Breakout

by Don Pendleton

  Reaching out, the man removed a knight from the board. “You are correct. My name is David Styers, and I’m here to take you to Mr. Johnson. Have a seat. Let’s talk.”

  Bolan took a single step forward, then threw himself backward. A split second later, the plastic green chair jerked as something passed through it and ricocheted off the terrazzo floor. There had been no sound of a gunshot.

  Rolling across the floor, Bolan hit the counter of an empty store. Standing warily, Bolan saw that Styers was gone. However, the soldier was now located under the mezzanine, and the snipers would have to shift positions to fire down on him. That bought a few precious seconds.

  “Piranha!” Bolan snarled, touching his turtleneck. There was no response on the earbud.

  Scrambling over the counter, Bolan pulled out the Beretta and smashed the fire alarm situated above the cold grill. Instantly the sappy Muzak stopped playing and a hooting alarm cut loose. Everybody in sight paused in surprise, then surged toward the nearest exit.

  Pulling out a grenade, Bolan yanked the pin. The frightened people were getting louder by the moment, their excited voices rising into shouts and then terrified screams.

  Bolan saw a young boy stuff an expensive wristwatch inside his shirt, while another boy held open a fire door and let a pregnant woman out first. The yin and yang of life, Bolan thought.

  Releasing the handle on the grenade, the Executioner dropped the bomb into the cold grill and then fired the Beretta twice, shattering the glass counters inside a jewelry store. A different alarm started howling as the soldier moved through the deserted kitchen. He reached the fire exit just as the M18 grenade inside the grill ignited and began releasing a thick volume of dense smoke.

  Satisfied that the mall would soon be empty, Bolan slammed aside the fire door and spun out of the way in case there was anybody waiting for him. But the area was clear, aside from several closed garbage bins and a stack of plastic pallets. Unlike the food court, the air back here smelled sour, and a decorative wall of white bricks hid the unwanted reality of the food business from any passing cars. Styers charged out the open fire door, a knife in each hand and trailing smoke.

  Stroking the trigger on the Beretta, Bolan fired twice, the discharges no louder than a hard cough. Styers wildly jerked as the 9 mm rounds punched through his body, and he collapsed, dead, onto the pavement.

  Ripping off the dead comm unit, Bolan pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  “Sarge?” Grimaldi asked, his voice going up a notch in surprise.

  “Piranha!” Bolan shouted just as something hummed past his cheek. A microsecond later the wall behind the man violently exploded, the blast throwing him away.

  Bolan lost the cell phone as he tucked his head and rolled away from the blast. He hit the decorative brick wall as an object flashed through the air to explode inside the smoke-filled kitchen. The blast threw out pieces of broken equipment and countless dented pots and pans. They clattered and clanged along the pavement, making more noise than Bolan would have ever thought possible.

  Aiming through one of the many holes in the decorative wall, Bolan chose an old-model Saturn that sat in the parking lot and emptied the Beretta into the vehicle until it burst into flames. Dropping to the pavement, Bolan heard the bricks crack, closely followed by the rolling thunder of a high-powered sniper rifle. No longer constrained by the presence of civilians, the people from Castle were making this a straight firefight. Bolan almost smiled.

  Arming his last two M18 smoke grenades, Bolan threw the canisters far and wide. Soon, rolling clouds of smoke filled that area of the parking lot. Going behind a large garbage bin, Bolan mentally shut out the noise of the fire alarms inside the mall and concentrated on the sound of the wind. In the background, he could dimly hear tires squealing as cars raced out of the parking lot, horns blaring and voices cursing.

  Suddenly the sniper rifle fired a fast three times. More chunks of the brick wall were broken off, but now Bolan had a rough location of the sniper.

  Charging into the roiling clouds of smoke, Bolan zigzagged through the rows of old cars until he reached a refrigerated delivery van. There was no sign of the driver, and Bolan ducked under the heavy truck, staying well clear of the pressurized tank of coolant. The insulated walls of the truck offered better protection from the incoming rounds than anything else in sight. But one hit to the coolant tank and he’d become a very dead Popsicle.

  Spotting a car missing a window, Bolan crawled there and studied the pattern of the fallen glass. Trying to mentally reverse the trajectory of the bullet, his best estimate would be a distant billboard. It was difficult to see clearly through the smoke, but there seemed to briefly be a shock path through the smoke from the passage of a high-caliber round.

  Even as Bolan watched, a tiny tongue of fire extended from the dark catwalk under the billboard. A Toyota burst into flames and a second later came the rolling boom of the sniper rifle. Target acquired.

  There was way too much open ground between him and the billboard, so Bolan looked around at the parked cars. The ones on this side of the mall were less fancy, some desperately needed washing and many had duct tape on the front seats to repair rips in the fabric.

  Spotting a battered Ford pickup with an empty gun rack, Bolan crawled to it. The door was locked, but he tricked the lock with his knife and got inside. Jerking the seat forward, he exposed the aft storage area. There were old beer cans, some road maps, flares, a few paperback books, a package of beef jerky and a long plastic box.

  The plastic box was locked, but Bolan forced it open to reveal a Winchester .30-06 bolt-action rifle. There was a cardboard box of ammunition holding ten cartridges, as well as a bright orange hunting license on a lanyard. Taking the rifle and bullets, he stuffed his remaining cash into the box and crawled away.

  Taking refuge behind a banged-up Cadillac, Bolan loaded the rifle, then stood and aimed for the billboard. The Winchester was only a hunting rifle, the effective range roughly a thousand yards. That was a pittance in comparison to the powerful .50 sniper rifle shooting up the parking lot. That would have a good mile range, with a decent telescopic sight. However, the Winchester had a massively greater range then either the Beretta or the Desert Eagle.

  Taking a deep breath, Bolan adjusted for droppage, looked at the billowing smoke for the wind, then fired the rifle as fast as he could work the bolt.

  For a long minute nothing seemed to happen, and then a man holding an enormous rifle stumbled out of the shadows and fell off the catwalk. He hit several of the crisscrossing steel support beams on the way down.

  “Nice shot,” whispered a strange voice.

  Glancing at the car window, Bolan saw a woman walking his way. She was pretty, in a masculine sort of way, but his combat instincts flared at the realization that she seemed completely unaffected by all of the smoke and gunfire. Spinning fast, Bolan raised the rifle...but she was gone.

  “Now, I thought that was out of bullets,” came a whisper on the smoky breeze.

  The back of his neck prickling, Bolan had the unnerving feeling that he was being played, and briefly debated trying to reload the rifle.

  “So who are you?” Bolan asked, taking his right hand off the rifle to draw the Beretta. “Mrs. Johnson?”

  There came an echoing laugh, and he turned to fire, but once again there was nobody in sight but the drifting smoke. Then a subtle motion to his left made the man duck, and there was a flash of sunshine off something mirror bright. Firing while moving, Bolan heard a car window shatter.

  “Too slow, Blackie...” The woman laughed from somewhere.

  Tossing the rifle away, Bolan touched his cheek, the fingers coming back streaked with blood. Damn, the woman was fast!

  Suddenly there came a noise from behind and Bolan threw himself forward. He hit the pavement in a shoulder roll and came up wit
h both weapons drawn. The same as before, there was nobody in sight. Just the empty cars and ghostly patches of billowing smoke.

  That was when he noticed there was loose hair on his sweater. Touching the back of his neck with the cool barrel of the Desert Eagle, Bolan saw blood on the polished steel. He had quite literally escaped death by the thickness of a hair.

  Forcing himself to breathe normally, Bolan slowly turned and quickly reviewed what he knew about this new enemy. A woman...possibly a man dressed as a woman...knife...possibly a straight razor, although that was unlikely....

  The speed of the attacks was the key. This person was as good as any black belt in the martial arts. Navy SEAL good. Mossad good. Female... Knife... Ultrafast... Liked to kill... Could Johnson have been desperate enough to release that lunatic Seville? Bolan wondered.

  “Too slow, Seville!” Bolan said, staying in motion, both guns held close to his sides. “Did you move this badly when you killed your parents?”

  There was no reply, only the low whisper of the wind and the distant clang of an approaching fire truck.

  Standing still for a moment, Bolan spun fast and spotted a nylon-clad foot disappearing behind a Buick. No wonder he couldn’t hear any footsteps—Seville was barefoot. He knew that insane did not always equate with stupid.

  A low laugh sounded from behind and Bolan turned sideways to fire both of his weapons in opposite directions. The chatter of the Beretta and the boom of the Desert Eagle seemed to fill the smoky parking lot. More windows shattered, but there was no cry of pain.

  Unexpectedly, a pair of women stepped into sight from behind a Ford van. Smiling widely, Seville was holding a straight razor tight against the throat of a terrified young woman. She was wearing the uniform of a waitress, her wrists and mouth bound with duct tape.

  “Drop the guns or she dies,” Seville said in a mocking voice. The waitress started to silently cry as a bead of red blood began to flow along the mirror-bright length of the razor.

  Knowing the madman would kill both of them even if he surrendered, Bolan gambled everything and fired the Beretta.

  The chattering stream of 9 mm rounds chewed a path of destruction across a nearby Buick, spraying Seville with broken glass. As the madman flinched, Bolan brought up the Desert Eagle and stroked the trigger.

  The gingham dress of the waitress jerked as the .50-caliber round punched through the fabric directly between her legs. Shrieking in pain, Seville staggering backward as a hot torrent of red blood gushed from the ruin of his knee. Then the madman rallied and charged.

  Dropping the empty Beretta, Bolan cradled the Desert Eagle in both hands and put round after round into the lunatic, the copper-jacketed hollow-point bullets blowing his dress to reveal molded body armor. A head shot was impossible because of the terrified waitress standing directly behind Seville, so Bolan stepped to the side and let the criminal get closer before shoving the hot barrel of the Desert Eagle into his eye and firing again.

  Laughing shrilly, Seville slashed Bolan across the stomach with the razor just as his head exploded, chunks of bones and brains and blood going everywhere. Although nearly decapitated, Seville swayed for a moment as if still determined to finish the task before finally dropping lifeless to the dirty pavement.

  Touching the body armor under his ruined shirt, Bolan felt a long thin gouge where the straight razor had almost penetrated.

  Starting toward the waitress, Bolan heard the dull throb of a helicopter overhead. He looked up, expecting it to be the police or an ambulance. His stomach tightened at the sight of an armed Black Hawk helicopter coming his way.

  Chapter 17

  Hastily, Bolan slapped his last magazine into the Beretta.

  “Run for your life!” he bellowed at the waitress, triggering the weapon in a long burst.

  The barrage of 9 mm rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the chassis of the Black Hawk, which had to have been reinforced, so then he hammered the windshield directly in front of the pilot.

  * * *

  SITTING BEHIND THE stick of the helicopter, Torval Johnson laughed in contempt as the hail of bullets hit the thick barrier of Lexan plastic and simply stayed there, partially buried, like flies in amber. This was his private conveyance, the pilot seat and controls modified to accommodate his colossal size. The Sikorsky MH-60M Black Hawk was state-of-the-art.

  As the shooting stopped, Johnson started to fire a rocket when he realized that he had lost sight of Giancova. The drug lord was nowhere to be seen in the smoke-filled parking lot. There were only the bedraggled corpses of Seville and the waitress. She was motionless on the ground, either dead or merely fainted.

  Tapping a button on his helmet, Johnson switched on the IR surveillance program, and a small monocle swung out in front of his right eye. Closing the left to avoid vertigo, Johnson scanned the parking lot once more. The waitress was unconscious, the glow of her body strong and healthy. Merely fainted, then.

  However, there were no anomalous hot spots in motion anywhere else in sight. Slowly, Johnson turned the helicopter around for a full view. Where the hell was Giancova?

  * * *

  ROLLING UNDER ANOTHER car, Bolan paused to catch his breath. After seeing Johnson in the marsh, he knew the giant was right-handed, so when the Beretta cycled empty, Bolan dived to the side and rolled under a nearby Ford Explorer. Then he moved to a tow truck, followed by a SUV, always keeping to the left side of the helicopter.

  So far, his plan seemed to be working. There was no direct response from the Black Hawk in the air. However, he knew from the model that it carried more than enough munitions to blow up the shopping mall.

  Bolan rolled as far as he could under several vehicles along the row, as fast as possible. A crushed beer can cut his cheek and the rusty undercarriage of an old VW minibus ripped a hole in his pants, but the soldier managed to reach a large SUV alive. He waited for the roar of a chain gun or the blast of a 70 mm Hydra rocket, but a long minute passed and there was only the steady thumping of the hovering helicopter.

  Awkwardly, Bolan removed the tattered windbreaker. The Beretta was gone, but he still had the Desert Eagle and four full magazines. However, even the heavy-duty .50-caliber rounds would not penetrate the primary armor of the helicopter.

  There was a small arsenal of additional weapons in the trunk of the rented Hummer, but if Glenn was not responding to the radio, that could only mean he was dead, probably killed by Seville. However, there was another possible source of weapons.

  Even if he still had a cell phone, Bolan would not have called Grimaldi for assistance. The pilot was brave to the point of being foolhardy, but the mighty Hercules would not have lasted a minute against the armed Black Hawk. Besides, Grimaldi was just crazy enough to try to ram the helicopter, and Bolan did not want the blood of another friend on his hands.

  Hopefully the local police were smart enough that when they caught sight of the gunship, they’d quickly retreat and call for the National Guard. If Bolan remembered correctly, their nearest airbase was a hundred miles away, so even at best speed, it would take the Guard an hour to get a wing of Apache gunships to this location.

  The nearest Air Force base was even farther away, and a dogfight between an F-16 and the helicopter over a civilian shopping mall would require authorization from the Pentagon. That would take even longer, and by then Johnson would be long gone. So, for the foreseeable future, Bolan was alone on this.

  Warily, he peered out from under the SUV. The sky was clear, but Bolan could still hear the beat of the deadly helicopter. Unfortunately, there were no more cars in sight that he could fit underneath. So taking careful aim with the Desert Eagle, he blasted the lock off a dilapidated Buick Grand Marquis. The entire car rocked from the trip-hammer arrival of the .50-caliber round, and as the door swung open, Bolan scrambled out from under the SUV and jumped inside. Slamming the door
shut again, he quickly used the seat belt to hold it closed.

  This had been a wild gamble on his part, but it appeared to have worked. The engines of the helicopter made too much noise for Johnson to hear a single gunshot, and now Bolan was off the ground and had enough elevation to see the rest of the parking lot.

  Every trace of the smoke from the grenades was gone, and aside from the helicopter hovering above the parking lot, the shopping mall appeared perfectly normal. Bolan could only guess that once it had been ascertained that there was no fire, the police had wisely decided to keep all of the employees safely inside and far away from the gunfight that had been raging among their cars.

  Checking the glove box for anything useful, Bolan found a half-filled bottle of water. Keeping a wary eye on the chopper, Bolan finished off the lukewarm liquid. As the Black Hawk moved away, the soldier opened the door on the other side and sprinted for the billboard. It seemed to take forever for the Executioner to cross the hundred yards of open space, and he almost could not believe it when he flopped into the tall weeds growing along the edge of the parking lot.

  Watching the sky, Bolan crawled forward and found what remained of the Castle sniper, then his rifle. It was a Barrett M107, a personal favorite of Bolan’s. Unfortunately, the rifle was useless, the barrel visibly bent from its rough descent through the maze of steel girders. With the rifle out of the equation, his only choices now were to run or to try to reach the cache of spare weapons in the Hummer.

  While Bolan weighed the options, the choice was made for him when Johnson opened fire, the tri-barrel chain gun on the helicopter spewing out a stream of high-explosive rounds. Cars were decimated under the hellish barrage, wheels and dented doors flying around like windblown leaves. Several car alarms went off and a woman screamed, the noise abruptly cut off amid the stentorian barrage.

  With civilian lives on the line, Bolan turned to sprint toward the parking lot. As the foliage thinned out, he jumped into a drainage ditch to keep going. The mud wasn’t very deep, and his only real obstacle was the rusty remains of what had once been a supermarket shopping cart.