The trap was closing fast, with Bolan at its center. Overhead, gunfire erupted on the fire escape. Bullets whispered around him. One 9mm round hit his satchel and spent most of its force among the precious stones.
Bolan sent a burst in that direction, saw a hooded sniper stumble, lurch across the railing and sail into free-fall.
Fifty yards of open pavement lay between the soldiers and Bolan's wheels. He was surrounded by a force of undetermined origin and numbers, on a killing ground selected by the enemy. Given the circumstances, there was only one way to go.
He would continue on the offensive, carrying the fire. All the way to hell or victory.
11
BOLAN FED HIS MINI-GUN another magazine as he approached the mouth of the alley. He was running hell-bent when a lone terrorist leaped in front of him, brandishing a Mauser automatic. Bolan smashed him in the face with his satchel. The hard canvas, weighted with precious stones, knocked the guy to the pavement with all the force of Bolan's explosive advance. The big guy pinned the terrorist with a precision burst through the chest.
Troops were spilling out of the hotel and swinging anxious weapons toward Bolan. The Executioner scattered them with parabellum sweepers, dropping two and driving back the rest. Then he was in motion, dodging, weaving like a quarterback under attack. Other guns had opened up across the street, bullets knocking chips of stone and plaster off the wall behind him. Bolan answered, firing blind, keeping both eyes on the corner that could make or break him.
And then he saw the enemy sedan acrossthe street. The driver spotted him and began revving. He came off the mark with smoking tires. Half a dozen guns were blasting at Bolan from the car. He hit the pavement in a bruising headlong dive, the holstered 93-R digging hard and deep into his ribs, the satchel slapping the ground. He cut the mini-Uzi in a sweeping arc, locking onto target as the gap was closed. He stroked the trigger and saw the driver's startled, torn face. Dying hands were frozen on the steering wheel, deadweight dragging hard to starboard. Suddenly the dark sedan skidded broadside, going over in a roll. A door sprang open to expel one dead terrorist, and Bolan heard the other gunners cursing, screaming.
Bolan was up and running as the stricken vehicle came to rest against a lamp post. There were enough guns against him; he could not spare the numbers necessary for a mop-up.
Bolan made the corner under fire, and a rifle bullet traced across his thigh, almost knocking him off stride. He could see the Citroen; it was within his reach, and he put on a desperate burst of speed.
Shutters banged open on an upstairs window across the street, and Bolan knew he was in trouble before the light machine gun opened fire. Hidden gunners saw his destination, and they were firing at the vehicle, armor-piercing bullets slicing through the roof and doors, safety glass disintegrating into a thousand small cubes. One tire exploded, then another, as the Citroen shuddered under the lethal rain.
He was thirty feet from the vehicle when the gunners found their mark. The Citroen exploded, spewing fiery hell.
The concussion lifted Bolan off his feet and hurled him against the wall with stunning force. Searing waves of heat attacked him, stealing his breath. The shaken soldier tried to drag himself behind the smoky remains of his car.
APRIL ROSE APPROACHED CHIASSO from the south, slowing when she had the town in sight. She had followed Bolan to the little mountain town with grim, tenacious skill. Outside the larger cities, her computer atlas was restricted to an overview of major highways. North of Genoa and Milan she had to navigate by feel—aided by the tracking system's sensitive direction finder. She could plot the Citroen's coordinates, determine intervening distance, but she could still overshoot the mark and lose precious time if Bolan had deviated from the main route.
Chiasso was another problem. Despite itssize, a street-by-street reconnaissance was risky, time-consuming. There were places where a car and a man could disappear with-out a trace, and April knew she could lose her soldier.
The place to start was downtown, a centralized location that would get her a fix on Bolan's general direction. Once she had obtained a compass point and defined the target area, April could begin a systematic search of streets and alleys. She would have to swallow her impatience, take the time to do it right.
She was closing in on the heart of town, and the Laser Wagon's tracking system was responding. Greater strength and frequency of audio-response signals told her that the Citroen was close and that she was drawing nearer; the video display revealed it as a blip at center screen.
April turned the corner and found the Citroen parked against the curb a hundred yards ahead of her. She felt a rush of mingled apprehension and relief. She drove by the empty car looking for Striker, or at least a sign, a clue, of where he was.
April continued past the Citroen and turned onto the square. There she found a welcoming party.
Half a dozen troops in matching O.D. jackets clustered at the entrance of a smallhotel, an equal number grouped across the street on lookout duty.
Hard-eyed faces turned to watch her through the windows of a black sedan, parked against the curb with engine idling. A rifle barrel protruded above the windowsill.
April counted twenty guns around the square. She saw no sign of Bolan.
He could be in the hotel, or any other building on the piazza. If he was aware of danger, he would bide his time, select the moment and the place to strike. All she could do was make herself available to help.
April drove along the square, feeling hostile eyes tracking her all the way. She turned left at the intersection, fighting down an urge to run, easing off the gas until the troops were out of sight. When several blocks of houses lay between them, April let the battlewagon loose, accelerating back along a route parallel to the one she had just driven.
She felt tension building up explosively inside her, knuckles whitened as she tightly gripped the steering wheel.
She was two blocks away from the square when she heard the first reports of gunfire, muffled but distinct, the popping of a hand-gun, the crackling counterpoint of automatic weapons. The battle had begun.
She stood on the accelerator. The metallictaste of fear was in her mouth. April swallowed it, allowing anger to enfold her and burn the fear away.
She was primed to kill for the man she loved. April Rose was coming to the hell-grounds.
BOLAN WAS SURROUNDED. Crouching, he tried to keep the smoking carcass of his car as a screen between himself and the second-story gunners. Bolan's face was cut and bleeding from the flying shards of steel and chips of concrete.
The street was filled with troops sniping at him, circling for position. A bullet grazed his shoulder. He wriggled closer to the fire and felt its fierce heat. Another moment, and the enemy would be ready for the rush.
Bolan could feel the noose around his neck, but there was no surrender in the warrior. Laying the satchel down beside him, he prepared for the fight of his life.
He heard them coming in a rush from both sides, boot heels clomping on the pavement, and he moved to greet them. He took on the right flank first, with a noisy parabellum daisy chain that cut the legs from under a determined trio and left them writhing in their vital juices on the sidewalk. Two rounds each to silence cries of agony, and then hespun around to face the danger at his back.
Two terrorists were closing on him from behind, pumping wild rounds in his direction. Bolan stroked the Uzi's trigger; the mini-weapon stuttered and emptied out a final dozen rounds along his backtrack.
It was sufficient. The lead gunner stumbled and dropped his automatic rifle as he took the brunt of Bolan's fire, choking on the contents of his ruptured lungs.
His companion, leaking from a line of holes across the lower abdomen, advanced a few steps before tumbling to the pavement.
Bolan yanked the Uzi's empty clip and replaced it with his last one. The rest, his whole supply of backup ordnance, had detonated with the Citroen. When the final magazine was spent .. . Bolan did not plan to be aroun
d.
He slipped the Beretta 93-R from its shoulder rig and double-checked the load. Fifteen rounds, plus the Uzi's thirty-two.
He scrambled to a fighting crouch behind the blackened Citroen, Uzi primed and ready in his right hand, Beretta in his left. His body was a coiled spring, ready to explode. His pulse throbbed in his ears and drowned out the roar of hostile guns.
Time to go.
The Executioner was rising from his crouch, braced and ready for flight, when afiery comet streaked across his field of vision. It impacted on the window frame above the light-machine-gun nest and exploded in a ball of searing flame, devouring flesh. A pair of gunners on the street below were buried by an avalanche of shattered masonry.
A second fireball zeroed in on target and detonated in the intersection to his left. Bolan saw the clutch of startled soldiers scattering, vaporized before they had a chance to flee. Survivors on the flanks were busy looking for a place to hide.
He scanned along the rocket's track and saw the Laser Wagon. April Rose was already EVA and laying down a steady stream of automatic-rifle fire, toppling another pair of terrorists at fifty yards. Shaken troops were starting to recover, moving out to face the unexpected danger on their flank.
The Executioner had seen enough. He swung the Uzi up and squeezed the trigger. He held it down and swept the muzzle in a lethal arc across his field of fire. Parabellum shockers tore the straggled ranks apart and April joined the deadly chorus with her auto-rifle, turning the advancing enemy into a bloody rabble.
Firing at a cyclic rate of 600 rounds per minute, Bolan's mini-mangler spent its load in less than three seconds. He was moving,scooping up his satchel on the run, the Beretta probing out ahead of him for scattered targets. April covered his retreat with the assault rifle, backing toward the battlewagon while she held the hostile guns at bay.
She fired a parting burst along his track before she hopped back in the Laser Wagon. April had the big black motor home in motion by the time he found a seat beside her, standing on the gas and taking them away in a very nearly top-heavy swerve before the decimated foe could organize hot pursuit.
The soldier let himself relax in the powerful vehicle, willing knotted muscles to unwind. He ignored the pain of superficial wounds and concentrated on the woman next to him.
She had defied him, saved his life . . . and he would have to find a way to send her home again.
12
TWENTY MILES BEYOND CHIASSO, April found a turnout and roared the Laser Wagon in behind a stand of trees. She killed the engine and swivelled in the driver's seat to face Mack Bolan. Her smile was cautious, hesitant.
"You come here often, soldier?"
"Once is plenty. How about you?"
She faked a casual shrug.
"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by."
"You shouldn't be here, April."
"Hey, don't gush."
"Okay, what brings you to the front?"
"Just a hunch that you might need some help," she answered tartly.
"Does Hal know where you are?"
"More or less. He knows I'll be with you."
"Were with me," the Executioner corrected. "I still need to handle this alone."
"Like hell!" she snapped. "You ditched me once today, and that's your limit."
"You're getting in over your head."
April's anger seemed to melt away."Not a chance."
Bolan tried to frown but missed it by a hair."Dammit, April."
And then she seemed to see him for the first time, noticing the cuts about his face, dark blood seeping through the fabric of his slacks.
"You're hurt!"
"Nothing that a shower and some iodine won't fix," Bolan told her.
"Who's the doctor here?" she asked indignantly. "I want to check you over myself."
Bolan let her take his hand and lead him back along the battlewagon's central aisle, past computer banks and the armory to living quarters in the rear. There, he stripped off his clothes and battle rigging, and laid the tools of war aside. April moved around him, gentle fingers tracing recent wounds and ancient scars with equal tenderness.
April found the iodine and swabs and set about the task of cleaning his wounds. Bolan watched her work. The warrior's heart went out to her and he was glad, in spite of everything, to have her there.
She finished dabbing at the shallow leg wound and straightened up to meet his eyes. "Is there.. . anything else I can do?"
Bolan smiled at the sudden color rising in her cheeks. He shook his head.
"Sorry. I've got a dinner date with Paradine at six o'clock."
But she was already moving, backing off a pace and sliding down the zipper of her jump suit, her bright eyes never leaving his.
"You have to take a shower anyway," she said. "We might as well save water."
Bolan watched her shed the outer skin, a graceful butterfly emerging. He could feel the warm response within himself, immediate, commanding. An affirmation of vitality in the face of violent death.
The warrior and the lady came together, joined, became as one. Neither sought a permanent escape; both were conscious of death's close proximity. They took the moment for themselves, made it last a loving lifetime. And for soldiers in an everlasting war, a moment had to be enough.
"How MANY MEN DID WE LOSE?" Paradine asked.
His lieutenant shifted nervously in his seat. "All three at the hotel," he answered. "They never had a chance."
"Were any of them killed by Phoenix?" "Hard to say. The place was like a shooting gallery."
Paradine stretched his legs beneath the army-surplus desk, rocking gently in his swivel chair. His mind was crowded with a rush of questions, and he felt confined, imprisoned in the small command hut. He longed to be pursuing Phoenix in the field, but he forced himself to concentrate on the immediate problem.
"Do we have a handle on the others?"
His lieutenant nodded.
"Several of the dead have been identified as Red Brigades."
Paradine cursed. For an instant he was blinded by anger. They had a leak, but there was nothing he could do about it.
"What about the woman?"
"Nothing solid," replied the lieutenant. "Phoenix didn't seem to be expecting her."
"But they left together?"
"That's the word. She was laying down some heavy fire to cover him."
"What are they driving?"
"Some kind of motor home. We shouldn't have any trouble spotting it if we decide to go ahead."
Paradine glanced up quickly.
The lieutenant spread his hands."Phoenix violated your instructions. I assumed—"
"You assumed too much," Paradine interrupted him. "We're going on as scheduled."
"The woman?"
"She could be a problem," Paradine muttered. "If they're still together at Udine, I want her taken care of. Separate them, bring her back alive if possible. If not .. ."
"Understood. And Phoenix?"
"No change. Send him on as planned. Either way it goes, he should be looking forward to the payoff."
"About our security . . ."
"It doesn't matter now. Double up around the checkpoint. We can deal with internal problems later."
"Consider it done."
His aide hesitated at the door, turning to ask a parting question."Have you known about him for long? This Phoenix?"
The terrorist leader smiled, but his eyes were burning coals behind the silvered lenses. "Forever," he replied.
Alone again, he tried to bring some order to the chaos of his thoughts. There were problems with security, that much was certain, and the intervention of outsiders threatened to snuff his plans.
Paradine stopped himself. There had beenno Red Brigades at Monte Carlo, and that meant two informers, or a single traitor selling information on the open market. Either way, he ran a risk of losing everything before the final payoff.
Phoenix could defend himself. He had proved it already.
He was not concerned that Phoenix was meeting opposition and being tested on the way, as long as he arrived with enough energy to make the climax interesting. Paradine was hungry for a chance to prove himself, for direct participation in the shadow warrior's death.
He put the thought away. Phoenix would arrive on schedule. Nothing would prevent him from accomplishing delivery of the ransom.
Nothing short of Paradine himself.
The mercenary realized that he had much in common with his enemy. Both were men of purpose, of exceptional ability and determined unto death.
Phoenix would survive his trials and makethe final rendezvous with Paradine because he had no choice. It was his destiny.
The terrorist removed his Browning auto-pistol from its holster and laid it on the desk top. Nimble fingers stripped the weapon down in seconds and began a ritual cleaning and testing of its working parts. The simple exercise allowed him to relax.
He thought about a bastard named Phoenix.
13
HEADING TOWARD THE FINAL CHECKPOINT,April took the Laser Wagon south then northeast, skirting the Alps on a path through fertile flatlands. Night was falling as they reached the outskirts of Udine, a town located twenty miles from the Yugoslav border.
The pair were in a very unsettled area. Italy had been experiencing trouble with her neighbors to the east—implications of Communist Bulgarian involvement with a wave of brutal kidnappings and an assassination attempt on the Pope. Udine's proximity to Yugoslavia had Bolan on alert to possible incursions by agents who had sponsored Paradine in previous acts of terrorism.
And he was not ruling out the possibility of KGB involvement in the mercenary's current hostage scheme. Personal revenge was certainly a motive, but the Soviets would stand to benefit from any action that destabilized the Middle East. The KGB field directors inBelgrade would not hesitate to sacrifice a score of lives in the pursuit of influence and oil. They were on uncertain ground, and the Executioner would not relax his guard until all the players had been identified and dealt with.
Executioner 055 - Paradine's Gauntlet Page 7
