Blood Vendetta

by Don Pendleton

  An instant later, another familiar noise rose above the rattling gunfire. The steady thrumming of a helicopter registered with the soldier. He swore under his breath. He doubted the London police already had a bird in the air. And since one of his pilots was possibly dead, and the other was behind the wheel of an idling vehicle, that left only one option.

  Yezhov had sent a chopper.

  Before he had time to dwell on it, the Executioner caught two men closing in on his right flank. He triggered the MP-5 and laid down a line of fire that chewed into the nearest of the hardmen. The second tried to sprint sideways, squeezing off a quick shot in Bolan’s direction.

  The bullet whistled past the soldier’s ear. He riddled the guy with a punishing burst from the H&K. Letting go of Davis’s hand, he drew out the Berettas. The soldier leveled the handguns at another pair of gunners and loosed a rapid succession of tri-bursts from the weapon. The thugs withered under the hail of gunfire.

  Pencil-thin lines of flame spat from the twin muzzles of the Berettas as Bolan laid down covering fire and guided Davis toward the SUV. By then, she had produced her .38 revolver. It cracked twice and Bolan saw one of Yezhov’s gunners fall. Instead of freezing after killing someone, she was already sweeping her eyes and the pistol’s barrel in unison, hunting for another target.

  The woman was ready to fight for her life.

  Good, Bolan thought.

  She had no other choice.

  Chapter 11

  McCarter listened to the fighting rage for several seconds, grinding his teeth as he waited on Bolan, Ramirez and Davis to make it back to the memorial. When he heard Ramirez go down, the Phoenix Force commander damn near decided to disobey orders and throw himself into the fray. God knew it wouldn’t be the first time he’d saluted an order with his middle finger.

  Just then the white glow of headlights appeared behind him, accompanied by the growl of an engine. A red van sped by, tires blazing their way across the pavement toward the memorial. The driver slammed on the brakes and the vehicle screeched to a halt several yards short of the concrete barriers ringing the memorial. The side door of the van slammed open and a man brandishing a shotgun rolled out of the portal. A second man, this one carrying an AK-47, jumped to the ground.

  Screw this, McCarter told himself.

  He grabbed for the door handle, stopped.

  By the time he disembarked from the vehicle and made it to the kill zone, the van would be empty and Bolan would face even greater odds.

  Releasing the door handle, he muttered another oath, threw the car into gear and punched the accelerator.

  “Sorry, baby,” he said to the car.

  The car’s power pack growled and the vehicle hurtled forward. He cut the wheel left and angled the Jag across the parking lot. As the wheels chewed up asphalt, the vehicle roared ahead and gained speed. Another armed man appeared in the van’s side door. He spotted the black sports car bearing down on him and his jaw dropped. The Jag wouldn’t gain enough speed to total the van, but it damn sure would damage it.

  The car’s front end lanced into the side of the van. The impact sent the gunner flying out the side door. He struck the Jaguar’s hood, bounced off it and struck the windshield with his head before disappearing over the side of the car. The air bag deployed with a pop, mushrooming from the center of the steering wheel and catching McCarter’s face as his head slammed forward.

  The car shuddered to a stop. McCarter, his vision still obscured by the bag, felt around for the seat belt buckle. Even as the air bag deflated McCarter unbuckled the seat belt and pushed open the door. He climbed from the vehicle, saw that the front end, once sleek and curvy, was crumpled like a discarded foil sandwich wrapper.

  Reaching beneath his jacket, he drew the Brownings, cocked back the hammers.

  Moving around the van he spotted the driver’s-side door swinging open. A man climbed from inside, a pistol in his hand. The Brownings punched a couple of rounds into the guy’s chest and he dropped to the ground.

  McCarter moved away from the van. Two more gunners who’d been running toward Bolan halted when the Jag slammed into the van. They turned and headed back to it.

  One spotted McCarter and was trying to draw a bead on him with an AK-47. The Browning in McCarter’s left hand chugged out two rounds and a pair of crimson geysers sprang from the man’s chest. In the same instant, the former SAS fighter snapped off another round with the Browning clutched in his right hand. The shot drilled through the fabric of the man’s jacket sleeve before whistling into the darkness. Wielding an Uzi with one hand, the hardman squeezed off a fast burst. The swarm of bullets from the Israeli-made SMG sailed past McCarter’s left flank and punched through the front grill and into the engine block of the van parked at his six.

  McCarter sighted the Browning on the man’s center mass, tapped out two 9 mm manglers that tore into the man’s chest and took him down.

  Before he could find another target, thrumming helicopter blades caught the Phoenix Force warrior’s ear. He looked skyward and spotted a chopper buzzing over a line of buildings fixed across the street from the memorial.

  He guessed it wasn’t one of theirs. Bloody wonderful, he thought.

  * * *

  BOLAN TUGGED Davis’s arm and jerked his head toward the cars.

  “C’mon!” he shouted.

  Davis nodded her understanding. Bolan, taking hold of her hand, surged toward the parking lot. The ring of concrete barriers lay a couple dozen yards away.

  Within moments, the helicopter glided into position, like a black shark swimming overhead. The roar of the engines swallowed up the yelling from Yezhov’s men, drowned out the popping of gunfire.

  Bolan saw muzzle-flashes erupt from next to the SUV and stab into the dark sky. Bullets struck the bottom of the helicopter, sparked against its steel skin and ricocheted into the darkness.

  A flash of motion in the corner of Bolan’s eye caused him to turn. He caught a pair of shooters, one armed with an Uzi, the other with a Mossberg pump shotgun, closing in. The Beretta in the big American’s left hand churned out a series of three-round bursts as he made a horizontal sweep with the weapon. Even as they collapsed to the ground, Bolan heard Davis gasp. Whipping his head around, he followed her gaze and saw a shooter marching toward them, bringing his Steyr AUG to bear on Bolan. Before the guy could line up a shot, though, Bolan triggered the Beretta again. One round punched through the man’s cheek, while a second drilled into his right eye socket.

  Before another heartbeat could pass, Bolan felt something hammer into his side like a cannonball. The impact caused him to belch air from his lungs and thrust him to the ground. His attacker, a rangy man with mouse-brown hair, came to rest on top of Bolan and drew back his fist, preparing to pound Bolan in the face.

  But the man suddenly froze. His upper torso jerked, heralding the bullets that tore through the man’s chest, exploding outward with geysers of blood. By this time, the whirring of the chopper blades had grown loud enough that Bolan couldn’t hear the burst of autofire that felled his attacker. The man teetered for a moment before Bolan shoved him aside. He rolled onto all fours then sprang to his feet.

  He fisted his remaining Beretta. Leveling the weapon at shoulder height, Bolan swept its muzzle over the area, hunting for another target while also looking for Davis.

  Just then Bolan saw that the helicopter had descended, hovering just a few feet from the ground. The side door gaped open, and two men were dragging Davis toward the craft, one holding on to each arm. Bolan, already surging toward the helicopter, watched Davis struggling against her captors’ grip.

  One of Yezhov’s men, armed with an assault rifle, stepped into view in the helicopter’s door. The man’s weapon flared to life. Slugs hammered into the ground a couple of feet from Bolan and sent plumes of brick dust bursting upward. The sold
ier bolted to the right, then cut left, carving out a zigzag pattern to make himself a harder target.

  The men who’d grabbed Davis shoved her into the helicopter’s interior and climbed in behind her. The roar of its engines intensified and the craft climbed skyward.

  When Davis disappeared from view, Bolan drew a bead on the gunman who’d been showering him with lead. The triple-round volleys from the Beretta lanced into the man’s chest and throat. The assault rifle slipped from dead fingers, fell to the ground. The corpse swayed on his feet for a stretched second before he pitched forward, falling from the helicopter.

  The soldier stood and watched as the craft ascended. An unfamiliar feeling of helplessness washed over him as the helicopter—and Davis—moved farther from reach. It stopped for an instant, hovered. Bolan tensed, waiting for its occupants to open fire again. With precise, quick movements, he ejected a spent magazine from the Beretta, fed another into its grip. Even as his hands worked the 93-R’s slide, he watched as the helicopter lurched forward, carving a path into the horizon.

  * * *

  THE EXECUTIONER clamped his jaw shut until it ached and surveyed the carnage around him.

  He counted thirteen dead, including Ramirez. The first seam of the orange-red dawn broke through the night sky. But the overhead lights continued to shower the place with a whitish cast that made the faces of the corpses littering the ground around him glow, their pooled blood glisten.

  Nice play, soldier. You lost Jennifer Davis. The mistake very likely would cost the young hacker her life. That loss also could harm the country’s security. And Ramirez, who was a hell of a good soldier, was dead.

  He had sent the Farm a text message, giving them the barest outline, then stowed the telephone. Police cruisers already were roaring into the parking lot and Bolan guessed he was going to spend the night in a police station, trying to explain what in the hell had transpired.

  Bolan sensed someone coming up from behind. Turning, he saw Grimaldi approaching, a grim expression on the pilot’s face.

  “You okay, Sarge?”

  Bolan shook his head.

  “We’ll find her,” Grimaldi said. “We’ll get her back.”

  Before Bolan could reply, he heard car doors slamming and police barking orders.

  Grimaldi flashed what Bolan could tell was a halfhearted grin.

  “Time to assume the position, I guess,” the pilot said, slowly bringing up his hands. “If you have an escape plan, I’m all ears.”

  Bolan raised his hands, too.

  Chapter 12

  Russia

  Yezhov never had expected to return.

  He stood on the driveway—a fissured ribbon of concrete, waist-high weeds jutting through the crack—and stared at the main resort building. Exposure to the elements and time had bleached the exterior paint, caused it to bubble and peel.

  The hundred-acre resort had sprung up a few years after the Soviet Union had fallen. A group of Western investors had invaded the country, their pockets stuffed with dollars, heads equally swollen with ideas of how they’d stake a claim in the wild frontiers of Russia after they’d already put a stake through the heart of the Russian bear.

  The investors had outfitted the property with two paved airstrips and a helipad to make the place accessible to cargo planes and those well-heeled enough to charter flights to the remote location. The plan had been for the place to cater to rich men who wanted to hunt bears and other wildlife, while their wives wiled away their time by the indoor pool, on a massage table or in the salon. Most of the customers were high-level executives, self-proclaimed masters of the universe, looking to dominate their surroundings. The chance to embark on the Russian equivalent of a safari in snow-capped mountains had proven an irresistible call for many, at least at first. From what Yezhov heard later, most of the hunters were morons, a bigger danger to themselves than to the surrounding wildlife. Trust-fund babies and CEOs who equated their talent and lust for hardball negotiations carried out in air-conditioned conference rooms, while decked out in three-hundred-dollar shirts, hair coifed to standards usually reserved for Hollywood starlets, with animal toughness.

  Yezhov drew deep from his cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs for a couple of seconds before expelling twin tendrils of it through flared nostrils. He took another drag. More than one of these men—allegedly the top of the food chains—would panic at the sight of a charging bear. The ones who didn’t scream and piss themselves, sometimes managed to squeeze off a shot. They’d wing the animal, forcing the guides, men who’d hunted the mountains since boyhood, to deliver a kill shot to the animal. One such man had delivered the death blow to the resort. When this particular group had come upon a pair of cubs, they’d decided to wait for the mother to return. She did and, smelling man, flew into a rage. True to form, the internet executive had grazed the charging mother bear in the back leg, sent her into a roll. Fueled by adrenaline and idiocy, he’d broken ranks, charged the wounded animal, apparently planning a close-range kill.

  Within a heartbeat, the bear sprang on the man. Claws and teeth rent flesh, stained and spotted the snow with crimson. By the time the guides had downed the bear, the executive lay in the snow, brand-new hunting togs slashed, flesh flayed. Unbidden, a smile ghosted the Yezhov’s lips. They hadn’t realized that a bear was most dangerous when it was cornered.

  Within a year, business plummeted. The stream of high rollers wanting to test themselves against nature, cement their place at the top of the food chain, dwindled to a trickle.

  The wind picked its pace, wildly whipped the tails of his coat around his ankles. The cold bit into the skin of the Russian’s face and hands. Yezhov had been only too happy to buy the place for next to nothing. He cared little for the hospitality industry and the business was a dog. But it allowed him yet another vessel to launder cash. When it’d become too much of a pain, he’d shuttered the place. Ninety percent had gone to seed with his blessing. However, years of experience told him conditions could change in a heartbeat. When they did, it helped to have a place to go. He’d stockpiled the place full of weapons, had reinforced the ground-level doors, barred the windows, secured the rooftops. A network of security cameras dotted the landscape. The fleet garage contained a half-dozen armored Humvees and two similarly equipped Mercedes sedans. The lower level included well-maintained living quarters and a command center capable of monitoring the various cameras, sensors and alarms on the property.

  A dozen or so of his best men already had traveled to back him up. At least another dozen was on its way, lured by promises of big paydays. If this Matt Cooper made it to the grounds—if—he’d not cover more than a few yards before Yezhov’s crews cut him down.

  Yezhov had planned for everything.

  * * *

  HER EYES OPENED.

  Smears of light and the sensation of her back pressed against the cold, hard floor greeted Jennifer Davis as awareness seeped back in, breaking up the darkness.

  She squinted against the glare. Her attention turned inward to the relentless throb rocking her temples, the heaviness in her arms and legs. Allowing her head to loll to one side, she pressed her cheek to the floor. The cold from the floor tiles soothed her pounding head. For a moment, she thought the darkness might pull her under again.

  With a sharp intake of air, her eyes popped open and her heartbeat accelerated. Memories returned, first a trickle, but quickly a rushing torrent. The hotel. A forearm, corded with muscle, looped around her neck, stopped her in her tracks. Another hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream. A sharp prick in the neck, followed by darkness.

  And presently she was awake here. Just where the hell was she? Her eyes had finally adjusted to the light and she surveyed her surroundings, which told her nothing. A square room, lined with painted concrete brick walls, sealed with a heavy door of some blond-colored wood
. Her gaze settled for a moment on where the doorknob and dead-bolt lock should have been. Both were missing, the spots where they should have been were covered by smooth steel discs secured by screws. She saw no obvious cameras, but that didn’t mean none were in the room.

  Fear caused her heartbeat to speed up again. This time, the sudden rush of adrenaline cut through the lingering effects of the sedative. She sat up. Unconsciously, her hands balled up into fists. Great, she thought, I’m locked in a plain-vanilla broom closet. Somewhere in the world. Was she still in Moscow or somewhere else? She had no way of even knowing at this point.

  The anger quickly turned to fear. Matt Cooper’s words came back to her. The memory caused a cold tickle of fear to race down her spine. If someone caught her, he’d explained, they’d work her over, use every lever possible against her. She’d already proved just by the path she’d chosen that people mattered over all else, that she’d surrender a normal life and happiness for revenge. That she was willing to put her sister—or her sister’s memor—above all else. The people she’d been dealing with knew that. They’d know they could use the safety of other members of her family, her friends from her former life, people from her network, to pressure her into doing as they ordered. They’d probe her mind, every last memory of the last several years, to grab every last dime she’d taken. Anyone she’d given money to would end up a target.

  A heavy sensation she recognized as guilt settled over her. All these people, she’d put them at risk just to sate her own thirst for revenge. Some of them, the ones who’d worked alongside her during the past few years, had believed in her, had trusted her. An awful realization that she’d failed them, hell, had put them in danger just by associating with her, dawned on her. The guilt dissipated, replaced by a squeezing sensation in her heart, an ache in her throat. Tears stung the corners of her eyes.