Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  “Cooper, you look a mess.”

  “I feel one.”

  Bolan took a look around. They were in a chamber, almost circular, and to one side he could see the gleam of water where a stream ran through the area. He looked upward. Light came through the opening around fifteen feet above their heads. Dusty shafts of sunlight filtered down, lighting the chamber. A natural hole in the earth had lain across their path.

  Mitchell had noticed the stream. She crossed to it, dropped to her knees and checked the flow. She found the water cool and clear. Without hesitation she bent and ducked her head into the water, scrubbing at her face and hair until she was satisfied she had cleared away the dirt. The wound on her face started to bleed again. She ignored it.

  Bolan copied her actions. The water had a cool edge to it, but it was clear and fresh. He felt a keen stinging down one cheek where the water hit a raw scrape in the flesh. When he was refreshed, he scooped up water in his hands and took a drink. This was not the same as the water in the jungle. It was not tainted.

  “Pretty good, huh?” Mitchell said, following his lead. “I never though I’d taste anything as good that didn’t have a cherry in it.”

  Bolan looked around for his Glock. He located it not far from where he had landed. He checked it. No damage. Mitchell did the same with hers. She had managed to keep the weapon in her hand when she fell.

  “You know what, Cooper, I just lost the FBI rule book. Every one of these Hegre thugs is on a new list, and it doesn’t have anything on it that says arrest and detain.”

  “We can worry about that once we get out of here,” Bolan said. “The sooner the better before the crew in that chopper figure out where we are.”

  Mitchell stood and took a long look at the walls of the chamber.

  “I hate to say it, Cooper, but that might be a problem.”

  Bolan had already checked out the problem. At first glance he didn’t see anything that might provide a way of climbing the chamber’s sides. The soft earthen walls looked less than sound. The raw earth, with jutting crooked roots, wasn’t the most solid surface to climb.

  He stood at one section and studied it for a while before attempting to climb it. The soil was soft enough to dig his hands in, but the moment he followed through with his boots and put his full weight on, the hand-and footholds broke away and he was forced to step down.

  “Even Spider-Man would run into problems trying to climb up there,” Mitchell said.

  “Let’s walk all the way around,” Bolan suggested. “Take opposite sides. Look for anything that might give us a chance to get out.”

  Mitchell nodded, and the started around the chamber, checking out the exposed sides.

  It was Mitchell who spotted the yard-wide fissure in the wall. She followed the gap and saw it reached the top.

  “Here,” she called and waited until Bolan joined her. “What do you think?”

  “We’re not going to find anything better.”

  “If Hegre’s people locate us when we’re climbing out of here, it isn’t about to get any easier.”

  “If you wanted easy, you chose the wrong profession.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Ladies first?”

  Mitchell put her Glock away and tackled the climb without hesitation. She pushed into the fissure, bracing her back against one side, using her feet on the other. In this position she was able to maneuver herself up the gap a foot or so at a time. It was slow, muscle straining. The soft earth clung to her, adding its own weight as she eased her way toward the top of the chamber. Loosened dirt crumbled away from her as she moved, and more than once she slid down a foot or so until she was able to stabilize herself.

  Bolan positioned himself so he could see the rim of the chamber, his Glock held two-fisted as he watched for any movement above her.

  The fissure widened a foot or so from the top. Mitchell was able to drag herself into this wider ledge, spreading herself so she could peer over the rim. She drew her weapon.

  Bolan holstered his Glock, slung the satchel across his back and eased into the fissure, ignoring the cold, clinging soil. They would have to deal with the transmitter later. His back against the earth, his boots wedged in the side facing him, Bolan began his ascent. He used every ounce of strength in him, conscious of his vulnerability during the climb. His muscles begged for relief, but Bolan pushed the discomfort to the back of his mind. If any of Hegre’s crew showed up now, his aches and pains would be the least of his worries when the opposition opened fire. He and Mitchell would be clear targets.

  “The helicopter has landed,” Mitchell called. “Thirty feet away. The crew’s climbing out. Both armed.”

  He was close to the rim now. Mitchell crouched in the hollowed out top section. Bolan reached out to drag himself clear.

  The earth at the rim exploded under autofire, the shots loud in the silence. Gouts of soil blew into the air. Bolan heard Mitchell’s yell. She pushed the Glock over the rim and fired twice.

  Bolan rolled into position beside her. His eyes scanned the rim, watching for any movement.

  “They took cover when I shot back,” Mitchell said.

  Bolan pressed in close to Mitchell. Her head turned, eyes bright.

  “How do we get out of this one, Grasshopper?”

  Bolan eased to the edge of the rim and peered over, staying within the fringe of thick grasses that grew in abundance. His scan showed the spread of empty terrain he and Mitchell had been crossing before they fell into the hole. The flatness of the land offered little deep cover.

  He could see the helicopter, rotors still moving as they wound down.

  So where was the crew? Bolan wondered.

  “Anything?” Mitchell asked.

  “They’re being cautious. Once they show themselves, they’re the targets.”

  Bolan saw a flicker of movement almost directly ahead of him. Nothing much, just a dark patch in among the thick grass. He focused in and saw the movement again.

  Someone was belly down in the grass, scoping the hole.

  Bolan built up the image of the prone figure, let his eyes filter through the tangle of grass hiding the guy. Now he found the curve of a shoulder, the neck, the cheek nestled tightly against the stock of the weapon being used. Bolan made out the configuration of an FN P-90. He had used the weapon himself and knew it had single shot and full-auto capabilities.

  “You see him?”

  “I see part of him. We need to divert his attention so I can take my shot.”

  “Let’s remember there are two of them.”

  “We catch them before they can react.”

  “Do I have a sign on my forehead that flashes decoy?”

  “Only a small one,” Bolan said.

  Mitchell sighed. “How do we do this?”

  “Draw him out. I need him to raise himself.”

  “Cooper, tell me you can hit him.”

  She stared into the blue eyes as Bolan looked at her. It was enough to convince her. She knew he could do it. Her trust in him was complete.

  “Let’s do it,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Bolan gripped the Glock two-handed, fixing the muzzle on the indistinct target.

  Mitchell’s move came suddenly, almost catching Bolan by surprise.

  She pushed up off the ground, clearing the rim and darting to the left a couple of steps, then just as quickly changed direction and veered right.

  Bolan saw the concealed shooter swing the P-90 toward her, rising from his low position to track her as she changed direction.

  It was a slow-motion moment.

  Mitchell’s lithe figure a blur.

  The P-90 moving to catch its target.

  The shooter caught off guard by Mitchell’s sudden move. />
  And Bolan following the shooter as he rose from concealment.

  He cleared his mind of everything except making the shot, blanking out Mitchell and her vulnerable position. All that mattered at that moment was taking his shot.

  The muzzle of the P-90 stopped moving.

  The guy was going to fire.

  Bolan held the Glock motionless and stroked the trigger.

  The two shots came so fast they sounded as one.

  The target reacted as the .40-caliber slugs struck. The dark form jerked away.

  The P-90 fired as the guy’s finger reflexed against the trigger.

  There was movement to the right of the first guy. His partner rose in a sudden jerk. He carried an identical weapon to his partner. The weapon spit out a couple of 5.7 mm slugs.

  Out the corner of his eye, Bolan saw Mitchell pause in midstride, then stumble, going down on one knee.

  He centered the Glock on the guy and took his shots, firing three times, and the man flew backward from the force of the .40-caliber slugs. The P-90 curved through the air as it was loosened from the shooter’s grip.

  Bolan crossed to where the first shooter lay. The guy stared up at him, eyes wide and sightless. The slugs had cored through his chest directly over his heart. Bolan picked up the P-90 the guy had dropped and made a quick search of the body. There was a spare 50-round magazine in the harness under his jacket. Bolan dropped it into one of his pants pockets.

  As Bolan approached the second man, he saw the guy was moving, one hand groping for the P-90, inches away. His eyes met Bolan’s a split second before the soldier hit him with a head shot that slammed his shattered skull to the ground. The Glock locked back, the magazine empty.

  The Executioner went to where Mitchell was crouching. He reached out to grip her right arm and keep her upright.

  “Mitchell, were you hit?”

  She turned, face taut, lips pulled back in a grimace.

  “My side,” she whispered. Her right hand pressed her body above the hip. Blood oozed between her fingers. “Damn, it stings.”

  Bolan pushed her hand aside and saw the bloody three-inch tear in her shirt.

  “Let me see.”

  She remained motionless as Bolan lifted the shirt to expose her torso. There was a seared furrow in the firm flesh. Heat from the slug had partially sealed the edges of the wound. It was bleeding slightly.

  “We need to get that dealt with soon,” Bolan said. “The good news is, it isn’t life threatening.”

  “That’s okay then,” Mitchell said drily.

  “Let’s get out of here before any more of Hegre’s gunners come looking for us.”

  “I don’t think that was a wise thing to say,” Mitchell said, putting a hand to Bolan’s shoulder and turning him about.

  The three men breaking from tree cover were angling in their direction.

  “Stand or run?”

  Bolan checked the P-90. It was locked and loaded.

  “I’m done with running from this bunch,” he said.

  “Me, too.”.

  Mitchell moved into a shooter’s stance, gripping the Glock double fisted. The weapon moved in a short arc as she fired twice, and Bolan saw one of the shooters drop to the ground.

  The surviving gunners were frozen briefly by the suddenness of Mitchell’s response. Bolan didn’t give them much time for reflection as he stepped forward, the P-90 at his shoulder. He raked the pair with concentrated fire from the SMG, the stream of slugs punching into them and spinning them off their feet. Bolan hurried forward. One of his targets was dead, the other wounded, face twisted as he clawed for his discarded weapon. The P-90 stuttered briefly, the guy arching his body in a final spasm.

  The last guy to die was Jerry Clayton.

  Bolan crossed to where Mitchell was checking out the guy she had shot. Her slugs had struck his heart.

  “FBI training?” he asked.

  Mitchell gave a slight shrug. “My instructors said I had a natural instinct for shooting. They refined it. In my line of work I guess that’s a handy thing. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. Being good at killing people.”

  “Yeah. Just remember not to use that instinct if we ever get into an argument.”

  “Which way do we go?” Mitchell asked.

  Bolan thumbed in the direction of the helicopter.

  “I’m finished with walking,” he said. “Let’s ride the rest of the way.”

  “You can fly that thing?”

  “Are you forgetting the plane?”

  “Cooper, it crashed.”

  “We can’t have that happen again in the same day. Defies probability.”

  Mitchell sighed. “I have to admit there’s a kind of twisted logic in there somewhere.”

  “I always believed the FBI had some smart agents on their payroll.”

  “Don’t let SAC Duncan hear you say that. He believes every agent is as smart as they come.”

  “There should be some kind of first-aid kit on board.”

  “Something positive at last.”

  Bolan recovered the other P-90 and handed it to Mitchell.

  “No time to be queasy when it comes to arming yourself.”

  “Cooper, when it comes to self-protection, I’m downright greedy.”

  Mitchell glanced back the way they had come.

  “Do you think they’ll have sent more men out to look for us?” Mitchell asked as they took a break.

  “If there are any more, I would,” was his terse reply.

  “You wouldn’t have let us get away to start with.”

  Bolan glanced at her. “Praise indeed from the hotshot agent.”

  “Hotshot? Right now all I feel is filthy.”

  Bolan pushed drooping hair back from her face. “Are we feeling a tad fragile, Agent Mitchell?”

  “Cooper, I don’t do fragile.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  She accepted his arm as they crossed to where the helicopter stood. It was a Bell 206 JetRanger.

  Bolan saw the registration marks on the boom of the machine. There were no other identification marks on the helicopter. The dark blue, silver and gold paint job was in immaculate condition. He swung open one of the rear doors and helped Mitchell inside.

  Bolan dumped the heavy satchel on the closest seat.

  “Does this come with the standard model?” Mitchell asked, indicating the 7.62 mm machine gun lying on the cabin deck.

  Bolan, searching for and locating the first-aid box, shook his head.

  “I’m guessing that’s a Hegre refinement.”

  With Mitchell keeping an eye on their surroundings in case there were more shooters in the area, Bolan used the medications in the first-aid box to tend to the ragged tear in her flesh. He had pulled on a pair of thin, sterile gloves from the pack before touching her. Taking a moment to watch his actions, Mitchell realized that for all his size, his powerful hands were gentle as he cleaned the wound, applied salve and finally a dressing. Mitchell closed her shirt and slumped back in the seat

  “How do you feel?” he asked, packing away the first-aid box.

  “Grateful to be sitting down,” she said.

  “You want to take a look inside that satchel for a tracking device?” He handed her the pair of surgical scissors from the first-aid kit. Mitchell dragged the satchel onto her lap, opened the flap and started to check out the leather bag.

  Bolan secured the doors, then climbed over to sit in the pilot’s seat. He spent a little time studying the layout and controls, then pulled a map from a side pocket.

  “Cooper, where are we heading?”

  “We can fly directly to Manila. There’s a U.S. Embassy there. We can get help to fly home.�
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  “And then?”

  “Move to the next stage of putting Hegre out of business.”

  “Couldn’t we just fly to somewhere sunny with blue water off a white beach? These diamonds should buy us a nice, quiet island.”

  “Okay, you’re on. Let’s go.”

  Bolan fired up the Bell. With the power on, the instrument panel became active. Bolan scanned the readouts. The fuel gauge showed full. He had received helicopter training from both Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot, and from David McCarter, the British leader of Phoenix Force, one of the Farm’s top-notch antiterrorist squads. Both were excellent fliers.

  He could hear Mitchell murmuring to herself as she inspected the interior of the satchel.

  “I just hope they haven’t simply dropped the damn thing in among the diamonds.” She fell silent for a time, then gave a soft cry of victory. “Got it. It had been worked into the leather behind the lock mechanism.”

  She leaned forward and showed Bolan the dime sized disc resting in the palm of her hand, a compact, but powerful mini transmitter capable of sending a constant electronic signal for pickup by a handheld receiver.

  “You know what to do with it,” Bolan said.

  Mitchell opened the door and dropped the transmitter outside. She closed the satchel and secured the straps, then placed it on the cabin deck.

  “Buckle up,” Bolan said.

  “We in for a rough ride? Hey, I’m only kidding. Just thinking about our last flight.”

  Mitchell worked her way forward and into the seat next to Bolan’s. She pulled the seat belt into position and stared out through the canopy. Bolan powered the engine, watching the readouts. He gently worked the controls, increasing the power from the collective and raising the column to angle the rotors. He felt the aircraft respond as he moved the controls in conjunction with each other. As soon as he had achieved the height he wanted, Bolan used the cyclic to turn the Bell in the direction he wanted. He powered up, feeling the engine drive the helicopter forward. With the aircraft on a steady course, he leaned forward and tapped coordinates into the GPS unit, corresponding to their destination—Manila. The city lay some 146 miles from their present position.