Teheran Wipeout

by Don Pendleton

  The government sedan roared closer, the confrontation escalating to flash point.

  The Teheran cop grabbed for a holstered sidearm.

  Pedestrians scurried for safety in the sunlight.

  The taxi clambered on and off the opposite curb, Grimaldi played the steering wheel and gears with controlled urgency.

  "The Ayatollah?" he inquired.

  "Mission accomplished," Bolan grunted. "I think."

  Gunfire peppered the cab's exterior from the pursuing sedan no more than a car length behind and gaining.

  Bolan straight-armed a death round from the .44 AutoMag at the chase vehicle.

  Three weapons were already sticking out of its windows like antennae, and the Executioner was not surprised at the security reflex to the rooftop report of the Weatherby. Word of the assassination must have been relayed over two-way radio, the first wave of the net beginning to tighten around the city.

  The AutoMag's 240-grain slug punched through the sedan's windshield, and the driver's head exploded all over his partners.

  The sedan weaved crazily for a moment, then climbed the curb to pile full speed into a brick wall. Bolan heard the wrenching impact of flattening metal and shattering glass and knew the other three in the car could never survive a crash like that.

  The shrill sounds of a policeman's whistle pierced the air.

  Grimaldi pegged off a burst from his Ingram MAC-10 that punched the whistle back into the cop's mouth. The dead man stumbled back and collapsed into the wreckage of the sedan.

  Grimaldi powered the taxi for everything it had toward the nearest intersection.

  The taxi's engine filled the interior of the car with its whine as they rocketed away from there.

  "I should've blown away that cop when he tried to shake me down," Grimaldi growled, downshifting. "A real small-time sharpie, he thought."

  Bolan braced himself for the coming turn.

  "Head us west, Jack."

  "You got it."

  The cab took the turn on two squealing tires.

  Grimaldi straightened out the fishtailing car, standing on the gas pedal and upshifting.

  Bolan eyed their backtrack, his finger curled around Big Thunder's trigger.

  An armored personnel carrier bulleted from a side street up ahead to stop across the width of the street, blocking the cab.

  "Damn," Grimaldi grunted under his breath.

  The troop truck sported six Iranian-army storm troopers in crisp khaki uniforms, toting rifles, with two more rifle-armed men in the cab.

  The soldiers saw the oncoming taxi and commenced debarking snappily from the truck.

  Grimaldi pumped the taxi's brakes.

  The cab's speed dropped to forty mph, enough to slow down, not enough to avoid impact.

  "Out," growled Bolan.

  He and Grimaldi shouldered their doors and toppled in rolls from the taxi a couple of seconds before the cab ate up the distance to smash into the side of the armored vehicle.

  The trooper climbing down from the side of the truck's cab had no time to leap away, and the oncoming car crushed him like a bug.

  The impact tilted the truck onto its side, flinging men amid shouts of pain that ended abruptly when the unlucky ones slammed against pavement and wall of a nearby building.

  The other soldiers recovered their composure enough to track weapons at the two Americans who now came out of their rolls to regain combat crouches at either side of the street.

  Bolan hammered off three rounds from Big Thunder, and a trio of Khomeini enforcers got their life forces splashed across the truck behind them before toppling dead.

  Grimaldi assumed a two-handed shooting stance.

  The Ingram bucked in his hand.

  The driver of the truck was reaching for the dash microphone when he caught some .45 slugs in the chest and through the throat. The fusillade pitched him backward out of the cab with the mike, torn from its cord, in his hand.

  The few surviving soldiers scrambled for cover.

  Bolan glanced along their backtrack.

  Another troop carrier appeared at the far end of the street, blocking that avenue of withdrawal.

  More soldiers poured from that truck and began advancing cautiously.

  The two Americans withdrew on the run down a cobblestone alley not wide enough for a vehicle. They reached cover of the alley walls at the instant soldiers from both personnel carriers opened fire with automatic weapons.

  The air whined with the piercing whistle of bullets and ricochets, then the salvo stopped, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

  Bolan knew the soldiers would be charging after them in hot pursuit.

  Bolan and Grimaldi covered the distance to a junction in the alley ahead in long, fast strides.

  "We split up?" Grimaldi asked.

  "Negative."

  They had but a yard to go when half a dozen Iranian civilians erupted from the blind side of the alley intersection.

  The civilians lifted their voices in shouts to alert the soldiers that they had cornered the Americans.

  The six unarmed civilians closed in on Bolan and Grimaldi, obviously expecting the foreigners to follow the sensible course and surrender.

  Grimaldi pulled up his pistol.

  Bolan waved the gun down.

  "Spare 'em, Jack."

  Bolan felt no fight against unarmed men who thought themselves good citizens. He sailed into the cluster of robed locals with a flurry of martial-arts kicks and punches delivered at blinding speed.

  Within seconds four of the civilians toppled sideways like bowling pins.

  Grimaldi moved in and took out the final two with sharp blows from the butt of his pistol.

  The Americans moved past the civilians and rounded the corner of the T.

  The other end of the alley was filled with Iranian uniforms, bright in the brassy sunshine, advancing on the run from both ends of the street. Bolan and Grimaldi rounded the corner an instant before the soldiers opened fire with another salvo of jackhammering autofire.

  The confines of the alley echoed with shouts and bootfalls of the rushing soldiers closing in.

  Blank stone walls of two-level buildings stared back at Bolan and Grimaldi from either end of the T in the alleyway.

  No escape.

  Boxed in.

  They crossed to the far wall. They turned, backs to the wall to make a stand, Grimaldi palminga fresh magazineinto his Ingram, Bolan with a reloaded Big Thunder in one fist, the Beretta in the other.

  His survival instincts flared for some way, any way, out of this.

  The walls were too high to scale to the roof of any of the buildings.

  From around the corner of the T they heard panicky shouts, then rapid-fire bursts from AK-47s. The shouting stopped.

  The advancing IRG storm troopers had not spared the civilians as Bolan had.

  Shouts of bloodlust filled the air.

  The first wave of men poured into the juncture of the T, AKs glinting in the harsh sun.

  The soldiers spotted Bolan and Grimaldi instantly.

  "Aw, skit" Grimaldi said with feeling.

  3

  Two things happened at once.

  The first five soldiers to spill around the corner of the alley tracked their assault rifles up for the kill at the exact instant Bolan and Grimaldi picked their targets.

  And a rope ladder dropped from the roof of a building that formed one side of the boxed-in killground.

  Bolan triggered Beretta and AutoMag. The 93-R chugged on silenced auto, popping 9mm zingers. Big Thunder boomed, deafening reports swallowing the grunts of the dying as .44 and 9mm sure-shots took lives.

  Two terrorists of the state toppled back, dead on their feet, khaki uniforms spurting red.

  The soldier next to them caught a head shot and so did the next guy.

  The fifth Khomeini enforcer started to turn for cover. Grimaldi stopped him in his tracks with a .45-caliber sizzler that cored the guy in one ear and out the othe
r.

  Bolan risked a glance at the roof.

  A woman, a good-looking blonde he did not recognize, had completed fastening hooks at one end of the rope ladder to the edge of the roof. She gestured to the men, nervously but not frantic.

  Nervy, thought Bolan.

  "Hurry," she called in English, glancing at the junction of the alley where bodies lay and gun smoke swirled.

  She crouched low on the roof, her pleated summer skirt and blouse making her look like a million bucks, Bolan noted. The lady clasped a shoulder bag close to her side, and from it she tugged a small Walther PPK.

  Two IRG goons risked glances around the corner of the alley, their AKs poking with them.

  Bolan hammered off two thunderclaps from Big Thunder and both those heads evaporated into bursting red mist.

  "Up the ladder," Bolan instructed Grimaldi from a crouch, combat eyes and both pistols on the T. "I'll cover you."

  "Man, I'd follow that blonde anywhere," Grimaldi said with a chuckle.

  The Italian jumped to catch the fourth rope rung of the ladder and continued up the side of the wall like a scrambling spider.

  Bolan holstered the Beretta and hustled after Grimaldi, grabbing the rung with his left hand for leverage, the right hand still fisting the .44 hand cannon. He made it halfway up when someone barked orders in a language he did not understand. Then an officer and six reluctant Iranian Revolutionary Guard soldiers stormed around the corner of the alley, automatic fire blazing from AK-47s.

  At targets that had disappeared.

  A volley of autofire riddled the wall where Bolan and Grimaldi had stood less than five seconds before, ricocheting harmlessly in all directions.

  The confused soldiers ceased firing and swiveled eyes and rifles upward, sighting Bolan as he reached his free hand up the edge of the roof, his legs supported by the rope ladder.

  He twisted around from his position and triggered off a recoil-heavy sound from Big Thunder that reverberated in the boxed death ground, pitching a trooper into a lifeless sprawl.

  Grimaldi and the million-dollar blonde triggered off several rounds each from the roof as Bolan swung the AutoMag back from its recoil buck to take out another IRG gunner.

  The soldiers below caught incoming rounds that slammed them back into the wall. Their comrades remained out of sight.

  Bolan hauled himself onto the roof with one final acrobatic swing, then paused to replace the spent clip in Big Thunder.

  Grimaldi used the moment to reload his Ingram.

  Miss Million Bucks tugged up the rope ladder after them.

  Bolan spared her an iced glance.

  "I suppose you have a car nearby, too," he said wryly.

  She gathered up the rope ladder in a bundle, moving with grace and speed. Her lovely strong legs and well-curved thighs provided the American fighting duo with a nice sight in the eye blink when her skirt hiked upward as she moved.

  "In the street, two buildings down."

  She hurried away from the two men.

  Bolan and Grimaldi joined her in the short leap to the next building, the trio continuing across that roof.

  Behind them in the distance they heard the rabble of soldiers in the alley, arguing about the boxed-in targets who seemed to vanish like dissipating smoke.

  The sun in the white sky blazed down upon three figures hustling across rooftops.

  Every dog in the neighborhood was barking and yowling along with the engine sounds and shouts of excitement as word of the assassination of Ayatollah Khomeini spread through the city.

  The roofs along this section of Teheran had been cleared of security and troops in the five minutes or less since the hit, the forces mobilizing on the streets.

  The two men and the blonde leaped across a second narrow space to another building, the woman heading straight for a doorway set into the roof.

  Bolan made the door first, then motioned Grimaldi away from the door.

  The woman stepped aside, and Bolan could feel her wide brown eyes appraising him.

  He held the AutoMag up, ready for anything, unlatched the door with his left hand and stepped well aside from it and the line of possible fire from within. He nudged the door farther open with a toe.

  No gunfire.

  He peered into the dimness of a stairway every bit as deserted as that of the apartment building he had fired from. This residential structure had two levels. He could see down to the foyer that faced a street adjacent to the one where the IRG foot soldiers thought they had the Americans cornered.

  "Where is your car?" Bolan asked the woman.

  "In front of this building."

  Wailing sirens carried from the direction of the pavilion.

  No one had yet appeared on any of the surrounding rooftops to give chase or indicate that this route of escape had been detected.

  Bolan gambled one more second for a final scrutiny of the mystery lady appraising him. He saw no other options.

  "Okay, miss. Lead the way."

  She did.

  Bolan followed, careful eyes probing ahead of them over her shoulder as they hurried down the stairs, Big Thunder ready to unleash at the first sight of trouble or a trap.

  Grimaldi eased the roof door shut after them and brought up the rear.

  Midway down the second-floor corridor, a door eased inward as they made the landing.

  Wide-eyed children peered out curiously for a second, then the little innocents disappeared with a yank from unseen parents and the door slammed shut.

  When Bolan and the blonde reached the bottom step and the foyer, the woman started straight toward the street door.

  Bolan halted her with the AutoMag, the .44 nudging her shoulder as he edged her aside.

  Grimaldi reached the bottom step.

  As they crowded into the foyer, Bolan again exercised caution in inching open the door for a scan of the street.

  An idling Mercedes was parked at the curb, its chrome reflecting the fierce sunlight.

  A man Bolan did not recognize sat behind the steering wheel.

  Bolan saw a side street empty of any pedestrians. He figured that the neighborhood had either gravitated toward the sounds of shooting and activity in the next block from where Bolan and his companions had escaped, or had sought refuge from more killing.

  He heard the heavy rumble of an approaching vehicle. He eased the door shut, leaving only a tiny crack through which he eyeballed another lumbering armored troop carrier. It rounded the corner and chugged past.

  The truck turned at the next corner on its way to reinforce the soldiers one block over, leaving behind a street rank with diesel fumes but still empty.

  "Now," Bolan instructed.

  They broke from the entranceway, Grimaldi and Bolan occasionally turning around to cover their track.

  The blonde started toward the front passenger side of the car.

  "Uh-uh." Bolan stopped her with the ice in his voice." Ride in back with my friend, please."

  Grimaldi opened the back door of the car and held it open for her.

  The blonde's eyes flared with anger as she glanced at Bolan. She started to say something, then a stutter of automatic-weapon fire crackled from the next block. The woman followed Bolan's suggestion.

  Grimaldi popped into the back seat.

  Bolan hotfooted around the rear of the vehicle to tug open the door on the driver's side.

  The driver opened his mouth to protest, then read the determined visage of the man behind the AutoMag.

  The driver slid over.

  Bolan executed a sharp U-turn that avoided the curb, but instead of flooring the gas pedal to get them the hell out of there, he tooled away at a sedate speed in the opposite direction from the activity.

  The ex-driver cleared his throat.

  "Ah, say, bud... maybe we oughta feed her some gas, huh?"

  Two unmarked sedans full of rifle toters careered around the corner up ahead and raced past the Mercedes. More Iranian Revolutionary Guard security "clo
sing the net," Bolan guessed.

  The government cars sped by, sirens whining, their occupants sparing hardly a glance at the unhurried pace of the Mercedes.

  The blonde beside Grimaldi in the back seat chuckled, an unexpected, pleasant sound.

  "Let the man drive, Chuck," she advised her male companion. "This one knows how to handle himself, don't you, big guy?"

  Bolan concentrated on his driving, his right fist filled with the AutoMag, index finger curled around the trigger, reviewing the events of the last few minutes: the pullout, the two unknowns in the Mercedes with him and Jack and the activity around the car.

  Another armored truck barreling into the fray sped past.

  "Smart," Grimaldi said, grinning. "Who'd figure we'd head toward the pavilion?"

  Grimaldi kept his Ingram MAC-10 drawn in his right fist. He used his left to pull out a battered pack of cigarettes from his hip pocket. He offered the blonde a smoke with the legendary Grimaldi style intact.

  "Guess it's time for introductions, gorgeous. Funny place to run into Americans."

  The cool blonde did not miss a beat. She reached for the smoke and fired it and his with her own lighter.

  "I was about to make the same observation," she said, smiling while she exhaled smoke.

  The man in the passenger seat dabbed a handkerchief across his damp brow. Bolan estimated him to be in his midthirties, noting his average build and appearance. He wore lightweight whites and a jittery demeanor.

  "Ah, I could give you directions..."

  Bolan steered the Mercedes onto a wide thoroughfare bordered by trees and long brownstone walks, continuing on the track away from the pavilion and the concentration of activity.

  Traffic on this street seemed sluggish under the oppressive heat; no outward indications that the dragnet had reached this far.

  The occasional pedestrians were traditionally garbed, veiled women on their way to or from some nearby market who registered no interest at the passing symbol of wealth on wheels as the Mercedes continued along, picking up speed.

  Bolan glanced at his watch. Eleven minutes had elapsed since the assassination of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Eleven minutes.