Executioner 057 - Flesh Wounds

by Don Pendleton

  BOLAN PASSED THE BINOCULARS to April and pointed. "There. See them?"

  "Yeah. Lugging some equipment."

  "Right."

  She lowered the binoculars, looked at Bolan. "That equipment is part of it?"

  "He's got a transmitter in there to signal Zossimov, and some kind of timer to give him time to get out before the holocaust starts."

  "Then we have to stop that transmitter,' April said. "And Dante."

  Bolan stared straight ahead. "Dante first, then Zossimov."

  "Right."

  "And one other thing." He turned to look her in the eyes. "No more prisoners."

  April nodded. "Okay."

  "JESUS, IT'S HUGE," Melissa said, looking around the room, the metal box still clutched to her chest.

  They were standing under the stage now, not just an ordinary stage but a giant platform that rotated slowly so the performers would eventually face the entire audience encircling them. The expense of this device had been minimal, compared with the added number of tickets they had been able to sell because of it.

  The foundation for the stage was the building Dante and Melissa were standing in now. The stage was fifteen feet overhead and they could hear Willie Nelson above them singing "If You've Got the Money I've Got the Time." The music shook the walls, sprinkling dust like a light mist throughout the room. In the center of the place, mammoth gears strained against each other to keep the stage overhead slowly turning.

  Dante snapped his fingers. "Bring that thing over here, Minnie Pearl."

  Melissa handed him the metal box. "What's this all for, J.D.? Aren't you ever going to tell me?"

  "You'll know the details in—" he looked at his watch "—less than an hour. By then the whole world will know. Meantime, get your ass back in the van and wait for me."

  "How long will it take?" she asked nervously. "You worrying again?"

  "No, no, J.D., I'm not worrying. Just, you know, curious."

  He laughed. "Just get that blue monstrosity started. I'll be out in a coupla minutes. And have our gate passes ready. Once I've rigged this baby, we want to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. When Zossimov gets the signal, it's going down. Like I said, nothing can stop it now."

  APRIL SLAPPED HER PALM into the base of the clip, driving it up into the Linda's checkered plastic grip. Even when firmly anchored, the clip protruded a few inches from the bottom of the grip. That extra few inches allowed the clip to house its full 31 rounds, plenty to do her part of the job. April curled one hand around the handle, cupped the other under the fat maple forehand grip attached to the underbelly of the barrel. "Ready," she said.

  Bolan peered through the binoculars, his head swiveling with the moving quarry. "She's heading back toward the van... she's climbing in... she's starting it up. Okay, that's it."

  Bolan kicked open the door of the Camaro. It was the best they could rent at the Ontario airport when they flew in from Los Angeles an hour and a half ago.

  Security passes to the concert site had been prearranged by Hal Brognola. Now Bolan and April Rose were in the midst of the music. So was Dante. The time had come.

  Bolan had exchanged his blacksuit for less conspicuous garb: chinos and a bulky blue V-neck sweater. The Beretta 93-R was tucked into his waistband, covered by the baggy shirt.

  Once outside the car, they had to shout to be heard. Amplifiers blared from the nearby stage as well as from dozens of other strategically placed amplifiers among the crowd.

  Bolan looked around at the hundreds of thousands of people spreading over the surrounding valley like a field of daisies.

  There must be more than half a million already there and still more cramming into the gates and scouring the already full parking lots.

  As he shifted the Beretta's handle for easier access, one thought flashed in his mind: he had never seen so many smiling, happy people in one place before.

  Under other circumstances it would have warmed him, maybe he would even have joined in, clapping hands and singing with Willie. But not now. Not yet.

  "Go get her," he shouted to April above the hammering chords of the guitars. "Remember, we don't want her contacting anybody else."

  April nodded, ran off toward the van, her gun weighing down her shoulder bag.

  Bolan jogged toward the door that he had seen Dante enter. Above him, Willie Nelson picked out a melody. The hollering fans almost drowned out Willie's voice, but he smiled out at them, his wrinkled eyes twinkling in the bright noon sun.

  There were no windows, no other doors to the foundation beneath the stage. One way in, one way out.

  Bolan gripped the doorknob with his left hand. He could feel the vibrations of the music through the doorknob as he gently turned it. His right hand eased the Beretta out from his waistband. He inched the door open, felt the rush of cool foul air escaping from the crack, took a deep lungful of air and went through the door like a man entering hell.

  The first shot sounded before he'd closed the door behind him.

  MELISSA PUMPED THE ACCELERATOR NERVOUSLY, feeling some comfort in the roar of the engine. She tapped the heavy gold ring on her finger against the steering wheel in time with Willie Nelson's song, occasionally joining in on a verse, then forgetting the words.

  She squirmed on the hot vinyl seat, too agitated to sit still. She knew people were going to die here today, though J.D. had said it wouldn't be many. Mostly people would just get sick, clogging hospitals and scaring the hell out of everybody. Still, some would die; it couldn't be helped. Melissa stared out through the windshield at the happy, singing crowd and tried to determine which ones would soon be dead.

  She caught a movement in the mirror on the passenger side. Nothing special, a pretty woman, some way off, striding toward the van. There were plenty of pretty women here today. Still, there was something about that face that made her nervous. A certain determination, a sense of purpose. Like a cop's.

  Melissa reached under the seat and pulled out a Walther P-38, the same one she'd used to blow a hole through the guts of the clerk when they'd robbed a 7-Eleven last month. She checked the clip; it was fully loaded with eight rounds of 9mm parabellum cartridges. She leaned to check both side mirrors again. No one there.

  Maybe nothing, she thought. But this was no time to take any chances.

  She applied the parking brake, climbed out of her seat and moved to the rear of the van. She unlocked the back doors, pushing one open a crack so anyone outside could see it was unlocked. Then she scrambled back into the cool depths of the van, squatted down with her shoulders pressed against the back of the driver's seat, her gun gripped in both hands and pointing at the rear doors of the van.

  "Come and get it, bitch," she muttered.

  APRIL MOVED QUICKLY, her face purposely intense to ward off some of the roadies who were checking her out.

  This close to the stage the throbbing music from the amplifiers created a kind of insistent draft, nudging at her back as she walked. And the hundreds of thousands of feet stomping in time with the music sent a tremor through the ground. The experience was almost intoxicating.

  She closed in on the back of the van, her right hand dipping into the purse, finding the comfortable weight of the Linda.

  April noticed the rear doors were slightly ajar, probably an oversight when they'd unloaded that equipment earlier.

  Her right hand was still wrist-deep in the shoulder bag, aiming the gun ahead of her as her left hand reached for the rear door of the van.

  BOLAN WAS ROLLING ACROSS the rough concrete floor, inhaling lungfuls of dust as he spun.

  Dante's .45 slug had kicked a chunk of wood out of the doorjamb, but the pounding beat of the music and echo of the amplifiers drowned the sound of the gunshot. They could blast away at each other in there and no one would notice.

  That was fine with Bolan.

  He stopped rolling once he had angled the stack of reserve amplifiers between himself and Dante. Another bullet ripped through one of the amplifiers,
and the impact sent it toppling to the floor.

  Bolan had the Beretta set on single shot. He didn't want to risk a three-shot burst ramming through a weak spot in a wall and flying out into the crowd. One bullet at a time, yeah, just make each one count.

  "Hey," Bolan called out, "what the hell are you doing? I'm just here to check the damn gear for the stage."

  "Don't screw with me, buddy," Dante shouted. "This thing gets checked once in the morning and once at night. I know. Now, who are you?"

  Well, it had been worth a try. Bolan let his mind play back the photo it took of Dante's location when he'd come through the door. Adjusting it according to where the voice was, Bolan popped up from behind the amplifiers.

  The Beretta flung death toward Dante, but the revolutionary had already ducked behind one of the giant rotating gears that turned the platform overhead. The bullet pinged harmlessly off the vertical metal rod of the drive shaft.

  "Okay, you want to play rough." Dante's voice was pinched with fear.

  He's already set the timer, Bolan realized. Unless it's stopped, the transmitter will send its signal. The massacre will begin.

  Bolan ran out from behind the amplifiers, desperate to secure a better shooting angle.

  Dante stood, both fists gripping the M-1911, but it was a rushed shot. The bullet sank soundlessly into a pile of wooden fence posts stacked behind the moving target.

  Bolan knew Dante was panicked, trying to kill Bolan and still get out before the transmitter kicked in. "Goddamn it, fight me, you bastard!" Dante screamed in desperation.

  Bolan stepped out from behind the spare benches, the Beretta hanging at his side. "You just got your wish, guy."

  MELISSA'S FINGER FLEXED around the trigger, taking up any slack. She waited for the door to open, giving J.D. every extra second to get back. Her hands were steady as her eyes focused down the barrel. She held her breath.

  Waited.

  Waited.

  Waited.

  Nothing happened. No one pulled the door open. No one came after her. She sighed, smiled. "Paranoid," she said to herself as she stood up. Seeing cops everywhere, shit. "Getting as bad as J. D."

  She turned toward the front of the van, left hand on the back of the driver's seat, right hand loosely holding the Walther.

  She cursed.

  Directly in front of the van stood April, the yawning muzzle of her oversized gun hovering a couple inches from the windshield. It was aimed at Melissa's chest.

  April stood in a professional shooter's stance, eyes unwavering from her target. Her skin tingled at the sight of the Walther P-38 dangling from Melissa's right hand, knowing how close she came to having its hungry load buried in her body. But April had learned from the best, Mack Bolan. Learned not to trust anything so easy as an open door. As her hand had reached out for the chrome latch, she'd played back a mental tape of Dante and Melissa climbing out of the van. She saw the look of contempt on Dante's face as he'd watched Melissa's clumsy exit from the back of the van; saw him slam the door behind her, causing Melissa to jump slightly. Saw him give it that extra jiggle to make sure it was locked.

  "Drop the gun, Melissa. It's your only chance to live."

  From the back of one of the trucks a man shouted at April. "Hey, lady, what the hell do you think you're doin' with that?"

  He was joined by several others. She overheard one say he was going for a security guard.

  April ignored them, concentrated on what she was doing. "Drop it, Melissa. Now!"

  But Melissa just stared into April's eyes, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. And April knew what was going to happen next.

  Melissa swung the gun up, dropping into a crouch at the same time.

  April squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched through the windshield, leaving a clean hole behind it, then punched through Melissa Stowe's chest. The entry hole was as clean as the one in the windshield, but the exit wound sprayed a thick sauce of blood out between her shoulder blades, freckling the blue walls of the van. The impact lifted her off her feet, banging her head into the roof, then dropping her dead body on the floor.

  Only those near the van knew something had happened. The amplified music continued to wash through the crowd, an acoustic balm, the performers and audience alike oblivious to the bloody drama at their feet.

  April didn't bother checking the body, she ran for the door where she'd last seen Mack.

  "YOU'RE DEAD, MAN," Dante grinned as he stood up and squeezed the trigger.

  There was nothing heroic in Bolan's decision. It was a calculated risk based on the facts of the situation.

  Fact one: the transmitter's timer had already been set, so whatever he did he had to do fast.

  Fact two: Dante knew the timer was set, and he was scared. He was long-term panicked.

  Conclusion: due to the time element, the situation had to be forced now. The only way to force it, considering they both had strong cover, was to bring Dante out for a clear shot. The only way to do that was give him a clear shot.

  Bolan's edge: Dante's dumb reaction. A reaction born of panic.

  Bolan waited until the last possible moment, studying Dante's face for the sign. The sign would tell him exactly when Dante intended to pull the trigger.

  Dante, imperceptibly but undeniably, gave the sign. He pressed his lips together, as people do at that precise moment when intent turns to action.

  Bolan lunged forward onto the ground and brought the Beretta up and in alignment with Dante's chest.

  The fanatic's bullet whizzed inches by Bolan's head. It nicked the edge of a green bench.

  The 9mm ace of spades Bolan dealt to Dante chopped off a chunk of Dante's right shoulder, whirling the guy around. The Colt catapulted from his hand, clattering into some bales of barbed wire.

  Dante reeled backward over the low concrete wall built around the giant gears. The sleeve of his left hand was snagged by one of the gear's teeth, pinning it between tooth and cog.

  Dante's hand was trapped, the gears grinding slowly around, each turn tugging the sleeve tighter.

  "Can the timer be shut off or is it booby-trapped?" Bolan called as he climbed to his feet. "Screw around with it and find out."

  Bolan nodded at the gears. "In less than a minute, it'll be your hand in there."

  The door opened. Sunlight split through the semidarkness. Bolan spun.

  "It's me," April called.

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah."

  "Melissa?"

  "Secured." The word came out flat and toneless. Bolan knew what she meant by that. No prisoners.

  Dante screamed. The gear had tugged his little finger into the cog. The heavy metal teeth were grinding it to pulp. His legs buckled from the pain, but still the gear pulled him along.

  Overhead Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings sang "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys." The crowd sang along, almost louder than the two performers at the microphones.

  Sweat blossomed across Dante's twisted face. The gear ground another notch and another finger was chewed off his hand.

  Bolan walked over to the transmitter, looked it over. The timer was inside; there was no way to know how much time they had. There was no way to know if the whole damn thing was booby-trapped against tampering. Bolan turned back toward Dante. "Any chance of you telling me about this thing or about Zossimov?"

  Dante's lips curled back into a rabid snarl. "Not a chance in hell, scum. You and that piece of skirt can—"

  Bolan's shot flew into Dante's churning mouth, ripped off a flap of lower lip, shattered four incisors, continued drilling through the throat, then chipped the spinal column and finally burst through the base of skull.

  The second shot followed almost the same trajectory.

  Blood lathered from Dante's mangled mouth, dripping red strings. He sagged to his knees. He was dead. But even in death the giant gears would not release him. They kept on dragging him around in a slow circle, grinding off bits of his body.
r />   "What about the transmitter?" April asked, staring wide-eyed at Bolan. It was an effort of will to keep her voice crisp and efficient.

  "It's probably rigged. Try to alter it and it'll blow. That in itself would probably be a secondary signal."

  "So what do we do? If you're right about their plan. . ."

  "That leaves us with only one thing we can do now," Bolan said, looking at the door. "We have to race against the signal to Zossimov, and we have to win the race."

  18

  "Mr. St. John? Hey, Mr. St. John!"

  Zossimov turned to face the man walking toward him. "Yes?"

  "We've got to be going soon if we're gonna keep on schedule. We do have a couple other jobs to do today."

  "Of course you do, Mr. Simms," Zossimov smiled, his accent very proper, very British. Somehow that seemed to impress Americans. "And on behalf of the OPON Festival, we appreciate your indulgence. It is just that timing is so important here. Press and media coverage, you know. Can't live with them, can't live without them, eh?" He chuckled, dabbed a white handkerchief at the corners of his mouth.

  Simms nodded pleasantly. He dug his hands deep into the pockets of his blue flight suit. "Okay, Mr. St. John. You're the boss. But it had better be soon."

  "Good man, Simms. And of course your transmitters are properly adjusted?"

  "Yes, sir. Just as you asked. We're waiting for that signal and we'll use it to home in on when we fly overhead." He tugged the bill of his blue cap nervously. "But I tell you, Mr. St. John, me and the boys have been flying these rigs for a lot of years. We know what we're doing without any homing device. It's totally unnecessary."

  Zossimov winked. "I couldn't agree more, sir. But you know how it is trying to convince the brass to try something new. They want guarantees that are absolute. Nothing can go wrong."

  Simms bristled. "Sky typing is not that new anymore. Hell, we've been doing it for years for some of the biggest corporations in the country. Coors Beer, Datsun, Ford, even the Army, Navy and Marines. Nobody's ever tried to tell us our business before."