Night's Reckoning Read online

  Chapter 9

  The heavyset Serb watched from across the concourse as the man in the blacksuit and Grozny engaged in conversation with two men, one in uniform and one in a suit. He could not hear what they said as he wore a headset that blotted out much of the ambient sound in the hall. But it did keep him in touch with his people, and as long as he had the two men in visual contact, what they said didn’t matter.

  The headset was disguised by his cover—telecoms engineer working on the fiber optics fed through a wall channel. It was the perfect cover to cut off the court from the outside world when they began their assault. He knew from the sparse communication that he was two men down—no doubt, he thought, the work of the man in the blacksuit.

  There was still one man on the outside, one on the roof and four others beside himself on the inside. Added to this, there were three guards that he knew were paid to ease their path. Their ID photos had been sent to him the evening before so that his cell could familiarize themselves with these paid allies.

  He regretted the loss of his men, but the bigger picture dictated that they carry on. The aim was still the same. He checked his watch. They were within the limits that had been set. He knew that choppers were on the way in. Air and road would be blocked or covered. It would take at least fifteen minutes for the aircraft to land and discharge their forces. By that time, he and his men would be long gone.

  The man in the blacksuit probably thought he was home free—they would soon make him think again.

  * * *

  BOLAN WAS FRUSTRATED and angry, and it was all he could do to keep his temper in check. The commander of the court guard was either obtuse or was one of those who had been paid off. He kept insisting that Grozny would be safe in the holding cell and that Bolan should be debriefed. This despite the soldier’s continued insistence that there was as much of a threat within the court as on the outside.

  The fool of a commander laughed this off, claiming that they were locked down, and that the crowds on the outside would soon be controlled and any threat mopped up. He even stooped to patronizing Bolan by pointing out with heavy sarcasm that his own actions had contributed to the chaos.

  The legal administrator was not much help, either—he backed up the guard commander on keeping Grozny

  in the holding cells until the army had cleaned up the area.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Bolan said slowly, his rage almost boiling over. “I have information that an attack could also be mounted from inside the building. Given that their aim is to stop the trial and take the prisoner, if we get him in court and begin proceedings, then half of their aim has been eradicated. And it will be easier to defend a courtroom than a cell that could be guarded by an enemy.”

  “I cannot put the judges and counsel at such a risk,” the administrator said, shaking his head.

  “As long as this man is here and the trial hasn’t commenced, everyone in the building is at risk,” Bolan said coldly.

  “I just cannot take your paranoia seriously.” The guard commander spoke in a dismissive and derisory tone. “You shoot your way in here causing God knows how much damage, then accuse me of having men on the take. And now you are saying that unless we put more people at risk, then there will be another attack? This is the problem with you Americans. You see enemies at every turn and shoot accordingly. It is no wonder that you are so disliked.”

  Bolan couldn’t decide if the man was just being insulting, or if he really was as stupid as he seemed.

  “Look,” the soldier said in a forceful tone, “I’ve just come through three explosions and a planned gridlocking of traffic to try to stop us from getting here. I have intel about the bribery of guards to enable access to the court building. The fact that most of your men are being forced to defend the entrances to the building must tell you something.”

  The guard commander shrugged. “It tells me that there is trouble outside and civil panic, and this is something that is being met with contingency plans by our national forces. It does not confirm anything else that you have said. Which, frankly, seems like nothing more than paranoia that...”

  The commander tailed off, angry and bemused by the fact that Bolan was no longer listening to him—he was, in fact, more concerned with a maintenance man down the hall. The guard commander was about to say something more when circumstance cut him off for good.

  From the roof of the building came a crack and a muffled explosion. Bolan recognized it as Semtex rather than a grenade or rocket. They must have someone up there, Bolan figured—in which case why not inside? He had already been distracted by the way the maintenance man messing with the fiber optics seemed to be a little too concerned with his job at a time when everyone else was distracted by what had been happening in the streets.

  Bolan’s instinct was proved right when the explosion above them was matched by a threat from this direction—the maintenance man pulled a BXP-10 from the tool bag at his feet, and in a crouch loosed a burst of fire where Bolan was standing with the warlord and the two officials.

  He hit the deck, using his free hand to push the man closest to him—the guard commander. Openmouthed and about to launch into a diatribe about the soldier’s paranoia, he had only a second or two to reconsider his position before a wild shot from the Serb’s ill-directed burst split his head. The legal administrator stood, frozen in fear: it was only by dint of the Serb’s poor marksmanship that he remained alive. Bolan would have flattened him, too, if he had been able. He could only hope that the poor shooting would help the man’s luck hold as he took aim with his own Micro-Uzi.

  A deafening roar from behind him stayed his hand. It was probably only his imagination, but Bolan was sure that he could feel the heat of the Benelli’s load as it discharged over his head. Grozny was quicker off the mark, maybe because he hadn’t bothered to aid anyone as he dropped to one knee; maybe because fear was sharpening his long-dulled combat instinct.

  There was nothing wrong with his aim. Even though the spread of the shot from the Benelli gave him a greater scope for wild shooting, nonetheless, the bulk of the pellets hit home on their intended target, taking the Serb out of the action permanently.

  “Come on, Cooper, we don’t have time to hang around here. This is fucked,” the warlord screamed, half tapping and half pulling at Bolan as he passed him, already at a run. Bolan had no idea where Grozny thought he was going, but in one thing he was right: there was no way that the trial would start on this day. And with an attack from above and men inside—possibly some in uniform—this was not a secured site.

  Bolan was on his feet and level with the warlord before they had passed the slick of blood spreading around the dead Serb. In his head the big American was running through the schematics of the building that he had downloaded and studied the night before. There were escape routes to the rear of the building and the exits used for fire and also for the reception of prisoners. But these were bound to be heavily guarded both as possible points of escape and also as points of entry for those guards still

  expecting an attack from outside.

  No need for that—the enemy was already within. The problem was simply this—how many of those men in uniform understood this, and how many of them were presently the enemy?

  Grozny hit the stairwell and started to ascend.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Bolan snapped.

  “Roof. You get your man with the fucking big chopper in here, and now,” Grozny yelled at him.

  “No—they’ll be coming down this way. We need to find another way out.”

  “Where? There isn’t one,” Grozny roared.

  Bolan had no time for explanations, and fortunately he was spared the need by the appearance of two Serbs in working man’s clothes clattering down the stairwell and into view with BXP-10s raised. Grozny was facing away from them: he would have no t
ime to turn, and his back presented an easy target should they decide that to just take him out was a reasonable option at this point.

  Bolan swore loudly as he hit the men with a sustained burst of fire from the Micro-Uzi, stitching both of them across the torso and causing them to fall down the remainder of the stairs. With no time to worry, he hit them with two more short bursts that ensured they would not get up and fight.

  “Come on,” he yelled, grabbing the warlord and pulling him in train.

  They hit the main corridor again. Guards charged past them, headed for the upper levels where the assault from the roof was still a priority. Bolan indicated that they head back toward the area where they had taken out the Serb leader. Grozny made to question him, but the pace that the soldier set did not allow him time nor breath to frame the question.

  As Bolan ran, he mentally scanned the schematics of the building. He had no idea that the guerrillas had also been thinking on these lines. His focus was on getting Grozny out of the building and the immediate area as soon as possible. Then he would need Grimaldi’s

  backup.

  They came to an access stair leading to the building’s basement. Bolan shoved Grozny through the door, turning to cover their backs and see if they were being followed; then he proceeded in the warlord’s wake.

  “Where the hell—” Grozny began.

  “Save your breath,” Bolan snapped. He could have cursed again—anyone may expect footsteps on the stairs, but the warlord had just given himself away with his need to talk.

  Bolan’s apprehension was proved right as a uniformed guard appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Hey, it’s okay—” Grozny began, but was cut short as the guard raised his SMG. In this confined space he would not have to shoot with any accuracy for collateral damage.

  Bolan pushed the warlord down the stairs before him—the old man might get a few bruises, but that was preferable to what was awaiting him if he stayed upright. Before Grozny even had a chance to swear, Bolan had tapped the Micro-Uzi, stitching the guard across the chest. As the man pitched forward he continued with another burst, and the flight of the guard took his head into the path of the shot, finishing the job.

  Bolan flinched as the guard’s almost instinctive tap went awry, the shot ricocheting off the walls and the metal of the stairwell. Bolan could do nothing except hope that his luck held.

  “—fuck is going on,” Grozny yelled angrily as he pulled himself up onto his feet, the first part of his imprecation lost in the whine and clatter of the firefight.

  “Inside men. They’ve paid off guards as well as getting in themselves. So we’ve got to get out.”

  “But how—”

  “Shut up and follow me,” Bolan ordered, in no mood—and with no time—to explain.

  On this level, there was access to a service tunnel that was used partly as an emergency exit and entrance to ferry men into the building, and partly for maintenance of the plant that kept the building functioning. It would lead them into a network that connected all the international court buildings in this section of the Hague. Bolan’s concern was that there may be others down here—enemy or misguided ally—that would fire on sight.

  Along the way there was another access tunnel that would allow them to enter the sewer system. According to the plans he had in his head, it was a secured door. Bolan was still carrying some ordnance that would take care of that.

  But first they had to make the distance. The tunnel was lit by low-level strips, with shadows lurking at the turns that could harbor a threat. Their footsteps echoed as they made time in a jog-trot, both men keeping their weapons pointed downward, but with hearts pounding from more than just exertion.

  They were within five hundred yards of the access door Bolan sought when fate intervened. Their own footsteps masked any that approached, and the same could be said for anyone approaching from the opposite direction. So it was that they reached a bend in the tunnel and were suddenly faced with two men—one a uniformed court guard, the other a Serb in workman’s clothes—who had crested a turn coming from the opposite direction.

  Bolan immediately tapped twice, hitting the two men. The guard was hit in a line across the torso and went down never to rise again. But the Serb was quicker than the guard, and although the burst caught him in the leg, the fact that he was the second in Bolan’s line of fire gave him that fraction of a second he needed to dodge the main burst.

  As he fell, he hit them with a burst from his BXP-10. The line of fire was wide and high, but one ricochet hit Grozny in the arm, causing him to curse loudly as he fell to one knee. Bolan ignored this—there would be time enough for the warlord once he had eliminated the threat. He took a step forward and tapped once more. Before the Serb had a chance to return any fire, the shot from the Micro-Uzi ended his resistance.

  Bolan turned to Grozny. “Can you move?”

  “It’s only my arm,” he hissed. “I’m not that old and fucked yet.”

  Bolan was pleased to hear the old bastard being so ornery. He’d need that to get them through the rest of the escape route. Moving ahead as Grozny stumbled in his wake, Bolan made the five hundred yards to the secured door. The lock was strong, but not as strong as a small clump of C-4 with a detonator timed for thirty seconds. He primed the detonator and then moved back, holding up an arm to halt the warlord. They took what cover they could in the tunnel as the explosive decimated the lock and part of the metal of the service door, swinging it open and revealing the ladder leading down to the main sewer.

  “Down,” Bolan snapped.

  Grozny took the ladder slowly, wincing as he put weight on the damaged arm. The Benelli was slung over his shoulder, and the injury slowed him up and made him vulnerable—the last thing Bolan wanted.

  While Grozny descended, Bolan kept watch. The tunnel was empty and there was no sound other than the cursing of the warlord and the splashing of his last steps down into the sewer. Satisfied that they had eliminated the only threat, Bolan followed the warlord down the ladder, slinging the Micro-Uzi over his shoulder until he hit the watery depths.

  “You leave the door?” Grozny questioned. “What if they follow?”

  “By the time any of them left standing get this far, we’ll be well away from here. We haven’t got the time to waste,” Bolan answered.

  He struck out to the east. According to the schematic that was hot-wired into his brain at this moment, if they took this route and bore left at the next junction, they would come up outside the area delineated by the triangular traffic blasts.

  Once they were out, the real fight would begin. He would need Grimaldi to find a safe house, and then he would need to pin down the source of funding for the Serb group. After this action, he was almost certain that the guts had been ripped from the group. But as long as the source of their funding remained there was a threat, both from the remnants of the group and from those who paid them—and would pay others.

  The only way to eradicate that threat was to cleanse it with fire.

  Chapter 10

  “I am getting old. Useless...” Grozny was feeling sorry for himself as he flexed the wounded arm that Bolan had just dressed. He grimaced at the pain and at his own perceived weakness. “There was a time when I would have thought nothing of such a wound. I would keep on as though it was not there. But today...today I felt it drag me down, slow me. I could not have made it back if I was on my own. And that hurts. Hurts more than this scratch ever could,” he continued, gesturing to his wounded arm with his uninjured hand. “Maybe they should just lock me away, you know? Maybe that is all I am good for now.”

  Bolan had no time for Grozny’s self-pity as he packed the med kit. “Listen, what we both need to focus on now is wiping out this threat. Otherwise, I’m not going to get back to Washington and you’re not even going to get the chance to feel sorry for yo
urself in prison.”

  Grozny managed a wry grin. “True.”

  “It’s still locked down and a mess out there, so we need to hole up for a while,” Bolan said.

  “And then?”

  “And then you sit tight and wait. I’ve got some work to do.”

  Grozny assented. “This is your fight now. I have to concede.”

  Bolan was bemused. Though it was a compliment from a man from whom he did not welcome such an accolade, Bolan also knew that coming from Grozny, it was one hell of a concession.

  “You can fix us some rations. I need to catch up with what’s happening. I’ll brief you when I have full intel.”

  Grozny looked the soldier full in the face before nodding briefly. “I appreciate. You have no imperative to do this.”

  As the warlord left the room, Bolan paused in thought. This was a side of the warlord that he had not seen, and it made him understand some of the qualities that had made him a charismatic leader—though evil nonetheless. But this was not the moment for contemplation—there were pressing matters at hand.

  His first call was to Grimaldi.

  “Sarge, you made it okay?”

  “I’m here, Jack, and not dead in a sewer.”

  “You should have got me to fly you in and out. I could have taken care of that asshole on the roof, and there would have been no need to deal with those blasts at ground level.”

  “They would have gone off, anyway, Jack. The idea was to keep it low-key.”

  “Sarge, there has been nothing low-key about this from the beginning. These guys have about as much security sense as a five-year-old. The only way we should have tackled this was to take Grozny into our care from the beginning. Then blast the hell out of these terrorists before they could do too much damage.”