Whipsaw te-144

by Don Pendleton

  "You better get the colonel," someone said, raising his voice to be heard over the hoarsely whispered argument.

  "We don't tell him nothing, till we get the son of a bitch did this," Johnson snapped. "He'll have our asses, otherwise."

  Bolan listened with half an ear as he considered his position. The aisles were wide. Wide enough for a forklift to maneuver among them. It was a good twelve feet. From a standing start, it was one hell of a broad jump.

  But if he could get over two aisles, he could reach the catwalk.

  "What the hell," he said.

  And jumped.

  The impact of his booted feet on the next shelf bounced around the girders above him like a sonic pinball. The metal and its echo made direction impossible to fix, and Bolan took the next leap and dropped to his stomach to wait before the noise had a chance to die down.

  The men in the corner raced toward him, two aisles over. Picking the one spot that gave him a direct line among the shelves, he gripped the Beretta and waited for a target.

  It wasn't long.

  26

  The first man flashed by. The second wasn't as fast... or as lucky. The 9 mm slug bored down through his left shoulder, breaking the collarbone and ripping through a lung. He fell like he'd been poleaxed.

  Bolan crawled along the shelving toward its far end, getting to his feet and climbing onto a pair of wooden crates. He left the AK-47 behind and launched himself straight up, caught the edge of the catwalk and swung a leg up under the safety rail. The M-16 dangled off his shoulder, its sling sliding down along his upper arm.

  Bolan swung his other leg up and lay flat on the catwalk. The rifle still hung over the side, and someone spotted it. A sudden burst of automatic rifle fire whistled past and punched holes in the roof overhead. Rainwater started to pour through the holes, its tepid warmth spattering the back of his neck.

  He tugged the rifle up onto the catwalk and sprang into a crouch. As he ran, the catwalk swayed beneath him, and two more weapons joined the attack. The slats of the catwalk pinged as the hail of fire chewed at it. In the high shadows, they couldn't see him, and he reached the far wall and paused to catch his breath.

  Moving quietly toward the dockside corner, he searched the tangle below for a glimpse of the searchers. Dropping to one knee, he zeroed in on the most likely spot, trying to gauge the angle of fire. The shooting stopped, and he heard running feet but nothing else.

  Then, like silhouettes on a practice range, two men swung into the open, their rifles ready and faces turned expectantly upward. Bolan cut loose with a tight burst, and chopped one face to pieces, but the second man dodged behind cover.

  Bolan fired another burst, but the solid hammering of the slugs on the crating told him they weren't getting through. The man hadn't seen him, but it wouldn't be long. Surprise was no longer on his side.

  Bolan started inching along the front wall, ducking under a pair of ventilation ducts.

  He could hear the slight hum of the fans turned by the wind as it whistled past.

  The search party was down to three, but he took no comfort in the fact. He knew enough about probability to know that the odds against him were still nine to one. Someone fired a short nervous burst that ripped into the corner behind him, and Bolan smiled.

  They still didn't have a fix on him.

  A heavy door banged, and someone ran toward the center of the warehouse. Though it was out of his sight, Bolan knew from the sound that it was just one man.

  When the voice boomed up into the shadowed corners, he didn't have to guess who it was.

  "Belasko, I know who you are." Harding sounded unruffled, even faintly amused. "You don't think you can get out of here alive, do you?" Harding laughed, and for a moment Bolan was tempted to take the bait.

  "You don't have a prayer, Belasko. But I'll make you a deal. You ought to be with me, not against me. You know that. I'm going to give you one minute. You hear that? Sixty seconds. You can sign on, Belasko, and there'll be no hard feelings. If not, your ass is mine, mister. Think about it."

  Bolan looked at his watch. It read 11:51.

  He didn't know whether Harding was stalling for time or not. But there was only one way to make sure. The middle catwalk was just thirty feet away. He moved toward it, waiting between steps to prevent the shaky platform from banging against the metal wall beside him.

  At the intersection he eased out onto the narrow walkway. His weight made it squeak slightly, and he held his breath for a moment.

  "Thirty seconds, cowboy."

  Another five steps, and he could see two men: Johnson and one of the two remaining members of the search team. Two more steps and he had a clean shot. He steadied the Beretta on the safety rail. Squeezing once, he jerked the muzzle and squeezed again.

  When he looked, Johnson was nowhere to be seen.

  A fatigue-clad arm, its hand twitching spastically, was barely visible at the edge of a wooden crate. He couldn't tell whether it was Johnson or the other man, and he didn't know whether he'd gotten them both. But that was not the question.

  Where was Harding?

  That was the question.

  "Ten seconds, Belasko. Nine... eight... seven..."

  And he broke for the far wall, the catwalk swaying beneath him like the deck of a plunging boat in high seas.

  "Kill him!" Harding shouted.

  Gunfire, as near as he could tell from only two weapons, ripped at the metal slats, punching holes in the aluminum and scattering sharp slivers in every direction.

  He was willing to bet they expected him to take the ladder. Bolan reached the far wall and ran toward the ladder a few steps, then stopped. He cut back, remembering the thick bundle of canvas. He spotted it, nearly twenty-five feet on the ladder's far side. One of the huge doors rumbled open, then an engine sprang to life.

  The jeep raced its engine, then jerked into gear.

  "You hear that, Belasko? It's over, sport. Time's up."

  The jeep's tires squealed on the concrete, and a burst of gunfire echoed through the warehouse as Bolan leapt. Before he touched down, he heard the jeep slam into the wall, its engine racing under a lead foot, the tires screaming against the cement, then the engine died.

  Bolan hit and rolled. As he came up, Johnson and the other man turned their rifles on him, but Bolan was just a little quicker. He emptied a clip, then jerked the wasted clip free and jammed in another.

  Bolan sprinted past the twitching bodies and careered around a corner. He caught a glimpse of Harding just before the man vanished. Someone fired a shot, and Harding returned the fire with two quick ones from an automatic pistol. Bolan reached the aisle and ran into Carlos, nearly knocking him over, just as Harding rounded the far corner. In surprise, Bolan turned, reaching out to steady the young Filipino. Behind him he saw a bright flash of light, then it went dark.

  The clunk of the master switch echoed through the warehouse.

  "Carlos, what are you doing here?" Bolan whispered.

  "The police are coming soon. Senora Colgan, she said you needed help. She led me through the tunnel. When we came up, I saw the jeep starting to leave. It was Cordero."

  "Was?"

  "I killed him, Senor Belasko." That left Harding himself. Swat him like the bug he was, wipe your hands, and walk away, Bolan thought. That's all there was to it.

  But first he had to find Harding. And that wouldn't be easy in the dark.

  Bolan heard the footsteps, and clapped a hand over Carlos' mouth. "Shhh. Listen, you find Senora Colgan, and you stay with her. Sit on her if you have to, but don't leave her alone. And whatever she says, don't let her talk you into anything. Understand?"

  Carlos nodded, and as Bolan relaxed the pressure, Carlos whispered, "Si, senor."

  He heard Carlos move away, back down the aisle toward where he'd seen Marisa just before the lights went out. The concrete underfoot, covered with sand and hunks of wood, papers and the usual sort of litter, made too much noise under his soles. Bolan unlaced his
boots and kicked them off, then moved toward the wall. He hadn't had time to check the warehouse, and Harding had a distinct advantage in knowing the layout. When his outstretched fingers brushed against the rough metal of the wall, Bolan hesitated.

  Which way should he go?

  Harding was an unconventional strategist. And if that weren't enough, he was also desperate. Behind him he heard a strange sound, almost like running water, and he wondered whether something might be happening in the tunnel beneath the warehouse. But there was no point in worrying about what might happen. He had a ruthless killer loose somewhere in the dark, and at the moment, that was the only thing that mattered.

  Bolan groped along the wall and nearly shouted when he stepped on something sharp. The pain shot through his foot, and when he lifted it, he felt a piece of crating come off the floor, pinned to the foot by a nail.

  He bent the leg, cradled the foot against his knee and, balancing on one foot, jerked the slat free. He set it down gingerly, then tried to put some weight on the punctured foot. A fierce stab of pain shot up the calf, and he balled his toes instinctively to take some of his weight off the wound. It would slow him down.

  But it wouldn't stop him.

  Only one thing could do that, and he wasn't ready for that yet.

  He continued along the wall as footsteps scraped on the sandy floor somewhere in the distance.

  Again, that gurgle, and again he pushed it out of his mind. Concentrate, he whispered first things first.

  Concentrate, damn it. He ignored the pain in his foot, the aching shoulder. In his mind, a white-hot light, like the headlight of an approaching freight train, burned brightly. Outlined in that brilliant glare, he could see Charles Harding. There was nothing and no one else.

  Bolan stepped on the corner of a piece of lumber, and the point stabbed at the puncture wound.

  He convulsed instinctively, bending to grab the foot, and it saved his life. A sharp crack resounded throughout the warehouse, right behind the awful crunch of a slug punching through the rusty metal wall right where his head had been. Bolan dove to the floor, forgetting about the pain, and wondered how in the hell Harding could see him.

  He scrambled forward several feet, slithering like a lizard, then jumped to his feet. Moving faster, he heard footsteps scrape across the floor, and that strange gurgling again. His fingers bumped against a metal box mounted on the wall. It echoed hollowly like a drum, and he knew immediately what it was.

  Groping along the box, he found the handle and wrenched it up with a jerk of his wrist. The fluorescents flickered overhead, strobing a moment, flashing a strange blue-grey light before snapping fully on.

  Bolan blinked away the glare and turned. He saw Harding and ducked just as another shot sailed past him. And Bolan's gut clenched like a fist.

  He knew now how Harding had seen him. The night-vision glasses vised the man's head, sprouts of grey hair shooting up like weeds under the pressure of the elastic band.

  In Harding's right hand, he saw a big Colt .45. Its blued steel gleamed under the light.

  But that wasn't the problem.

  Harding's left hand was clenched tightly over Marisa Colgan's mouth. She struggled, but Harding was too strong for her, dragging her along in his powerful grip, with just her toes scraping the floor.

  Bolan waved his Beretta back and forth, the mesmerising sway of a flute before a cobra.

  But he didn't have a clear shot.

  "Let her go, Harding."

  Harding laughed. "Not in this life, Belasko," he spat. "Not in this life." Marisa continued to struggle, but it was useless.

  Harding was just too strong. The big Colt cracked again, this time punching into a crate just in front of Bolan's shoulder. The slug glanced off something inside the crate and ricocheted out through the side of the thin wooden container.

  A shot cracked behind him. As Harding turned, momentarily relaxing his grip, Marisa chomped down hard on the slack fingers. Harding howled as Marisa spun away, and Bolan fired once.

  The bullet slammed into Harding's skull, leaving a small black hole in his temple, then blasting a softball-sized exit on its way out the other side. Marisa lay there moaning as Bolan charged forward. He checked to see that she wasn't hurt, and she reached for him.

  "I'm all right?" she said. "Really, I'm all right."

  Bolan helped her up and supported her weight, feeling the frightened tremble.

  He glanced at the bloody shambles that had been Harding's head, then turned away. Down the aisle, Carlos, a pool of blood from his slashed throat already coagulating on the concrete, stared back at him with glazed, sightless eyes. His fingers still curved around the pistol, but they no longer felt it.

  "Carlos," Marisa whispered. "Where's Carlos?"

  Bolan shook his head. "Gone," he said.

  He started walking, holding Marisa close.

  She buried her head in his shoulder and sobbed quietly. He passed through the huge door out into the Manila night. Out in the harbor, a giant freighter drifted behind a laboring tug. A single mournful blast of its horn shattered the night, then left it stiller than before. For once, Bolan didn't mind the thick air, the clinging tropical humidity.

  "That's one score settled," he said to the night.

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  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 2006-09-07

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