Shock Waves Read online

  The 93-R whispered once, dispatching silent death to answer all the gunner's unspoken questions, and a tidy keyhole opened up between those staring eyes. The key was turned, releasing all his secrets in a crimson halo, bits and pieces raining down upon the lady.

  The Executioner was at her side before the hollow man touched down, one hand pressed tight across her mouth to bottle up the rising scream. The numbers were already counting down like thunder in his head, and Bolan played a hunch, aware that everything was riding on his first impression.

  "He was right," the warrior told her, nodding toward the corpse. "We haven't got much time. I need to find your husband, and the three of us can leave."

  Momentary shock was replaced by understanding in her eyes, and he pulled his hand away to let her speak.

  "He isn't here," she told him breathlessly. "They... took him away."

  "How long?"

  "Two hours, maybe more."

  A hundred questions crowded Bolan's mind, but he was running in survival mode, and with Eritrea already gone, the number-one priority was crystal clear.

  Get out of there and take the lady someplace where she would be safe until the storm blew over.

  He retrieved her clothing, handed it across and nodded toward the open door of an adjacent bathroom.

  "Get yourself together. We're on borrowed time already."

  She was moving even as he spoke, sheet discarded on her short run to the bathroom. He pegged her as being in her late thirties, reflecting that she could pass for ten years younger in a pinch.

  And Dave Eritrea was lucky.

  The Executioner hoped that Eritrea's luck was holding, that it had not soured out completely. He hoped Eritrea was still alive.

  Bolan meant to find him, but first things first.

  And number one on Bolan's list was plain old everyday survival.

  If they could make it safely past the outer guard, there would be time enough for planning further moves.

  He double-checked the Beretta as he waited for the woman.

  2

  "Ready," Eritrea's wife remarked.

  The clothes were rumpled, but they fit well, restoring a measure of the strength he had sensed behind her eyes. She had seemed vulnerable in bed, but now the look was resolute, determined. Still some fear there on the surface, naturally, but underneath there was tempered steel.

  "They were about to take you somewhere," he said.

  "Yes. I mean, you know as much as I do. No one's told me anything the past three days."

  Wherever the gorillas had planned on taking her, Bolan did not mean to let them have the chance. The questioning would have to wait until they cleared the safehouse, and he doubted whether she knew enough to help him out.

  Ideally, Bolan would have sought to bag a member of the hit team and question him at length, but the woman's presence made the idea tantamount to suicide. He had come here to rescue Dave Eritrea, and failing that, he would not risk Eritrea's wife on a misguided fishing expedition. Later, when she was free and clear, there would be time enough for gathering the hard intelligence he needed.

  The windows were fitted with burglar bars, securely welded shut. Together with the locking door, they reinforced the prison atmosphere, confirming Bolan's first suspicion that the safehouse had been used for holding prisoners. They would need another means of exit. By the time Eritrea's wife was dressed, Bolan had the mental groundwork done.

  The plan was simple: a little stroll along the corridor, detouring through the vacant bedroom, with an exit through the window through which he had entered. No sweat... except that they would have to make that stroll in view of several hostile guns.

  At least four gunners were left. While the Executioner had bet his life on longer odds before, the variables were different now. He had the woman to consider, and even sloppy marksmen pouring rapid fire along a narrow corridor had decent chances of inflicting lethal damage.

  The plan was risky, but sitting still was nothing short of suicide. So that left no choice at all.

  "We can't afford a sound," he told her, assured by her nod of understanding. He was already moving toward the door when it swung open in his face.

  "Hey, Tommy, what the fu..."

  The slender gunman never got it out. He was too busy taking in the scene: his comrade, inert and bleeding on the floor; the captive, dressed and ready to go; Grim Death, decked out in black and swinging up an awesome piece of hardware at his head.

  Something in the gunner made him try, and Bolan had to give him credit for the speed with which he ripped his weapon from the armpit holster. Before it found a target, however, Bolan's Beretta coughed, and 115 grains of death penetrated the pistolero's nose at fourteen hundred feet per second. He collapsed immediately, his dying reflex triggering an aimless round that drilled the ceiling.

  Startled voices called from the living room, demanding explanations for the gunfire from comrades who were far past answering.

  "What's going on in there?"

  When it seemed no answer was to be forthcoming, the surviving gunners found cover and prepared for a siege.

  The Executioner returned his sidearm to its rigging, drew the AutoMag and thumbed its safety off. The silent probe was over, and he needed thunder on his side if they had any chance of escape.

  Another voice: "Goddammit, Tommy, Rico — answer up!"

  He let Big Thunder answer for him, sighting on the sound and squeezing off, rewarded by a startled cry, a puff of tattered fabric from the sofa. Downrange, several weapons were unloading on him, angry hornets drilling through the bedroom door, releasing little showers of plaster from the walls.

  A door sprang open on the corridor and unexpected company emerged into the line of fire. The guy had hoisted his shorts and drawn his gun before he left the bathroom, but drooping trousers slowed him. He glanced both ways along the corridor as if about to cross a busy street, then started to dash toward the living room.

  Bolan helped him get there with 240 grains of screaming death between the shoulder blades. The impact threw him forward, spinning, and he picked up two more rounds from friendly guns before he sprawled facedown across the corridor. Infuriated, Bolan's opposition poured another concentrated fusillade into the bedroom, setting the door swinging on its hinges.

  They would have to move without delay. A stationary duel was certain to result in death for Bolan and the female hostage while his enemies controlled the hallway. There was no way out but through the enemy, and Bolan knew that every moment wasted now was time which the hostile gunners would use to fortify their positions.

  He ran one hand along his web belt, found a frag grenade by touch and hefted it, his eyes upon the no-man's-land beyond the door, calculating distances and timing. Satisfied, he pulled the pin, his grip securing the safety spoon, preventing premature ignition.

  "Count to ten," Bolan told the woman, "then follow me. Go to the first doorway on your left, out through the window. Understand?"

  Her frown bespoke concern.

  "But you..."

  "Forget me. I'll meet you outside. And if I can't... at least you'll have a running start."

  She spent a moment mulling over Bolan's words and finally nodded grudging acquiescence. Bolan took the revolver from the dead thug lying beside the bed and passed it over to her.

  "Anybody tries to stop you, think about your husband. Think about your life. Don't hesitate to use this thing."

  She took the weapon and nodded. Bolan turned away from her, his mind already focused on the corridor: some thirty feet of carpeting, wide open, no obstruction except the body stretched across it.

  No obstacles at all, unless you counted four guns, minimum, all trained down the narrow runway, aching for a target.

  He braced himself, then pushed off, rushing through the open doorway, firing the AutoMag to keep the hostiles down and give him breathing room. He pitched the frag grenade and threw himself facedown upon the bloodied carpet, so he was half shielded by the body of the fal
len gunman.

  Peripherally, he saw the lethal egg land between the bullet-riddled sofa and an easy chair, then roll behind the couch. A bullet struck his human shield, then another and another. Counting down the seconds, Bolan prayed their aim would not improve. The thunderous blast rocked the parlor, shattering picture windows and bringing down a rain of plaster. Bolan hugged the floor as wicked razor fragments sliced over his head and dug into the walls. Then he was on his feet, already closing in before his enemies could pull themselves together.

  One was stretched out near the sofa, fairly shredded, his shirt and trousers smouldering.

  Another gunner, just barely alive, watched the Executioner's approach through his one remaining eye, the other having been messily removed by the razor shard that had also sliced open his profile from cheek to chin, exposing bone and teeth and sinew. He clutched an Army-issue .45 against his chest, as if mere contact with the weapon was some magic preventive against dying.

  The pistolero's single eye was fixed on Bolan now, and he was summoning his last reserves of strength to raise the .45. Bolan shot him from the hip at twenty feet and closed the Cyclops's eye forever.

  A movement on his flank alerted Bolan to the presence of the third and fourth contestants, and he hit a diving shoulder roll before their guns erupted. A pair of bullets flew over him, and then he was returning fire, Big Thunder challenging the other guns and drowning out their voices with its own.

  His first round ripped the arm off the nearest gunner, spinning him around in an awkward pirouette. The second exploded in his face and picked the whirling dervish off his feet and propelled him against his comrade, both men sprawling to the floor.

  Bolan's last round drilled the emptiness where the final gunner had been standing. The Magnum's slide locked open on an empty smoking chamber, and he jettisoned the useless magazine, already clawing at his belt for a replacement when the fourth man sighted down the vented barrel of a big Colt Python, straight into Bolan's eyes.

  The Executioner saw his death in the cold steely eyes of his adversary, for at that instant he was no better than weaponless, the AutoMag's replacement not yet freed from its canvas pouch.

  Suddenly the gunner stumbled, dropping to his knees. Someone had shot him.

  Bolan and the wounded gunner swiveled to confront the unseen combatant, and both were startled at the sight of Mrs. Eritrea, revolver braced in both hands. She was aligning her second shot.

  The gunner was fast, and would have been faster had there not been a bullet in his shoulder. His Python was almost on target when the lady hit him with a triple punch that kicked him backward, dead.

  She held the firing stance until Bolan reached her and pried the .38 from her trembling hands. Then she turned away, no longer able to confront the dead.

  "I owe you one," he told her softly.

  "No. I couldn't let him... I..."

  The tears were getting in her way, and Bolan left her to ascertain that their enemies no longer posed a threat. He was thankful she had disobeyed him. It was a twist of fate... and it had saved his life.

  He fed the starving AutoMag another magazine, planning their exit. The hardmen had been preparing to evacuate when Bolan intervened, which raised two scenarios for his consideration.

  If they had planned to take the woman out themselves, then the danger was over.

  But if another crew had been dispatched to fetch the hostage, then there might be only seconds to spare.

  "We're out of time," he told her. "Come with me."

  "My husband..."

  "I'll do everything I can, but first I need you safe and sound."

  "Where can I go?"

  "I've got a few ideas. We'll talk about it on the way."

  He led her around the scattered straw men toward the entrance. She stared at his back as she followed, refusing to acknowledge the punctured corpses on either side. Outside, the night smelled clean, untainted by the acrid gun smoke and the smell of death. From behind them somewhere came the lapping sound of water beneath the private pier.

  They had cleared the porch and were veering across the lawn when two pairs of high-beam headlights blazed to life directly before them, the glare pinning them at center stage. Bolan knew the transport team had arrived to collect their charge and carry her away.

  The AutoMag cleared leather in a single fluid motion, rising toward the target as his finger tightened on the trigger. There was no time for speculation, no time for plotting strategy. He had to act instantly to preserve the slimmest chance of making good their escape.

  He shoved the woman hard, propelling her beyond the circle of lights. Then the AutoMag roared in his fist.

  Other weapons answered at point-blank range.

  3

  Ignoring the headlights, the Executioner squeezed off two rounds at the grill of the nearest Continental. Suddenly the hood was airborne, rising on a fiery mushroom, momentarily suspended, falling back across the splintered windshield.

  It was no major fire — not yet, at any rate — but it was enough to distract the opposition, spoil their concentration. Bolan had moved on by the time a burst of wild, reflexive fire cut through the spotlit circle, searching for him.

  The crew of the stricken Lincoln abandoned the vehicle, afraid that it would blow once the flames discovered fuel and traced it to the source. Secure in darkness, the Executioner was tracking the second tank, but it was rolling now, headlights extinguished, showing tail as the vehicle retreated down the driveway.

  The Continental was still in range, but Bolan lowered his weapon and ran toward the trees and Mrs. Eritrea, waiting there in the shadows.

  It occurred to Bolan that he did not know her name, that they might die together, any moment now, barely knowing each other. Yet they knew each other as only fellow warriors could. They had shed blood together, risked their lives in tandem... and it was not over yet.

  He caught up with her, pulled her into the cover of the trees. At his back, the stranded crew was fanning out across the wide lawn, some twenty feet apart, weapons drawn and ready. They would approach cautiously, remembering the Lincoln and the roaring of the AutoMag... but slowly they would gather enough confidence and speed to overtake the runners.

  Bolan knew that he would have to kill enough of them to make the rest turn back. He looked for the right spot, preferably as far as possible from his hidden rental car. The point he finally selected was a wooded rise beyond a narrow gully, where the high ground gave him an expanded field of fire.

  If his pursuers were familiar with the grounds, they would slow down as they approached the gully, to prevent themselves from stumbling and plummeting headlong down the slope. If they were strangers there, then some of them might plunge ahead and lose their balance — or their weapons — in a downhill tumble.

  Either way he would be waiting for them on the opposite side, commanding the high ground and looking down their throats.

  He paused atop the rise, the woman pushing on for several yards before she realized that she was all alone and swiftly doubled back.

  "What's wrong?"

  "They're right behind us," Bolan said, exaggerating slightly for effect. "We haven't got a chance unless I stop them. Here."

  She scanned the gully, seeming to grasp his intention.

  "All right. What should I do?"

  "Keep moving," he replied, ignoring the surprise and hurt in her face. He pointed through the trees. "Due south, straight line. Another hundred yards or so, you'll come to a wall. Wait there."

  She swallowed hard.

  "How long?"

  He listened to the night... and to the sound of the voices calling back and forth to one another, drawing closer.

  "Make it ten. If I'm not there by then, I won't be coming."

  Bolan passed over the car keys, quickly told her where to find the car. It was a risk, of course, but he believed he could read the woman well enough to know she wasn't going anywhere without him... if she had the choice. If not... well, there was no
damn point in stranding her along the highway with killers on the loose.

  He shrugged, and as she departed he prepared to face the death squad approaching through the trees.

  Bolan was a savvy jungle fighter, schooled in every aspect of guerrilla warfare — and he knew that it was practically impossible to enter any battle zone prepared. You could collect intelligence, run recons night and day, employ psychologists or psychics to predict your enemy's reaction in a given situation — and still you entered battle every time with doubt perched on your shoulder like a vulture.

  Bolan found a vantage point, half sheltered by an elm, and eased the 93-R from its shoulder harness. Keeping his eyes on the gully and the trees beyond, he unfolded the foregrip and thumbed the selector switch to the three-round mode.

  There were a dozen rounds remaining in the magazine, and more magazines where that came from. Plenty, right, to pin a fire team down and hold them in their place... or to annihilate them at the outset, if he played his cards correctly.

  They were closing on him now, the pointman visible as a shadow among the trees directly opposite. He counted off another and another, shapes fanning out amid the undergrowth, advancing cautiously, as if they knew precisely where the gully was.

  They were not strangers to this terrain after all. The darkness and the slim advantage of surprise would have to suffice. The gunners would expect him to be running instead of lingering to ambush them on the trail. Their caution now was due more to the topography, a need to keep their footing, than to a fear of meeting hostile guns.

  He waited.

  Bolan's one-time private armorer, the late Andrzej Konzaki, had equipped the 93-R with its folding foregrip, which allowed a two-hand firing stance, the left thumb hooked inside the oversized trigger guard to provide stability in automatic mode. Another extra was the combination of a sound suppressor with the specially machined internal springs, which effectively silenced the weapon. Throw in a cyclic rate of 110 rounds per minute in the automatic mode, and you were looking at one very lethal piece of hardware.