Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  “Make sure that bastard is dead,” she said to the hardman at the door. She hefted her P-90, reaching to open the front entrance. “I’ll circle and come in through the kitchen. Let’s do it.”

  As the man ran toward the main room, Delaware hauled the door open.

  She had barely taken a couple of steps when the crash of gunfire reached her.

  Not the crewman’s P-90.

  It was the unmistakable sound of a Desert Eagle, Delaware’s favorite weapon. She would have recognized its distinctive sound anywhere.

  Damn you, Cooper. Damn you to hell and back.

  She screamed the thought in her head as she darted through the door. Icy rain hit her the instantly. It shocked her with its intensity and she gasped in shock. She moved forward, shoulders hunched against the downpour. She knew the vehicles parked yards away had been rendered unusable.

  Delaware kept moving, circling the disabled cars, using them as cover. She ducked, shaking her head to clear away the rain. She was already soaked through, her black clothing sodden and clinging to her.

  There was no need to circle the house. Cooper would be coming out the front looking for her.

  She crouched, watching the open door.

  He would come. She knew that as certain as she knew everyone in the house was dead.

  All of them.

  Julius.

  Dom.

  The Hegre crew.

  The finality had not truly struck her yet. She felt nothing.

  She knew she would, later, and then she could grieve over the loss of the two most important men in her life.

  Julius Hegre, the man who had taken a young girl and molded her into the woman she was now. He had provided security. A reason for her to live and to become his protector. Which she had been until now. When he had needed her the most, she had let him down, failed to stand at his side. He had died without her. Just as her mother had died alone.

  Lise Delaware would be a long time coming to terms with that fact.

  And it would be the same with Melchior. Her confidante, the man who had always been there to advise, always ready with a gentle word, the simple pronouncements that settled her doubts and cleared her mind when she was unsure.

  She was on her own again.

  And it was all down to the man called Cooper.

  Cooper.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  She saw his tall, imposing figure step outside. Cooper was dressed all in black like herself. He was fully rigged for combat. The Uzi he had was suspended from a strap around his neck, and a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle filled his right hand.

  This was the man who had destroyed Hegre’s operations. He’d screwed up the diamond deal, ended the uranium deal with the Iranians, had killed her crew.

  And now he had taken away Julius Hegre and Dom Melchior. She knew that Cooper was here to wipe out all traces of Hegre.

  She pushed back the rage that would have engulfed her, the anger she needed to control if she was going to deal with him.

  She gripped her own Desert Eagle, feeling her fingers ache under the pressure she was applying.

  “Just who are you, Cooper?” she called out.

  She needed to understand him before she killed him.

  As an enemy he had proved himself over and over. In his way, he was as good as she was.

  If things had been different, they would have made an unbeatable team.

  Not now.

  Not since he had killed Julius and Dom.

  For that he had to die.

  But she wanted to know.

  “Tell me, Cooper.”

  “I’m the one who stops you. Puts an end to you and the Hegre organization.”

  She moved from cover until she was standing in the open. The chill of the rain made her shiver.

  “Why?”

  “You have people killed because they stand in your way.”

  “Business, Cooper. They were interfering.”

  “You did it without a trace of regret. I saw it in your eyes when you had Agent Mitchell shot. Not a second of hesitation.”

  “She was in the way. In the way of Hegre business. Just as you have been.”

  “It’s good then that your business has come to an end. It’s over, Delaware.”

  “Never,” she said. “I’ll come back bigger than before.”

  Bolan recognized the look on her face.

  She had made her choice. She was committed.

  Bolan saw the big pistol in her hand move, rising to track in on him.

  Her move was fast—but by no means fast enough.

  There was no hesitation as Bolan brought his own Desert Eagle into play, his finger already curled across the trigger.

  Delaware fired in the same instant.

  The shots were muffled by the sheeting rain.

  The woman’s eyes registered shock as the slug cored in between them. It was a clean shot that rocked her dark head back, and she was dead by the time she hit the ground.

  Bolan felt the searing streak as her slug jarred his left side, over his ribs. It was a hard enough blow, and the impact forced him to his knees. The pain registered seconds later, and Bolan grit his teeth. The blood felt hot against his cold skin. He lowered the Desert Eagle and reached around to clamp his hand tightly over the ragged wound. He remained where he was for a moment, oblivious to the rain that was as cold as any grave.

  “No comeback, Lise Delaware,” he said. “Hegre is officially closed for business.”

  He climbed slowly to his feet. He was not looking forward to the trek back to the hidden car. When he walked past Delaware’s, body he saw her eyes were wide open, staring. The rain had washed her face clean of any blood from the hole in her forehead. The black Desert Eagle lay close to her right hand.

  He had just reached the tree line when he heard a dull thump of sound. Over his shoulder he saw a roll of flame rising from the house.

  * * *

  AS BOLAN TRUDGED ALONG, HIS side throbbed with pain. But at least the blood flow had almost stopped. Once he was in the cover of the forest, the rain’s power abated. Bolan kept on walking, his only thought to reach the Volvo and get inside.

  Overhead he heard the rumble of thunder. The storm had settled in for the duration.

  It took him a couple of hours to reach the SUV. He dragged away the camouflage, unlocked a door and crawled in the rear seat. It would have been so easy to simply lie back and close his eyes. That was not about to happen.

  His bags were in the trunk, so he had to exit the vehicle, open the rear and reach them. He took off his weapons and dumped them in the bag. Everything went except the 93-R. He would keep that in the glove box. Bolan took the smaller carryall and closed the trunk.

  Back inside the SUV he stripped off his blacksuit and boots. He had to move carefully because he didn’t want to start the wound bleeding again. He tore a T-shirt into ragged strips and bound his torso, covering the gash in his flesh. Dressing was a slow process, but he finally succeeded. The effort left him exhausted. He rested for a time, then hauled his aching body into the driver’s seat. He put the 93-R away, fired up the engine and set the heater to maximum. The flow of warm air felt good.

  Bolan reversed out of the trees, back onto the narrow trail where he turned the Volvo around and headed back to the regular highway. He gave silent praise for the engineers who had created power steering and automatic transmission. He followed the road back the way he had come in, settling in the comfortable seat, and drove.

  * * *

  JACK GRIMALDI WAS NO doctor. Still, years of involvement with the Executioner had given him some skill with emergency medical treatment when it came to dealing with the aftermath of Bolan’s missions.

  The tap on Grimaldi’s door had a
familiar cadence to it and he opened it to see his longtime friend standing there.

  “Jack, is the doctor’s office open for business?”

  Bolan walked into the room and collapsed in a chair.

  Grimaldi closed the door and turned to his friend.

  “You got a bandage?” Bolan asked. His voice sounded tired.

  Bolan barely recalled the drive back to Bellingham. He had taken it slow, conscious of the heavy rain swamping the tarmac. Only two vehicles passed him on his return to the town. When he had finally braked in the hotel parking lot Bolan had simply sat there. He hadn’t moved for some time. He had little energy left. The pain from Delaware’s bullet wound had increased during the drive. He was certain now that he had at least a cracked rib. He had eventually eased himself out of the Volvo, crossing to the entrance. The rain was still falling and the heavy clouds overhead threatened more.

  Grimaldi noticed the way Bolan was holding his hand across his side. He moved the hand clear and slid the zip down and opened the leather jacket. There was a semi-dry patch of blood staining Bolan’s shirt.

  “Souvenir?”

  “Runner-up prize,” Bolan said.

  The Stony Man pilot went to the kettle and flicked the switch. He opened a sachet of instant coffee and dropped the granules into a mug.

  “You get it done?”

  “Slate’s clean, Jack.”

  “No leftovers?

  Bolan shook his head. “Not this time. Hegre has been canceled.”

  Grimaldi handed Bolan the mug of coffee. He waited as he took a drink. There was a question ready to be asked but Grimaldi hesitated.

  “Just say it, Jack.”

  “The woman—Delaware.”

  “Like I said, Jack, Hegre’s done. Totally.”

  And that was it. Grimaldi nodded. No need to take it any further.

  “Finish your coffee,” he said. “I’ll get your key from the clerk and get your bag from your room. Then check us out and we can head for the airport.”

  Twenty minutes later Grimaldi was driving them to the airport. Bolan waited in the car while the pilot readied the Beechcraft. He loaded their luggage and arranged for the Volvo to be picked up by the rental company.

  “You set, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan looked out through the rain-streaked windshield.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  “You sure you don’t want to hang on for treatment?”

  “I’m sure,” Bolan said.

  Grimaldi had picked up a few bottles of water and a pack of pain killers. Bolan swallowed a handful and washed them down.

  “I’m good.”

  “Good? I’m not so sure,” Grimaldi said. “Crazy I’m certain about.”

  He taxied the Beechcraft across the apron and positioned it on the runway. A voice came through his headphones. Grimaldi smiled at the question.

  “Rain? Hell, son, this isn’t rain. Storms are my specialty.”

  He powered up and rolled along the runway. The Beechcraft rose from the tarmac in a textbook lift off. Grimaldi set his course and settled in for the long flight.

  Beside him Mack Bolan watched the wipers raking back and forth. The steady rhythm of the blades held his attention. He let himself relax, the effect of the tablets he had swallowed taking the edge of his pain. He was coming down now from the powerful adrenaline surge that had engulfed him during his Hegre strike. It took time. Right now that was what he had.

  Time.

  A break from the hell grounds.

  Time for him to let his mind and body recover.

  Bolan closed his eyes and the world eventually rolled away and he achieved a semblance of peace.

  * * *

  THERE WERE MATTERS to be resolved over the next few days.

  Bolan spoke to SAC Drake Duncan. He asked for a face-to-face meeting with the man. It would have been easy for Bolan to have simply spoken to Duncan by phone. That was not Bolan’s way. He faced up to his responsibilities.

  Duncan was in a somber mood when they met in a quiet corner of one of Washington’s parks. He held out a hand and Bolan took it.

  “I can’t say I’m entirely happy with the way this ended,” Duncan said.

  “Mitchell deserved more,” Bolan agreed. “A hell of a lot more than being shot down like that without a chance to defend herself.”

  “Damn right.” Duncan cleared his throat. “Cooper, you said she held her own all the way through until that time?”

  “Every step of the way. Let’s say I would never want her angry at me. I’d have her by my side on any mission.”

  “Happy to hear that,” someone said from behind Bolan and Duncan.

  The lean, gray-haired man who had come up behind them, quietly, spoke with a determined tone.

  Bolan saw a middle-aged man, conservatively dressed. He held himself erect and gave off an air of controlled vitality.

  His eyes were fixed on Bolan.

  They were Sarah Mitchell’s eyes, as much as the mouth was Mitchell’s.

  The man was her father, Jonathon Mitchell.

  “You’re Cooper,” Mitchell said.

  “Sir.”

  Mitchell held his gaze and Bolan was trying to establish just what the man was thinking. Whatever else Jonathon Mitchell was, he was good at keeping his emotions in check.

  “Drake, here, has given me all the relevant facts,” Mitchell said. “At least the facts he is allowed to divulge. It seems anything beyond your name is somewhat not for my ears.”

  “I did explain...” Duncan said.

  Mitchell held up a firm hand. “Drake, you made your case and it’s fine.”

  He turned to Bolan again. “Mr. Cooper, my reason for joining Drake is so that I can say my piece here today. I understand fully the covert nature of your business. That aside, my prime concern is my daughter. From what I have learned her accompanying you on your mission was down to her dedication to the FBI, her overwhelming need to follow through on a case involving the deaths of her fellow agents and the desire to see criminals brought to justice. Now I was ready to take you to task because you involved Sarah in dangerous business. When I had time to think, I realized that would have been unfair. My daughter knows her own mind. She would not have volunteered, as Drake put it, for anything but the right reasons. She is a trained, dedicated FBI agent. Putting herself in harm’s way comes with the badge.”

  “It was still my responsibility,” Bolan said. “She was hurt on my watch.”

  “Sarah told me you would say something like that,” Mitchell said. “She also said if I tried to put the guilt trip on...well, I’m sure you’ll be able to figure that out.”

  “She’s awake and talking?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes, and making life difficult for everyone around her. If you want to do something for me, son, go see her. She’s asking for you every five minutes.”

  “My next call,” Bolan replied.

  “Just to set my mind at rest,” Mitchell said. “Did it all end successfully?”

  “Yes,” Duncan said. He could sense Bolan’s unwillingness to become involved in a discussion. “The Iranian threat has been resolved. And Hegre will not be causing us any more problems.”

  “And Sarah?” Bolan asked.

  “Her job is safe. I will see to that. She did the FBI proud.”

  “Thank you, Drake,” Mitchell said, still watching Bolan. There was a quiet nod from Mitchell that brought a barely noticeable response from the soldier. “And thanks again to you, Mr. Cooper.”

  “I’ll see you later, Duncan,” Bolan said and moved on.

  “A good man,” Mitchell said.

  Duncan smiled at that.

  You will never know, he thought.

  *
* *

  BOLAN MADE HIS way to the intensive care unit where Mitchell had been brought after her flight from Aktau. That had been almost a week ago. Bolan would have visited sooner. He had been tied up with details at Stony Man and he had decided not to call and see Mitchell until he had cleared the air with Duncan and, especially, Jonathon Mitchell.

  The intensive care unit was bright and decorated in muted pastel colors. Mitchell’s room was at the far end and had a large window at one side that looked out on the manicured grounds. Beyond was the Washington skyline. The solid buildings declared the permanence of the city. Traffic could been seen moving silently along the wide avenues.

  Pausing to look through the viewing window, Bolan was reminded of seeing Mitchell in the Aktau hospital. Unmoving. Pale and lifeless. Not the vibrant woman he was used to. Now it was different. Mitchell was still lying down, still attached to a number of tubes, but at least she was able to breathe on her own again.

  She saw him after a few seconds, her lips curving into a smile, and she beckoned him to join her. Bolan pushed open the door and stepped inside the room.

  Mitchell watched him, noticed the way he moved, still favoring his side where Delaware’s bullet had hit.

  “What happened?”

  “A parting gift.”

  “Mmm.” Mitchell eyed him solemnly. “The way you said that makes me think you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Still the hotshot agent. Never miss a thing.”

  “What can a girl say?”

  “I talked to Duncan earlier,” Bolan told her.

  “Is he still mad at you?”

  “We kind of came to an understanding.”

  “Did my name crop up?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you didn’t screw things up for me.”

  “I think you’ll still have your job when they let you out of here.”

  “Only think?”

  “Don’t worry, Agent Mitchell, Duncan will have your badge safe.”