Doomsday Disciples te-49 Read online

  It was now or never, yeah, before the tail gunner found his range. There wouldn't be a second chance.

  Bolan punched it, running close behind the limo's tail. The shotgunner saw it coming and recognized the move, correcting onto target acquisition in the time it took to blink an eye. He was grinning, right, at the damned fool who was making it so easy.

  Bolan cut the wheel hard left to swerve around the limo's driver side. Suckered, the tail gunner took his shot and blew it, ventilating one of the crew wagon's doors. Paneling and seat cushions took the punishment, swallowing the chunks of deadly buckshot.

  Running on the soft shoulder, Bolan felt his tires spewing gravel, losing traction for an instant before they caught hold. He was gaining ground when the wheelman saw his plan and moved to cut him off, but it was too late. With another twist of the wheel, he was back on the pavement, running close beside Minh's limousine.

  A sidelong glance revealed a gunner craning hard across the tank's back seat, his elbow in Minh's face, as he angled for a clear shot. Bolan concentrated on the driver, his big silver AutoMag sliding up and out, locking onto target as he held the Caddy on a steady track, pacing the limousine.

  Bolan squeezed the trigger, and the .44 exploded in his fist. The wheelman turned to face him, and his eyes widened, glazing over as he recognized the face of death. He screamed, but no sound reached Bolan's ears.

  The heavy Magnum slug punched through window glass without losing any significant velocity, 240 grains of death impacting on the driver's nose. The screaming face disintegrated, vaporized. The driver simply was no longer there.

  Without a guiding hand, the limousine swerved, drifting to the right. Bolan pushed it with a broadside jolt from the Cadillac. He watched as the tank jumped the shoulder, soaring momentarily, and plunged nose down into a ditch beside the highway.

  Bolan slid the crew wagon to a halt a hundred feet down the road, going instant EVA with the M-16/M-203 combination primed and ready. Circling off the pavement, following the roadside gully, he cautiously approached the crippled limo, feeling his way through the fog.

  The tank clearly wasn't going anywhere, but its occupants were intact, climbing stiffly out on either side. Through the Nitefinders, Bolan counted five warm bodies, at least three armed. Those would be the "elders," Minh's last line of personal defense.

  Bolan recognized the other two in a heartbeat before they ducked out of sight behind the car. There was no mistaking Minh, and his captive had to be the senator.

  Satisfied he had found his quarry, Bolan concentrated on the grim mechanics of survival in the hellgrounds. He would have to dispose of Minh's defenses before he could complete the strike. Although dazed and shaken, their numbers drastically reduced, the hardmen were still professionals. Still dangerous.

  Two of the gunners climbed an embankment above the limousine, slipping, cursing and sliding back on the sandy soil. Finally, digging in their heels and leaning forward, they gained the high ground, moving with awkward, exaggerated strides. The third man hung back beside the car, protecting the rear and helping guard the senator.

  None sighted Bolan, but the two point men would soon be close enough. The Executioner decided he didn't want to share their company.

  He had loaded the grenade launcher with a round of buckshot before leaving the Cadillac. He swung the lethal weapon up and onto target, following the slope, finger tensing on the trigger of the M-203. He made the range twenty yards, with an uphill angle.

  The launcher bucked and roared; a charge of shot punched through the mist, sweeping the hillside with leaden rain. One gunner took the brunt of it, dying on his feet, riddled with a dozen pellets. The force of impact swept him off balance and knocked him sprawling, the rifle he carried slipped from his lifeless fingers. The limp body slithered downslope in a cascade of sand and pebbles.

  His companion dropped, wounded in the shoulder, hip and thigh. One-handed, he managed to return fire with an Uzi submachine gun, holding the trigger down and giving the little gun its head. He was dazed, and he hadn't seen Bolan's muzzle flash; his probing rounds were harmlessly slicing air a few yards to the soldier's left.

  Bolan raised his autorifle, sighting quickly through the fog. He stroked the trigger, rattled off a three-round burst. The wounded gunner went slack, the Uzi fell silent.

  Bolan tracked toward the lone surviving "elder." This one saw his muzzle flash. The guy was pumping lead at him from a stubby shotgun, pellets falling short, and the Executioner took his time tracking onto target.

  He set the selector switch for semiautomatic, and put a single bullet in the ten-ring. At sixty feet, the shot was true, hurling his human target backward, draping him across the limo's dusty hood.

  Moving in for the kill, Bolan primed the launcher with a high-explosive round. It would be his backup, his fail-safe, the doomsday weapon just in case things went to hell.

  He closed in on the tank when a pair of dusty and disheveled figures rose behind it, facing him across the hood. Minh's lifeless gunner lay between them like a human sacrifice.

  Minh's voice stopped Bolan twenty paces out.

  "That is far enough," he said. "You will drop the weapon, please."

  Bolan's tone was flat, uncompromising.

  "I don't think so," he answered. "Look around you, Minh. It's finished."

  "Is it? I don't believe so."

  The voice rose nervously. There was a wild look in his eyes as he raised an automatic pistol, brandished it and jammed the muzzle hard against his captive's side.

  "You may recognize my friend, the senator," he said. "Please believe that I will kill him instantly if you do not put down your rifle."

  Bolan let his shoulders slump, his attitude telegraphing grim defeat. The muzzle of his weapon slowly drooped, sagging toward the ground. His eyes fastened on Minh's face, watching as a look of satisfaction spread. Minh smiled and instantly Bolan stroked the trigger of the 40mm hand cannon.

  The high-explosive charge struck the limousine behind the driver's door. Bolan crouched then rolled sideways when the ball of flames erupted with devastating force, rocking the limo on its springs and setting up a massive shock wave. Minh and Michael Culp were flattened by the blast, shrouded in a cloud of smoke and dust that mingled with the fog.

  Bolan circled through the hellish mist, his nostrils engulfed by the stench of burning. The limousine was shattered, flames licked the interior. There were moments left — perhaps mere seconds — before the gas tank exploded.

  As he reached the killing ground, Bolan saw a dazed and dusty Michael Culp staggering away, moving from danger on shaky legs. Minh was closer, kneeling in the dirt and scrabbling around with both hands, searching for the weapon he lost in the blast.

  Bolan raised the M-16 and held its muzzle steady on Minh's chest, unwavering. He announced himself to Minh, attracting the shaken "holy" man's attention with his voice.

  "Like I said, it's over."

  Minh slowly straightened up, meeting Bolan's gaze. With an effort, he struggled to his feet, almost standing at attention.

  "One man," he said reflectively, as he talking to himself. "I knew it."

  "One can be enough," Bolan told him.

  "You were in the war?" he asked.

  Bolan nodded solemnly.

  "I still am."

  Minh's smile was thoughtful, introspective.

  "I understand."

  And there was nothing more to say.

  Bolan switched the fire selector back to automatic as he pressed the trigger and held it down. Steel-jacket tumblers ripped through the standing figure at a cyclic rate of 700 rounds per minute, blowing him away like a rag in a high wind.

  The rifle's magazine emptied out in something under two seconds, firing bolt locking open on the smoking chamber. Two seconds was a heartbeat, yeah... and a lifetime for Minh.

  Bolan followed the senator.

  Flames found the limo's gasoline tank. It detonated like an incendiary bomb, the heat wave washing over
Bolan's back, but he didn't turn around to watch the fire. He didn't need to see the cleansing holocaust at work.

  It was now time to think about survivors.

  Epilogue

  Twin Peaks is a tourist magnet in the San Francisco area. Twin Peaks is the geographic heart of the whole scenic wonderland that is the City by the Bay. From her overlooking peaks, a breathless visitor has the entire Bay Area spread out below for a seemingly infinite distance — an especially spectacular view at night. The many observation points and pull-overs once provided lovers with a heady lure... before car-window bandits and rapists found the lure equally rewarding.

  Bolan had been there many times, but neither as a lover nor a bandit. In another life, another war, he had brought his California hit to a conclusion there, with a fusillade that shattered Don DeMarco's dreams of power. It was only fitting, then, that another San Francisco strike should end there.

  A golden dawn broke in the east, warm rays of sunshine burning off the nightly fog until the city below began to steam. In another hour, maybe less, the view would be awesome. Except neither Bolan nor his passenger came to see the sights.

  After all of it, the blood and burning, destruction and death, there was only one thing in the world Michael Culp wanted to see. The senator was virtually silent on their ride across town, but the Executioner could read the tension in the man's movements, the way his hands kept opening and closing in angry fists. No amount of verbal reassurance could put his mind at ease.

  It would take a special kind of rendezvous, sure, and Bolan didn't want to keep him waiting.

  By prearrangement, Herman Schwarz was waiting for them at the scenic overlook. Amy Culp sat beside him in the car, her face showing signs of animation as she caught sight of Bolan and his passenger.

  Michael Culp was out of the car before it stopped rolling, his voice breaking as he called his daughter's name. Amy met him on the run and they clung together, openly weeping, afraid to let each other go and sacrifice the moment.

  Later, there would be time enough for talk.

  Bolan watched them for a moment, feeling for them, sure, before he left the car. Gadgets met him at the Caddy's battered tail and shook his hand, glancing at the bullet holes and lacerated fenders.

  "Looks like you had some wild ride," the Able warrior said.

  Bolan gave his friend a smile.

  "Wild enough," he said. "How's the mop-up going?"

  "Five-by-five. Between the marshals and their prisoners, it's SRO around the federal building. Guess you could say the same thing about the morgue — except they won't be standing."

  "Did they bag the yacht?" Bolan asked.

  Gadgets flashed a crooked little grin.

  "Had a problem there," he answered. "Seems the damned thing sprung a leak. Went down like the Titanic off the waterfront."

  It was Bolan's turn to smile as he let himself unwind, tension slowly draining out of him. It was good to be alive and sharing the company of a friend, basking in the warmth of early-morning sunshine.

  For a soldier, such moments were few and far between.

  The senator moved toward them, keeping Amy close beside him with an arm around her shoulders. Both smiled widely, at peace with themselves and each other. Michael Culp addressed Bolan in a voice heavy with suppressed emotion.

  "I don't know how to thank you."

  Bolan flicked a glance at Amy and saw her smiling face and shining eyes.

  "Sure you do," he said. "Tend the home fires, Senator."

  "I will, believe it. I owe you one."

  The warrior shook his head.

  "Call it paid," he said, "and get the lady out of here."

  Culp nodded. Amy Culp mouthed a silent thank-you as she and her father turned away.

  And it was over, yeah, in San Francisco.

  The serpent's head was destroyed. The severed pieces of its body that clung to life would be picked up by Brognola. Without direction, the tattered remnants of the Universal Devotees would wither on the vine. There might be some fight left in them, a last reflexive spasm, but the war was finished.

  It had taken all of six short hours.

  How many men had Bolan killed within that time?

  Enough.

  He turned to face the sun, letting its cleansing heat bathe his face and soak into his aching muscles, driving out the chill of night, the weariness of battle.

  For the moment, yes, for here and now, it was enough.

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