Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan put the sentries in the picture, the H&K spitting out a 9 mm welcome as he engaged them.

  The Executioner was familiar with the H&K MP-5. It had been his weapon of choice during many previous combat situations. He knew the weapon and was able to draw on its performance capabilities. He held the muzzle under control as he unleashed a couple of bursts, preventing it from rising and losing his intended target area.

  He caught the first guy head-on, the 9 mm Parabellum slugs hammering into the target’s upper torso. The guy’s forward motion was halted as the slugs hit home. He faltered, then went down on his knees, face a blend of astonishment and then shock. Before the guy fell facedown Bolan had switched to the second guy who was still advancing. Unable to respond fast enough, the sentry took a burst that cored into his chest, his own weapon discharging too late to do any harm as the shooter went down in a heap, flipping over onto his back as he jerked against the pain invading his body.

  There was no going back. Bolan was fully committed now. The gunfire was going to attract the rest of the crew, so he could expect resistance before he even reached the house.

  He chose to head in the direction of the parked helicopter, the need to disable it of paramount importance. The same went for the parked vehicles. He had to keep the Hegre crew isolated, unable to leave the area. As long as he managed to keep Hegre from leaving, his strike would have a higher body count.

  As cold as that might have sounded, to Bolan it was the aim of this hit. He wanted the Hegre organization taken apart.

  No exclusions.

  The crackle of autofire reached him. Bullet bursts chopped at the cleared earth, falling short. The shooters were firing on the move, the action of their movement denying them accurate fire. Bolan turned and saw three moving figures, muzzle-flashes winking as they exhausted their magazines.

  Bolan halted, leveled his SMG and laid down accurate fire, catching the advancing shooters in the open. He put the farthest guy down with a hard burst that cut the man’s legs from beneath him. Nine millimeter slugs plowed into his upper thighs, drilling into flesh and shattering bone. The guy screamed as he went down and his yells distracted his partners as they saw him fall, legs bloody.

  As the guy bled out, Bolan acquired his targets. He wasn’t about to grant time for the opposition to reload. He placed a burst into one guy that shredded his throat, then ranged in on the surviving shooter and placed his shots in the guy’s heart, knocking the man over backward.

  Bolan cast aside the empty MP-5 and brought the Uzi into play. He moved on, angling in the direction of the helicopter, circling to come up the side away from the house. As he neared the aircraft, the soldier caught a glimpse of a moving figure hidden by the aircraft. He didn’t pause, simply dropped to a running crouch, aiming the Uzi under the body of the chopper.

  His auto burst clipped the concealed figure and the guy lurched upright from his hiding place. Bolan moved around the tail of the helicopter and faced the guy. The bullets had torn across the sentry’s hip and left a bloody mess of a wound. It slowed the guy down and he had little chance to raise his own weapon before Bolan appeared. The Uzi chattered again, this time full on its target, and punched holes through the target’s chest.

  Bolan let the Uzi hang on its sling as he paused by the helicopter. He took one of his fragmentation grenades, popped the pin as he opened the side door and tossed the grenade inside. Bolan cut around the front of the aircraft, powering forward and fisting the Uzi again.

  He was counting down the seconds and dropped to the ground just before the grenade blew. It ripped open the helicopter, filling the air with debris. The fuel tank blew a couple of seconds later, spewing flame and smoke. Bolan felt the heat across his back.

  He pushed to his feet and left the flaming wreck of the chopper behind as he sprinted for the side of the house. As he cleared two of the parked vehicles, the soldier blew out the windshields and tossed in a couple more armed grenades. He dropped beneath the underhang of an encircling gallery as the twin blasts rocked the area. The blasts disabled both vehicles. One was further rocked as the gas tank detonated. Flames swept up and out, the expensive cars reduced to smoking wrecks. Bolan used the Uzi to lay down a burst that shredded the tires on the remaining vehicles.

  From where he was briefly concealed, Bolan swept the area, looking out for more targets.

  He picked up one guy cautiously approaching, eyes searching as he surveyed the scene of burning helicopter and cars. He was unable to see much through the drifting smoke and curling tongues of flame, disbelief written all over his face.

  He was still looking when Bolan swapped the Uzi for the Desert Eagle. He double-fisted the big pistol, aiming and holding his target before he fired the 125 grain jacketed round. It was a solid hit. The powerful Magnum slug slammed into the guy’s head and blew out a big chunk of bone as it exited. The impact threw the guy’s head back, brain tissue and blood spurting out as the bullet passed through. He had no time to react as his pulverized brain shut down. He collapsed without a sound.

  Before he moved from his temporary cover, Bolan stripped out the exhausted Uzi magazine and snapped in a fresh one. He holstered the .357.

  The rain Bolan had been anticipating came on. It drifted in from the distant slopes, quickly building. Within a few minutes the fall had become heavy, soaking the ground.

  Bolan chose that time to move, skirting around the base of the house and across the rear. There was access there to what looked to be a basement area. He saw metal ducting angling out through the wall. An exhaust outlet, most likely for the diesel plant driving the generator for electricity.

  Palming a grenade, Bolan took out the pin. He went down the short flight of concrete steps to the basement door, which swung open at his touch. He picked up the muted sound of the generator. Leaning inside, the soldier sprung the lever and tossed the grenade in through the door. He heard it land and roll across the concrete floor. Bolan eased to the side, protected by the outer wall. The explosion had a hollow, echoing sound. He heard the patter of falling debris. When the noise abated, Bolan could no longer hear the sound of the generator.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The crackle of gunfire alerted the group inside the house. The exploding helicopter drew everyone’s attention. In the large main room Julius Hegre moved slowly toward the window. To his left he could see the blazing aircraft, the debris scattered across the ground.

  “The helicopter,” he said.

  Lise Delaware reached him in long strides. She caught his arm and dragged him away from the window.

  “Stay away, Julius. Don’t go near the glass.”

  Four of Hegre’s men were inside the house. They were all armed.

  “You want us to stay inside?”

  “Yes,” Delaware said. “Make sure the front and rear entrances are covered. Get someone from the ground crew if you have to. Kelso, you and Boyd stay with me. You protect Julius and Dom.”

  Melchior was standing by the open hearth, a glass of whiskey in one hand. He listened to the grenade detonations as the first of the cars were hit.

  “Who is out there? Fikri’s people?”

  He appeared calm. No sign of any agitation.

  Delaware dispersed the crew, then guided her uncle to a recliner well away from the main window. She turned her head as she picked up another rattle of autofire.

  “What do you think?” she asked Kelso and Boyd.

  “One gun,” Boyd said.

  “Just the one,” Kelso agreed.

  Delaware actually smiled. Not from joy. It was simply an affirmation that she had just confirmed something.

  “It’s him,” she said. “Cooper.”

  “Persistent,” Hegre observed.

  His voice held a weary note, as if, despite his influence and power, things were slipping away.

 
; Delaware slid her Desert Eagle from its hip holster, checking it.

  “Tenacious,” Melchior murmured into his whiskey glass. “Julius, maybe we were a little hasty decamping to this godforsaken place.”

  “I have a feeling that man would find us wherever we were.”

  “Do I detect a degree of defeatism?”

  Hegre made a tired gesture.

  “Nobody is giving up,” Delaware said.

  “Perhaps we should pool our checkbooks and make the man an offer?” Melchior said.

  “Dom, no jokes,” Delaware said.

  Melchior sat and faced his old friend across the stone fireplace. Movement outside the window caught his attention. It was the rain striking the glass.

  They all heard the muted sound of an explosion from the rear of the house. Wall lamps were extinguished.

  “He’s hit the generator,” Boyd said. “Cut the power.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Kelso said. “Let me go after him.”

  “Hanson is at the rear. It’s his job,” Delaware said. “We stay together. That’s our job.”

  She crossed the room, jamming her Desert Eagle back in its holster, and picked up one of the P-90s leaning against the wall. She took up a position at the window and peered down. Even through the pouring rain she could see the cars that had not been destroyed had their tires shot out.

  Anger rose, hot, threatening to overwhelm her. She clamped down on it. Losing control was not going to help. She needed to stay focused. She regulated her breathing, kept her emotions steady.

  She glanced across the room at Melchior. He was still sipping his whiskey, and seeing that took her back to when she was younger and he had taught he how to control her temper. Even now she remembered his gentle voice as he instructed her.

  Allow your emotions to control you and any problem will grow out of proportion. If that happens, your ability to think clearly will be lost. In a stressful situation you have to remain detached, as if you were separate from your body, able to stand outside and see the problem. Remain calm, assess the moment and make a decision based on what you see, not what you feel. Push anger and uncertainty aside. Deepen your breathing and look at your problem again....

  “Keep this window covered,” she said to Boyd.

  Boyd moved to stand at one side, away from any threat from being shot.

  The rain increased, becoming a heavy downpour that reduced visibility. Now Boyd was unable to see very far.

  He looked across the room at Delaware. She was motionless, her face calm, the P-90 held across her chest. Waiting.

  Melchior inspected his whiskey glass, gently swirling its contents.

  Switching his gaze to Julius Hegre, Boyd was surprised at the man’s appearance. In all the time he had known his employer, Hegre had been in total control. He had always been ahead of the game, unflinching in his decisions, a powerful man who held his destiny in his own hands. Looking at him now, Boyd saw an aging figure, almost shrunken in his expensive clothes. Boyd had always had respect for the man. Observing him now, he experienced a degree of pity for him.

  An exchange of autofire sounded from the rear of the house.

  Boyd looked in Delaware’s direction.

  He saw no reaction except for her eyes moving toward the sound.

  More gunfire.

  Delaware turned and crossed the room, through the open arch at the far side, heading in the direction of the front entrance. She wanted to make sure the man there was still in position.

  * * *

  THE DOWNPOUR INCREASED. The rain was icy. A rising wind pushed it into Bolan’s face.

  He had remained pressed close to the basement wall, smoke drifting out the open door. It was whipped away by the wind and sheeting rain.

  Bolan assessed his position. The outside crew was dealt with. The unknown factor remaining was how many of Hegre’s people were inside the house. The only way he would know would be to go inside and face them.

  He moved, heading up the concrete steps, the Uzi angled up at the house.

  Movement on the upper level alerted him.

  An armed figure leaning over, weapon extended.

  The shooter triggered a short burst that chewed at the concrete. Bolan felt the chips strike at his legs. He returned fire, raking the area above him as he ducked back out of sight, back to the wall again.

  He paused as, out the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of flame coming from inside the basement. If the fire spread, the occupants might be forced out of the house.

  Bolan’s thoughts returned to his current situation. The shooter above him was his prime concern.

  A sudden gust of wind drove the rain in at him, soaking his clothing even more. He closed his mind to the chill invading his body.

  He moved at that moment, figuring the waiting shooter would be in the same situation. It might throw him for a few seconds.

  Might.

  Perhaps.

  Chips in a gamble.

  Bolan’s life against the shooter’s.

  He continued up the steps, twisting his body and holding down the Uzi’s trigger, sweeping the upper level with a sustained burst. Nine millimeter slugs slammed against the house wall, chipped stone, splintered timber, shattered a window.

  And found human flesh.

  The shooter arched his body as the rounds hit, tearing into his body. He returned fire in a reflex motion.

  Bolan had the guy in his sights now and burned off his magazine. The high angle of his shots caught the target in his upper chest and the lower part of his face. The slugs ripped through the flesh of his jaw, tore at the bone and plowed up through his skull to lodge in his brain.

  Bolan’s Uzi clicked empty. He reloaded automatically, dropping the spent magazine and snapping in a fresh one. He worked the cocking bolt to load the first cartridge.

  That, he decided, had been close.

  As he stepped away from the basement again, he saw that the flames inside the door were growing.

  He crouched and moved quickly around and up to where the shooter lay on the concrete outside a partly open door. Through the gap he could see a well-appointed kitchen. At the far end of the room, tiled steps led up into the main body of the building.

  Bolan stepped inside, Uzi tracking left and right as he advanced. He cradled the Uzi against his body, snagging one of the flash-bang grenades from his harness. Reaching the base of the steps, the Executioner pulled the pin and threw the canister hard. It curved up out of sight and landed in the room above. Covering his ears, he bent over and pulled back from the steps, into the room behind him.

  He heard someone shout.

  The flash-bang detonated.

  When the hard sound and the blinding light faded, Bolan went up the steps fast, the Uzi probing ahead.

  * * *

  THERE WERE TWO armed men in the room, reeling from the effects of the flash-bang. One was only a couple of yards away, the other at the far window. Bolan brought up the Uzi and burned them both with fatal bursts. The guy by the window tumbled against the glass, his weight cracking it as he slid, bloody, to the floor.

  Bolan brought the Uzi round to cover the seated figures.

  He recognized Hegre from the image Stony Man had produced.

  Julius Hegre.

  The man was responsible for so much. The man had engineered thefts and death and suffering reaching around the globe, ever intent on increasing the wealth of the sprawling organization he had created and now ruled. And he was indifferent to the pain he inflicted. Blind to it all.

  The man facing Bolan looked less than his image: pale faced, smaller in reality than in the photos Bolan had reviewed.

  Across from him the quiet, urbane figure of Dominic Melchior stirred in his seat. He stared at the tall, dark-haired m
an with the ice-blue eyes and knew with certainty he was looking into the face of death. The fingers of the hand holding his whiskey tumbler lost their grip, and it dropped to the stone fire surround. The glass shattered and the pale liquid spread. A thin smile edged his mouth.

  “Accensa domo proximi, tua quoque periclitatur,” Melchior whispered. There was the hint of a smile on his colorless lips.

  When the house of your neighbor is in flames, your own is in danger.

  As he stood, intending to at least try to protect his old friend, the savage chatter of the Uzi ended his thoughts and his life in a blinding moment. Melchior was pinned to the back of the chair, his lean body torn open by the sustained burst.

  “Am I allowed a plea for my life?” Hegre asked.

  Bolan turned and drew the Uzi into position.

  “Do you really expect me to even consider that question?”

  “Does a fortune in untraceable cash not interest you?”

  Bolan’s expression turned even colder.

  “To forget about the people you have slaughtered? The lack of consideration for the lives your greed has shattered? Your indifference to the most basic human right of your victims?” Bolan shook his head. “There’s only one payment you can offer, Julius Hegre.”

  Bolan triggered the Uzi and took out Hegre with a sustained burst. He felt no malice; he was judge, jury and executioner, and was carrying out a sentence that was long overdue. Hegre’s body jerked and twisted as his life was ended in blood and ravaged flesh.”

  Slinging the Uzi, Bolan drew his Desert Eagle.

  There was a flurry of movement as a Hegre sentry raced into view, his P-90 rising in his hands.

  Bolan swung around, the Desert Eagle coming on line, his response faster than the other guy’s.

  The moment the guy appeared in the archway the Magnum pistol thundered twice. The powerful shots took the guy directly between the eyes, bursting out from the back of his skull. The guy kept coming forward a couple footsteps until his body shut down and he fell facedown on the floor, bloody debris leaking from his shattered skull.

  * * *

  LISE DELAWARE HAD registered the gunfire. There were no return shots. She took that to mean Cooper had taken out the men she had left behind to stand watch over Hegre and Melchior, and when, moments later there were two separate bursts she knew Hegre and Melchior had been killed.