Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan caught her shocked stare as she fell to the ground, her body jerking for a few seconds before she became still.

  “Enough,” Delaware said. “Let’s go before anyone in this godforsaken town hears us. I want to be on our way in the next thirty seconds. Move, people, or get left behind.”

  Bolan, a hard muzzle jammed into his spine, was hustled across the courtyard and out through a smaller gate. An SUV was parked at the far end of the back street. The evacuation was swift and controlled. Delaware’s men piled into the rear with Bolan between them. DeJong and Malik took the middle row, and Delaware sat alongside the driver. The SUV drove to the far end of the narrow street, hung a left and proceeded through the city, finally merging with traffic on the main thoroughfare leading out of Aktau.

  Bolan heard and saw nothing. He offered no resistance as he sat between his armed guards.

  He was thinking of only one thing.

  Sarah Mitchell lying on the cold ground.

  And he was seeing again the shocked expression in her eyes as she went down, staring at him in a mix of shock and sheer disbelief.

  In his mind he was reliving everything they had been through since the moment he had met her. Her sheer professionalism in the face of deadly force. The sharpness of her reactions. The keen mind that had offered wry comments and comebacks. A young woman who had partnered him through desperate situations and traveled across the globe in pursuit of their mutual enemies.

  He had not been able to save her when she needed him the most.

  The memories hovered in his mind.

  His anger grew and gripped him, and for a time Bolan was consumed by it.

  But the rage quickly subsided and was replaced by a cold resolve.

  Cold enough that it became a physical sensation. It calmed him. It did not wipe away his determination to see this thing through to an end.

  An end that would leave Mack Bolan the sole survivor.

  He made that promise to Sarah Mitchell.

  It was the least he could do.

  * * *

  IT WAS ALMOST dark when the SUV drove in through sagging metal gates and came to a stop outside a shabby building alongside an identical SUV. As the doors opened, Bolan picked up the scent of the sea close by. There was also the pervading smell of fish and diesel fuel. Glancing out the closest window, he made out the outlines of derelict boats. His armed guards pushed him out of the vehicle, and Bolan felt loose shale underfoot. He was pushed in the direction of the building, guided inside.

  The interior was lit by overhead lights suspended from thick cables. In the background Bolan could hear the low rumble of a diesel engine that would be powering the generator for the lights.

  “Only temporary quarters,” Delaware said. “But make yourself comfortable, Cooper.”

  Two armed men were waiting. One moved to meet them. He was dark skinned, bearded and when he spoke his English was stilted.

  “He killed our brothers,” he said. “I want his blood now.”

  He was, though Bolan didn’t know it, Yussef, the Kazakh who had sent his people out to take down Bolan and Mitchell.

  “No,” Delaware said. “This man is my prisoner. I’ll decide what happens to him.”

  “You are in my country now, woman. And here women know their place. Perhaps you need a lesson in humility.”

  Delaware laughed, a sound expressing the lack of respect she had for Yussef.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. If it wasn’t for this woman, you wouldn’t be in possession of your precious uranium. How do you think it was taken from that train and brought here so you could send it to Fikri? It was done by my people. By Hegre. Do you know why? Because you damn people could not have organized it yourselves. Do not point the finger at me, Yussef, and use your religious bigotry. It doesn’t make me cower in fear. I am not one of your subservient women.”

  She turned her back on the man and crossed to where Bolan stood between his guards.

  “Do you have anything worthwhile to contribute, Mr. Cooper?”

  Bolan held her gaze.

  “There isn’t a thing I have to say to you, Lise Delaware. I know everything I need to know. It’s enough.”

  Delaware searched his face in an attempt to understand his remarks. She found nothing and turned away.

  “Bring him.”

  To Malik she said, “Let’s go and look at your goods.”

  “Explain to me again why the goods aren’t already underway,” the Iranian replied.

  “Patience,” Delaware said. “Understand we needed to keep the consignment out of sight until the authorities have exhausted their search. Right now they are checking every large vehicle lining up to be loaded onto a ferry bound for Iran.”

  “They naturally assume the uranium is bound for my country?”

  “Don’t be so naive, Mr. Malik. Stolen uranium is more likely to be heading there than any other destination. Your ayatollah knows Iran is on every list when it comes to being banned from importing large amounts of uranium. Regardless of his low opinion of Western ideology, the consensus is Iran needs to be watched, which is why we are taking precautions.”

  Delaware led the way through to the rear of the building. They all stepped through a door into a separate enclosure. Low lighting showed the road vehicle parked there.

  Bolan’s Hegre guards stayed close to him, Fikri’s people to the side.

  An eight-wheel tractor unit was hitched to a thirty-five-foot tanker that had triple sets of wheels. The sides of the tanker were emblazoned with the logo of the company it was masquerading as. Both tractor unit and tanker showed signs of normal wear and tear. On first inspection it looked like a regular road vehicle, scratched and dented, streaked with dirt. In all aspects it was a commercial tanker that regularly made delivery runs between Kazakhstan and Iran.

  Delaware stood beside the vehicle, her hand resting on the aluminum curve.

  “An example of Sergei Lubinski’s skill,” she said. “Two-thirds of the tanker are normal. The final section holds additional cargo—in this instance the buckets of uranium yellowcake—cleverly engineered not to be noticed. I believe our Russian friend has succeeded extremely well. It is worth the price we had to pay.”

  She led Raz Malik around the standing vehicle, explaining more about the construction, leaving Bolan under the watchful eye of the pair of Hegre guards. DeJong paused a few seconds before following Delaware. Standing off from Bolan’s position, Yussef and Bashir waited impatiently. Fikri’s men, Yussef especially, were still unsettled by Bolan’s removal of their people in the SUV that had followed Greshenko’s car from the airport.

  And Yussef was still angry following Delaware’s outburst. Her defiant words had embarrassed him. He was not used to being chastised by a woman and especially an American. Her words had struck with the force of a physical blow.

  Bolan quietly observed the Yussef’s barely controlled fury. He had his eyes fixed on Delaware as she walked away from him. The fact she had turned her back to him, dismissing him as she would a servant, was feeding his rage. Yussef was close to exploding, and getting closer with each passing moment. He was mouthing low words that only his companion, Bashir, could hear. Bashir was quietly attempting to cool his partner down.

  Yussef was not to be placated.

  He uttered a wild scream of rage, the words spilling from his lips unchecked as he reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband.

  Delaware’s men turned at the outburst, attention removed from Bolan.

  “You stand down,” one of them yelled.

  Yussef ignore him.

  As thin as it was, the moment became Bolan’s one chance.

  He took it, snapping into action and slammed his knuckled right hand into the closer guard’s throat. Nothing was held back. The blow cru
shed the guy’s larynx. He struggled to draw breath, but couldn’t. His grip on the FN P-90 slackened and Bolan was able to snatch it clear. Turning on his heel, the Executioner confronted the second guard, still raising his own weapon. Seconds too late. The muzzle of Bolan’s SMG was almost touching the guard’s torso when it fired. A burst of 5.7 mm slugs ripped into the guy’s body, tearing at flesh and organs on their way through. The spine was severed as slugs ripped into it. The guard collapsed without resistance, blood spreading out from beneath his body.

  Whirling, Bolan delivered a second burst at the still-choking guy with the crushed throat. The harsh chatter of the P-90 drowned the strangled cry coming from the guard as Bolan’s volley tore into him.

  Seeing the Americans go down, Yussef and Bashir stepped back. Bashir clawed for the weapon tucked behind his belt.

  With Delaware’s gunners down, Bolan was clear to engage. He dropped to a semi-crouched position, bringing the P-90 around in a fast, hard curve that allowed him to target the men.

  Seeing the SMG’s muzzle tracking them, Yussef and Bashir realized they were in harm’s way.

  Bashir turned and ran. He had traveled no more than ten feet when Bolan’s burst sent 5.7 mm slugs between his shoulders. The impact had him stumbling forward, ribs shattered and one lung punctured. Bashir struck the concrete floor on his face, the bones of his cheeks fracturing from the impact. His nose was crushed and blood gushed out in a hot stream.

  Aware of Bashir falling, Yussef went for cover behind the rear of the tanker. He imagined he was safe until Bolan turned the SMG on him and fired. Slugs chunked into the edge of the aluminum tanker, easily tearing through the metal. A few, deformed by the impact, emerged from the end cap and ripped into the side of Yussef’s face, exposing his gums and teeth. Blood poured from the wounds. Pain followed quickly, and Yussef would have screamed if blood had not been filling his mouth and throat.

  In his agony he let go of his pistol and it thumped to the floor. Yussef clamped his hands over the gaping wound, blood streaming in hot torrents between his fingers. It spilled down over his beard and onto the front of his shirt. He failed to notice a shadow falling across him as Bolan edged around the tanker. He hit Yussef with a steady volley and saw the man tumble, stitched from waist to throat by the killing burst.

  Bolan was not done yet. He turned and walked toward the front of the vehicle, pausing long enough to pick up the other fallen P-90 and a box magazine. He retrieve one of the .40-caliber Steyrs Delaware’s guards had taken from him, then continued on.

  Right then, as he moved cautiously forward, Bolan’s feelings were cold.

  Cold and devoid of any distractions.

  He was here to finish the mission.

  And that would not be done until he counted three more kills.

  Henrick DeJong.

  Raz Malik.

  And Lise Delaware.

  Bolan heard movement around the head of the tractor unit. Feet scuffling on the concrete.

  A man’s voice rose in panic.

  Henrick DeJong stepped into view. His hands were held over his head, his pistol dangling from one finger by the trigger guard. His face was glistening with sweat.

  “I surrender,” he said. His voice was hoarse, his South African accent strong, the words forced out. “No more. This madness has to stop.”

  Bolan kept on coming, eyes searching ahead.

  He hadn’t forgotten Raz Malik.

  And he certainly hadn’t forgotten Delaware.

  “You listen, yes? You have to take me prisoner.” DeJong’s actions did not match his words as his hand darted to the small of his back, Bolan was convinced that he was scrambling for a backup weapon.

  Bolan stayed silent, letting the P-90 speak for him. He raised the weapon so that the burst of slugs ripped into DeJong’s throat, then rose to the man’s head and blew it apart. DeJong stood for a few seconds, blood spurting from severed arteries in a rich fountain. He toppled onto his back, feet drumming on the concrete.

  The sound of retreating footsteps reached Bolan’s ears.

  Damn.

  A back exit.

  Bolan rounded the front of the tanker and saw two people racing for the open rear door.

  Delaware’s black-clad shape was directly ahead, Malik a few yards behind. The Iranian turned to fire at the Executioner.

  Bolan triggered a burst that caught Malik’s lower limbs, blowing out his kneecaps in pulped geysers. Malik screamed as he collapsed and sprawled across the dirty concrete. Bolan stepped over him and out through the door.

  The rear of the building was weed choked and littered with debris.

  There was no sign of Delaware.

  He realized in seconds that she was heading for the parked SUV at the front of the building. Bolan about-faced and went back inside, ran the length of the building and burst clear from the front door.

  The soldier was just in time to see the SUV picking up speed as it headed away from him, already too far for him to fire at it. Bolan watched the vehicle clear the metal gates and slide onto the road. He caught a glimpse of red taillights before the SUV vanished from sight.

  Lise Delaware had eluded him for the second time.

  Bolan made a promise it wouldn’t end there. The next time they met, it would be the last. He would make it his priority to take Hegre down to the last man—or in this case the last woman.

  It was not a Mack Bolan decision this time.

  It was an Executioner promise...

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Bolan checked a nearby SUV, hoping that it belonged to Hegre. The keys were in the ignition, and it was untouched. Delaware had not thought nor did she have the time to disable it. He locked the vehicle and slipped the key into his pocket before going back inside the building and making his way to the rear. He could hear Raz Malik moaning and whimpering where he had fallen and went to stand over the man. Malik had managed to roll onto his back. His expensive suit was streaked with dirt and blood from his mangled knees. Shattered bone and pulped flesh was showing through the shredded material of his pants.

  “Fikri isn’t going to get his uranium now,” Bolan said quietly. “It’s been a hell of a waste. Good people have died because of it.”

  The Iranian was beyond caring about the end result. He was suffering his own personal hell. Bolan took care of that with a single mercy shot.

  Bolan knew he had to move on quickly. Time wasn’t on his side.

  He raised the P-90 and emptied the magazine into the lower section of the tanker, the slugs tearing holes in the aluminum bodywork. When the magazine cycled dry, Bolan removed it and snapped in the second one. He raked the far side of the vehicle, blowing ragged holes in the metal where the drums of uranium were concealed.

  The soldier checked out the area where the tanker stood. It was fitted out with equipment that suggested it was used as a motor-vehicle workshop. He moved around, searching, and at the far side found a number of forty-five-gallon fuel drums. Using a tool from the cluttered work bench, he unscrewed the cap on one of the drums and breathed in gasoline fumes. Bolan slid on a pair of thick industrial gloves from the bench, returned to the fuel drums and tipped the steel drums onto their sides. He rolled them across the concrete and under the chassis of the tanker. There were eight drums. Seven went under the tanker. He removed the screw caps and let the gasoline gush out. The eighth Bolan punctured with a steel spike, letting the gasoline pour out and pool around the tanker. He spiked holes into the vehicle’s fuel tank and let more gasoline run out. Heavy fumes filled the area.

  When he was done, Bolan took off the gloves and threw them aside. He checked the pockets of the dead and found what he was looking for. A cigarette lighter. He took it with him as he retreated, wadding an old newspaper he found into an improvised torch.

  Before he comple
ted his demolition preparation, he climbed into the SUV and drove it well clear of the building, leaving it running when he returned.

  Streams of gasoline had trickled across the floor of the building. He lit the paper torch and allowed it to flame strongly before he held it over the closest of the gasoline trails. The rising vapor caught and flared. It began to run back toward the front of the building. Bolan dropped the torch and sprinted out of the building. He made it to the SUV and climbed behind the wheel. Tires skidded on the loose earth as Bolan stomped on the gas pedal and fed power to the engine. The SUV raced out through the gates and bounced as it hit the road, cornering hard, and sped clear.

  At a safe distance Bolan braked and stared back in the direction of the building. He saw a swell of flames billowing out from the structure. The fire grew rapidly. Then the mass of flames expanded and the entire building became a huge fireball, lighting up the sky. Bolan heard some muted bangs, which he suspected were the fuel drums exploding. The fire became intense, flames shooting into the air. More detonations followed.

  Bolan decided there was nothing else he could do. There was no point staying around. Somewhere at the back of his mind he recalled a fact that uranium did not burn, so he would have to hope his efforts would be enough to put it beyond use. He was no scientist, but he judged that the heat from the inferno and pressure from the bursting drums would scatter the uranium powder to a degree that would render it unusable.

  He dropped the gearshift into drive and touched the pedal. The SUV rolled forward and Bolan settled in for his ride.

  Seconds later, Bolan felt a shock wave rock the SUV, and he heard a heavy boom behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and caught the image as the entire building vanished in a powerful explosion that scattered its remains across a wide area. The heavy vehicle shuddered. Bolan hit the brake. He turned in his seat and saw the rolling ball of fire rise skyward until it dissipated, settled, and turned into a cloud of dark smoke that became quickly lost in the darkness. He felt debris falling to earth. Light bangs on the roof of the SUV showed him how far the explosion had scattered the wreckage.