Kill Squad

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan had his Beretta in his hand now. He tossed the pistol he’d taken from the hood to Sherman.

  “If you need to shoot, just point and pull the trigger.”

  There was movement from the far car. Autofire crackled and slugs hammered the connecting door. The final shard of glass dropped from the frame.

  “This is crazy,” Sherman said. “They know we can’t go anywhere, Cooper. I should have listened to my old man when he said I should have become a priest.”

  His words were ignored as Bolan assessed their position. In the confines of the rail car, there was no chance they could conceal themselves. They were in the open, with armed men facing them. Once the shooters decided to push their way through, it would become a turkey shoot. If Bolan had been on his own, he might have considered resisting. But he had Sherman to consider, plus the burden of the other passengers. If he put up a fight, any retaliatory gunfire could overlap and cause injury to the innocent. That was something Bolan refused to allow. The passengers were being drawn into a threatening scenario that had nothing to do with them. Mack Bolan would not consider that a viable risk.

  He and Sherman were in line for the hostile fire. Bolan accepted that—with reservations where Sherman was concerned. The man was making an attempt to right wrongs, and he didn’t deserve to become a victim himself.

  The only way out was for Bolan and Sherman to remove themselves from the situation, which was easier to consider than to achieve. The soldier glanced at the window. The landscape slid by, an area of undulating terrain, wide and empty.

  Another burst of autofire drove shots against the connecting door. This time a couple of slugs broke through.

  Bolan had already considered what he knew to be his and Sherman’s only option. He took that option and made his decision.

  He triggered a triburst through the connecting door to force the opposition back, even if it was only a brief distraction.

  “Harry, let’s go,” he said. “Stay low and head for the other door.”

  “What...?”

  “Do it, Harry, before those guys come our way.”

  Bolan fired off another triburst.

  Crouching, they made for the connecting door at the far end of the car. Bolan flung it open and hustled Sherman through. They paused on the swaying, open platform between the two cars, the rattle and rumble of the train loud in their ears.

  The ground swept by, a spread of green below the slope that bordered the track.

  Bolan glanced back through the connecting door and saw armed men moving into view. This time he held the Beretta in both hands and fired. Glass shattered. Bolan saw one man fall and the others pull aside. The delay would only last for seconds. He holstered the 93-R and zipped up his jacket.

  “Have you ever jumped from a moving train?”

  Sherman stared at Bolan. “Hell, no,” he said.

  “There’s a first time for everything. Just let yourself go limp,” Bolan said. “Tuck and roll.”

  Realization dawned as Sherman stared at him. Bolan didn’t give him time to take in any more. He grasped Sherman’s shoulders and pushed him from the rail car. Sherman fell out of sight, his startled yell whipped away as he tumbled into empty space.

  Without another thought Bolan followed, feeling the air pull at him as he dropped. The green slope came up at him faster than he had expected and, as he attempted to follow the advice he had given Sherman, Bolan hit the ground. He twisted, spun, his breath driven from his body by the jarring impact. The sheer force of his landing left Bolan unable to control his momentum. He went down the slope, turning over and over until he came to a sudden stop.

  He lay facedown, making no attempt to move. It took him a few attempts before he was even able to drag air into his burning lungs and even then he lay still. When he finally did move, it was to check his arms and legs for any damage. Apart from aching muscles and bruised flesh, they felt okay. He had survived. He took his time standing, rubbing the side of his face where he had scraped it across the ground.

  Bolan began to search for Sherman. He heard the man before he saw him. It seemed the man possessed a colorful vocabulary and was using every word he knew.

  Sherman was on his knees when Bolan finally spotted him some yards away, his hands moving over his body as he checked himself out.

  “I can’t believe we just did that,” Sherman said.

  Bolan didn’t answer. He simply caught hold of the man’s coat and hustled him farther away from the tracks.

  “We could have been killed.” Sherman slapped at the dust clinging to his clothes. “Or ended up with broken bones.”

  “You prefer being shot?”

  “What?”

  “It was a simple question, Harry. Should we have stayed on the train and let those men shoot us?”

  “Look, Cooper, it was a...”

  “It was a simple choice, Harry. If we had stayed, we would have ended up dead. Instead we jumped and we’re still alive.”

  Sherman touched his jawline where he had grazed it during the fall.

  “Put like that, I guess not,” he said.

  “Let’s go. It might seem that we’re in the clear, but those guys on the train will be reporting what happened. Any time that we’ve gained needs to be used well.”

  “Meaning they’ll still be looking for us?”

  “Count on it.”

  Sherman shook his head. “So it’s going to be a showdown here in the middle of nowhere? Cooper, maybe I’m not ready for a replay of High Noon. I never shot a gun in my life.”

  “But you can still run.”

  “Yeah? Not from the speed of a bullet from a gun.”

  “I’ll try to keep that from happening.”

  Bolan took out his sat phone and speed-dialed Aaron Kurtzman.

  “What have you got yourself into this time?” Kurtzman said.

  “We took a train then jumped off the train. Right now I could do with an assist to fix our position.”

  Kurtzman could be heard giving out instructions to his team. He was back on the line after a few minutes, updating Bolan on his position.

  “Satellite GPS has you pinpointed. You need to keep moving north. You’re about twenty miles from the nearest town and seventy from the border with Canada. The closest main road is nine miles from your current position. Northeast. Get to that and it will take you to the town of Bishop, which is also the point where the rail tracks bisect the town.”

  “Very concise,” Bolan said.

  “I’m sending the coordinates to your phone.”

  “Thanks. Got it.”

  “I realize you’re not exactly in the most favorable situation out there. We still have Jack in the wings. He could put that eggbeater in the air and be with you pretty quickly. Why walk when you can make the trip in style?”

  “That was my next request. Forward him the coordinates and send him on his way. Just let him know we could have hostiles converging on our position. Leaving that train was a necessity. Our less-than-friendly followers won’t have given up on us and they’ll have backup, so the badlands here could be set to become even worse.”

  “You have this knack of moving from one bad situation to another with such consummate ease, Striker. How do you manage it?”

  “I took a correspondence course in action management.”

  “Give them a call and request a refund. Brother, it’s not working. Okay, details sent to Jack. He’ll make contact and head for your location.”

  Bolan acknowledged and ended the call.

  “Did I hear you say we could have visitors?” Sherman queried.

  Bolan glanced up from checking the 93-R; he had eight left in the magazine and two extra magazines. He would have liked more but life didn’t run on wishes.

  “There’s a picku
p on its way, Harry. All we need to do is stay in the clear until my guy shows up.”

  “Let’s hope Conte’s men see it that way and leave us in peace.”

  Bolan checked their position, motioning to Sherman that they needed to move. They were on mostly open ground, with the rail track curving away from them, the train having vanished from sight.

  “Let’s go.”

  18

  “Am I employing imbeciles?” Bulova snapped into the phone. “Was I expecting too much when I asked these morons to find Sherman? Did I not pay enough? Vitaly, tell me what is going wrong.”

  Danichev quickly drained the tumbler, clutching the phone to his ear as his mind raced to conjure up an answer that would satisfy his boss.

  “They outflanked us,” he said. “Passengers on the train heard Sherman call some guy who’s helping him Cooper. This guy is no amateur. He must have military training.”

  “Should we give him a medal then? What am I hearing, Vitaly? It sounds like an excuse. From you, Vitaly?”

  “We messed up—I messed up. No excuse, Serge. But we are not walking away. There are more men on the way now that Sherman and Cooper have left the train. They are on their own. We will find them.”

  “Let us hope so, Vitaly, otherwise we may all be on the fucking run. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Serge.”

  The phone went silent. Danichev stared at it.

  Things were not going as planned. Harry Sherman should have been in their hands by now. He should be dead. Or at least suffering and telling them all they needed to know. But that was not happening. Sherman was running free, accompanied a man named Cooper. He was the one who was keeping Sherman out of trouble and taking down every hired gun Danichev threw in his path.

  Danichev wanted to know who the man was.

  Where he came from.

  He was no ordinary cop, not the way he acted. There was no denying the man was skilled. Deadly. And from the score he was ratcheting up Cooper had no concerns when it came to facing off against his adversaries. The man was a skilled operative. In most ways he was a step above the men Danichev had in the field.

  Danichev tapped a number into his cell phone, waiting impatiently until it connected.

  “Danson, we need this matter resolved. I just spoke with Bulova. He is not taking this well. And if he is unhappy, I am unhappy. This man, Cooper, is making us all look bad. Put everything we have into finding him and Sherman. I don’t give a damn how much it costs, or how many people you have to bring in. Just find them, Danson. For God’s sake find them and make Sherman deliver those files.”

  Danichev didn’t wait for an answer. He ended the call and slammed the cell phone on the desk.

  “I need a drink,” he said. “A large one.”

  * * *

  OSCAR DANSON, THE MAN on the spot, put away his phone and signaled his driver.

  “Let’s move,” he said. “Forget the train. They can sort themselves out when it reaches the station. They’ll have to catch a cab home. We need to turn around and go back. Pick up where Sherman and that guy, Cooper, jumped ship.”

  There were three SUVs. They had been tracking the train, waiting until it made a stop. The plan had been for the men on board to get to Sherman and hold him until the pickup could be made. Things had changed since the man Cooper had also got himself on board. The easy pickup had turned sour. Men were dead. Others wounded. And Danson had picked up a call from the train admitting that Sherman and Cooper had bailed, which meant they were on foot, somewhere back along the track. And the boss was pissed.

  Danson stood with his team as they took in what he had to say.

  “Who the fuck is this son of a bitch?” someone asked.

  “Whoever he is, he’s smart.”

  “You think? Maybe we should offer him a job when we find him,” Danson said.

  “Say what you like. He got Sherman off the train and left our boys holding their dicks,” Frank Jellico replied.

  Danson couldn’t deny that.

  “If we want ours to stay attached, we better catch up with Sherman. So let’s get moving and bring this circus to an end.”

  The teams moved to the waiting vehicles and climbed in, the drivers turning and picking up speed as they ran parallel with the rail tracks. Weapons were checked and held ready. Whatever the end result, the confrontation was going to be bloody.

  The terrain was uneven and despite the top-line suspension, the ride was uncomfortable.

  “Where are those assholes?” Jellico asked. “There’s nowhere out here to hide.”

  “Are you that eager to get yourself shot?”

  “This Cooper isn’t Superman,” Alvin Palmer said.

  “Yeah? Well, he handled the snatch team on his own,” Danson stated. “You have respect for somebody like that.”

  “I’ll tell you what I respect. The dollar bills I get paid for this work. Everything else is just crap.”

  “That’s a sad thing to admit,” Jellico claimed.

  “He’s a sad person,” Danson said. “You know, I can’t recall the last time I saw him smile.”

  “You guys want to concentrate,” the driver said. “I think our targets are up ahead.”

  Danson peered out through the windshield and spotted two men coming into range fast.

  “Palmer, here’s where you get to earn those Franklins you love so much,” Danson said. He slapped the driver on the shoulder. “Let’s go get ’em...”

  19

  “There’s no easy way to say this, Harry. Conte wants you dead and buried. There isn’t going to be any kind of negotiating with him. No buying our way out. No last-minute changes of heart. You understand that?”

  Sherman gave a half smile. “Gee, don’t sugarcoat it, Cooper. Wrapping it in ribbon isn’t any help. Yes, I get it. That man wants my head on a silver plate, delivered to his office so he can poke me in the eye and say I told you so. Cooper, I get the message. I got it on the train.

  “Tell you what, though. I don’t figure to let it happen. I’m not the one who did anything wrong. Not enough to get a kill order hung around my neck. I took my eye off the ball and some sleazebag stole a chunk of money I was supposed to be looking after.

  “Damn it, Cooper, that’s how all this started. Next thing I’m being put in the frame for that nine million. Now...that asshole Conte? The son of a bitch wants my life. He had to make a big deal out of it. You know one of the crazy things about this? Nine million is small change to the organization. People don’t realize the money the mob makes every day. Those files took my blinders off. Suddenly Conte gets all righteous and I take the fall. But I’ve got that flash drive. Tough. We’ve all got trouble. Conte can go to hell. No way I’m being backed into a corner so his hired goons can shoot me.”

  “Tell me about the information, Harry.”

  “Conte kept details of every crooked deal he’s ever made. Names. Dates. Amounts. He likes to make out he’s a savvy guy, but underneath it all he doesn’t trust anyone. He built this store of information, which is handy stuff to have in your hand if things go wrong. Cooper, those lists can point the finger at so many people you wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it.”

  “And you won’t tell me where the flash drive is until we’re on safe ground?”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “No, I don’t blame you. You’ve got yourself in a deep hole and it’s falling in around you. All you want is to reach solid ground.”

  “Damn right. Look, Cooper, I’m not pleading innocence. I knew what was going on back there. I’m not such an idiot I didn’t know who I was working for. Conte is a bad son of a bitch. Okay, I took his money every payday. So if that makes me as bad as him, what the hell can I say? I’ll tell you this, and you either believe me, or not. I was an accountant, period. I w
as never involved in Conte’s behind-the-door business. I knew he was involved in all sorts of shady stuff, but until this business with Lemke, I just kept my head down and my ears shut.

  “The day Conte showed what he could do to me, the game was over. All the glitter and the drinks and the girls? That was the icing on a cake full of maggots. Behind the closed doors it was a nightmare, and I was part of it. One way or another, all those years, I’d let it go over my head. Pretended it wasn’t anything to do with me. I just counted up the money, paid Conte’s bills. Jesus, Cooper, I was fooling myself big-time. I was wallowing in the slime and it stuck to me.”

  Sherman was struggling for breath after his speech. His head rolled to one side and he stared at Bolan. “That’s the longest speech I ever made in my life. I’m not trying to justify what I was involved in. I can’t. And I guess what I’m doing is trying to talk my way out of that hole you mentioned... How am I doing so far?”

  “We’ll never get to be lifelong buddies, but I’ll give you an A for effort. Right now that isn’t our main concern.”

  Sherman was about to agree but sensed the man wasn’t paying any more attention. He saw that Cooper had halted and was staring back along the way they had come.

  Bolan had picked up faint sounds. He filtered out extraneous noise and focused on the overwhelming hum that could only mean one thing.

  Powerful engines. More than one. Heading in their direction. Very fast.

  He raised the Beretta, his finger resting against the trigger guard.

  Sherman saw the move.

  “Are you going to shoot something for lunch?” he asked. “Because if you are, it’s going to be hard to start a fire.”

  “I wish it was as simple as that.”

  “Then what?”

  A pair of matching SUVs came into view, speeding like metal dinosaurs over the curve in the terrain, wheels throwing up chunks of earth and spirals of dust. They gave the appearance of guided missiles as they slid around to target the two men.