Bolan gripped the collar of the man’s shirt, holding him up like a shield as he opened fire on the rest of the crew.
The militiamen paused, not wanting to gun down their own friend, and only Harpy’s salvo of 9 mm slugs collided with the dead man. Bolan swung his Beretta at her and opened fire, but the woman had the reflexes of an eagle, power diving out of the way of his return fire. With a curse, the Executioner shifted his aim and took the man to her right, pumping a round into him at throat level. The guy’s windpipe burst open and he vomited up blood, clawing at himself to suck in fresh air.
Bolan ignored the dying man as the others were getting their act together. One of them was armed with an M-16. The Executioner shoved his lifeless shield at the man, who screamed in shock and rage as his initial burst ripped into the corpse. The two AHC men, living and dead, collapsed into a tangled pile of limbs, the M-16 knocked out of the rifleman’s hands.
Bolan chased the last guy with a couple shots, but he disappeared behind a tree just as the Beretta clicked on an empty chamber. With a curse, Bolan let the gun drop to his other hand, raising the Desert Eagle. The militiaman took courage from the sudden lull in the shooting and swung around with his autoweapon. Before he could even pull the trigger, the Executioner hammered him with a .44 Magnum hollowpoint, the heavy round goring through bone, gristle and flesh to tear into the gunner’s rib cage. The AHC man spun into view, struggling to bring up his weapon to try to bring his killer to hell with him, but the Executioner finished the fight with a single round plowing between his eyes. The top of his head was shorn off and he flipped backward into the darkness.
Bolan spun, looking for Harpy, but the woods were silent. In the distance, a car started, and he took aim at the sound. No headlights or taillights presented themselves to give the Executioner a target to shoot at, though. The pilot was savvy enough to not call any more attention to herself.
She also wasn’t sticking around to figure out who’d lived and who’d died. Bolan didn’t blame her.
But the next time the two met, someone wasn’t going to walk away.
THE CELL PHONE in Sable Burton’s pocket warbled as she was almost back to Sparta Municipal Airport. She plucked the phone free and hit the button.
“Brandon?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Bolan’s voice came over the connection.
Relief flooded her, but only for a moment. “And Adonis and Dark?”
“Didn’t come for the floorshow. But they’ll have a message racing to them.”
Burton looked back over her shoulder. “Who got away?”
“Harpy. I’m pretty sure she was by herself. Just stay at the airport with Jack. I’m on my way to you to pick up some supplies,” Bolan explained. “Our friend was nice enough to leave me a car.”
Burton was about to ask, when she realized what he meant. “Just be careful and get back soon.”
“I will,” Bolan said.
The woman hung up as she pulled into the airport entrance. She dropped the phone in her blouse’s front pocket and left it there, pulling the rental car into a parking spot. Getting out, she admired the Impala’s condition, nary a scratch on her first high-speed chase. She turned and walked toward the rental office, then reconsidered. Just because Stone had borrowed another vehicle didn’t mean they wouldn’t have use for a second set of wheels. She twirled the keys around her finger, caught them in her palm, then stuffed the lot into her pocket.
Jack Grimaldi was waiting in the lounge next to the rental office and looked up, concern on his face when he saw her. Burton did her best to look nonchalant, but she was still fighting a heartbeat that was racing a mile a minute. It had been more than fifteen years since she’d done anything remotely exciting. The past twenty-four hours had been an exercise in adventure that she thought only existed in movies and novels.
“Where’s Brandon?” Grimaldi asked.
“He got another ride. He’ll be back for some party favors.”
Grimaldi grinned widely. “You pick up the crypto-speak very well, grasshoppah.”
“Too many years of romance and adventure novels.”
“And where exactly did you fit in the time to be a physicist?” Grimaldi asked.
“Evelyn Wood speed reading courses, and the fact I sleep four hours a night.”
Grimaldi nodded knowingly and chuckled. “Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
The pilot shrugged and took a couple steps toward the coffee machine when outside, the darkness lit up under the effect of powerful strobes. Grimaldi paused in midstep, looking aghast out the window.
“What’s wrong?” Sable asked, rushing to his side.
Grimaldi looked around the airport lounge. People were only now just realizing something was wrong as the big black military helicopter set down outside. His hand went momentarily for the Colt .45 in its waistband holster, but he thought better of it in a crowded area. “We got to get moving.”
Burton nodded. Arguing was last on her list of priorities, and the two people raced to the front entrance of the terminal.
The woman glanced back to the airfield and saw that the squat, cockroach-like Black Hawk had swung closer, dropping off a towering figure from the side before it climbed and just missed a collision with the main building’s roof. The giant that swooped down from the sky charged after her and Grimaldi.
“Jack!” she called, throat half strangled with terror at the sight of the man bearing down on him. He was an obscenity in full motion, enormous limbs propelling him with a speed that defied anything she thought of as natural. His clean-shaved, beautiful and boyish face robbed of its appeal by the cold, expressionless nature of a paralyzed mask. This wasn’t a man chasing them, but an oversize Greek statue come to life, body surging in hot pursuit.
Grimaldi spun, seeing the same thing she did, and this time he did pull the Colt .45 from under his leather bomber jacket, snapping the gun up. The slide whipped back and forth, shell casings kicking from the breech, the thunder of the muzzle-blast pounding on Burton’s ears like trip-hammers. Her eyes, though, still remained focused on Adonis as he continued to bear down on them. The Stony Man pilot couldn’t be missed now that he was within ten feet, but he slowed to a walk. His chest rippled as slugs hammered into his chest, Grimaldi emptying the pistol until the slide locked back.
Adonis was upon them in two strides, but Grimaldi was swinging his pistol like a hammer now. The blond giant dodged the swing, avoiding contact between the steel pistol butt and his skull. Instead he wrapped a beefy paw around the pilot’s wrist and gave a hard twist.
Grimaldi screamed and dropped to one knee. “Sable! Run!”
Adonis punched Grimaldi in the temple, then shoved his unconscious form away from him, hands reaching out for her. Burton spun and launched a spearing kick into the big man’s groin. Her foot impacted on hard muscle, only eliciting a grin on the giant’s face.
“You’re only making me horny by doing that, Professor Burton,” Adonis told her. “Will you come with me this time?”
“Go to hell!” the woman snarled. She launched herself at him, fingers slashing and raking air, seeking out soft flesh and eye sockets.
Adonis’s massive hand wrapped around her throat and she gagged, feet suddenly dangling in empty space. She clutched his rock-solid forearm, trying to take the pressure off her windpipe when she felt Adonis shift his thumb slightly, pressing hard under her left ear.
Pressure suddenly roared within Burton’s head and she tried to squeal for help, but blackness rushed in on her like a tidal wave, sweeping her into a sea of unconsciousness.
WATSON AND HIS battered men stood to David Kowalski’s right as he waited at the empty desk in the bivoac. Checking his watch, Kowalski realized that it was nearly midnight.
“Does your boss keep late hours?” he asked Watson nonchalantly.
Before Watson could say anything, the door to the office opened and in strode two men. One of them was tall, with short-clipped, straw-colored ha
ir, his face covered with freckles. He had craggy features, wrinkles on his face showing years of mileage. The other man was dark-skinned, his nose hooked over a bushy mustache and beard in sharp contrast to his companion. Both, however, were dressed in crisp woodland-camouflage BDUs.
“I am Colonel Logan. This is Colonel Sahleen. You are Peter Steel?”
Kowalski snapped to a salute of these men, not out of reflex, but he faked a good simulation of it. It had been years since he’d had the desire to salute any commanding officer. Actually, that wasn’t true, he reminded himself. There was Striker, or Colonel Brandon Stone as he was being called these days. He put all the feeling into the salute as he would for Striker.
“Sir! Lieutenant Steel, reporting for duty, sir!”
“And what duty is that?” Logan asked him. He circled Kowalski as if he was a raw recruit, scanning him. “You’re dressed like you just tumbled out of bed.”
“Sir! I didn’t have a chance to dress properly, sir!” Kowalski responded.
“At ease, son,” Logan told him, chuckling. “Just like a jarhead.”
Kowalski crossed his arms behind his back, feet spreading apart. “I was taught to respect a superior officer, Colonel Logan.”
“You learned well.” Sahleen spoke up, sitting on the corner of the desk. He crossed his arms, big brown eyes scanning Kowalski as if he were trying to pick forensic clues off his skin and clothes. “Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“I assumed this was about the Army of the Hand of Christ,” Kowalski said.
Logan looked at Watson, whose eyes bulged like hard-boiled eyes. “Is that so?”
“You told us that you needed to recruit some new members….” Watson blubbered, lips sticking together between words.
“As you were!” Logan ordered. “I gave Steel permission to stand down. Not you, sack of no-loads! He isn’t even part of this operation and he was ramrod straight and pecker-hard!”
Watson and the others suddenly lurched to life, as if the puppeteers controlling their movements had grabbed their strings and pulled them straight.
“Sir! Sorry!” Blood continued to trickle over Watson’s chin and all over his shirt. He was trembling now with the fear of God.
“Better,” Logan growled. He looked over to Kowalski again. “Lucky for Watson, he was smart enough to mail us some information about you before he fumbled picking you up.”
“Then you’ve read my file, sir?” Kowalski answered.
“Lieutenant Peter Steel. Instructor in Close Quarters Combat, Mobile Operations Urban Training, and Long Range Reconnaissance,” Logan rattled off. “Our computer people are running a few checks trying to get through the Department of Defense to verify a few holes in your record with the Twenty-Six.”
“Black bag stuff,” Kowalski admitted. “I’d tell you more, but…”
He looked over to Sahleen, eyes widening and wary.
“Colonel Sahleen is on our side, son,” Logan explained.
“A wise man once said, the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Sahleen explained. “If you know what I mean.”
“The United States’ government?” Kowalski asked. “It makes sense. But still…”
“I can understand your skepticism, Lieutenant,” Sahleen cut him off, “but I have earned a position of respect with Colonel Logan and his men.”
Sahleen glanced over to Watson and his three stooges. “Most of them, that is.”
Watson glowered back.
Kowalski grinned. “Then you might actually be a pretty good friend of mine, Colonel Sahleen, sir.”
Sahleen glanced back at Kowalski, then broke into a chuckle.
“I have four injured men here, thanks to you,” Logan cut in, continuing in an effort to keep Kowalski from finding a balance.
“They didn’t have to kick in the door while I was naked,” Kowalski replied. “I was just doing what any American should have the right to do, defending my residence from attack. I only wish I’d had a gun, but then I wouldn’t be here and your men would be in a morgue.”
Logan bristled at the description of events and glared back at Watson. “Is this true?”
“Sir, we…”
“Is this true?” Logan demanded. Veins rippled along his neck, his freckles disappearing as blood flushed his features.
Watson nodded.
Logan looked back at Kowalski. “And you’re armed.”
“Watson gave me the gun in the car. He wouldn’t give me any explanation of what was going on, but he was stupid enough to give me a side arm,” Kowalski told him. “I got the ammo off him myself.”
“Why did you think that was a good idea?” Sahleen asked, sounding clinical and distant, voice soft and soothing.
“I was surrounded by four men who attacked me and one of whom who held me at gunpoint. I just figured I’d need some extra insurance against these morons in case they got upset. I don’t even know why you’re in such a rush to haul me out of my hotel room and bring me here. Don’t you guys have e-mail? Even money for a stamp? You have my address.”
“Perhaps we were less than clear with our instructions to Mr. Watson,” Sahleen said. “There’s still the possibility that you’re someone planted. An undercover cop.”
“You’d be idiots not to worry about that,” Kowalski responded. “I don’t see but four idiots in this room and they all are covered with owies.”
“You son of a bitch!” Watson bellowed. He broke into a lunge, and Kowalski was already bracing for his attack when Logan grabbed the little guy by the arm and hurled him to the floor. The sound of breaking bone filled the air like cracking eggshells and the floored militiaman wailed in agony.
“That was your elbow joint popping,” Logan informed him through the curtain of screams Watson was putting out. “It can be fixed if I don’t do something stupid like lift you by this arm.”
Watson swallowed hard and tried to keep his swollen, bloody lips clenched tight. Tears were flowing from the corners of his eyes.
“Lieutenant Steel, it’s not nice to taunt my men,” Logan explained. “No matter how incompetent they appear, they are good and brave men devoted to the cause.”
“I apologize, Colonel,” Kowalski answered with reverence.
“I believe you are sorry,” Logan replied. “What would you have me do with Watson here?”
“Nothing, sir,” Kowalski said. He walked over and took Watson by his uninjured hand, lifting him to his feet. “Rank hath its privileges. Colonels don’t do the heavy lifting.”
Logan smirked. “I like your attitude, son.”
“No attitude. Just duty.”
“Come on. Let’s have a seat and talk about your new job. Watson, you and your men are dismissed.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Adonis thought he was hearing things at first. Then the twinkling ring of Sable Burton’s cell phone chirped through his hearing protection in the back of the Black Hawk helicopter. The blond giant frisked the unconscious woman and pulled the little phone from her breast pocket, then flipped it open. He didn’t speak, however.
There was silence on the other end. Adonis waited for a response.
“Are we going to wait all night and use up our batteries?” Mack Bolan asked.
“I figured it was you, Stone,” Adonis answered.
“I guessed something was wrong when I heard a helicopter on the other end.”
Adonis chuckled. “You know we have the woman and your bush pilot by now.”
“Yeah.”
Adonis had to admire the man. He was inflappable. “No curses? No threats? No warnings?”
“You’re professionals. You’ll keep them alive as bait or as insurance. I’ll try to figure out a way to get them back, or failing that, avenge them. Bullets will fly. People will die. It all ends up the same,” Bolan answered. “The only difference is which side is still standing at the end.”
“Pretty mellow,” Adonis answered.
“No point in getting hysterical,” the Execution
er returned. “I’ll do my best to kill you and Dark and Harpy and whoever else is with you there.”
“You’re welcome to try, Stone. It’ll be an enjoyable diversion,” Adonis stated.
“That’s all life-and-death struggle is worth to you? A pastime?”
“Got nothin’ else to do with my time and skills,” Adonis answered. “You?”
“I was born to put people like you in the ground.”
“Looks like you’ll fail that destiny, Stone,” the blond giant proclaimed.
“I’d love to chat all day with you, but I have to get ready to shut you down,” Bolan answered.
Adonis simply smiled on the other end of the phone. “It was a pleasure to hear your voice, at least. Hope to see you soon.”
“Not if I see you first,” Bolan promised.
The Executioner hung up and Adonis tucked the phone back into Burton’s pocket.
The Nordic titan shivered, excitement tingling up and down his spine faster than a speeding bullet.
MACK BOLAN HAD BEEN behind this eight ball before, but this time, the pool table was more of a dangerous minefield. He couldn’t so easily strike and retrieve against Dark and Adonis. They knew he was coming, and usually, that was something that worked in his favor. Against mobsters and terrorists and drug dealers, the Executioner’s rampage of intimidation, shock and terror would unnerve the enemy.
Dark and Adonis were professionals, however.
Cold-blooded.
Dedicated.
The Wisconsin State Police were on hand at Sparta Municipal, working with the local sheriff’s department to investigate the earlier shooting and abduction. Bolan flashed his Justice Department credentials to learn more of what was going on.
The descriptions weren’t pretty. They told of a man dropping from a military helicopter and wading through a hail of bullets, unaffected, and knocking out two people before making off with them. A few of the witnesses said that the tiny woman with the man was strangled to death, but she was hauled out over his shoulder, as well. The authorities were discounting her death, because dead people make poor kidnap victims.
Season of Slaughter Page 17
