A rifle bullet chipped the pavement near his foot. Bolan answered with a burst that blew the gunner backward through the broad front window of a store. Alarm bells joined the hellish background chorus.
The Executioner was looking for another angle of attack when he recognized the sound of April's autorifle.
He saw a dying sniper plunging off the roof across the street. Then a second gunner dropped. Then a third. Helpful little .22s were sweeping them away, clearing a corridor for his escape.
He was up and moving toward her when he saw the enemy sedan slide to a halt against the curb behind her.
Men were piling out and rushing at her, but she heard them coming and turned to face the threat.
She took the nearest soldier's head off, knocked another sprawling with a burst of hollowpoints, peppering the car as she retreated.
A revolver answered, swiftly joined by others, rapid fire converging on the slender target.
Then April staggered.
And Bolan saw the blood, bright and terrible against the fabric of her jump suit. The terrorists were still unloading at her as she sprawled against a lamp post.
Snarling out his rage, Bolan held the Uzi's trigger down, hosing the enemy with hot steel-jacketed parabellums. Men were dying under fire. Bolan saw a pair go down in a single thrashing heap. Others were scrambling for safety in the car, abandoning their target on the street corner.
Bolan heard the engine of the dark sedan revving up, the wheelman coming off his mark with smoking tires. The driver and the gunners wanted to gut Bolan. They raced down the street toward the Café Vittorio.
Bolan seized a frag grenade from the rapidly decreasing store hidden around the inside of his jacket. He pulled the pin and let the grenade fly, counting into the pitch. At twenty yards he made the toss, leading the sedan and estimating range with accuracy born of practice. The grenade bounced once on the vehicle's shiny hood and detonated a foot above the windshield. The car swerved sharply, tried to climb the bumper of another car, then came to rest, one of its front wheels free of any contact with the crumpled metal of the vehicles' mating and spinning uselessly in the air.
Beyond the wreckage, Bolan saw a pair of riflemen retreating at a gallop. He chased them with a burst from the Uzi, dropping both in a sprawl on the pavement.
Silence fell across the battlefield, broken only by muffled whimpering from inside the restaurant and the brittle sound of glass dropping out of shattered window frames.
Bolan took off across the street. He reached the car that had terminally mounted the other and looked in through a shattered window. The car was full of dying men, two slumped in the front, others jumbled together in a heap in the back. Gasoline was dribbling from the ruptured tank and fuel line, filling the air with fumes.
One of the bodies at the back stirred, moaning from the pain of the body-rupturing collision. Bolan grabbed a handful of bloody hair, twisted hard to get the guy's complete attention.
"Who are you working for?" he asked, cold eyes cutting into the guy's last moments.
The hardman was struggling to get the answer out. "Go . . . hell . . ."
Bolan reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a cigarette lighter. He flicked it with his thumb. He slowly moved the flame toward the evaporating pool of gasoline.
"One more time," he grated. "Let's have a name."
The wounded soldier's eyes had widened with terror, weak defiance leaking out of him along with vital fluids.
It was the terror that killed him. Bolan had to strain his ears to catch the last words the guy would ever speak.
"Twenty miles north . . . old military base . . . Paradine."
Bolan let the guy die. He ran like hell. He ran to leave death behind him and find life. Life in the ruins. April must live!
15
BOLAN FOUND APRIL'S PULSE and held it, counting off the vital numbers. Her lifeline was weak, erratic.
She moaned, shifting on the bunk and grimacing against the pain. She was feverish, verging on delirium. Bolan had controlled the bleeding with battlefield first aid. The Executioner had done his best, but April needed more than his medical efforts.
The surrounding countryside was cloaked in darkness, gently rolling meadowland obscured by the moonless night. Bolan had the Laser Wagon's homing beacon tuned to a preselected frequency; special high-beam infrareds illuminated their position, making out a makeshift helipad for those with special eyes to see.
He saw the chopper coming, following his beacon, long before he heard the engines. The Huey's running lights were golden embers in the darkness, drawing closer almost imperceptibly until they were upon him.
The pilot was equipped with special head-gear, permitting him to navigate on Bolan's infrared landing lights. He brought the ungainly airship down on target. Rotors slowed, finally stopped as the pilot let the engines idle, keeping them warm and ready for lift-off.
Paramedics were the first to disembark, two men carrying a stretcher furled between them. Bolan looked all around for potential aggravation; midnight maneuvers would not be treated lightly by local authorities. Then his eyes caught the figure slowly emerging from the helicopter.
Hal Brognola looked as if he had aged a dozen years since that morning. His face was drawn and haggard, his broad shoulders stooped under an invisible burden. Bolan waited for his long time friend beside the Laser Wagon.
"You didn't do this, Hal," he said. "It's not your fault."
Brognola was trying to light a cigar, having trouble with his matches. "Was it Paradine, do you know?"
"Affirmative."
"You got a fix on him?"
Bolan nodded. "I had a heart-to-heart with one of his troops. There's an old military installation twenty miles north."
The paramedics were emerging from the Laser Wagon bearing April on the stretcher. She had been sedated. They took her swiftly to the waiting chopper and disappeared inside. Bolan watched the scene.
The medivac chopper was about to carry a major portion of his life away from him. Perhaps forever.
WITH A SUPREME EFFORT, the mercenary chief restrained himself. His voice was ice.
"I want to know what happened, Michael."
The other man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Paradine looked as if he was about to explode into violence.
"An ambush of some kind. It looks like our people got caught in the middle."
"Survivors?"
"Unknown. GIS has the town sewn up tight."
"And Phoenix?"
Michael spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "I told you—"
"Nothing!" Paradine detonated, standing up so quickly that the seated man shrank back involuntarily. Paradine began circling the small command hut like a caged predator at feeding time.
"You were surprised at Monte Carlo," hesneered. "The trouble at Udine may have been the Red Brigades. Now, we lose an entire crew, and it's a mystery?"
The lieutenant steeled himself to speak with candor.
"How are we supposed to find him if he missed his contact? And what about the woman?"
"Enough," Paradine hissed. "I ask for answers and you give me foolish questions. Phoenix will find us, whether we like it or not. It's your job to be ready for him when he comes."
Michael was regarding Paradine with cautious incredulity. "We need to waste the hostages," he said. "It's crazy to sit around and wait."
Paradine smashed him in the face with his open palm. The blow knocked the lieutenant out of his chair and onto the floor. Paradine towered over him, eyes blazing, one hand locked around the butt of his holstered Browning automatic.
"I want the compound on full alert, beginning immediately! No one sleeps or leaves his post for any reason. Double up around the perimeter."
Michael struggled to his feet and backed out of the room.
Paradine, breathing heavily, returned to his desk and slumped into the swivel chair. A pulse was throbbing in his temple.
His lieutenant had been right. There was
a great risk in waiting any longer at the compound. But he would not let anything divert him from his course now.
Paradine had come to know his adversary, could recognize his strengths and weaknesses. He was certain his enemy would recognize the ransom message for exactly what it was.
A personal challenge.
16
THE EXECUTIONER HAD LONG AGO prepared himself for death in battle. It was not defeatist thinking, but a rational acceptance of the inevitable. Even everlasting war must have an ending for the individual combatant, and no warrior was invincible. He could prolong the struggle, live to fight another day if he was strong enough, skillful enough, but in the end, Death was the undefeated champion of every war.
Certain skilled professionals had attached themselves to Mack Bolan's crusade and made it theirs. But Bolan sought no allies in his war. The door was always open if any of his people chose to leave. He would not think less of any of them for seeking another way of living.
Some who joined his war had paid the ultimate price for their involvement. They travelled with him now, in spirit, every mile along his odyssey.
The Executioner was not a dispassionate orunemotional man, despite appearances. There was a hot, volcanic rage simmering beneath the cool exterior. The war was personal to Bolan. Despite the foreign names and global issues, he was never able to truly divorce the heart and mind. It was the heart that led him into his crusade. He had sworn an oath from the heart when he stood over the open graves of his mother, father, sister. It was the heart as well as the mind that kept him fighting.
In Vietnam, the same spirit had led him to risk his life transporting wounded villagers—even injured adversaries—through the lines.
But there would be no mercy for his enemies tonight. Only full eradication would satisfy him now.
17
BOLAN SET THE LASER WAGON'S parking brake and killed the engine. He pulled down the miniature viewing screen of his laser-optic spotting scope, turning on and tuning in a greenish-tinted picture of the surrounding landscape.
He was parked on a slight rise, amid the only large trees within 200 yards. In front of him, the land fell away, sloping gently, levelling off in grassy plains a half mile distant. At the foot of the slope, Bolan's spotting screen picked out the dark images of towers and buildings clustered together.
He fine-tuned the magnification until the cluster, separated from him by a moonless half mile, looked as though it was a hundred yards away at twilight. He could count the buildings, pick out human figures in the wooden towers, see the figures that moved back and forth across open areas in edgy protection of a hardsite that simmered dangerously in a dangerous night.
Bolan marked the buildings of the site—two long barracks, either of them big enough to hold the hostages; the smaller CO's quarters; other sheds for storage, communications, the compound's generator.
He could make out from the lighted windows of the generator hut the web of heavy-duty cables radiating from its roof. Klieg lights were mounted on the tower observation post, but were unlit.
Bolan reached forward and tripped the Fire Enable switch on his command console. Above and behind him, he heard the whirring of machinery as the hidden rocket pod was elevated, rising through retracted roof panels, locking into readiness. The system, duplicated with improvements from Bolan's first War Wagon gave the Executioner a four-punch capability at ranges of a mile and more.
The new vehicle would be tested by fire; its baptism would be in flaming war. Bolan did not prefer to road test the Laser Wagon quite so cruelly, but circumstances were dictating his choices. Just as radar was discovered to meet the needs of the Second World War, Stony Man Farm's new product had to be force-grown in the hothouse of history. Later he could stash the wagon in asecure place and check it over at his leisure; it was still only in prototype form, to be developed over time, and he looked forward to getting involved with it away from the battlefield.
In front of him, grid lines appeared on the viewing screen as it became a range finder with direct connections to the battlewagon's firing system. Any target held at center screen received an instant readout of range and elevation, allowing Bolan to lock the firebirds onto preselected marks with pinpoint accuracy. Within the limits of the system, he could hit anything the laser optics let him see.
He focused on a guard tower, waited for the luminous display of range, then hit the Target Acquisition button. On the console, pulsing scarlet letters told him that Target No. 1 was registered and locked into the battle cruiser’s data banks.
A second elevated guard post, at the opposite end of the hardsite, was the next target. A light machine gun faced inward from it onto the courtyard, and Bolan brought video cross hairs to rest on the gun mount. Target No. 2 also read into the data bank's memory.
Bolan panned the scope until the generator hut was framed at center screen. A fingertipagainst the Target Acquisition button, and another target locked into the rocketry programming circuits and was registered for hell.
There was one target remaining. Bolan focused on the motor pool, the cluster of jeeps and canvas-covered military trucks beside the CP. He chose one of the surplus eight-wheelers as his reference point, counting on its fuel reserve to do the rest as he keyed the acquisition mode for Target No. 4.
The Executioner could send his comets on their way immediately with a gentle rocking pressure on the floorboard firing pedal, but instead he waited. The rocketry was programmed to respond on cue and Bolan planned to be a good deal closer to his target when the fireworks erupted.
The laser-optic rocketry was his back up system only, and he meant to use it for diversionary purposes. Without a close reconnaissance, he could not afford to blast the barracks or Paradine's command post.
He left the console and moved back along the battlewagon's length to armory and living quarters, scrutinizing the equipment as he did so. He readied himself for the battle to come by absorbing his mind in the hardware. His eyes lighted on the satchel of diamonds.
Bolan ignored it—never did he plan on negotiation, he would just use the stones to get through the checkpoints.
If there was any negotiating to be done, the Executioner would do it with a gun.
PARADINE RESTLESSLY CIRCLED THE SITE, checking his sentries and making certain they were alert and ready. He did not waste time trying to describe Phoenix or his style of fighting. You could not explain a cyclone of death.
Initially Paradine had wished for time to gather better troops. His mercenaries were experienced and dedicated to a point, but they were accustomed to wars of hit and run, wars where the targets were usually unarmed, incapable of striking back. He wondered how they would do in open battle when confronted with an enemy like Phoenix.
He reached the eastern guard tower and scrambled up a wooden ladder to the platform twenty feet above his head. The two guards standing watch were silent as Paradine climbed through a trapdoor. He ignored them, moving to the railing and staring across the darkened landscape.
Phoenix was out there somewhere, waiting, watching, biding his time. Paradine could feel his presence.
An idea struck him with elemental force. He knew exactly what would bring his adversary in. . . and on the run, making the canny warrior careless in his haste.
BOLAN WAS IN BLACKSUIT and rigged for war, his face and hands darkened with combat cosmetics. The Beretta 93-R was in its honored place, tucked into breakaway shoulder leather. The mini-Uzi rode his hip in military rigging, ready to meet fire with fire.
The side arms and their extra magazines were loaded with Glaser Safety Slugs, the latest in lethal ballistic technology. Behind the tip of every slug, a copper jacket held pellets of No. 12 shot suspended in liquid Teflon. The projectiles were designed to exit from the muzzle at tremendous speeds, smash into the target and release their shot with stunning force. In living flesh, the results were devastating.
The Glasers had another built-in advantage made to order for the warrior's needs. The slugs could
never ricochet, to accidentally kill or maim the innocent. At close quarters, on uncertain ground with hostages at risk, Bolan would be thankful for the special edge the Glasers gave him.
His head weapon for the probe was the hybrid over-under M-16 / M-203 combination, an assault rifle capable of spewing deadly 5.56mm tumblers at a cyclic rate of 700 rpm in automatic mode, while supplemented by a 40mm launcher attached beneath the barrel.
Belts crossing Bolan's chest contained a preselected mix of 40mm high-explosive, gas and buckshot rounds, arranged for swift availability in combat.
The soldier took a final inventory of his doomsday rigging—stilettos and garrottes in hidden pockets, grenades and the radio-remote detonator on his web belt, extra magazines for all his weapons. Satisfied, he shouldered an O.D. satchel filled with plastic charges and put the Laser Wagon behind him. Outside in the cool air, the friendly dark enveloped him.
Bolan made his way silently across the landscape, following the terraces downslope toward Paradine. He tested the night, combat senses probing, alert for any signs of danger.
He was 300 yards from target when the hardsite came alive. Every light inside the wire perimeter was suddenly ablaze, the courtyard illuminated noonday-bright. In the guard towers, klieg lights blazed into light, their dazzling beams directed down into the center of the camp.
From his vantage point on the hillside,Bolan saw the installation as an amphitheatre. The center stage was being prepared for a surprise command performance.
Something big was about to happen. A death drama.
18
BOLAN FLATTENED HIMSELF against the turf, thirty feet outside the installation's perimeter. There were sentries on the wire, spaced at hundred-foot intervals, but they—like their high-rise counterparts in the gun towers—all seemed more intent on what was about to happen in the courtyard. Bolan edged closer. He kept one hand tight around the assault rifle.
Terrorists were shouting inside the camp. Bolan heard languages mingling in a grim cacophony.
Executioner 055 - Paradine's Gauntlet Page 9
