Patriot Strike

by Don Pendleton

  Turning left on Bowie would propel them north to Fourth Street, back toward downtown San Antonio. A right-hand turn would lead south to Market Street, which then became South Bowie, just to keep drivers confused. South Bowie granted access to the interstate, but if Bolan stuck to surface streets, he would be leading his pursuers into residential neighborhoods.

  No decent choices, either way.

  Whichever way he chose, he risked having cops join the parade and putting bystanders in danger. If he made it to the freeway, it could add potential contact with the state’s highway patrol. The only law he likely wouldn’t see would be the Texas Rangers—and he had one of them riding in his shotgun seat.

  With half a block to spare, he chose the right-hand turn. Given the hour, Bolan knew downtown would have more traffic on the streets, people returning home from restaurants, concerts and theaters, whatever. More police patrols, for sure, keeping an eye on high-rent stores and offices. If he could lead the hunters south, then west toward the San Antonio River, the street map he’d memorized during his flight told Bolan he would find dead ground, where they could stop and settle it.

  The hunters hadn’t lost Bolan when he had turned onto South Bowie, but they hadn’t started shooting, either. That was good news, and he wasted no time trying to interpret it.

  “Who’s likely to be tracking you?” he asked his passenger.

  She answered with a question of her own. “What were you told about this deal?”

  “The basics. Ridgway and the NTR.”

  “Okay. It could be either one of them, assuming there’s a difference. Lamar won’t soil his hands, but he could give the order. Might demand a video, for his enjoyment over cocktails later.”

  “Not police,” Bolan confirmed.

  “No lights or sirens,” she replied. “No way.”

  That made it easier. At the beginning of his one-man war against the Mafia, Bolan had drawn a line he would never cross. When dealing with police at any level, in any given situation, he would not use deadly force. Whether they qualified as heroes or were nothing more than thugs in uniform, he treated law enforcement officers as soldiers on the same side. Bolan would not spill their blood, even in self-defense.

  He’d sent a few to prison, sure, but that was something else entirely.

  Mercenary killers, on the other hand, were fair game whenever and wherever they crossed paths with the Executioner.

  South Bowie reached East Commerce Street, and Bolan took a right there, racing west to catch South Alamo. The chase car hung in there, trying to ride his bumper, but the lighter RAV4 kept a few car lengths between them, weaving just enough to cut the hunters off from passing by on either side, where they could get a clean shot at the smaller SUV.

  Not yet.

  The farther they could go without a shot fired or a squad car joining in the chase, the better Bolan liked it. They would have their showdown soon enough, in true Wild West tradition, more or less.

  South Alamo took Bolan and Granger on a long southwestern swing through tree-lined residential areas, rolling inexorably toward the river and a strip of warehouses that served its traffic. There were few pedestrians around as they passed by darkened homes, some with the flicker of a television screen behind drawn curtains, others with their occupants asleep before another workday in the city. Maybe roaring engines caused a ripple in their dreams, but Bolan was satisfied to spare them from a running firefight.

  “Gaining,” Granger cautioned. Nothing that his rearview hadn’t shown him.

  “Just a little longer,” he replied.

  “Why aren’t they shooting?”

  “Maybe someone wants to have a word with you.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  Not if I can help it, Bolan thought, and squeezed a bit more speed from the Toyota’s growling engine.

  He could see a bridge across the river coming up, a strip mall to his left once they’d crossed it and a factory of some kind to his right, with giant stacks and at least a dozen semitrailers lined up outside, waiting for loads. A triple set of railroad tracks ran through the plant and disappeared beneath an elevated walkway. A sign atop the tallest portion of the factory read Pioneer. Another, set above the three tall stacks, read White Wings.

  Bolan didn’t have a clue what was produced there, and he didn’t care. The place was obviously closed, no cars in the employees’ parking lot. Tapping the RAV4’s brake pedal, he swung in off the street and rolled across the lot, which was lit by bright halogen lights.

  * * *

  “HE’S STOPPING HERE? What the hell’s he thinkin’?” Jesse Folsom asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” Bryar Haskin snapped. “Let’s take ’em while we can.”

  “Some kinda trick,” suggested Jackson.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Haskin jacked a round into his shotgun’s chamber. “Now he’s off the road, we got ’im.”

  “Light ’em up!” said Jimmy Don Bodine.

  “Hold off on that,” Haskin commanded. “Don’t forget Kent wants ’em both alive, if possible.”

  “If possible.” The echo came from Jackson. “Leaves a lotta wiggle room.”

  “You screw this up,” said Haskin, “you’ll be wigglin’ when he hooks your nuts up to that hand-crank generator with some alligator clips.”

  Jackson had no response to that, and it was just as well. Folsom, at the Yukon’s wheel, swung in behind the black Toyota, chasing it across the mostly empty parking lot, back toward a row of semitrailers lined up closer to the factory. Haskin had no idea why their intended prey would trap himself that way, instead of staying on South Alamo, maybe trying to lose them on the Pan Am Expressway farther west, but he didn’t plan to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “C’mon!” he barked at Folsom. “Catch ’em, damn it!”

  “Workin’ on it,” Jesse answered back, accelerating with a squeal of tires on asphalt.

  Haskin had no clue who was driving the Toyota, but it stood to reason that the lady Ranger would be armed. A pistol only, since he’d seen her walking empty-handed at the Alamo, unlikely that she’d have some kind of tiny submachine gun underneath her leather jacket. Could be damn near anything inside the fleeing SUV, though, so they’d have to hit it hard and fast, before the stranger at the wheel could start unloading on them.

  “Hey! You’re losin’ it,” warned Haskin, as the RAV4 swerved around behind semis, ducking out of sight.

  “No place for ’em to go back there,” Folsom assured him. “Ain’t no exit from the lot on that side.”

  “You’d better hope not. If they get away—”

  “You worry too much,” Folsom answered, almost sneering.

  Haskin fought an urge to punch him, the worst thing Haskin could do when they were doing close to sixty miles per hour. If Folsom crashed the Yukon, it would be Haskin’s ass when Kent heard how their targets had wriggled through the net.

  Haskin had expected the Toyota’s driver to swing back around, upon discovering that he couldn’t escape the parking lot, but there was no sign of the RAV4 yet. It was a big lot, sure, but not that big. You couldn’t lose an SUV, unless—

  “Hold up!” he ordered.

  Folsom shot a sidelong glance his way.

  “They’re layin’ for us!” Haskin blurted, but his driver didn’t get the message. They kept rolling, passed the nearest semitrailer, turning left to follow the Toyota. Haskin didn’t see the other car at first, imagined that its wheelman must have found an exit from the big lot after all or maybe plowed straight through the shrubbery that lined it on the west. He was about to say so, when a sudden blaze of high beams blinded him. He raised one hand to shield his eyes.

  “Goddamn it!”

  The words were barely out before a bullet drilled through their windshield, clipped the rear
view mirror from its post and dropped it into Haskin’s lap. Folsom was cursing like a sailor with his pants on fire, spinning the Yukon’s wheel, as more slugs hit the SUV, pounding its body like the sharp blows of a sledgehammer.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD RACED around the line of semitrailers, running almost to its end before he whipped the RAV4 through a rocking bootlegger’s turn. It wasn’t too hard, once taught the trick, using the hand brake and accelerator in collaboration, power steering helping out. With an SUV there was a risk of tipping over, but he had kept them upright—though not without eliciting a little gasp from Adlene Granger.

  “Out!” he snapped, when they were barely settled, reaching toward the backseat for his hidden Colt AR-15. She bailed from the passenger’s side. He had already doused the domes, but a pool of light still glowed beneath the dashboard with the SUV’s doors open. Not enough to matter for his purposes, as Bolan crouched behind his open driver’s door and Granger found her cover in between two massive semis.

  Any second now...

  The chase car roared into view right on schedule, headlights lancing toward the parked RAV4. They had to see it, but the black car sitting there, stopped dead and going nowhere, would confuse them long enough for Bolan to begin the fight on his own terms. A slim advantage, when he guessed they were outnumbered two to one, at least, but he would take what he could get.

  Which, at the moment, was a blast of high beams for the chase car’s driver, followed by a clean shot through its tinted windshield. Bolan didn’t count on hitting anyone with that first round, but it did have the desired effect, forcing the larger SUV to swerve away from him, tires screeching on the asphalt as its wheelman panicked.

  Bolan tracked the Yukon with his rifle sights, squeezed off another round that sent its left-front tire into a wallowing rumble, the rim biting blacktop. That didn’t help the driver with control, but he still managed not to flip it, trying to put space between himself and Bolan as he rolled off toward the tall white stacks on the far side of the parking lot.

  Looking for cover, Bolan realized, and he was determined not to let them reach it. Breaking from his own partial concealment, after switching off the Toyota’s headlights, Bolan sprinted in pursuit of the Yukon. He was the hunter now, whether the Yukon’s occupants knew it or not. The game had turned around on them, but there was no change in the stakes.

  Still life or death.

  Before his targets reached the three silo stacks, Bolan stopped short, lined up his shot and punched a double-tap through the retreating 4x4’s rear window. Glass imploded, and he thought he heard a man cry out; whether in pain or mere surprise, he couldn’t say. Then the SUV changed course again, now rolling toward a fence and wall of shrubbery that screened the parking lot’s west end.

  Better.

  Over there, the only cover waiting for them was the vehicle they had arrived in. They could try to scale the fence and run away, but that would place them with their backs toward Bolan, no hands free for fighting while they made the climb. He could shoot sitting ducks all night, though Bolan hoped to wrap this up without much wasted time.

  And if he had a chance to quiz one of his enemies, so much the better.

  The Yukon rolled on toward the fence, then veered off to the right. That placed the driver’s side away from Bolan, and he saw the doors fly open, dome lights glaring briefly until they were shut once more. It looked like four men piling out, none seemingly impaired, going to ground behind the full-size SUV.

  Now Bolan was in the open and in danger as they started firing—one from each end of the Yukon, one underneath it and one blasting directly through the SUV, its back windows both rolled down.

  Not good.

  His opposition had two shotguns and two rifles, both feeding the standard 5.56 mm NATO ammunition by their sound. One hit from any of those guns could be enough to finish him. Whether they scored with buckshot or one of the NATO tumblers traveling at 3,100 feet per second, either would create catastrophic damage upon impact with flesh and bone.

  He hit the deck and rolled, scrabbling away to his left, toward the last semitrailer in line. It stood some fifty yards from the Yukon, easy pickings with his AR-15, but Bolan still had two problems.

  He needed a line on his targets, of course.

  And he had to reach cover alive.

  * * *

  “GET OUT! OUT! OUT!” Bryar Haskin shouted, shoving Folsom when the driver moved too slowly to suit him.

  “Jesus, man! I’m go—” Folsom’s words were cut off as he spilled from the Yukon, Haskin crowding out behind him on the driver’s side, the steering wheel bruising his ribs. He nearly stepped on Jesse as he fell.

  Cursing a blue streak, Folsom kicked back at him, almost brought him down, and in the process accidentally saved Haskin’s life.

  The impact made Haskin stumble and drop to one knee just as a bullet smashed the Yukon’s right-front window, passing within an inch of Haskin’s head. He could have sworn he felt it graze his hair before it whispered off into the darkness. Another bullet hit the open driver’s door a heartbeat later, spraying Haskin’s face and neck with jagged bits of steel and plastic.

  “Agh!”

  He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the Yukon’s dome lights, staying low in case the rifleman kept shooting through the SUV.

  “Shoot back!” he ordered. “What in hell’d we bring these guns for, anyway?”

  It took another second, but his boys got in the spirit of the thing, returning fire. Haskin angled his Ithaca across the Yukon’s hood and fired a blast toward the parking lot, seeing a figure drop and roll out there but having no idea if he’d been hit. Doubtful, in the confusion, with his own guys firing wild and ducking back before a lucky shot could pick them off.

  Speaking of which, Haskin felt too exposed aiming across the Yukon’s nose, so he went prone and aimed his twelve-gauge underneath the SUV. Not hiding, get that straight; being crafty, with a bid to cut their adversary’s legs from under him, leaving him helpless on the blacktop. Might have worked, too, but it seemed as if the guy was gone now. Likely over by the nearest of the semitrailers, lining up another shot.

  And what about the lady Ranger? Where was she?

  Haskin had little time to think about it, as his first guess was confirmed. A muzzle-flash winked at him from the darkened space between two trailers, fifty yards or so away, and Haskin heard slugs punching through the Yukon’s right-front fender, hammering the engine.

  Shit!

  Damned inconvenient for them if they had to leave their ride behind, although its registration wouldn’t lead investigators anywhere. That was the beauty of a holding company, something Haskin had heard about but never really understood until it was explained to him in simple terms, of late—a paper trail that led the cops in circles without yielding any information that could hang him or his friends if anything went wrong.

  Like now.

  As for escaping, they could always take the other guy’s Toyota once they’d finished with him. And the Ranger. Couldn’t forget her, since she’d started this whole fouled-up business in the first place. Kent still wanted her alive, but Haskin wasn’t sure he could deliver on that order, given how things stood right now.

  How long before the shooting brought a prowl car, followed by a SWAT team? He wasn’t sure, but every passing minute made their prospects worse. He tried to picture Kent’s reaction if they all wound up in jail but didn’t like where that was going, so he pushed the image out of mind.

  More bullets slapped at the Yukon. “We gotta flush that bastard out of there,” Haskin told his men.

  “Go for it,” Jackson answered, making no attempt to move.

  “You scared of goin’ out there?” Haskin challenged him.

  “Damn right!”

  “Well guess what?” Haskin snarled, jabbing hi
s shotgun’s muzzle into Jackson’s ribs. “You’re goin’ anyhow.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Move it!”

  Still cursing, Jackson waddled toward the Yukon’s tailgate, braced himself and charged into the open, firing as he ran. And covered all of ten feet, maybe less, before a bullet brought him down.

  And that left three.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD DROPPED the runner with a head shot, easy, and his friends were clearly having second thoughts about an all-out rush to finish it. He glanced back toward the RAV4, saw no sign of Granger and hoped she’d keep it that way while he finished up the skirmish. Bolan’s chance of capturing a shooter for interrogation seemed less likely now, but any hope remaining would require the gunmen to be driven out from under cover, where he’d have an opportunity to pick and choose.

  How best to do it?

  While they popped off wasted rounds—some scoring hits on semis, others squandered on thin air—he sighted on the SUV’s fuel tank. The Yukon carried twenty-six gallons of gasoline when it was filled to the brim, but Bolan didn’t need a full tank for his purposes. Three rounds fired through the right-rear quarter panel were enough to set it dribbling, a small lake forming underneath the vehicle.

  Now all he needed was a spark.

  The cornered gunmen didn’t seem to see where he was going with it, firing back at Bolan for the sake of making noise, the nearest of their shots missing him by two feet or more. Meanwhile he concentrated on the Yukon’s right-rear wheel. He flattened its tire with one shot, then directed three more at the rim, trying to strike a spark.

  He was rewarded by a puff of flame, the gas fumes catching, then the spilled gas on the blacktop came alight and sent its head back to the leaking fuel tank. Bolan waited for combustion, heard one of his hidden enemies growl out a warning to the others, but it came too late. The gas tank blew, lifting the Yukon’s rear end on a bright cushion of fire, some six to eight feet off the ground.

  That sent them running. One man, in flames, broke out to his left with staggered steps, wailing, then dropped to hands and knees, trying to roll the fire out as it bit into his flesh. His two companions ran the other way, toward the silo stacks, firing in Bolan’s general direction as they fled.