Hostile Force Read online

  “Keep hold of those pistols,” Bolan said. “Use them if you have to.”

  At the end of the passage Bolan paused at the head of the stairs. He could hear raised voices. The thud of boots.

  Close behind him Clair said, “How do we get out of this one?”

  Bolan didn’t answer. He had seen cautious movement at the base of the stairs. Watched as armed figures filtered around the curve. He stayed behind the protection of the wall end. Clair’s breathing was still ragged as she regained her composure.

  Two men, SMGs in their hands, slid into view—one covering as the other started to edge up the stairs.

  Bolan tracked the H&K on the guy doing the covering. He sent a short burst that chunked into the side of the target’s skull and sprayed bloody brain matter on the wall. The man moving up the stairs froze. He was totally exposed. Bolan held him in his sights for a heartbeat, then knocked him back down the stairs with a hit to the chest that splintered bone and punctured heart and lungs.

  That would make the others pause before they launched another strike. Bolan leaned against the wall. The reverse side of the coin meant he and Clair were prevented from getting down the stairs.

  A stalemate.

  He glanced at the young woman. She had one pistol in her hand, the second thrust into her jodhpurs.

  “One of us needs to check out the rooms on this floor,” Bolan said. “See if there’s any way out.”

  “I guess that’s me,” Clair said.

  “Can you handle it?”

  “Looks like we’ll find out,” she said.

  She moved down the passage to the doors beyond the room where she had been held.

  There were three doors to check.

  “Nothing,” she said on her return. “All empty. One toilet. Windows all screwed down. I’ll check the rooms on the other side of the landing.”

  Bolan nodded. He was watching the stairs. Nothing had moved since the initial attack. They would be planning fresh moves because he had left them no choice. Resistance would come. Bolan laid the spare MP5 magazine on the floor close by and checked the SIG. The pistol held a full magazine. Not as much firepower as he could have done with, he wasn’t in a position to complain.

  The lights on the lower landing went out, leaving it in shadow. Bolan waited, anticipating another move with the stairs in semidarkness.

  He tried to figure out how they would mount their attack.

  A full assault?

  Or just a couple of shooters?

  He got his answer moments later when autofire from a number of weapons shattered the silence. The fire was directed at the head of the stairs, slugs slamming into the wall behind Bolan. They were aiming high. It only took a couple of seconds for Bolan to work out why. The gunfire was intended to keep him occupied while more of the shooters made another sortie, moving beneath the deliberately high-angled fire.

  Smart strategy, he thought. Pity it didn’t work, Corrigan.

  Staying low himself, Bolan pushed the MP-5 forward and triggered a long burst that was angled down the stairwell at the dark figures edging in his direction. The withering blast hit flesh and bone, drawing pained yells and screams. Stray slugs splintered wood from the steps, filling the air with stinging chips. Bolan heard the hard thud of bodies rolling back down the stairs. He ran the MP-5’s magazine until it was empty, then ejected it and snapped in the reserve clip.

  In the silence that followed, broken by low moans and one whimpering cry, Bolan heard footsteps retreated down the lower stairs.

  From the passage to his right he heard Clair’s soft voice.

  “You have to see what I’ve found, Matt.”

  “If it isn’t a mini-helicopter to fly us out I’m not really interested.”

  Chapter 26

  Clair moved to the head of the stairs to keep watch, leaving Bolan to check out the two rooms she had opened. They were on the left side of the passage. Large, high-ceilinged rooms. As Bolan reached the first room he saw a single, heavy door set in the passage’s end wall. He spotted the steel bolts fixed top and bottom and made a note to have a closer look.

  He turned to inspect the first of the opened rooms. It took a moment for him to register what he was looking at—plastic-wrapped blocks, at least four feet square, holding bundles of bank notes. They half-filled the room. Bolan couldn’t imagine how much cash that would total.

  “You see it?” Clair called.

  “I can barely believe it,” Bolan said back.

  “Check the other room.”

  Same size room. Also packed, this time with stacks of wrapped drugs—white powder, brown tablets of unrefined heroin and more bags holding thousands of pills. Bolan scanned the room. A massive stash of narcotics ready for distribution. Enough to bring in more millions for the mob—and misery for the users.

  He caught a glimpse of boxes stacked against the wall opposite the door. Familiar shapes and sizes. Ordnance. Bolan inspected the piled cases. Recognized handguns, MP-5 SMGs, and a container holding M-67 U.S. hand grenades. The markings on the box were U.S. Military. Bolan unearthed a box of 9 mm cartridges. A supply of magazines for the MP-5, next to a case of the H&K weapons. He took a half dozen of the magazines from the ammunition box, then tucked one of the MP-5s under his arm and returned to where Clair crouched.

  “Any movement?”

  She shook her head. “I heard voices. Nothing else.”

  Bolan opened the ammunition box and laid out the empty magazines, then began to load the mags. Clair watched him for a while, then took one of the mags and copied his actions.

  “They’ll have guessed we’ve found the weapons by now. So they’ll have to rethink.”

  “We can hold them off,” Clair said, “but we can’t get out while they’re down there.”

  Bolan loaded the MP-5 he’d brought along. He cocked it and set the SMG to autofire. He held it out to Clair and ran through the operating procedure, showing her how to eject the empty magazine and reload.

  “Hold the trigger down and it fires until you let go. Try not to burn off a full mag in one go. Short bursts are best.”

  “It sounds as if you’re leaving me,” she said.

  “Only for as long as it takes to check what’s on the other side of the end door. Could be a way out.” He touched her shoulder. “I need you to make sure they don’t sneak up on us. Doesn’t matter if you don’t hit anything—just so you keep their heads down.”

  Clair watched him slip two of the magazines under his belt. The rest he left for her use, along with the ammunition box.

  “Go,” she said.

  Bolan went to the end of the passage. He worked the steel bolts. They were relatively new and slid open easily. The heavy latch lifted smoothly. The door was obviously used regularly. Bolan had an idea what he would find on the other side as he pulled the door open.

  He heard the hiss of rain, before a slight wind blew it in through the open door. Even in the dim light Bolan could see that this section of the château had a flat roof. In the middle was a large white-painted circle—a helicopter landing pad.

  The roof was easily large enough to accommodate a chopper. A convenient way to remove and deliver goods.

  Bolan thought back to the two rooms behind him. The château must be the mob’s distribution point as well as a meeting place for the combined heads of the conglomerate. They had chosen it well. Fairly isolated, and with the helicopter pad providing a solid means for moving their illicit merchandise. Knowing the financial clout of the mob, there would also likely be some local protection—cover to prevent curious eyes from straying too close to the property.

  Bolan scanned the rooftop. A low wall edged the perimeter. He crossed to the closest and peered over. The stone wall would not provide any climbing handholds. He chanced a similar check of the othe
r sides and saw the same. No one was going to scale those near-sheer walls, nor would he and Clair be able to climb down—which was not good news.

  Turning, about to go back inside, Bolan raised his eyes and scanned the main bulk of the château. He spotted cast-iron downpipes fixed to the wall next to the door he had exited. He followed the line of the pipe. It terminated in guttering fifteen feet up. Bolan studied it. A chancy offering, but at least a possibility. He stood in front of the downpipe and gripped it—it felt firm, anchored to the stone wall with metal brackets.

  He went back inside, closing and bolting the door, his mind figuring the odds. They had to be marginally better than staying inside the building if they took to the château roof.

  Clair glanced at him as he rejoined her. She touched his wet face. “Nice night?”

  “Any activity down there?”

  “Nothing I can see. But I can hear them moving around.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Bolan said. “I found a way. Not the best, but it’s all we’re likely to get.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “Am I going to like this?”

  Bolan managed a smile. “I doubt it. How are you with heights?”

  “I like riding on tall horses. Sorry, Ethan always says I have a perverse sense of humor.”

  “There’s a way we can get onto the main roof. From there we can find a way to ground level.”

  “Then we should take it, Matt. Those people are not going to let us walk out of the front door, so we’ll have to make our own exit.”

  “There’s a secondary reason we need to go now. We have to get out of here before Corrigan calls in backup.”

  While Bolan stayed watching the stairs he sent Clair to collect a couple more MP-5s. They filled a few more magazines and loaded the extra weapons. They strapped the SMGs across their backs and carried as many filled magazines as they could.

  “Matt,” Clair said, “can we go before I chicken out?”

  A soft sound from below alerted Bolan to the possibility of another assault.

  “Go and unbolt that door,” he said.

  He waited until Clair freed the door. He took one of the loaded MP-5 guns and fired off steady bursts at the shadowed lower landing. When the H&K was empty, Bolan put it down. As he moved along the passage he paused at the room where the ordnance was stored. Inside the room he opened the box holding the M-67 grenades and pulled four out, slipping them into the large pockets of his blacksuit, then joined Clair.

  “Ladies first,” he said, showing her the downpipe.

  She swung her MP-5 across her shoulders, grasped the pipe and began climbing. The rain made the pipe slippery but she braced her feet against the wall and pulled herself up. Bolan let her reach the halfway mark before he started up.

  “A girl could never complain about a date with you being boring,” Bolan heard her say.

  She reached the top of the pipe and paused briefly to catch her breath.

  “There’s a walkway round the edge,” Clair said as she hauled herself over the parapet.

  Bolan saw her shadowy form roll over the low wall and drop out of sight. He dug in, muscles pushing him up and he grasped the gritty stone parapet, pulling himself over the ledge. He slid down next to Clair.

  “No sweat,” she said.

  Bolan looked around. The sloping roof rose behind them, the slates glistening in the fading light. Mossy growths spread out from the edges.

  “That way,” Bolan said. “Toward the rear of the building.”

  He had spotted a narrow walkway between the two main angles of the roof—access for workers having to take care of repairs.

  A muted shout came from below.

  “They know we’re up here,” Clair said.

  “Let’s go.”

  They stepped across the slippery roof slates until they were able to reach the walkway. There were wooden slats to tread on. They were rotten and creaked with every step, some of the slats splitting underfoot.

  Bolan brought up the rear. He had a feeling Corrigan’s shooters would show themselves sooner rather than later. And he heard rising voices behind him almost as the thought formed in his mind.

  He turned, crouching, and saw the head and shoulders of an eager pursuer. The man was dragging himself over the wall, the gleam of his SMG in his right hand. Bolan shouldered the MP-5, lined up his target and eased back on the trigger. The 9 mm burst hit the man in his upper chest. He uttered a startled scream as the impact of the slugs pushed him away from the wall and he vanished from Bolan’s sight. Excited shouting followed in the wake of the body’s impact on the roof below.

  Bolan caught up with Clair. He saw where the walkway angled to the left, cutting across the width of the château.

  “Take that direction,” he called.

  She turned abruptly, without question. Bolan heard her grumble as rotten slats of wood snapped underfoot and she stumbled. She swore forcibly.

  “Such language from a young lady,” he said.

  “My dates don’t usually end up with me being chased across rooftops in the rain,” she said. “I think I’m excused.”

  She froze, peering through the gloom ahead.

  Bolan had picked up on the sound, too.

  “Down,” he yelled.

  Clair dropped to her stomach and Bolan saw a pair of figures separate ahead of them, weapons starting to rise.

  Bolan didn’t have time to take evasive action. He centered the MP-5 and fired out of instinct, the flame from the muzzle brightening the shadows. His bursts found their targets. Bodies jerked under the tearing impact, twisting in shock. One toppled to the side, crashing hard on the sloping roof. Slates cracked and dislodged. The other man went flat on his back, his own weapon firing harmlessly skyward.

  “Clair?” Bolan called as he moved up to where she was already scrambling to her feet.

  “I’m fine. A lot dirtier than when I fell, but okay.”

  “They’ve got other ways to reach the roof,” Bolan said. “Not so good for us.”

  “Well thanks for that cheery information.”

  “Let’s keep moving.” Bolan had something else to tell her and realized there was no easy way to do it. “If anything moves and it’s not me, shoot. Don’t think about it. Just shoot.”

  They moved off again, cutting along the walkway, feeling the rain-soaked wood splintering in places underfoot. The dusk seemed to be hanging around, full dark making no attempt to drop. It allowed them to see their way ahead—but the same would apply to Corrigan’s men.

  A flutter of movement came from their left—the bulk of an armed man raising over the angle of a slated rise. Clair saw the man a fraction of a second before Bolan. The MP-5 in her hands swung around and she triggered a rising burst that ripped and splintered roof slates. The would-be shooter threw up an arm to deflect the flying slate splinters and that distraction allowed Bolan the time to track and fire himself. The man shuddered under the impact of the American’s 9 mm slugs, tumbling back out of sight.

  Raised voices warned them of more opposition. They heard the scrape and clatter as heavy boots dislodged slates. Bolan heard a splintering crash followed by a startled yell. It sounded as if someone had broken through a section of the roof. When he rounded the next angle of the walkway, Bolan saw a trio gathered round a fourth man who had half fallen through a section of roof.

  One of the men lifted his head as Bolan appeared and screamed a warning to his buddies. As one, they let go of their companion, snatching at the SMGs dangling from shoulder straps.

  Bolan crouched forward, his MP-5 settling on the trio, finger easing back on the trigger. The H&K thundered out a scything burst that hit the three men in a moment of terrible savagery. The 9 mm slugs punched in, tearing at flesh and bone, spinning the bloodied figures apart. Bolan hit hard a
nd fast, making sure none of them would be capable of rising again.

  The fourth shooter, his scraped raw fingers trying for a grip on the wet, slippery slates, stared at Bolan. His face was speckled with blood from his dead teammates. For a moment he locked eyes with Bolan, a silent plea for help showing. Bolan made no immediate move to assist him as he ejected the MP-5’s empty magazine and snapped in a fresh one. Wood and slate cracked beneath the wriggling guy’s weight. He felt himself going and let out a hard scream. Then he was gone, trailing debris and dust in his wake. His long scream lasted until he made contact far below.

  As they edged by the downed trio, Bolan noticed they were loaded with extra weapons.

  “They must be really serious about stopping us,” Clair observed.

  “You think?”

  They hurried forward, eager to reach the far side of the château. The rain fell harder, bouncing off the slated roof and streaming down to hinder them as they splashed through the pooling water.

  Bolan threw out a restraining hand, drawing Clair close and easing her into shadow. Ahead he could see the low wall that marked the edge of the roof. A lone figure was standing guard over the iron rail of a ladder fixed to the château wall. He was hunched over against the rain, the collar of a glistening coat turned up around his ears. Bolan was unable to make out his features but he suspected the man would not be wearing a pleased expression at having drawn this solitary position.

  The man turned away, staring out from the edge of the roof as he lowered his head to light the cigarette gripped between his lips. Bolan saw the flare of a lighter. The man’s SMG was dangling by its strap as he used both hands in his attempt to light his cigarette.

  Bolan saw his chance and took it.

  He sprinted forward, muscles powering him ahead, closing the gap in seconds. The man’s head came up at the last moment and he turned, eyes suddenly wide with alarm. The cigarette clung to his lower lip as he began to yell. Hands dropped to the SMG. Bolan’s left shoulder hit him chest high and the man went back off the edge of the roof, arms windmilling frantically. He gave a brief scream as he fell. The thud of his body hitting the ground ended any sound he was making.