Lethal Payload

by Don Pendleton

  Doherty regarded the grenade fatalistically. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Then none of us are.”

  It didn’t take a genius to look in Islamov’s eyes and know he was perfectly willing to die.

  “This isn’t about France,” Bolan said. “This is legion business.”

  “Yes.” Doherty did not take his eyes off of Islamov and the grenade in his hand. “And?”

  “And he and I have unfinished business.”

  Every legionnaire present was a corporal or a sergeant. There were no French officers present save perhaps for the helicopter pilots, and they knew to stay out of it. The honor of the legion was iron, and legion took care of its own.

  This was not going to go to court martial in Paris.

  Doherty came to a decision. He very slowly ejected the magazine from his rifle and emptied the round in the chamber. He tossed the empty rifle into the mud in front of Islamov. “Kill the American, and I’ll give you twenty-four hours—for old times’ sake.”

  Islamov stared long into his comrade’s eyes, and an understanding passed between the two legionnaires. Islamov slowly picked up the pin from the mud and slid it back into the grenade. He lobbed the grenade over his shoulder, and the legionnaire behind him caught it. Islamov took up the fallen rifle. His bayonet rasped from the sheath on his belt, and he clicked it onto the muzzle of his rifle.

  Doherty drew his Beretta pistol and backed away. He jerked his head at a legionnaire standing near Bolan.

  The legionnaire ejected the magazine from his rifle and racked out the round in the chamber. He walked over to Bolan and held out the weapon.

  Bolan stripped off his poncho and stood in the torn and bloodstained French police uniform. The bayonet on his hip rang free, and he fixed it to the rifle.

  Doherty shook his head bitterly as he turned to Bolan. “Finish it, and I will give you twenty-four hours, out of professional courtesy.”

  An Asian Bolan did not recognize barked out a command in French. “Legionnaires! Fix bayonets!”

  Twenty-two blades rang from their sheaths, and the French foreign legion fixed their bayonets to their loaded rifles. No other order was given. None was needed. The situation was understood by all. It was a matter of honor. The legionnaires fanned out and formed a wide circle around Bolan and Islamov.

  As Islamov came to his feet he flicked his right foot. The toe of his boot scooped up mud from the ground and flung it toward Bolan’s eyes. The Executioner jerked his head aside and brought up his rifle as Islamov lunged. The Russian was nowhere near as exhausted as he pretended. He punched his bayonet toward his opponent’s guts. Bolan brought his rifle before him and Islamov instantly ripped up at Bolan’s face. The tip of the blade clipped Bolan’s chin and blood flew. The back edge of Islamov’s blade chopped back down at the side of the Bolan’s neck. The soldier staggered back and brought his rifle between them. Islamov’s bayonet scored the plastic stock of Bolan’s rifle and came a hairbreadth from slicing off his two broken fingers.

  The legionnaires watched in stony silence, ready to shoot either man if he fled the fight or tried to load his rifle from the magazines on his belt.

  This was an execution.

  Bolan spun the rifle around in his hand. He abandoned bayonet tactics and raised the rifle overhead like a club. Islamov’s eyes widened as Bolan swung the rifle like a sledgehammer. Islamov brought up his weapon to block, and the two rifles slammed together with bone-jarring force. Islamov’s wounded leg buckled as he staggered from the blow. Bolan ignored the jarring ache in his arms and arced his weapon at the Russian again like an ax. All Islamov could do was use his rifle to block the blow. The cheekpiece and buttplate of Bolan’s weapon shattered off his rifle with the impact. Islamov was shoved sideways and dropped to one knee.

  Bolan’s bayonet was still fixed. He raised his cracked rifle overhead and then suddenly shortened his swing into a sharp downward thrust. The point of the bayonet plunged for Islamov’s throat like an ice pick.

  Islamov managed to get his rifle in the way. Bolan’s blade grated against the carrying handle of his adversary’s gun. They struggled, and Islamov surged upward and rammed his rifle at Bolan with both hands. The soldier saw stars as the handguard punched him between the eyes.

  Bolan blinked blood out of his eyes as he tottered backward. Screws and springs fell out of his broken weapon and pieces of the stock shifted under his hands where they had torn loose from their moorings. Only Islamov’s wounded leg kept him from leaping in and finishing it. The legionnaires stood like statues and waited for the inevitable end. Islamov took a ragged breath and raised his bayonet again. The Russian limped forward for the kill.

  Bolan raised his shattered rifle and threw it.

  The eight-pound weapon revolved once and slammed into both of Islamov’s shins. The Russian groaned as his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. Bolan ripped his web belt from his waist. The canvas burned between his fingers as he stripped the four magazine pouches along the belt so that they all bunched at one end.

  Bolan whirled the belt around his head as Islamov rose.

  The seven loaded magazines at the end of the belt blurred in an ugly arc, and six and a half pounds of brass, steel and lead collided with Islamov’s skull. Bullets and springs flew as the magazines ruptured their contents. Islamov reeled. Bolan strode forward bunching the belt in his hands. The Russian half-blindly thrust his bayonet forward to hold him off. Bolan kicked it aside with the flat of his boot and looped the belt around his adversary’s neck.

  Islamov’s gasp was cut short as Bolan crossed his hands and cinched the Russian’s throat shut. Bolan rammed his hip and shoulder against Islamov’s, jamming the Russian’s rifle between them and smothering any attempted thrust. Islamov abandoned his rifle. Bolan’s vision went white as the big Russian buried his fist into the wound in his side. Islamov’s face was purpling but Bolan’s sight blackened as Islamov’s fist slammed into his side a second time.

  The Executioner’s wounds burned as he torqued his torso savagely. He dropped to one knee as he and Islamov went back to back. Bolan heaved on the belt with all of his strength. Islamov flew over Bolan’s shoulder. As he flew, Bolan yanked back on the belt.

  Islamov’s neck snapped as he hit grass.

  Bolan fell forward onto his hands and concentrated on the act of breathing as colors swam before his eyes.

  The only sound was the slow threshing of the helicopter blades as their engines idled. Bolan waited for his vision to clear and then pushed himself up. He looked at the legionnaires with as much impassiveness as he could muster. They stood with their bayonets fixed and their rifles pointed. Doherty went and knelt over Islamov. He reached down and pulled the dog tags from under his shirt. The box chain broke as Doherty snapped them away. The Irishman rose and stared at Bolan long and hard. He stared down once more at Islamov’s motionless corpse.

  The legionnaires turned without a word. They broke into their squads and began filing back to their respective helicopters. Doherty stopped and turned. He unhooked his canteen from his belt and tossed it to Bolan.

  Bolan watched the helicopters disappear across the jungle. Both wounds in his sides were bleeding. He idly wished Doherty had left him a few units of blood. Water and rations were all he was likely to get anytime soon. He listened to the thunder of the rotors fade into the distance. Action Direct wanted him dead, and the French foreign legion had orders to kill. Bolan glanced around at the jungle surrounding him. He had been given an ugly reprieve.

  He had twenty-four hours to get out of French Guiana.

  Bolan noticed Islamov’s pack in the grass. He walked over and examined the contents, keeping what was useful and ejecting wasted weight.

  He took enough euros to get him where he needed to go.

  The rest of the money ended up in the mud.

  Bolan drank some water. He checked the compass in his watch and took out his map again. It was midsummer. The equatorial sun was rising toward
noon. It was 125 miles to Brazil.

  Bolan began walking south.

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-7405-4

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Charles Rogers for his contribution to this work.

  LETHAL PAYLOAD

  Copyright © 2005 by Worldwide Library.

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