ceiling,” Bolan said, stepping aside as people continued to stream into the room. “Time for me to go, too.”

  Epilogue

  One month later

  At 0125, Mack Bolan stood in the cargo bay of a C-130J Super Hercules that was traveling at more than 400 miles per hour at an altitude of sixty-five thousand feet off the coast of Russia.

  Siberia, to be more precise.

  The red light that indicated they were approaching the drop zone flashed twice, and he got to his feet and watched the ramp lower, letting in the freezing air and near-gale force wind. Bolan made one last check to ensure that his face mask and oxygen tank were working.

  The light switched from red to green. He trotted forward and launched himself into the night.

  Assuming the classic parachutist’s free-fall position—arms spread out and bent at right angles to his body, legs spread and bent at the knees—he fell like a rock. The noise of the plane faded quickly, and Bolan was left with only the air rushing past his body and his thoughts as he rapidly approached the ground.

  The past thirty days had been busy. The boxes placed by “Samantha George” had all been recovered and neutralized, and the EU summit had gone off without a hitch. The President had delivered a rousing speech lauding the steps the Union had taken so far, and pledging America’s staunch support on all future matters, from economic guidance to standing with the Union against all enemies. During his recovery, Bolan had attended Sergeant Marie Palomer’s funeral in Paris, where she was buried with full honors, with the press naming her “the hero of Madrid” for her selfless sacrifice. From there, it was back to the States, where there was just one
last item to check off—the current location of Dr. Utkin. Kurtzman and Tokaido had searched for him in their off-hours between other missions, and had located where they thought he was after weeks of tracking potential routes and scouring the Siberian tundra, examining high-resolution satellite passes over thousands of square miles.

  And now, after figuring out the best way to extract him, Bolan was plummeting down to the frigid landscape in hopes of taking the doctor alive and bringing him to the States so the Department of Defense could tap into his knowledge. Utkin was a genius in his field, there was no doubt, and the United States wanted that information.

  A tone chirped in Bolan’s helmet, indicating he’d reached the altitude for optimum parachute release. Bolan pulled his rip cord, and the chute billowed free and unfurled overhead, slowing him with a jerk, and slowing his approach to the barren, inhospitable-looking ground below.

  With less than fifteen hundred feet to go, he reached the snowy surface in less than a minute, flaring the chute to slow him enough to land on his feet. Bolan hit the quick-release system and grabbed the chute before it could billow away, hiding it and his high-altitude-jump equipment a near a cluster of rocks.

  There was only a light dusting of snow around here, as winter hadn’t set in yet, and once he got his bearings, he set out in the direction of his target, about three-quarters of a mile away. His insulated suit kept him comfortable, if not toasty in the -20 degrees Celsius night. He was grateful there was no wind.

  Although Bolan kept a sharp eye out, Kurtzman and Tokaido were also watching his back from high overhead. After thirty minutes of steady walking, Bolan crested a small rise, only to stare in surprise at the scene before him.

  Where there should have been a small, snug mountain cabin now stood only a smoldering pile of ashes and charred timbers, with just the stone chimney still standing. Bolan swept left, then right, in case a welcoming party had been lying in wait for him, then walked down to the ruins, contacting Kurtzman on the way.