Sold for Slaughter

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan wanted to announce his arrival, get the enemy's attention. That was easy — he could ring the doorbell with a high-explosive round.

  Bolan primed the launcher, swiveled toward the manor house and set his sights on a limousine, the first car in line. Recoil from the XM-18 was minimal; a steady hand on the launcher's forward pistol grip would hold the weapon on target, even during rapid fire. A skillful gunner could stand off an army with the stubby silver cannon.

  He squeezed off, held the weapon level, tracking onto the second target. His first HE round impacted on the lead car's nose and detonated into rolling thunder. The limousine reared up, its hood a piece of airborne shrapnel. A ball of oily flame devoured the front half of the car. Gasoline was spilling from the ruptured tank, igniting as it hit the ground. In another second the fuel reserve erupted in a stunning secondary blast.

  The Executioner's first four rounds were high-explosive cans, and Bolan squeezed them off in a rapid succession, a marching line of thunderbolts devouring the cars, consigning them to hell. Gas tanks followed, exploding like a giant string of fireworks.

  Sentries were responding, racing to the scene. Bolan let them reach the cars and collect around the pyre before he opened fire again. Troops who attempted to bring order out of chaos had no chance.

  The eight remaining tubes of Bolan's launcher held an alternating mix of CS gas and fleshette rounds. The soldier gave himself an angle and let it rip, tracking left to right and back again, bringing down the curtain on their fireside convocation.

  Downrange, the hostile troops were enveloped in a rolling, gagging cloud of gas. Before they could recover, the razor-edged fleshettes were ripping into flesh and fabric, riddling the gunners where they stood. Shrieks of pain and terror sounded as they toppled, writhing, to the ground.

  It had taken only seven seconds to destroy the first detachment. Bolan paused, reloading. The twist of a lever broke his launcher at the breach, the drum rotating outward to eject spent casings and receive replacement rounds. The ammo in his bandoliers was ready to reload by touch, without a conscious effort on the soldier's part. By the time another squad of gunners showed themselves, the Executioner was ready, racing for the house.

  On his right, a clutch of hardmen had him spotted, riot guns and rifles tracking onto target. Bolan went into a crouch, dispatching a high-explosive round in their direction, scattering the enemy like rag dolls in a hurricane. Before the last of them touched down, the Executioner was in motion once again, homing on his target.

  To his left, a pair of hostile flankers stood their ground, laying down a probing fire from short Beretta stutterguns. Bolan hit them with a booming fleshette round at twenty yards and watched them come apart on impact, shredded by the storm of whistling darts. He put them out of mind before they hit the turf, already moving out of there and into other confrontations.

  Closing on the house, the warrior turned his back on burning cars and broken bodies. Firing on the run, he punched a smoke can through a downstairs window and followed quickly with a round of choking CS gas. Confusion was the ticket. He would let his enemies experience the panic of impending holocaust before they met the grim reality.

  A brace of gunners was emerging from the double doors in front when Bolan got there. He swept them off the porch with a blizzard of fleshettes and kept on going.

  * * *

  In the darkened guesthouse, Smiley Dublin huddled with the other captives. There were seventeen in all, and fewer than a third of them spoke any English.

  Earlier, when they were thrown together, Smiley had attempted conversation but the women were withdrawn and frightened. Several of them drifted in and out of consciousness, minds befuddled by the drugs their captors used to keep them docile.

  Smiley stood, stretching, trying to ignore the pain of scrapes and bruises. All her wounds were superficial, but the pain had been excruciating, out of proportion to the damage, and the memory of it lingered in her aching muscles, tender flesh. When she thought about her hours spent in the basement with that bitch — the one they called the countess — Smiley felt a rush of color rising in her cheeks. Cruel humiliation overshadowed pain as she recalled her grim inquisitor — the purring voice and probing, hurting hands.

  Smiley had survived that brutal, sadistic torture only by releasing her mind from her pained body. As the countess indulged in her sick fantasies, the tough female Fed dreamed of freedom, of revenge and of her savior, Mack Bolan.

  She conjured up a clear vision of Mack, dressed in the traditional threads of U.S. mercenaries, armed to the teeth, protecting her with mighty firepower. And Smiley pictured herself wearing the wardrobe of a belly dancer, the halter top clinging tightly to her breasts — it was the last outfit she had seen a free woman wearing, and it became hers.

  In the freedom dream of Smiley Dublin, she and the Executioner were escaping the hell of Algiers, making a getaway through the violence-racked streets of the Casbah. Freedom seemed but a corner away, and Smiley longed to turn that corner, turn it with Mack.

  Reality — the screaming voice of the countess — soon brought Smiley's mind back into her body, and with pain shooting through her limbs, she made a vow to herself: she would not be sold for slaughter. She would fight, and she would win. She would destroy the countess.

  Smiley shook herself into the present. They were under guard inside the little three-room structure, a pair of gunners at the front and at least one at the back. From her place near the windows, she could hear them talking, moving. On the way in, she had noted that they carried semiautomatic side arms. One of them, undoubtedly the leader of the detail, was armed with a stubby submachine gun.

  There had to be a way out, she thought. It only took some planning, some teamwork.

  Smiley turned to face the other women, moving closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. She concentrated on the English speakers, hoping some of the others would go along on instinct when it came time to move.

  "We have a chance," she said, projecting confidence. "They have to come inside for us, sooner or later. When they do, we can surprise them, take their guns away."

  A murmur rippled through the group, a sharp exchange of worried glances. One of the women turned to a companion, whispered rapidly in French, and the companion blanched, shook her head in an emphatic negative. In the front row, a slender British woman spoke up.

  "How can we overpower them? They're armed."

  "We use the advantage of surprise," Smiley told her. "We've already got the numbers. Hell, it's six to one for our side."

  "Assuming that we only meet the three we've seen."

  Smiley shook her head. "Assuming nothing. Four guns between us would provide an edge. We could find the perimeter, be out of here before the main force even knows we're gone."

  The British woman was thinking, weighing odds and angles. "It's what you Yanks would call a long shot," she said at last. She was smiling. "I'm with you then," she added.

  With an effort, Smiley kept herself from crowing. She let the sudden rush of pure exhilaration stoke her fire. "That's great," she said, beaming. "I'm Smiley. You?"

  "Judy Withers."

  She was on a roll now. Turning to the others, she prodded. "All right, who else is with us? Which of you is tired of waiting in the dark to die?"

  "What makes you think they plan to kill us?" asked a brunette, whose accent was strictly lower Bronx.

  "Put it all together," Smiley told her bluntly. "This time yesterday, they planned to sell you like a piece of meat. The deal fell through. Now, you're nothing but a walking, talking liability."

  "It doesn't matter, anyway," a blonde chimed in. There was a touch of Paris in her voice. "Better dead than auctioned off like sheep for slaughter."

  "That's right." The gutsy Fed held out her hand. "Smiley Dublin."

  Her newfound ally took the hand and pressed it warmly. "Renée DuBois."

  "Okay. Any others? Who wants to take some misery out of their stinking hides?"

  H
ands were going up around the group, tentative at first, then with greater self-assurance. Smiley counted half a dozen new recruits among them, but the others were uneasy, undecided. Several of them turned away from her, embarrassed by their fear; others seemed unsure of what was happening, confused by sedatives or hampered by the language barrier. She could only hope that some of them would go along when the action started.

  She took a final hand count. There were nine — exactly half their number was ready to fight back. If they got the chance.

  Minutes crept by, each dragging like an hour in purgatory, and they waited. They were at fifteen minutes and counting when Smiley heard the scuff of boots on the porch. Someone in the yard was issuing instructions to the gunners on the porch, and they were answering.

  Another moment, and the man with the stuttergun was in the doorway, his flanker crowding close behind. Smiley and her troop of volunteers were on their feet to greet them.

  "Allez, allez," the honcho barked, motioning toward the doorway with his weapon.

  Smiley was about to make her move when sudden thunder tore the night apart. Reflected firelight bathed their captors, and the loud explosions were continuing in rapid fire, distracting both sentries for a crucial second.

  Smiley attacked the nearest jailer, the edge of one hand batting down his chopper while the rigid fingers of her other found his eyes. The gunner bellowed, his trigger finger clenching in a spasm of pain. The burp gun stuttered, spat a line of manglers directly at his slim companion.

  The second gunner was driven backward through the door. Renée and Judy pounced on his bloody form, wrestling with the holstered pistol. Smiley left them to it, pivoted and drove a knee into the groin of the surviving sentry. With a strangled scream, he went down, Smiley and the others on top of him.

  Smiley drove a heel into his windpipe, and the fight left him. The guy was occupied with dying, and he gave no resistance when Smiley relieved him of his submachine gun. She dug an extra magazine out of an inside pocket, and other eager hands found the automatic pistol slung beneath his arm.

  Smiley gained the porch in time to see a third guard loping into view, his pistol out and searching for a target. She never gave him time to find one, leveling the little burper from her waist and squeezing off a burst that zippered him from crotch to throat. The guy went down and stayed there, twitching in his death throes.

  Another kill. Another weapon for her troop of volunteers.

  She ducked back inside the guesthouse and listened to the sounds of battle outside. She had a pretty fair idea of what was coming down, and she was anxious to become a part of it.

  "Coast is clear — make for the trees," she told the women. "And keep on going. The police are bound to hear the fireworks soon."

  "You will come with us?" Renée asked.

  "Sorry." Smiley shook her head. "I've still got business here."

  And it was far from over. The bravest man she knew was out there somewhere, slaying dragons. Smiley had to back him up in any way she could.

  Granted, there were personal considerations. She wanted to be in at the finish, helping Bolan bring the curtain down on the animals. Especially one female animal.

  The countess.

  Smiley double-checked her submachine gun, thrust the extra magazine into her waistband. She was ready.

  She saw the other captives out of the grounds and covered their escape. By the time they made the darkened tree line, she was anxious to be gone and into battle. She spied a bobbing, weaving figure dressed in black, pursued by gunners as he disappeared around the house.

  And she was running after him, the little chopper held across her chest, hot blood pounding in her ears, drowning out the noise of battle.

  * * *

  Smoke and the choking fumes of noxious gas were everywhere. Armand was getting worried, but he did not show it as he steered his two companions down the dark north-south corridor, keeping close, navigating by his sense of touch. He knew the entrance to the dining room should be along there somewhere...

  He found the door, opened it and was rewarded by a gust of smoke and gas. His eyes were swollen, blurred with tears, and he could scarcely breathe. The Corsican steered Mustaffa and the countess through the door and fell into step behind them, herding them toward the sliding doors.

  Outside, the sounds of battle had increased on every side. An army was attacking. The night was perilous, alive with muzzle-flashes and the hum of angry bullets. They would have to run a gauntlet to the helicopter, where his gunners were standing watch.

  If they could make it, they were home free.

  "Go on," he snapped, the pistol in his hand, gesturing in the direction of the chopper. The countess broke from cover, pounding toward the helipad without a backward glance. Mustaffa huddled back against the wall, resembling a cornered animal.

  "I can't," he blubbered, cringing. Fear and misery were written on his face, and Dusault regarded him with contempt.

  "Then stay."

  He raised the automatic, sighting quickly, squeezing off. His first round struck the Saudi just above his right eye and punched through, spewing blood and bits of brain on the wall behind him. A second shot impacted on his chin, disintegrating teeth and jaw, before the body tumbled into awkward death.

  Another explosion rocked the house — this one from inside. Armand followed Ilse, running beneath the floodlights. Another detonation and the lights were gone, extinguished. He was sprinting through the darkness, praying that his eyes would soon adjust.

  A line of bullets stitched across his path, chewing up the turf, and Armand veered away, changing course in midstride. The helicopter was almost within his reach, but he could lose it all at any moment.

  His heart was pounding when he reached the chopper, shouldering past a guard into the open loading bay. Inside, he found Ilse Brunow huddled in the rear. Armand felt a sudden urge to kill her as he had the Saudi.

  But he had no time as part of his château erupted into flames, black smoke pouring skyward in an inky column. He slapped his pilot on the shoulder, flashed a thumbs-up take-off signal as he found a seat, and grappled with the seat belt.

  The rotors were in motion, growling, gathering momentum. The helicopter trembled as the engines revved. Armand experienced the elevator-ride sensation that preceded lift-off.

  They had made it. He could feel the chopper stirring, rising off the helipad.

  The Corsican was laughing, loving every second of it, when the world exploded under him, plunging him into fiery darkness.

  18

  The cannisters of smoke and gas had done their work inside the darkened manor house. A gray fog had filled the ground floor, curling in and out of open rooms, collecting in the spacious central corridor. Armand's men had been in a panic, racing around blindly, without direction, choking.

  Mack Bolan had moved among them, spotting the enemy through Nitefinders before they had a chance to notice him. Avoiding confrontation where possible, the Executioner had searched for a special group of targets, faces he had seen that morning through a twenty-power scope.

  A jowly Arab.

  A hawk-faced woman.

  And Armand, the Corsican.

  He was counting on a clean sweep, and nothing less would satisfy. If even one of the bastards escaped, they would carry the malignancy abroad, allow the poison tendrils to fan out, take root in healthy soil.

  The Executioner was not about to let that happen. He would purge the evil, root and branch, before he quit the field of battle.

  The foyer opened into a large living room with a host of other rooms on either side, a curving staircase ahead. On his left, a rifleman stormed out of nowhere, swinging his Kalashnikov into alignment.

  The Executioner responded instinctively to the threat, swinging his XM-18 around to meet the charging gunner. He stroked the trigger and held the launcher steady as a spray of razor-sharp fleshettes erupted from the muzzle. In front of him the hollow man was vaporized on impact. Scarlet mist mingled with
the man-made fog, and blood streaked the parlor walls.

  Bolan spun and was already moving out when automatic weapons started yapping at him from the staircase. Crouching gunners were feeling for the range with squat Beretta submachine guns. In another moment they would have him.

  Bolan sidestepped, swinging the launcher up. He triggered three quick blasts in rapid fire. The explosive rounds devoured men, spraying shrapnel in a rain of flesh and wood and shattered plaster.

  The battered staircase was groaning, sagging. It finally collapsed into dusty rubble. Any gunners left upstairs would have to find another exit. Conversely, if his prey was on the second floor, the Executioner would have to find a different means of access.

  He crossed the living room with long strides and struck off down the central corridor, the XM-18 probing out ahead of him to answer any challenge.

  Bolan reached a doorway on his right, shouldered through and found himself inside a lavish dining room. Massive sliding doors were standing open at the opposite wall, and a draft had helped clear the smoke and gas.

  The Executioner experienced a sudden sense of déjà vu. He had reconned this room before, from the outside, but on that occasion he had been looking through the sliding doors and windows with a sniperscope. The perspective was now different, but the warrior had his bearings.

  He heard the sound of chopper engines winding up outside the open doors, large rotors slicing air and gaining speed. There would be scant seconds left until lift-off, and suddenly the pieces fell together in a grim mosaic.

  The dragon was about to fly away.

  Cursing, Bolan crossed the dining room, upsetting chairs and service carts along the way. He gained the open doors and burst through into the night. The Executioner peripherally registered the lifeless Arab on his right. One dead, two to go.

  The savages had had a falling out, it seemed. And someone had done Bolan's job.

  Across the lawn, the helicopter was rising from the helipad. The rotor wash was whipping Bolan. Another moment would see them airborne, rising out of his effective range.