I weave back and forth across the center stripe to throw off the gunners' aim. I drive one-handed and grasp my Uzi and make sure it's ready to fire.
In my rearview the Jag's closing fast. I need to finish this fight stat. I won't drag this battle along the city streets and wreak collateral damage. I don't want civilians injured or killed.
A side street appears on my right. I punch the HEMI and swing hard and make the turn on two wheels. The Jeep rocks into touchdown and clears the corner. Behind me the Jag's driver misses the turn and slams his brakes and reverses on smoking rubber.
Again I punch the HEMI and its supercharger roars. I'm looking for a killing ground to make my stand.
I turn hard left and hit a narrow bridge that spans a dark waterway. It's an offshoot of the Hackensack river. Beyond the bridge there's a rail yard and that's where I'll hunker down.
Then I see my error. I've picked a dead-end. A heavy barrier seals the bridge and a sign reads CLOSED FOR REPAIR. I'm boxed in with Bravda gunners at my rear.
I slam the brake pedal and twist the Jeep's wheel and pull a smoking U-turn. The force of the maneuver shoves me against my seat.
I bail out of the Jeep and use its open driver door for cover. I drop the window and use the sill as a gun rest with the Uzi in my fist.
The Jag roars from the alley then slows and turns and rolls with caution toward the bridge. Three doors fling open and three gunners unload and swing their guns in my direction.
Before the Bravdas get off any shots I hit them with a short burst from the Uzi. Scimitars hack through the nearest Bravda's chest and he sprawls onto the pavement.
I loose another slashing burst that scatters the other two soldiers. They recoil and drop behind the creeping Jag on either side and use it for cover. I bolt from the Jeep and dive into new cover behind a parked construction truck.
The Jag driver brakes to a halt fifty yards downrange. The two gunners edge ahead of the car and fire as they move. They're trying to flank me and no mistake.
I duck below the leaden hail as the truck takes repeated hits and rocks on its springs. Its windshield shatters and both headlights blow out. The Bravdas continue their flanking advance and keep firing on the move. They're on the bridge and thirty yards out and closing for the kill.
There's a ladder on the back of the truck that grants access to a rooftop cargo rack. I sling the Uzi and scale the ladder and reach the top of the truck.
Now I've got an elevated field of fire and a chance to take the gunners unaware. There's no damn choice. If I don't repel the assault I'm trapped. I'm doomed.
I bury the dismal thought and focus on action. On retaliation. I'll put my faith in speed and accuracy and the element of surprise.
I level the Uzi and hit the nearest Bravda with a blazing figure-eight. Bullets drill his torso from crotch to throat and he tumbles like a broken mannequin.
His comrade snarls and raises his weapon toward me but he never gets a chance to fire. I hit the Uzi's trigger and the man stumbles and screams in pain. The Uzi barks again and the gunner falls on his face and dies groveling in blood and torment.
I pull the Uzi's empty magazine and feed a fresh mag into the subgun's pistol grip. The Jag driver accelerates on screaming rubber. It's a head-on assault. A banzai charge.
I let the Uzi rip in a blaze of vengeful autofire. Scimitars drill the Jag's windshield in a zigzag shape and safety glass flies. The driver lurches and tips sideways in a burst of crimson.
The unguided Jag slews and punches through a safety rail then it's off the bridge and airborne. It hits the river's dark water with a massive splash and tips inverted and sinks in seconds flat.
I reload the Uzi and leap from the truck and reach the Jeep and climb inside. I fire the HEMI and I'm relieved to hear it running strong.
Sirens echo in the distance as PD squad cars respond to the blazing firefight. There's no time to linger and I power out and hit the road.
I stick to dim side streets until I reach Cayuga Highway. No police cars tail me or stop me and it looks like I'm running free.
I find a Texaco service station and refuel the Jeep. A quick scan reveals no major damage to its tires or drivetrain. Its metalwork's scarred but intact. It's still in the fight.
I leave the Texaco and hit I-95 heading south. I've formed a brand-new plan. I'm surging toward a Mob Enforcer named Boris Yezov. He's another Russian and according to intel Zorin's main rival on U.S. soil. I mean to exploit that rivalry and gain a lead on Zorin.
I check my wristwatch. I've got five hours to operate under cover of darkness. Five hours to salvage the mission or die trying. Damn right. I grit my teeth and turn south toward a mysterious realm called the Pine Barrens.
FOUR
New Jersey Pine Barrens
Fifty Minutes later
I leave the Garden State Parkway at Exit 22 and reach State Road 70. After twenty miles I veer left on Misery Road and I'm inside the Barrens. I meet no other traffic and that helps my odds of proceeding unobserved.
After fifteen minutes my GPS squawks and tells me I've reached my waypoint. I nose the Jeep into a copse of Jack Needle Pines. The stout trees screen the SUV and hide it from passing drivers. I kill the HEMI and climb out and check for enemy action. There's none.
I open the Jeep's cargo bay and pull combat gear. I don my standard SWAT-type blacksuit and helmet and boots and goggles. Also ALICE and MOLLE webbing.
I'm packing a SCAR 5.56-millimeter assault rifle. The SCAR's equipped with a ten-inch shorty barrel and a Trijicon ZPZ digital reflex sight. I'm ready for the challenge that lies ahead. Ready but not bulletproof.
I draw a deep breath and let the scent of pine resin fill my nostrils. It's time to move and I step ahead through the trees. I keep a sharp watch for rattlesnakes along the way.
I'm also wary of the Jersey Devil. It's a man-eating monster said to inhabit the Barrens. Of course it's a legend. But the monsters I'm battling are very real. Like all monsters they'll sow terror and torment until they're destroyed.
I forge ahead toward Boris Yezov's woodland retreat. I'm betting he's there. I hope so. I'm counting on it.
My Tactix wristwatch has a GPS built-in and I use it to guide me through the trees. I shift upslope for fifty paces and freeze in my tracks. A man-shape moves ahead. It's a sentry and he carries a folding stock AK-47.
I drop into a crouch at the base of a Pine and grip the SCAR. I slit my eyes. Watching. Waiting.
The man halts and lets his weapon hang on its sling. He pulls a cigarette and lights it and its tip glows red in the dark. He's a threat and he needs to go.
I lower the SCAR and pull a garrote and slip behind the guard. He's gazing up at the stars and ignorant to immediate danger. That kind of negligence brings you pain. It gets you killed.
I bring the garrote down across the man's throat and yank its handles. The loop of inelastic polymer wire crushes his larynx and splits his jugular. Blood jets and spatters tree trunks and glistens in the moonlight.
I twist to throw the guard off balance and maintain pressure and the man's death tremors fade. I use the wire to pull the corpse out of sight.
In the next instant another guard steps into view from behind a tree. He's close enough to touch and he claws for his rifle. There's no time to pull a garrote.
I loft the SCAR over my head and charge and slam the rifle's buttstock into the guard's face. Blood bursts from his crushed nose and lips and he staggers and sprawls.
I straddle the fallen man and cover his mouth with my gloved left hand. Meantime I use my right hand to spring the Tanto and thrust its blade into his solar plexus. I twist the blade once and the guard shivers and goes stiff.
I stow the knife and shove upright and raise the SCAR and send out combat feelers. There's nothing to alert me. I draw a breath. The dead men represented Yezov's outer defenses. I have to move fast before anyone discovers the slaughter. Before my enemies realize their danger.
I reach a wooded hilltop and
drop into a crouch and scan ahead. Yezov's log-built mansion occupies the ground below. It's impossible to miss. It's a seven-figure rustic palace.
Security lights burn along the mansion's roof. They cast hard white light across foot patrols roving the home's perimeter. Each patrol comprises two men and they circulate among the trees.
I level the SCAR and check its integrated ATAC rocket launcher. The ATAC's another design from the Picatinny Arsenal. It spits 25-millimeter gyrojet projectiles at a velocity of 750 feet per-second. It's a semi-auto weapon and that means it fires as fast as I can pull the trigger.
I'm counting on the ATAC to give me the edge I need. I'm counting on portable artillery to crack Yezov's cage.
The ATAC's magazine fed and each polymer mag's color-coded. Green for HE-fragmentation. Gray for rifle darts. Orange for chemical rounds. Each mag holds four shots. That's not a huge amount. Granted. But anything larger's too bulky.
Spare mags ride in MOLLE bandoleers strapped across my chest. I've memorized the locations of the mag types so I can find them by touch alone. I've loaded a green HE mag to kickstart the firestorm.
I check my wristwatch. It's midnight. It's the hour when human reflexes grow sluggish and the human brain winds down. That means at least some enemy defenders will be less alert. It's another edge.
I draw a deep breath. There's zero time to waste. I shift down the terraced slope and pass two gunners undetected. I won't engage. Not yet. Any confrontation this near the house poses risk of exposure. I can't let that happen. I'm saving everything for the main event.
At one hundred yards I'm well within the ATAC's effective range. That gives me pinpoint accuracy. I move ahead and reach a hulking shape. It's a log pile bound with chain.
Another patrol approaches in the darkness. I shift behind the logs and let the men pass. They're conversing in Russian and carry sidearms and AKs.
These men are well-armed but not on full alert. A keen soldier would've spotted me. But no. The guards are too casual and that makes my job easier. At least in theory.
I can't get overconfident. If I'm miscalculate or overplay my hand I'm SOL. I shift ahead with caution and crouch at the base of another Pine. I'm fifty yards from the house. The ground ahead's clear and slopes to a broad patio.
In front of the house there's a pair of black Escalades. I raise the SCAR to my shoulder and grasp the ATAC launcher's short pistol grip. I place the weapon's scarlet ring-dot reticle on the nearest Escalade.
Recoil from the ATAC's minimal. A firm hand will hold it steady. Sure. Even in rapid-fire.
I hit the ATAC's trigger and send a Dragon rocket hurtling toward the Escalade's nose. Stub fins flick from the Dragon's tail and stabilize its flightpath. Its gyrojet motor burns bright like a mini-comet in the dark.
My aim's true and the Dragon hits the SUV's grille dead-center. That trips the Dragon's M-20A1 impact fuse and blows its HE filler.
The Escalade rears up on a ball of oily flame and seething shock waves mangle its front end. Its hood flies off and trails swirling smoke. A ruptured fuel line ignites and there's a rocking secondary blast.
I squeeze off another Dragon and it strikes the second Escalade and blows it to flaming hell. Liquid streamers of burning gasoline arc high and cast a shimmering red glow.
Rippling heat scorches nearby Pines and turns foliage into smoldering kindle. It's not enough to start a wildfire and that's a damn good thing. There's no danger of mass environmental damage.
A dozen guards run toward the sudden devastation. I let them gather near the burning SUVs and squeeze off another Dragon double-punch. Churning fireballs engulf the troops and razor shrapnel hacks them to bloody shreds.
Other guards approach from the opposite direction. They're too close and I can't use HE and that calls for a change of ammo.
I dump the ATAC's empty magazine and snap in a brand-new mag. This time it's colored gray and that means rifle darts. The physical action of changing mags doesn't need much conscious effort. It's fast and smooth.
I re-aim and loose two Stinger rockets. Downrange .177-caliber finned steel darts drill flesh and bone. Men scream and spew blood and topple into piles of leaking meat.
A brand-new squad of hardmen appears on my right. Their rifles track toward me and spit flame. Bullets wallop the Pine tree and shred bark and clip foliage. One slug nicks my ear and another drills my sleeve.
I grimace and recoil. I've pushed too far and I need to fall back and find cover. I hate to retreat but there's no other choice. If I stand my ground I'll perish.
I backpedal toward the log pile and drop into a low crouch. I'm covered but not safe. I risk a glance around the logs with the ATAC leading.
One man shouts and points in my direction. The troops press ahead and aim their rifles. Before they can pin me I loose two Stinger rockets in rapid-fire.
A storm of rifle darts drills flesh and bone and vitals. The nearest four men spin and tumble like rag dolls caught in a hurricane. I follow through with several short bursts from the SCAR. Power Strike bullets punch two men into screaming death.
There's sudden eerie calm. I've neutralized all immediate threats and I need to forge ahead. I reload the SCAR with a Surefire 60-round coffin magazine. Then I reload the ATAC with a chemical magazine.
I pull an M-90 compact gas mask from its MOLLE pouch. I slip the mask over my face and tighten its straps for a snug fit.
I kick off toward the house and grip the SCAR and fire on the move. My bullets shatter the mansion's security lights on the east side as I approach. Now I'm cloaked in murky shadow and that improves my odds of survival.
I raise the ATAC and trigger four Piranha chemical warfare rockets. I aim at the mansion's upstairs and downstairs windows. The Piranhas hurtle in on tails of flame and smash through plate glass and detonate inside the house.
The hissing cans expel a payload of Tetrachloride riot gas. That causes acute coughing and eye swelling and skin burning. Nasty stuff. Yeah. In combat there's no place for velvet gloves. War's hell and that's a fact.
I step toward the house. A door flings open and a trooper stumbles out.
He gags and chokes with eyes swollen shut and his skin's mottled purple. Tendrils of orange gas cling to his head and shoulders and torso. He drops to his knees and claws at his weeping eyes and topples face down in a twitching heap.
I reload the ATAC with a Stinger magazine. The steel darts will serve me well for CQC. That means Close Quarters Combat.
I move ahead with determined strides. I can't stop now. Hesitation's lethal. I reach the open doorway and step across the threshold with the ATAC's stubby muzzle leading. I find myself inside a sprawling rec room. There's a pool table and big-screen TVs and gaming consoles and plush reclining chairs.
I peer through the M-90's fish-eye lenses. The gas mask uses NATO chemical filters to keep noxious fumes out of my throat and lungs.
I step through swirling orange fog and catch motion to my left. It's three hardmen and they wheeze and hack and stumble with guns raised. I hit them with a Stinger rocket at near point-blank range.
A storm of whistling darts hits those murky figures and they vault back in gouts of blood. Scarlet mist mixes with gun smoke and riot gas.
I step over the mangled corpses and reach another hallway. I need to find Boris Yezov and take him alive for interrogation. My gut knots and instinct tells me I'm running out of time. I have to keep searching and find my target before he escapes.
I pass through another corridor and reach a grand dining room. No one's present and I keep moving. Orange gas curls in and out of open rooms and clogs hallways.
I pause and tug the M-90's straps to ensure it still fits tight. At the same instant a gasping figure rushes toward my left side. He grips a compact pistol and snaps off a single shot that grazes my left arm.
I react without thinking. I slam the SCAR's butt into my attacker's ribs and knock him off balance. I draw the Tanto and drive its blade deep into the man's face with a sava
ge thrust.
The Tanto's razor tip glances off a cheekbone and shears through an eyeball before I rip it free. The man screams and drops his pistol and lurches away. He bounces against a door jam and brings both hands up to clasp his spurting wound.
I swing the SCAR's muzzle up and drill a single bullet through the reeling man's temple. Explosive impact hurls him through a sloppy cartwheel. His corpse hits the hardwood floor with a dull thump and skids for several feet.
Blood pounds in my ears and deafens me and I reach and test my wound. It's not bad and I can still function and I step over the crumpled carcass and keep moving.
There's a sign on a closed door and it's written in Cyrillic and it's gibberish to me. I kick the door open and find a large closet filled with household cleaning gear.
Hard Target Page 7
