Terror Ballot

by Don Pendleton

  As Bolan moved slowly in an arc that paralleled his opponents, Bolan ran the numbers in his head. The children were his priority, and if necessary, he would give his life to free them. He could see no way, however, to make that exchange. Yes, he could give his life but not in a way that would free the hostages.

  Besides Roelle and his .50-caliber pistol, there were four other gunmen stationed around the room, all of them obviously stamped out in whatever metaphorical factory supplied Souffrir with Zulu gun-thugs. Two of those shooters were within Bolan’s line of sight, but the other two were blocked by the chicken-wire enclosure and the terrified kids within it. Bolan would not be able to draw a proper bead on either of them from where he now stood.

  The bigger man, Shamir, attempted a deep, circular strike that cleaved the air where Bolan’s collarbone had been a moment before. He slipped aside from that, stepping away, only to catch the edge of Tehrab’s blade along his left forearm. The machete bit, but not deeply, and as it did, Bolan made the man pay for it. He brought his fighting knife’s false edge up under the gang member’s arm, slicing deeply, cutting in and around the arm. Tehrab screamed horribly. Blood splashed the floor.

  Shamir was not impressed. Possibly this was not the first time Roelle had played this game with his men and his enemies. It was likely, in fact, that all concerned had seen knife fights of this type played out with bloody and predictable results. The huge man tried to carve a hunk from Bolan’s flank, striking forward and laterally, his weapon almost at waist level. Bolan arched his back, avoiding the tip of the blade, and spread his arms wide as he stepped out and left.

  There were two ways to fight a man with a blade. One, he could use his off hand to shield his body and, in the process, absorb damage with the arm that might kill him eventually from blood loss. Two, he could make an effort to keep his vital organs, his body’s center line, out of the strike zone. It was not feasible to battle through Roelle’s defenses and continue with Bolan’s mission if he were spraying his own blood everywhere.

  Of course, the foolishness, the fundamental stupidity, of a knife fight was that it was not possible to win every duel. Sooner or later the law of averages was bound to catch up with you, as Tehrab, likely scarred from previous knife battles, had just learned. The smaller man was effectively out of the fight, cradling his deboned arm and turning shark-belly pale as his blood soaked through his fingers.

  All those thoughts flashed through Bolan’s mind in an instant as he formulated his plan. He required precise timing for this to work; he also needed to know that every one of his shots would count. That meant the Beretta, with its custom sound suppressor attached, was not the best option. While accurate and reliable, the weapon’s lighter 9 mm cartridge did not have the knock-down power he required.

  Bolan’s eyes went to the Desert Eagle on the floor.

  He knew the weapon was primed to fire. He had placed it on the floor with the safety off and the hammer cocked, knowing he might need to scoop it up and fire it quickly. Now was the time to do that. He just needed to line up two very important variables.

  “Stop dancing around and kill him!” Roelle shouted impatiently. “Or I will do it for you!” The gang leader gestured with his ostentatious pistol.

  Bolan had used the .50 AE Desert Eagle himself on more than one occasion. He was dimly aware that the big, distinctive weapon, in all its calibers, was a favorite of television and movie producers. A gold-plated gun like Roelle’s was a status symbol.

  One rarely saw the fall of a third-world dictator that did not involve triumphant rebels waving around the elaborately engraved sidearms those tyrants invariably possessed. Roelle, who undoubtedly saw himself as Paris’s crime lord and master, would carry his for the same reason.

  While Bolan had no doubt that the monstrous gang leader had used his pistol to kill others, it was unlikely such a man would put in the time to master fast, accurate shooting with so heavy a round, at 300 grains. The weapon would be a handful to use on a quickly moving target, which the Executioner was about to become.

  Bolan’s own .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, and the man who wielded it, was a considerably different prospect. The pistol had been action-tuned and mated to its custom-loaded rounds by the Farm’s weaponsmith to provide optimum muzzle energy and accuracy. Shamir attempted to flank the soldier, which gave Bolan exactly the trajectory he needed.

  The Executioner dived into a forward roll, still holding his combat knife. With a grunt of pain he absorbed the impact on his shoulder, coming up on one knee next to his temporarily discarded weapons, hurling his combat knife as hard as he could in Roelle’s direction.

  Snatching the Desert Eagle, Bolan popped to his feet, standing at full height, shot his arm forward as he turned his body into a classic target-shooting posture and pumped a single round from the .44 Magnum pistol through Shamir’s left eyeball.

  The 240-grain bullet exited Shamir’s skull and struck the guard standing in line and beyond the machete-wielding corpse. Bolan turned and fired, not pausing to watch his next round take the second of the four guards in the face. He then raised his arm and angled the pistol down, riding out the painful recoil in his bent wrist, forcing himself to hold the weapon rigid despite the poor form.

  His shots, angled high and down to clear the prisoner enclosure, struck the third and fourth guards. One took a round through the chest and fell as if poleaxed. The other was struck in the base of the neck on one side. He went down gurgling, drowning in his own fluids. The bullet had to have ruptured the subclavian artery as it cored through him.

  Bolan couldn’t stop, wouldn’t quit, didn’t dare cease his motion. Bolan rolled again and missed a left-handed slash from Tehrab. The man was ashen now and would probably die on his own if his wound was not treated. He swung at Bolan again, unsteady on his feet, his eyes wide with dawning recognition that his body was failing him.

  The children were screaming. A part of Bolan’s mind noted that, adding to his urgency, prodding him to run for the perimeter of the hall so as not to put the hostages between Roelle and himself. The thunder of the gang leader’s gold-plated pistol was not unexpected when it began.

  Bolan had never intended to make a kill shot with a thrown knife while on the move at that distance. It was virtually impossible. But the knife had been accurate enough, and come hard enough, that it had forced Roelle to put his head down, fouling the gang leader’s shots while Bolan took out the guards.

  The soldier tumbled and landed on his back, bringing up the Desert Eagle in both hands, targeting the gilded throne. He would see to it that Roelle died in that chair—

  But Roelle was not there. He was running across the space between his chair and the enclosure, shooting at Bolan as he ran. Before the soldier could draw a bead on his quarry, Roelle had reached a section of the chicken wire that only appeared to be attached to the rest. He peeled it back with one arm and, reaching in with a roar, emptying his gold weapon in Bolan’s direction, he snatched the nearest cowering child.

  As he did so, he tossed his pistol at his attacker. The weapon was empty, and the gang leader knew it. With both hands he ran with the child, back in the direction of his throne.

  Bolan could do nothing but push to his feet and give chase. He rammed his Desert Eagle into his beltline as he ran past his other weapons, snatching up the Beretta and the M16 in separate hands, thrusting the Beretta back into its shoulder holster with muscle memory born of thousands of repetitions. Still running, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, he kicked open the hidden door behind Roelle’s throne, which the gang leader had opened and closed in attempting his escape.

  The door had been behind one of the wall hangings, but Roelle had ripped that free in passing. The tight hallway into which Bolan pursued him was some kind of maintenance manway, cluttered with exposed pipes that forced Bolan to duck and dodge lest he knock himself unconscious by colliding with one. The p
ipes also obscured his view of Roelle.

  They were heading out of the building.

  Bolan’s sense of direction told him that much. They were on a direct course for the exterior of the tenement, several stories up, and there was nowhere to go....

  The square of sunlight nearly blinded him. Roelle had opened a door to the outside and now stood on what Bolan surmised was a fire escape or similar landing. The square of light began to recede. Bolan raised the M16 and prepared himself for the difficult shot he would have to take.

  The door closed.

  Bolan poured on the speed. He hit the door with all his weight, smashing it open again. The sunlight outside, compared to the dim interior of the tenement and the darkened manway, dazzled him for a moment. On the fire escape below him, Roelle was already making access to the street level. His hostage, a hysterical girl of perhaps three years old, was tucked under one arm like a football.

  Bolan raised the M16 once more.

  Roelle was running. His forward motion would make the shot that much more difficult. Bolan caught another figure approaching in his peripheral vision. Roelle saw it, too, and something about it forced him to stop short.

  Bolan shot him.

  The round punched a neat hole through the back of the gang leader’s thigh. Roelle bleated, falling to one knee. Bolan slid down the fire escape’s multiple levels, vaulting the landings and using the ladders like firemen’s poles, until the soles of his combat boots were on the narrow street, and he was charging toward the would-be child-murderer.

  “Drop that kid!” Bolan shouted. “Drop that kid or the next round will find the back of your head!”

  Roelle turned, snarling. As if remembering something, he pivoted to whatever had caught his attention before.

  Bayard stood there, his .38 pointed at the gang leader. His weapon belched flame, once, striking Roelle in his free arm. He shouted in pain and grabbed at the wound, dropping his hostage in the process. Bayard ran forward and scooped up the child, turning to put the rest of his body—and his revolver—between Roelle and the child.

  “It is over,” Bayard said. “You are defeated.”

  The gang leader dropped his head to his chest. On one knee he looked almost as if he were praying. The pool of blood beneath him was growing, but slowly. It would take time for his wounds to kill him. A hospital could save his life easily.

  When Roelle raised his head again, it was to laugh.

  Bayard almost flinched. He looked to Bolan, then up at the fire escape. Black smoke was beginning to pour out of the manway exit. Bolan saw it, too. The combat inside, the explosions, perhaps even the action of some unseen gang member who had chosen not to confront the soldier’s invasion, had started a fire within the tenement.

  “Watch him!” Bolan ordered. Before Bayard could protest, Bolan was back on the fire escape, pulling himself up the ladders, making his way inside once more. He nearly brained himself on a low-hanging pipe in the manway, but avoided it at the last minute, emerging once more in Roelle’s main hall.

  The smoke that was trailing through the manway and into the sky outside was coming from the corridor beyond the doors. He couldn’t do anything about that now. The lock on the chicken-wire cage was easily smashed with the butt of his Desert Eagle.

  Telling the children in French to hold each other’s hands, he managed to form a chain of the hostages. At the head of that chain, he led the kids out of the hall, through the manway and then carefully down the fire escape. By the time he was on the street once more, he was fighting a cough. The smoke was thick above him.

  Roelle’s cackling echoed off the nearby buildings. Bolan listened for sirens, for movement, for any other sign that the battle in the tenement had drawn official attention. He detected nothing. Only Roelle’s deep, sonorous laughter reached his ears.

  “What have you to laugh about?” Bayard demanded. The girl he held was crying. He brought her to the others and began checking each one for injury, all the while keeping one eye on the gang leader.

  “You have stopped nothing,” Roelle said. “All know the name of Roelle and my organization. In a day’s time twenty more will flock to my banner. In a week, fifty. You have saved the spawn of the Red Death, yes. Congratulations. They will grow to be adults and fight you themselves. You are in our territory. This is the way of suffering.”

  “We need to get the fire under control,” Bolan said. “This block will burn out of control if we don’t.”

  “Were I confident that only this fetid tenement would become ashes, I would let it do so,” Bayard stated. He sighed. “I have made certain calls. Help is coming.”

  Bolan’s head snapped up. Multiple vehicles were converging on their location. He put his back to Bayard and raised his M16.

  “Cover Roelle,” Bolan said. “I still don’t hear any sirens.”

  “You won’t,” Bayard said. “Lower your weapon for a moment, Cooper. Or we do not leave this block alive.”

  Bolan shot the inspector a look. “You’re out of your car,” he observed.

  “A rare thing here,” Bayard told him. “As I warned.”

  The vehicles that arrived were all expensive imports. The men who emerged were Caucasians, their clothing casual, even slovenly, compared to the cars they drove. Each had a red bandanna somewhere on his person.

  “The Red Death,” Bolan said. “You alerted them.”

  “I made certain calls.” Now, in the distance, a siren’s wail could be heard. “The fire will be dealt with.”

  The Red Death gang members were pointing automatic weapons, most of them Beretta 12-series guns, at Bolan and Bayard. Several came forward and took the children in tow. With quiet words in French they guided the former hostages to the vehicles.

  “Their parents will be waiting,” Bayard said. “A few are perhaps among these rescuers.”

  “Rescuers,” Bolan repeated.

  “Yes,” Bayard said. “Keep your weapons low. They will grant us safe passage regardless. They owe me a debt now. But that debt comes at a terrible cost.”

  “What cost?” Bolan asked.

  “I have taken sides,” Bayard said. “Against Souffrir and for the Red Death. It puts me in a very difficult position. Red Death will expect me to side with them in the future, and if I do not, I will be judged a traitor to them. This is worse than avoiding involvement altogether. And of course I have made a mortal enemy in whatever remains of Souffrir. You have waged a very effective one-man war, Agent Cooper. I must say I am surprised.”

  “You don’t sound happy.” Bolan took his smartphone from his pocket. There were several messages from the Farm, received while he was engaged in battle. One of them informed him that there was breaking news of some kind coming in the media. This news was significant. He should stay alert, the message informed him, and stand by for the aftermath.

  “Would you be?” Bayard asked. He indicated Roelle with a jerk of his chin. The gang leader was no longer laughing. He was watching the Red Death members as they returned to their cars and drove away without giving Roelle so much as a second glance. “My life will have quite a price attached to it now. I do not look forward to the dangers this will pose to me. I told you. The politics are...”

  “Delicate,” Bolan supplied. “I remember. And him?” Bolan pointed to Roelle.

  “I will take him to the DCRI,” Bayard said. “But he is correct. He will be out only too soon. And when he is, the streets will run red with blood. A war between Souffrir and the Red Death will claim many innocent lives. Some of them may be the very children you saved today. In the end, very little will be gained by this and much trouble.”

  “So you would’ve just let it be?” Bolan demanded. “Let the two gangs work out their problems together, no matter how many children they used as pawns along the way? No matter how many innocents were slaughtered like
sheep? They were housed like penned goats in there, Bayard.”

  “I do not dispute that. I am simply explaining that your actions, while incredibly brave, are futile. The gangs will murder each other tomorrow as they did today. And Roelle, free of the system once more, will be more vicious than ever.”

  “That is right,” Roelle said. “It may take a year or two.” He grinned, showing his gold teeth. “But I will make you pigs, you snakes, a promise. Perhaps when I am free once more, I will go to the finest neighborhood in Paris, perhaps find a child. Maybe I will murder that child in vengeance for what you have done here today. Blood will be on your hands, for you have dared to defy the mighty Roelle, here where he is most powerful. I will murder a child because—”

  The Executioner snapped the Desert Eagle from his holster, extended his arm and shot Roelle in the face, blowing the man’s brains through the forest of his dreadlocks and onto the street behind him. The body stood for several moments before toppling to the pavement.

  “Get back in your car, Inspector,” Bolan said. Bayard’s jaw had dropped. He looked on in horror and astonishment.

  “But...” he said. “You...”

  “Get back in your car,” Bolan repeated. “It’s time to go.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “He’s talking to his superiors now,” Bolan said. He spoke into his smartphone as he sat in an interrogation room in the DCRI office from which Bayard was based. “I suspect he’s giving them his account of how a gangster and would-be child-killer named Roelle met his maker.”

  “I read your text report,” Barbara Price stated. The Farm’s mission controller sounded more concerned than usual. “Striker, I know it was necessary.”

  “The kids are with their parents,” Bolan said. “It was necessary.”

  “I know. But you’ve inserted yourself in a gang war.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bolan said. “Nor am I going to let that stop me from doing what’s right. You know that.”