Pirate Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  Charging out of the smoke, a second pirate hacked at Bolan with a bayonet attached to the end of his ultra-modern H&K G36 assault rifle. When had they joined the party?

  Barely managing to sway out of the way, Bolan felt the blade slice across his chest, the reinforced military steel only scoring a shallow gouge in the ceramic plates. Then Bolan slapped the barrel of the Desert Eagle into the other man’s exposed throat. Hacking for air, the pirate tried to get away, and Bolan shot him twice in the groin, then again in the face. The nearly headless corpse fell backward into eternity.

  The rooftop battle was pure chaos at this point, the flickering tongues of the different muzzle flashes briefly stabbing lethal clarity into the thinning smoke. The gull-spattered concrete was littered with piles of broken window glass and spent brass shells, making every step treacherous. Bright blue-white halogen headlights flashed as car alarms whooped. Tattered pieces of the dead lay everywhere, and dying men lay curled into balls, groaning into oblivion.

  High in the sky, a helicopter bearing the emblem of the Hong Kong police department appeared, and a uniformed officer inside shouted down a warning over a loudspeaker. Almost instantly it was hit with a barrage of 40 mm shells from the pirates. Ripped to pieces, the helicopter exploded into flames and plummeted toward the city streets.

  Bolan killed two more pirates and moved on. There was still no sign of Narmada anywhere. The logical assumption was that the captain was directing the battle from inside the armored bank truck. But that would have been like painting a bull’s-eye on the vehicle, which meant it was not where Narmada was located. Or was the truck a double-bluff?

  Damn, Bolan thought, crouching low behind a burning Volvo to reload both of his handguns. The man is as good as I am at misdirection.

  Reaching the elevator bank, Bolan took refuge behind an iron lamp post and switched the Beretta to full auto. Emptying the 18-round magazine, he was rewarded with several cries of pain. Then the lamp post rang like a bell as an incoming .50 slug slammed into the decorative steel support and blew out the other side. That had been close. Too damn close!

  Buying time with the Beretta, Bolan debated using his only explosive grenade. He had been saving it for Narmada, but this was a more pressing matter. Quickly reloading both guns, Bolan then grabbed the grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin and tossed the canister high into the air. As it started to arch back down, he turned sideways behind the lamp post for maximum coverage. He was dangerously close to the blast zone this time, but there was no other decent protection except for a row of Vespa scooters and a wooden bench bearing the logo of a local restaurant.

  A split second later, the Beretta spoke again, angled lower this time, and the big round zinged off the side of the lamp post, missing Bolan by the thickness of a prayer. The ringing echoed in his ears, and he could feel the vibrations in his bones. Then a Zastava fired a quick three times, and something passed his shoulder by a few inches.

  Standing perfectly still, Bolan angled the Beretta over a shoulder and blindly rattled off another full clip to forestall any further actions. What the hell was taking so damn long? In the heat of battle, Bolan knew that adrenaline could mess with your sense of time, but the grenade seemed to be taking forever to—

  A deafening thunderclap seemed to shake the entire structure, and Bolan was thrown to the ground. He rolled with the force of the blast to come back up on his knees, the Desert Eagle out and ready. The shockwave had cleared away a large patch of the dense smoke, and the steaming remains of the Triad gunmen and some of the Albanians lay in garish display.

  Then he spied a lumpy canvas bag amid the bloody debris. Recognizing it as standard Chinese army issue, Bolan waited a few moments for the fumes to fill in the gap and offer some small degree of protection before he advanced. Bolan checked inside the bag and found a dozen No. 82 grenades. Merry Christmas.

  Swiftly going to the elevator bank, Bolan pulled the pin on one of the grenades, tossed in the entire bag and hit the button for the level below. If Narmada was not in the bank truck, then he would be down there, as close to the action as possible without directly endangering himself.

  As the doors closed, Bolan pivoted and charged for the emergency stairs. He was halfway down to the next level when he heard the blast through the concrete wall. The ceiling lights flickered and died just as he reached the next door. He kicked it open, both of his guns out and sweeping for targets.

  Many more cars were parked on this level, along with quite a few motorcycles, trams and even a school bus.

  But much more important, Bolan saw Narmada. The giant was less than a hundred feet away, facing away from him and in the midst of activating what looked like an automated sentry gun. Set on a tripod, the armored box was equipped with a computer, sensors and a .38 machine pistol. If this target-seeking robot went active, Bolan was going to be in a world of pain.

  Just as the red light flashed into operation on top of the machine, Bolan fired the Desert Eagle twice, slamming the deadly machine aside and ripping off the video camera on top. The auto-sentry toppled over with a crash, and the housing burst open, spilling out broken circuit boards and loose wiring.

  Spinning around, Narmada made an inhuman growl and dove behind a Volvo. Shooting again, Bolan clipped the heel of his shoe. A moment later, a Russian F-1 grenade rolled out from underneath the car.

  Throwing himself backward, Bolan landed on the hood of a Lincoln Grand Marquis and then dove behind the front tire. A second later, the grenade exploded, and he heard the telltale patter of antipersonal shrapnel peppering the nearby vehicles. Headlights flashed, car alarms blared and the whitewall tire next to Bolan hissed from multiple punctures.

  Risking a fast glance, Bolan could not see Narmada but noted a Chinese man at the far end of the level. Standing near a black Hummer, the Triad gunman was partially obscured by a concrete pylon. He was wearing full body armor, including a helmet, and working the arming bolt on a Barrett Light .50 sniper rifle.

  Aiming the Desert Eagle from the hip, Bolan put a thundering pair of .357 Magnum bone-shredders into the man’s knees. Screaming obscenities, the Triad gunman fell, gushing crimson, the powerful weapon loudly discharging at the ceiling and blowing off a chunk of concrete. As his head tipped back, Bolan shot him in the neck, just below the helmet. The visor splattered with human viscera, and the Barrett fell away from lifeless hands to land on the dirty concrete with in an impotent clatter.

  Popping into view, Narmada shot a G11 caseless rifle, the rounds coming so fast they sounded like a whine. Obviously, this was his preferred weapon. The Lincoln jerked from the arrival of the 4.5 mm steel-jacketed slugs, and several of them came out the other side of the chassis, hitting Bolan. His body armor easily handled their diminished force, and he returned the barrage with the Beretta. But Narmada ducked out of sight again, unharmed aside from a few tears in his clothing.

  “Is that all you have?” Narmada laughed, ducking between the parked cars. Snapping off loose shots, he was constantly in motion.

  “Come find out,” Bolan replied coldly, firing steadily.

  Something was odd about Narmada’s mouth, and it took Bolan a few moments to realize that several of his teeth were now made of gold. Replacements from their fight in the tunnel? Good. “By the way,” Bolan shouted, “I love the new smile.”

  “Had it made just for you, Turnip!”

  “Thanks, Goldie!”

  The battle on the level above them continued to rage unabated, the chatter of the assorted weapons, explosions and screams of dying men mixing into the horrible music of deadly combat.

  Just then the stairwell door slammed open and out came Svekta, covered in blood and flanked by several of her men. They now carried M16 assault rifles. As if it had been waiting for that to happen, the side panel of a white Ford van slid back to reveal a group of Triad gunmen cradling Neostead shotguns. Instantly, the two
groups opened fire at each other, and the air was suddenly thick with flying lead and shattering glass, mixed with the bright white blurs of tracer rounds.

  Trying to force Narmada out of hiding, Bolan shot out a cluster of the overhead lights, causing the array of fluorescent tubes to come crashing down. The elusive man merely laughed and rolled another F-1 grenade his way. Bolan easily avoid the grenade, and after it annihilated a Buick LaSabre, he destroyed two more light fixtures in a bracketing pattern, then put a 9 mm round into a fire extinguisher strapped to a concrete pylon. Bursting open, the pressurized container gushed out a torrent of thick white foam from both sides.

  With a startled cry, Narmada slipped and went down hard, rolling into view. Moving in fast, Bolan openly advanced, firing both of his weapons in unison and concentrating on the G-11 rifle. The weapon was torn from the giant’s hands and skittered across the concrete to disappear under the safety railing and drop down to the next level.

  Throwing his arms up to protect his face, Narmada crawled away from the incoming rounds. But as Bolan poured hot lead into the giant, there was no blood or screams, and he heard the sound of ricochets. What in the.... The bastard had armor plates up his sleeves!

  Holding back on his last few rounds, Bolan tried to kick one of the arms away. Narmada grabbed his ankle and twisted with both hands, lifting Bolan off the ground and slamming him into a Renault. The windows smashed, and Bolan hit the pavement, only to lash out with the toe of his shoe. He caught Narmada in the mouth, and one of the new gold teeth went flying.

  “Dirtymuthaflucka.” Narmada spat out blood and lurched forward.

  Standing his ground, Bolan rammed a knee into the other’s man face with all of his strength, and heard the crunch of bone. Then they both went down in a wild tangle of limbs, rolling across the concrete. As the Beretta went flying, Bolan managed to get off one more round from the Desert Eagle, removing Narmada’s left ear, along with the miniature Bluetooth receiver tucked inside.

  Screaming insanely, Narmada head-butted Bolan, then tried to bite the jugular vein in his throat. Blocking that with his jaw, Bolan almost lost a tooth himself, then produced the switchblade and slashed at Narmada’s groin, trying for the big artery there. A quick kill zone.

  Expertly blocking with his leg, Narmada only got stabbed in the meaty portion of his upper thigh. Then he grabbed Bolan’s wrist in a two-hand disarm, got control of the blade and buried it to the hilt in Bolan’s arm.

  Blinding pain filled his world, and Bolan felt the universe reel, but he knew better than to remove the blade. That would only open the wound and make it bleed faster. Bolan knew that he was losing strength every second and had to end this fast. Now, feet, fists, teeth and elbows were unleashed, both men using every dirty fighting trick they knew to try to kill the other. No mercy, no rules. Just the ancient law of feral combat, winner take all.

  Soon, both men were drenched in sweat and breathing hard. They were covered with countless small cuts from all the broken glass, the blood and foam making everything slippery. Trying to re-open the old wound, Bolan kneed Narmada in the groin. Merely grunting with pain, Narmada hit Bolan in the ribs with the flat of his hand, attempting to stop his heart. Turning from the force of the martial arts strike, Bolan grabbed Narmada and used the momentum to throw the giant against the side of a parked car. As his head loudly cracked against the side view mirror, Bolan saw the man sag for just a moment. Seizing the opportunity, he did the unthinkable and removed the switchblade from his throbbing arm to slash Narmada across his exposed throat.

  A hot geyser of life erupted from the gaping wound.

  Grabbing his ruined throat with both hands, Narmada tried to staunch the flow of blood, but it was a useless effort. Stumbling away, Bolan clawed for the medical kit on his back and started applying a pressure bandage to the deep wound in his arm.

  “Im...possible...” Narmada gurgled softly, blood flowing steadily between his twitching fingers. “C-can’t...die...like t-this...”

  “Agreed,” croaked Bolan, clumsily picking up the Desert Eagle. He fired the gun once, and that was enough.

  Epilogue

  Waiting at the Hong Kong airport, Bolan and Svekta were back in the food court drinking coffee. They did not say much and the silence between them was growing thicker and more awkward by the moment. The rest of the Albanians had already departed on various airlines, many of them taking some much-needed vacation time.

  “So, are we enemies now?” Svekta finally asked, putting down her cup.

  “Sadly, we always have been,” Bolan said. He started to add more but then saw the expression on her face and knew that any argument against her family would not go well. “Just try to stay out of my way, all right?”

  “And best to stay out of Albania, Colonel.”

  “Sorry, no promises.”

  “Well, then...understood.” After a few minutes, Svekta leaned across the plastic table to kiss him gently on the cheek, then rose and walked away.

  With mixed feelings, Bolan watched her disappear into the hustling crowd, then did the same thing himself. This mission was not quite over yet. Almost, but not completely. Bolan had a long journey ahead to obtain a replacement battleship for the Ghost Jaguars.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9781460331767

  First edition May 2014

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Nick Pollotta for his contribution to this work.

  PIRATE OFFENSIVE

  Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library

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