Fire Eaters

by Don Pendleton

  "Don't move," Fowley said, pulling a gun from his waistband. Dysert reached under his jacket and pulled out his own gun.

  "What is this?" Godunov asked with a hurt expression. "Are you robbing us?"

  "Just a precaution, comrade." Dysert smiled. "You've got what you wanted and we've got what we wanted. Now we're going to get the hell out of here without ol' Petrov there suddenly whipping some grenade launcher out of the jeep and shooting us down."

  Godunov shook his head. "No trust anymore, Mikhail."

  Petrov said nothing, just stared at the two men as they backed toward the plane.

  "Nice doing business with you, Godunov," Dysert said. He tossed the trash bag into the plane and climbed into the pilot's seat. Fowley kept his gun pointed at the two Soviets as Dysert started the engine. The single-nose propellor buzzed to life and the plane started to turn onto the ragged dirt runway.

  A shot exploded from somewhere and the passenger-door window shattered with a softball-size hole. Fowley's shoulder and neck disintegrated into thick stew.

  Dysert opened the throttle and the plane began a fast taxi down the runway, wheels bumping over weeds and ruts.

  Out of the brush five armed men appeared, each training his rifle on the plane. No one seemed in a hurry as he casually aimed. Each man fired only one shot, though almost all at the same instant so it sounded like an echo effect. The plane immediately skittered, the tail swinging wide like a pendulum, the flaps not working, one of the tires blown out so the right wing dipped. The plane started spinning around and as it did, Dysert could be seen in the cockpit fighting the controls. The five men took aim, fired. Blood washed over the broken windshield.

  The plane stopped moving.

  "Well done," Godunov said to the men. He took the lunch pail from Petrov's thick fingers and marched back to the jeep.

  "I could have done as much," Petrov grumbled. "Waste of money to fly them here."

  "You would have shot them too soon."

  The GRU agent looked perplexed. "Too soon?"

  "Yes, before we had discovered if the lunchpail was booby-trapped."

  Petrov looked sharply at Godunov. "You mean you allowed me to open the box, even though you suspected it might be booby-trapped."

  "I wasn't certain. Still, they are familiar with chemicals and such. Anything was possible."

  The two men climbed into the jeep.

  Godunov opened the lunch pail, stared at the formula. It made little sense to him.

  "Is that all, sir?" the head gravedigger said to Godunov.

  "Yes, Captain, thank you. You might want to send a man to retrieve the cash."

  "Of course."

  "Excellent work. It went very smoothly."

  "It always goes smoothly," the captain said with a bored smile.

  Petrov glared at the captain, but he ignored the GRU agent and returned to his men.

  Godunov began to unscrew the cap of the thermos bottle.

  When he removed the cap, the thermos exploded.

  Godunov was knocked backward out of the jeep. His face and hands were scorched, bits of plastic from the thermos embedded in his face.

  The explosion was not fatal, and Godunov struggled to lift himself from the ground.

  The snipers rushed to his side. Petrov climbed out of the jeep, but did not hurry. "How bad, sir?" Godunov's assistant asked.

  "The formula! The formula!" Godunov screamed.

  Petrov saw the paper, its edges singed and black. He quickly covered it with his boot. "It is gone, sir. Burned up, I'm afraid."

  The gravediggers lifted Godunov into the back of the jeep.

  "You men had best leave," Petrov said. "I'll take care of Comrade Godunov."

  "Yes," the captain agreed. "We have planes to catch."

  Petrov climbed back into the jeep. When he heard the shot, he thought it was one of his own men, perhaps shooting at a squirrel. When he looked around, he saw the captain lying in a heap on the ground, his jaw blown away.

  Then everyone started shooting.

  * * *

  Bolan had taken the first shot, killing the leader of the gravediggers. Not that it would slow them down much; each member of the squad was trained to be a one-man army, but it was worth a few seconds of confusion.

  They'd arrived only a few minutes ago. Just in time to see Dysert's execution. And the thermos explode.

  Bolan had watched the Soviets huddle around Godunov. Alone, he would have opened fire. He and the major could have flanked them, caught them in a cross fire. But with these kids, he didn't know.

  "We've got a surprise factor," Major Forsythe said, as if reading Bolan's mind.

  "And children," Bolan said.

  "Not anymore. Not after today."

  Bolan looked over through the brush and saw the three of them hunched down, their bodies twitching nervously, but ready. Ready for the word.

  "Let's do it," he said.

  The major tugged his mustache and turned to the three students. They nodded at his wave.

  That was when Bolan opened fire.

  Dysert and Fowley were dead. So was the head sniper. Godunov was injured. That left Petrov and four skilled assassins. But there was no turning back now. They'd surprised them, now they had to make use of that surprise.

  Bolan and Major Forsythe charged straight ahead, Colt Commandos chattering away. One of the gravediggers had a swarm of bullets march up his leg and across his stomach. The top half of his body twisted at an awkward angle as his legs crumpled beneath him.

  The Soviets were returning fire now, all their attention focused on Bolan and the major. Their guns were on semiautomatic now and despite his zigzag pattern, Bolan could hear the bullets rustling the brush next to him.

  The major fired a quick burst that opened the chest of one sniper.

  "Damn!" the major cried as a sniper bullet nicked a chunk of flesh from his thigh. He fell forward into the brush.

  Bolan kept going, counting his targets. Two gravediggers and Petrov, who was firing his pistol from behind the jeep.

  The major was still shooting, giving Bolan cover, but it wasn't enough. He needed a distraction. A second front.

  "Now!" he shouted. "Go Fire Eaters!"

  Barney Childress's deep bellow echoed Bolan's. "Go Fire Eaters!"

  The three of them stood and charged, firing bursts from their rifles as they ran. The shooting wasn't very accurate, but it was enough to divert attention from the two snipers as they swung their rifles toward the teenagers.

  Bolan seized the opportunity to drop to one knee, aim and fire a single round into the skull of one of the snipers. He flew forward in a belly flop into the dirt.

  The remaining gravedigger strafed the attacking kids. Theo screamed and fell. He grasped his stomach. Seeing his friend shot, Barney hesitated.

  "Move, damn you!" Laura hollered at Barney as she dropped to the ground and opened fire on the sniper. Her first burst kicked the dirt in front of him, but the second burst tore his arm open.

  But the man didn't even flinch. He switched the rifle to his one good arm and returned fire. His bullets stitched a line next to Laura's prone body.

  Bolan sent three bullets into the man's back.

  Petrov was behind the wheel of the jeep now, the engine roaring. He swung it around and drove straight for Theo, whose wounded body lay across the road.

  Barney and Laura immediately opened fire. Five bullets punched through the windshield. Three of them entered the GRU agent's body. The jeep swerved aside and slammed into a pine tree. Petrov's dead body was thrown from the jeep.

  Bolan ran over to Theo.

  "Will I die?" he choked.

  Bolan examined the wound. The bullet had gone all the way through, hitting mostly flesh. But it had done some internal damage. "Not if you don't want to," Bolan said.

  "I… don't want… to."

  "Then hang in. I'll do some patching up and then we'll get you to a doctor."

  Laura and Barney rushed over.


  "Cheek the jeep for a first-aid kit," Bolan ordered.

  Barney ran to the jeep. He brought one back.

  "Let me," Major Forsythe said, taking the kit from Barney. He had torn his sleeve off and wrapped it around his wounded leg. He was using his Colt Commando as a cane. He nodded at Godunov's writhing body. "You have some cleaning up to do, don't you?"

  Bolan let the major take over.

  "So, young Theo," the major said cheerfully, "got ourselves in the way of some bullets, did we? A fine pair of soldiers you and I turned out to be." Laura and Barney huddled beside him, helping dress Theo's wounds.

  Bolan walked over to Petrov's body first. He would never have taken off empty-handed. Bolan searched the body and found the charred formula.

  He walked over to Godunov.

  The man squinted up at Bolan. "I know that face," he said. "I know you."

  Bolan held up the formula.

  "How much?" Godunov asked. He wiped the blood from his eyes. "Two million?"

  Bolan pointed his Beretta at Godunov's head. "Children died."

  Godunov held up his hands. "I am a recognized representative of my government. I claim diplomatic immunity."

  Bolan pulled the trigger.

  25

  Maria Danby stared at the gazelles, but out of the corner of her eye she always kept her son in sight as he stood two exhibits down watching a roan antelope rub its horns on a rock. They were in the San Diego Zoo.

  "How's he doing?" Bolan asked.

  "Oh, the charges have been dropped. He's still an outpatient, though. Until they can determine any side effects from the drug." She looked into Bolan's eyes, then quickly back to the gazelles. Not before he'd seen the sheen of tears. "They say an animal in captivity loses its wild instincts. What do you think?"

  "I don't think so. It may hide them, but they're always there, lurking just under the ice."

  She nodded. "That's what I think." She pointed at the smallest gazelle. "A few months ago, I heard that an eagle had tried to take that calf. The zoo officials didn't know what to do. The eagle is an endangered species, but an addra gazelle costs about three thousand dollars. Anyway, the eagle comes swooping down on the calf, hooks its talons into it, but the calf is too heavy to carry away. He flies away and makes another swoop. Zoo officials are going crazy trying to decide how to handle this. Meantime, the baby's mother comes running over and stands over her calf, jumping and hopping around, keeping her baby protected. The eagle finally gave up and flew away. Guess some instincts never die."

  Bolan kissed her cheek. He tasted a tear.

  "I'm happy, Mack. I was sad and angry at losing Lee. But now I'm grateful not to have lost Gregg, too."

  "Bye, Maria." He walked off.

  There was no more to be said. She had said more in those few moments than most people could have in hours. She had touched him, reminded him of their friendship. He looked over his shoulder and saw her walking toward her son and he smiled. Yeah, there were new scars, some on the outside, some on the inside. But seeing her with Gregg made them all worthwhile.

  Outside the zoo a black limo was parked at the curb. The back window purred open and Denise Portland stuck her head out. "Pretty cool wheels, huh?"

  "Government pay must be getting better."

  "Hey, buster, this is out of my own pocket. Rented by the hour, so don't keep me waiting. Hop in." She opened the door.

  Bolan slid in beside her. "You should still be at the hospital."

  "Yeah, along with Theo and the major and half a dozen others from Ridgemont."

  "How are they doing?"

  "Fine. All healing like good little angels."

  "Tough little angels."

  She nodded. "I didn't know they had it in them." She leaned forward, winced at the movement, said to the driver, "Beverly Hills Hotel."

  The driver turned around. He had a little diamond stud in his left ear. "That's in L. A., lady."

  "So?"

  He shrugged and pulled the car away from the curb.

  Denise closed the glass partition between them. "He can't hear a word now. Which brings us to another matter."

  Bolan opened the small refrigerator and plucked out a can of beer. "Fully stocked, huh?"

  "What happened to the formula?"

  "Who's asking?"

  She made a face. "Who do you think?"

  "I mean, is this you asking or the CIA?"

  "Is there a difference?"

  "There'd better be," Bolan said, sipping the beer.

  She thought it over. "Me, Denise, husband killer."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the charred paper. She reached for it but he pulled it back.

  "Want to hold my car keys for a deposit?" she asked.

  He laughed, handed it to her.

  "We have a responsibility, you know," she said. "As American citizens."

  Bolan nodded. "I know."

  "I'm sorry, Mack, but we have a duty."

  "Yeah."

  She reached into her purse, pulled out a book of matches. She handed the book to him. He lit the match, she held the formula over the flame. He dropped the burning paper into the ashtray. They watched it smolder to ashes.

  "I had enough savings to rent a room for one night, plus an elaborate meal served by room service. No one knows where we'll be. That's twenty-four hours of privacy. Come tomorrow evening, you'll go back to being superfugitive and I'll go back to being ace spy. I see you tomorrow after checkout time, I turn you in Deal?"

  Bolan looked out the window at the small houses whipping by. Inside those houses, people lived lives that had nothing to do with killing and murder. They worried about their children's teeth, their mufflers, the crabgrass. For one day, Bolan could be almost like that. Twenty-four hours of normalcy. It was the best gift he could think of.

  "Deal," he said. In twenty-four hours he and Denise would be on opposite sides again. But that was then; this was now. He leaned back, sipped his beer and wondered how the bulldog was doing.