Rebel Force Page 17

  Shots rang out from the corner of the room where Bolan spotted the doorway. He saw movement as muzzle-flashes lit up the darkness.

  The automatic carbine jumped in his hands and the bolt receiver snapped back and forth faster than the eye could follow, spilling spent cartridges onto the floor. Bolan’s night vision was ruined by the muzzle-flashes, and he could only make out impressions inside the heavily shadowed room.

  Bolan stopped firing.

  He saw the door to the bedroom standing wide open and caught a glimpse of hallway past it. Another door, presumably to the master bathroom, stood ajar. In the distance Bolan heard the wailing of sirens.

  The target was a wanted man, and he had no more to gain from police contact than Bolan. That meant now that his cover was blown, he’d be making for the front door and his vehicle rather than chance getting caught in a police barricade. Bolan turned back from the window, his decision made.

  The Executioner freed his cell phone while he ran and punched the function back to walkie-talkie. Coming up to the gate, he didn’t vault it this time. He quickly scanned the area before opening the gate from the inside.

  Holding his weapon one-handed, he said, “Primary active. Provide cover.”

  “Affirmative.” Sable’s voice was a cool salve to Bolan in his hyperalert state.

  He put the phone away and moved forward in a sideways scuttle that covered ground but left him centered and on balance to get a shot off if he needed to react to gunfire. He looked out into the street. He saw faces in the dark windows across the road but didn’t see any bystanders out on the pavement yet.

  These people had lived through a brutal suppression of the Kosovo Liberation Army by Serbian commandos and special police units. People knew to keep their heads down when the guns started firing in the middle of the night.

  Coming to the side of the house, Bolan prepared himself.

  A figure ran out the front door with a pistol stuck in the front of his pants and a rifle in one hand. A small leather suitcase was tightly clutched in the man’s other fist. There was a shriek of locking brakes and squealing tires as two patrol cars slid around the corner and sped down the street heading straight for the house.

  The man never hesitated as he ran toward his Lexus SUV. He simply lifted the rifle single-handed and triggered a heavy burst into the oncoming police car.

  The safety glass cracked and dented as rounds marched up the hood of the car and impacted the windshield. Both black-uniformed officers threw their hands up in futile attempts to ward off the burst of automatic fire. The rounds tore into them and splashed them across the inside of their car.

  The speeding vehicle struck another car in a residential driveway. The gunman turned and stitched another burst down the side of the vehicle, gouging pockmarks across the door. The second police car’s driver slammed on the brakes and threw the vehicle into reverse. The shooter turned and lifted his rifle across the hood of his red SUV.

  His head exploded on the impact of a single 7 mm round fired by Sable. Bolan’s own burst caught the narcoterrorist in the small of his back and hacked away big chunks of flesh. Ripped apart by the cross fire, the Armenian sprawled across the hood of his vehicle before sliding off and falling onto the driveway. The black suitcase fell from his limp grip and fell on the street.

  Both officers in the second vehicle crawled out of their car on the side facing away from the terrorist gunman. Unaware of third party involvement, they both began rapid-firing their pistols at the side of the Lexus SUV facing them. Its windows shattered and lead bullets rang off metal.

  Bolan realized his own car was directly in their line of fire. The scenario had gone to hell in a handbasket faster then anyone could have expected. Bolan knew once he grabbed the suitcase he could never make it to his car across the open field of fire covered by the officers. Already, the city behind the firing policemen sounded like it was alive with sirens, all of them descending on this spot. He was pinned down. Trapped.

  Then Sable made his decision for him.

  25

  Without warning 7 mm rounds punched through the thin skin of the police vehicle. A round entered one door, passed through the cab then penetrated the driver’s side door. It struck the crouching Serbian high in the chest and slammed him to the ground.

  The Executioner ran for the suitcase. He fired a short burst from his assault rifle to cover his movement, but the act was unnecessary as Sable’s rounds had left the lone, outgunned policeman cowering behind what cover he could find.

  Bolan went to a knee beside the SUV. He set down his rifle and quickly worked the snaps on the case, popping open the lid. Looking inside he saw a device set into cut foam that matched the schematic drawings Barbara Price had sent to him from Stony Man Farm.

  “I have confirmation,” Bolan said into his cell phone as he secured the suitcase.

  “Copy,” Sable answered. “Get out of there.”

  Bolan grabbed the case and ran for it.

  Reaching his vehicle, he threw open the door and tossed the suitcase into the passenger’s seat. He dropped his nearly spent magazine and reached around behind his back and pulled another one from his belt. The assault rifle locked in the bolt open position and it snapped home as he seated the new magazine. In rapid succession five new patrol cars roared into the street. Sable took out the driver of the first vehicle and the car rushed forward, driverless, to smash into the initial patrol car.

  Bolan slid behind the wheel and slammed the car into reverse. The Audi was an automatic, which wasn’t as good for precision driving, but it was what had been available. The flip side of this was that it would be easier for Bolan to fire on the move than in a standard transmission.

  Bolan hit the gas and the car shot backward, building speed.

  He gunned the car back up the residential street, away from the police units. He’d been sent an aerial photo of the neighborhood and had taken time to memorize a street map of the area. He had a plan and he was committed to following it down to the last ticking second.

  Coming to the end of the street, Bolan jumped the curb and tore across a brief stretch of private lawn.

  The vehicle plunged down a short hill and over several low, decorative bushes before popping out onto a parallel street. A car blared its horn and swerved to avoid Bolan as he yanked the emergency brake and slid the Audi through a precision bootlegger maneuver. Facing the proper direction, Bolan pushed the accelerator down and the car surged forward.

  He set the smoking assault rifle on the seat next to him and flipped open his cell phone. He passed more police cars racing in the other direction.

  “Arlington clear.”

  There was no response.

  Throwing the phone down, Bolan looked in his rearview mirror but saw none of the siren carriers slam into a skid and wheel their vehicles around. He jerked the car to the right and down a side street heading for his rally point with Sable.

  Four blocks later Bolan shot underneath an overpass and quickly guided the car off the road, sliding to a stop. With tight, efficient motions he transferred the Gustav implement out of the suitcase and into one Barbara Price had provided for him.

  That done he pulled back into the street and sped another mile through twisting streets toward the edge of the city. Within minutes Bolan had pulled up to the rally point. The woman appeared out of the shadows of an abandoned gas station almost immediately.

  Her weapon already broken down and inside a carrying case, Sable climbed into the seat next to Bolan.

  “You get the Gustav?” she asked.

  “It’s in the back seat.”

  “Good,” Sable answered. “Then I can give you what my contact gave me before we took Airapetian down.”

  “What?” Bolan asked sharply.

  She held up a Montblanc pen. Quickly she unscrewed the writing instrument and showed Bolan the tightly rolled microfiche strip inside. Once Bolan had acknowledged seeing what she’d showed him, Sable put the pen back together again and sl
ipped it into a pocket.

  “Three months ago I used Sanders to install a sleeper code into Lich’s expense account activities. We were able to trace him siphoning off operational funds into black accounts, then from the black accounts into dummy corporation personal accounts. One of the accounts was flagged as being active yesterday—for an amount identical to what Airapetian paid for the Gustav implement.”

  Sable lifted her pistol and pressed the muzzle against Bolan’s head.

  Bolan stiffened behind the wheel of the speeding automobile. The Russian agent slid her free hand across the broad expanse of Bolan’s hard chest and freed his Beretta from its shoulder holster. Without looking she powered down the car’s automatic window and tossed the gun out.

  “What are you doing?” Bolan asked, keeping his voice flat.

  “Pull over. My fire selector is on 3-round burst. You don’t have a prayer,” the woman said.

  Bolan kept driving. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The odometer began to creep up.

  “Ballsy.” Sable’s voice was cold. “But I’ll take the gamble. I have an air bag. You have a pistol against your temple.”

  “I saved your life.”

  “I won’t kill you unless I have to.”

  “I should believe you?”

  “About this? Yes. If I were lying, I would have opened up as soon as I got into the car.”

  “All of this was just a ploy to get the Gustav once Lich beat you to it?” Bolan asked.

  “I was depending on Sanders. You realize, of course, who originally helped in the design of the new generation Gustav, don’t you?”

  “Claus Lich.” Bolan shook his head. “Have you always been an evil bitch?”

  “I’m hurt,” Sable mocked. “I’m a free market capitalist. Now slow down and pull over, damn it, or I will kill you.”

  “You’ll kill me anyway,” Bolan said. “You know I’ll come after you.”

  “If not you then someone else,” Sable rationalized. “Where I’m going I won’t be followed.”

  “Which is?”

  “Nice try.”

  “You can’t stay hidden forever.”

  “Tell that to Osama bin Laden,” Sable said with a laugh.

  “That’s some life.”

  “He doesn’t have my connections.”

  The Executioner seemed to struggle with some inner decision. His foot eased up on the accelerator. She had the drop on him. He thought about disarming her, but he’d seen her in action. He could take her, but not like this. He pulled over to the side of the road.

  They were in an a rural residential area where small family plots of land were interspersed with orchards. The road was lonely this time of night. Up ahead, on a tiny, single lane runway, a pilot was waiting for them.

  Bolan sighed and put his hands on top of the Audi’s steering wheel. He would have turned to look at Sable, but the muzzle of her pistol was still flush with his temple.

  “Don’t do this,” he said.

  “It’s already done.”

  “In the wrong hands that device is a death warrant for millions.”

  “You’re assuming that I believe your hands are safe hands.”

  “What about your deal with the U.S. government? If it wasn’t enough money, then why didn’t you just ask for more?” Bolan tried to stall.

  “Get out of the car,” The Russian agent ordered.

  Bolan reached over and grabbed the handle to the car door. He pulled on it and let the door open an inch. The dome light over their heads came on, illuminating them in a halo of light. Sable’s hand was rock steady as she held the muzzle of her pistol against Bolan’s head.

  “You saved my life at the dacha,” Sable said. “Don’t make me kill you now.”

  Bolan pushed the car door open the rest of the way. He put one foot out of the car onto the ground. The gravel on the side of the road crunched under his foot. He shifted his weight on that leg and leaned toward the open door.

  “One thing,” Sable suddenly said.

  “What?”

  Bolan paused, his muscles tensed to push him up off the seat and out the open door.

  “Speaking of the dacha, I still owe you for something.”

  Sable swung her free hand from behind her back. Bolan caught the motion and instinctively pulled away, but his center of balance was awkward and he never had a chance to defend himself.

  Sable’s Taser swung into Bolan. He spasmed hard under the electrical juice. He felt every muscle in his body violently seize up as blinding pain lanced through his body. He made a hard gurgling sound and bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

  Suddenly the intense pain vanished. Bolan sagged forward, completely limp as his muscles unknotted. He hit the steering wheel of the car and began to slide off it.

  Sable hit him again.

  Bolan arched upward, thrusting his chest out. His limbs clenched tight on his frame again. His neck became a rigid column of muscle and his bloody teeth were bared in a fierce, involuntary grimace. His vision went white for an instant, and he could no longer see or hear. He jerked under the voltage and slammed his head against the roof of the car.

  Suddenly the pain was gone again.

  Bolan sank into the seat, collapsing. Sable lifted the butt of her pistol and slammed it into the side of Bolan’s head, knocking him over. His head pitched out of the car and he fell half out of the driver’s seat.

  Sable shifted and twisted in her seat. She lifted her foot, curling her leg up tight against her body. She kicked out hard, striking Bolan with the heel of her boot into his upper ribs.

  The blow shoved Bolan clear of the car and he flopped out of the vehicle and hit the ground. Blood dripped from his mouth and his vision swam. He heard Sable say something from behind him in a voice he was sure was mocking—but he couldn’t make out the words.

  Then his ears popped, and in a rush of sound Bolan found he could hear again. He heard the idle of the car engine, smelled the exhaust pouring out of the tailpipe so close to his head. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

  “Consider this a gift, then,” Sable finished.

  Bolan felt a slender object strike his back between his shoulder blades. He knew instinctively that it was the pen Sable had showed him earlier. The one with the trail of money leading to Lich’s door. She was tossing Bolan a bone. He knew it wasn’t a favor. She was arranging to have him do her dirty work for her.

  He tried to push himself up, but he was still too weak from the electrocution. He felt a line of bloody drool roll out of his mouth.

  “It was never personal,” Sable said.

  He heard the door to the vehicle slam shut behind him. Sable floored it and the tires spun, spraying Bolan with gravel.

  He fell forward and rested his spinning head in his arms. The vehicle fishtailed out onto the road and sped off. Bolan lifted his head and saw the red taillights as the triple agent raced away.

  The briefcase, designed to last-minute specifications under Barbara Price’s supervision by Cowboy Kissenger and containing the Gustav implement, was in the back seat of the Audi. That implement was just as dangerous as unsupervised nuclear warheads when traded on the open market.

  Bolan rolled over. He knew he was lucky to be alive.

  He pulled out his cell phone and followed the instructions Price had given him.

  “It’s not you,” Bolan said out loud. “I can’t let that Gustav go.”

  Bolan keyed up the speed-dial function on his phone. Then he hit a button and sent the signal out over the network. There was a momentary pause while the signal bounced off an orbital satellite and connected to the passive receiver buried in the frame of the briefcase carrying the Gustav implement.

  In the car, Bolan knew Sable would hear the first ring as the connection was made.

  Down the road the explosion came sharp and loud and the gas going up tripped hard on the heels of the initial explosion. A ball of fire shot into the air and turned the night
as bright as day for a brief, blinding flash.

  Out from the fireball the twisted, burned pieces of the Audi began to fall in chunks and ash. Barely two hundred yards away, Bolan felt the vibrating concussion of the blast and a wave of heat rolled over him.

  The remains of the car sat in the middle of the road and blazed as gas and engine fluids continued to burn in a smear across the asphalt. Bolan gritted his teeth and forced himself up onto his feet.

  He looked up the stretch of road toward the funeral pyre that consumed the Russian operative.

  “It was never personal,” Bolan said.

  26

  Claus Lich’s villa sat on Barracas Street in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

  Buenos Aires was a city unlike any other in Latin America. To most tourists it seemed like a first world, industrial European city placed on the wrong continent. Despite the poverty infamous in the hemisphere, Buenos Aires was rich in appearance and sparkling clean.

  But Mack Bolan was no tourist and he wasn’t there to admire the scenery.

  Since the economic crisis at the turn of the new century, it was possible get an entrée, appetizer and a bottle of wine for the equivalent of three dollars or less—as long as the customer was paying with U.S. dollars instead of the drastically reduced in value peso.

  Claus Lich had taken advantage of such currency devaluation to purchase an entire building for his retirement residence. The structure was a refurbished historical building he remodeled and turned into upscale, luxury living quarters. The street, featuring art and French-style buildings, was considered the equivalent of Soho in Manhattan. In addition to wealth, Lich had secured a chic lifestyle with his treason.

  Bolan picked out his infiltration route carefully. Around him the city was subdued by the lateness of the hour. He moved quickly toward his jump point.

  The soldier approached the retaining wall set between the commercial parking structure annex and Lich’s residence. He scanned the area. Ensuring that he was unobserved he leaped to grasp the outer edge of the high wall. His shimmy technique was precise fieldcraft taught to urban assault climbers in the special operations community.