“Ethan, you had enough to be dealing with.”
A sudden spasm racked Sorin’s body. His face showed a sheen of sweat as he clutched his side.
“Damned infection,” he said. “Tried to hold it back but I don’t have the stuff to deal with it.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure you get it. Ethan, I need to get you to a hospital.”
“I know.”
Bolan raised his head, listening. Above the wind he had picked up a faint, rising sound.
One he recognized.
One that was all too familiar.
The thwack of a helicopter’s rotors coming toward the house. There was no mistaking the sound.
“You got your weapon handy?” Bolan asked.
Sorin nodded. He reached out and picked up the Glock handgun resting on the small table next to his armchair.
“I hear it now,” he said. “Do we assume the worst?”
Bolan said, “Until we know different.” He indicated the stairs. “I need a better observation spot.”
Sorin watched him vanish up the stairs, heard Bolan’s boots as he crossed the landing and made for one of the rooms.
Bolan peered through the front bedroom window. The chopper swung across the front of the house, hovering briefly before it moved to the side. He vacated the room and checked out the landing extension. There was a smaller window set in the end wall. Bolan saw the helicopter circle in and come to rest in the open a couple of hundred yards clear of the house. Three figures emerged from the aircraft, clad in hooded coats, carrying SMGs. They started to close in on the house. One separated and headed in the direction of the rear.
“Ethan, one’s covering the rear,” Bolan said as he returned to the ground floor. “Two look to be carrying SMGs.”
Bolan slid the Beretta’s selector to 3-round burst. Out the corner of his eye he saw Sorin check the Glock.
“Can you handle the rear?” Bolan said.
“Watch and learn,” Sorin said.
He dragged himself out of the armchair and limped in the direction of the kitchen, leaning against the door frame. He braced the Glock in both hands, targeting the rear door itself.
Bolan faced the front door, standing to one side so as not to present himself as a direct target. The 93-R was aimed at the door.
The heavy kicks at the door heralded the arrival of their visitors.
The door swung open.
Bolan heard a voice yelling.
“Go. Go, go, go...”
Chapter 16
Markus had the presence of mind to drop to a crouch as the door cleared the frame. His partner didn’t. Pikey rushed the door, his SMG’s muzzle tracking back and forth, seeking a target. It was a foolish move that cost him dearly.
He saw nothing but the shadowy interior of the room, his steps faltering as he realized his error. There was no chance to correct his move. Committed to the position he found himself in, Pikey swiveled his eyes left and right, searching.
When something moved on the periphery of his gaze it was far too late to do anything.
The jutting muzzle of an autopistol aimed at his head, held steady in the fist of the big American, was Pikey’s last image. Bolan squeezed back on the 93-R’s trigger and sent a 3-round burst of 9 mm slugs into Pikey’s forehead, taking his skull apart and spraying bloody gore across the room.
Lapdog heard the subdued sound of suppressed gunfire, and then picked up the brief eruption of Pikey’s final gasp over his comset.
In his shock and frustration, Lapdog forgot everything he had been told and let fly with his SMG, the long burst tearing ragged holes in the rear door around the lock area. Splinters spat back at him as the slugs ripped into the wood. Lapdog hurled himself forward, his lean shoulder smashing into the door. It crashed open, Lapdog following it over the step, his weapon thrust forward as he sprayed the kitchen with another burst. His slugs struck the walls and shelves, sending splintered crockery flying. Glass-fronted cabinets showered glittering shards through the air.
When his SMG snapped empty, Lapdog reached for a second magazine, his finger pressing the eject button to release the exhausted clip. It hit the tiled floor, bouncing. Lapdog began to slide in the fresh magazine.
And that was when Sorin showed himself at the inner door, his Glock 17 autopistol already raised in both hands. He triggered the pistol, his shots coring into Lapdog’s chest, and followed the man down as he fell. Sorin’s final shot struck the top of Lapdog’s head as he slumped forward, the angled trajectory channeling the 9 mm slug through and out the back of Lapdog’s skull. Lapdog toppled back, his upper body falling to the outside of the door where the rain washed his blood away in swirling pink streams.
Sorin, the effort taking the remaining strength from his body, sank to his knees and let his suddenly heavy weapon droop in his hands.
* * *
MARKUS CAUGHT A GLIMPSE of Pikey’s head blowing apart. He didn’t think any further than that before he wrenched his body aside, throwing himself away from the open door. He landed on his left shoulder, scrambling across the muddy ground, searching for cover. He knew Pikey’s killer would be following. He was also convinced the shooter was the mystery American.
He just knew.
He rolled around the end wall, away from the front of the house, his mind working on how he could get clear. Markus understood he was on his own. Pikey was dead. And his call to Lapdog had not received a response. The burst of gunfire from the rear of the house had come from two guns, so Lapdog had engaged with a second shooter—Sorin? And presently there was only silence from the comset.
Jesus, what a mess, he thought.
It shouldn’t have gone this way.
They should have shown up, taken Sorin and been back on the chopper already, free and clear.
Instead...
* * *
“ETHAN?”
“I’m okay.”
“There’s one more,” Bolan said.
“Go.”
* * *
MARKUS LOST HIS FOOTING and sprawled facedown on the wet ground. He almost let the SMG slip from his fingers as he pushed to his knees, his front slick with dark mud from his fall. As he stood upright he threw a quick glance over his shoulder.
No one in sight yet.
He didn’t expect that to last for long.
Markus checked the area. There was nothing between himself and the waiting chopper except open ground—a rain-soaked field with no cover.
Nothing.
He spoke into his comset, alerting the pilot.
“What the hell is going on?” the pilot asked.
“Get that fucking chopper ready to lift off,” Markus yelled. “Call Corrigan and tell him it’s all blown to hell. They were waiting for us. Pikey and Lapdog are burned.”
“Both of them? What about...”
“Just do it.”
Markus caught movement at the corner of the house.
A tall figure clad all in black, thick hair plastered to his skull, stepped into view. There was actual menace in the way the guy moved. Markus felt a chill invade his body as he stared at the man. He had never backed away from a threat in his life but something about the big American froze Markus. It was more than simply his physical presence, though that in itself was intimidating. The guy exuded an aura of sheer domination. It was strong enough to make Markus hesitate. To render him immobile, even if only for a few seconds.
Markus shook himself free, aware he was allowing the man to put him under pressure. He raised the SMG, finger curling around the trigger, and he opened fire. The stream of 9 mm slugs pounded the stone wall of the house, sending a misty spray of dusty chips into the air.
“Sonofabitch!” he yelled as his burst missed its target by inches.
Markus pulled the muzzle around, lining up for a second burst. He stroked the trigger again and felt the SMG buck in his hands, wondering why the muzzle appeared to be aimed skyward. It was a second later when he registered the heavy numbness in his chest. The refusal of his lungs to function. Markus’s ability to control his body left him as he toppled backward—explaining why he was firing his SMG at the sky. Pain took over then. Deep, wrenching pain that even dulled the sensation of hitting the ground. The impact drove bloody air from his lips. Markus was choking, unable even to draw breath because the 9 mm slugs from Bolan’s 93-R had shattered ribs and shredded his lungs as they deformed and cored in through his body. He coughed up fragments of tissue, made an attempt to clutch his numbing chest but even that proved too much of an effort. Markus died with the looming figure of the tall man in black standing over him, his face impassive, the image slowly fading into misty darkness.
* * *
BOLAN PICKED UP THE rapidly increasing sound of the helicopter’s rotors. The aircraft was powering up for flight. He was too far away to prevent it from taking off. He had to watch helplessly as the machine rose, turning quickly to remove it even farther from possible danger.
Damn, he thought.
The helicopter could have proven useful in transporting Sorin to a hospital.
Bolan didn’t dwell on the loss. It had happened and no amount of bitterness would change the fact. He turned and headed back in the direction of the house, reaching into his blacksuit pocket for his sat phone. He keyed in his Stony Man Farm number and waited as the connection was made. He spoke to Brognola.
“I found Ethan Sorin,” Bolan said. “So did a hit team from the mob.”
“You both okay?”
“Yeah. Ethan needs medical assistance. He has a wound that’s turned septic. He should have that looked at ASAP. But we’ve got to keep him out of sight.”
“A problem?”
“Can’t risk the OrgCrime unit getting involved. They have a leak. Ethan has to stay covered until it’s safe.”
“You need my help?”
“Do I need to ask?”
“Hell, no,” Brognola said, his tone gruff. “What do you want?”
“A pickup. Ethan taken to a secure location manned by our contacts only. Medical help.”
“And kept under wraps for the duration.”
“Along those lines.”
Brognola chuckled. “Can you hang in there until help arrives? May take a little time. Give me your location.”
Bolan quoted his GPS coordinates.
“Okay, got you.”
“Keep me updated, Hal.”
“Will do. Now get off the damn line so I can get to work, Striker.”
Brognola’s Stony Man position and his status within the Justice Department had garnered a long line of contacts. They stretched out from Washington and reached in diverse directions. His assets were spread across the globe and though he used them sparingly, Brognola worked on a reciprocating basis. In the ongoing struggle between good and evil, Brognola saw sense in agencies cooperating. Part of his work ethic meant he stepped over the line on many occasions, loathing the still-present reluctance of certain agencies to pool knowledge. The stupidity of interagency rivalry left him baffled. The western world was in a war, there was no arguing there, so any withholding of information between people on the same side simply aided the enemy. He wanted to get all the heads of agencies in one room and personally crack their skulls together until he drove some sense into them. It was Brognola’s fantasy. It rose into his conscious thoughts on occasion, usually when he was frustrated.
His fantasy didn’t surface as he picked up one of his telephones and speed-dialed a number that put him through, via a satellite link, to one of his U.K. assets. When his man came on, Brognola dismissed the usual niceties and went straight for the jugular.
* * *
BOLAN’S CELL BUZZED twenty minutes later.
“Three hours. Maybe less. They’re on the way. Medical assist and a ride for Ethan Sorin to a U.K. location. He’ll be safe, Striker.”
“Thanks, Hal.”
“I take it you won’t be going with him?”
“Right there, pal.”
“When the chopper arrives there’ll be a package for you. I figured you might be ready for ordnance top-up.”
Bolan smiled. “You are not wrong.”
“Stay hard, Striker. And alive.”
The conversation ended. Bolan turned and gave Sorin a thumbs-up.
“You’ll be on your way soon, Ethan. Then it’s time to turn up the heat on the mob.”
“One thing,” Sorin said. “I need to let you know where I put the data in case I don’t make it.”
“Okay, but you’re going to make it, Ethan. I promised Clair you would, and the last thing I want is to disappoint your sister.”
Chapter 17
“Reese, do it. Hit the house now. Get that bitch. I don’t care how many of those fucking OrgCrime agents you waste. Just do it.”
Reese had his orders—and Corrigan’s orders were never ignored. He pocketed the phone.
“We ready, boys?”
His six-man team nodded. They were all armed with SMGs and holstered handguns. Two of them carried sniper rifles. All their weapons were fitted with suppressors, and the entire team wore ski masks and gloves.
“Two agents at the rear. Same at the front. Plus three inside with the Sorin woman,” Reese said. “We come in from the back of the house, take down the pair there. Then we split. One group in through the rear. The other round the side of the house and go for the two out front. We get rid of the agents inside and grab the woman. As soon as we have her, I call in the wheels and we leave. Minimum fuss. Minimum noise.” Reese scanned the team. “Any questions? No? Let’s do it, boys.”
Reese had his team in the dense wood on the north side of the Sorin estate. The trees would give them good cover as they closed in on the house. The thick shrubbery and the orchard would help as they breached the perimeter of the large garden area. Once the patrolling OrgCrime agents at the rear had been dealt with, the final approach to the house would be clear.
The team was comprised of former military men Reese had pulled in. He had worked with most of them before and trusted every one of them to do their job.
By the time the full team had assembled on the edge of the orchard, the forward pair had the OrgCrime agents spotted.
“One by the wall,” Reese was told. “There. You see him?”
“Yes.”
“Second is just moving this way across the patio. Near the steps.”
“In range?”
“Of course.”
The two with the rifles readied their weapons. They moved without haste, making sure their sighting was set for the distance before they focused in on the targets. The shots came within seconds of each other. Clean head shots. Reese saw the targets twist as the powerful bullets slammed home. Bone and flesh disintegrated, and bloody brain matter flew in misty sprays as the agents dropped.
“Go,” Reese snapped.
The team sprinted forward, across the wide expanse of lawn. At the rear of the house they split into groups of three. Reese stayed with the team entering the house, while the other group skirted the side of the building, making for the front.
The wide French doors at the back of the house led into a large room, well-furnished, with a door that gave access to the rest of the house.
The team fanned out as they stepped through into the dining room. An agent in shirtsleeves was just entering the room. He saw the team and made a grab for the autopistol holstered on his hip. The rapid sound of suppressed fire hit him before he could clear the holster. He fell back against the door frame, eyes wide with shock. He was still falling to the floor as Reese and his team
pushed by.
There was a sudden outburst of noise from outside the front door. The loud crack of a pistol, followed by the suppressed hiss of SMG fire.
“Move quickly,” Reese ordered.
His team spread, weapons up and ready.
An armed man stepped into view, eyes searching for the source of the disturbance. He became aware of the team’s presence. His upper body turned. He caught the unrestrained fire from two SMGs, the heavy bursts punching into his torso and blowing out his back. He was starting to bleed even as he fell, his hands clawing at the polished wood floor. Reese stood over him and punched a pair of 9 mm slugs through his skull, spreading a bloody mess across the floor.
The front door burst open and the other team crowded through. One of the men had a bloodied arm.
“Here,” another of the men called.
In the library, where Delbert had missed his chance, was Clair Sorin, the surviving agent at her side. The agent was a red-haired young woman. She held a Glock pistol in her hand.
“Miss Sorin, you will come with us now,” Reese said quietly.
Clair Sorin stared back at him. “And if I refuse?”
“The question does not arise. Does it?”
The young agent stepped forward. “What about my people?” she asked. “Are they...”
“Another wasted question,” Reese said.
The pistol in his hand rose and he fired twice, his bullets coring in through the agent’s forehead. They plowed through her brain and wrenched out a section of her skull as they exited.
“You bastard!” Clair screamed.
She moved faster than anyone might have expected, her right arm lashing out to deliver a wild punch at Reese. He barely avoided it as he leaned away. He used his own left hand to launch a heavy backhand that slammed across the side of Clair’s face. She gasped in shock, falling to her knees, a bleeding gash in her cheek caused by the heavy silver ring Reese wore.
The only good thing, Clair thought, was that she had put her stable girl on extended paid leave since the protection team had moved in. If Jane had been on-site she would most likely have ended up dead, too.
Hostile Force Page 9
