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  As the third man shot Montenegro in the face, Kirkland and Bolan unleashed their weapons, and the terrorist ceased to exist.

  “Heather!” Kirkland called out, rushing to her side and ripping off the gas mask.

  “Fine…mask!” she wheezed, a hole in the mask perfectly matching a bloody gouge along the side of her temple.

  Kirkland inspected the wound, as Bolan did a fast recon into the secret passage. It ended at a plain wooden door.

  Blowing off the lock, the Executioner discovered a large room full of control boards and flat-screen monitors. The control room!

  Sitting before a complex console, a handsome man with a mustache spun in a chair and started shooting with a 9 mm Tariq pistol. The XM-25 was torn from Bolan’s grip, so he drew the Beretta and pulled the trigger. The machine pistol chattered, and Dr. Khandis fell backward, his life splashing across a samovar and bathroom door.

  Turning toward the control board, Bolan saw that all of the labels were in code. With no time even to attempt an educated guess, Bolan reached for the XM-25 and saw that the grenade launcher had been seriously damaged. With no other choice, the Executioner emptied both of his pistols into the console, exploding the dials, punching holes in the casing, blowing apart the monitors and shattering the keyboards. Even as he reloaded, short circuits began to crackle among the ruined electronics, and a sharp metallic stink cut through the filters of his gas mask.

  Turning fast, Bolan rushed toward the open door and barely got there before a powerful explosion filled the room. The concussion shoved him out the doorway, and he hit the floor rolling to land on his feet. He kept running until he found Kirkland patching a pale, sweaty Montenegro.

  “You okay?” Bolan asked in concern.

  “Flesh wound,” Montenegro grunted.

  “What was in there?” Kirkland asked, tying off the bandage.

  “Control room.”

  Montenegro almost smiled. “Then we won?”

  “Not till the major is dead,” Bolan replied bluntly, when there came the sound of rocks grinding against each other.

  Bizarrely, sunlight flooded the tunnel and the swirling bug spray began to uniformly flow toward the light. Grabbing weapons, Bolan and the others charged in that direction, cursing at the sight of another section of the brick wall swinging aside. But this time they saw that it opened onto a rock-stewn hillside.

  A swarm of motorcycles came into view from behind a rocky escarpment. Bolan fired first, but the others were right behind, and they blew the escaping terrorists off the machines, the tattered corpses rolling along the smooth grassland of the sloping hillside.

  Unexpectedly, they heard a powerful engine, and a man who fitted Major Armanjani’s description appeared riding a Harley-Davidson. Heading for the coastal highway, the major was flying across the hillside, both tires often off the ground at the same time.

  Bolan snapped off a couple of rounds. He hit the major twice, but only succeeded in ripping away large swatches of his fatigues to reveal molded body armor.

  “We can’t let him get away!” Montenegro snarled, unleashing the Neostead. “He’ll only start again someplace new!” However, the major was already out of range, and the barrage of rounds fell short of the Harley.

  “Not going to happen!” Kirkland stated, raising the Black Arrow and squeezing off a round. The massive rifle boomed, and the bike’s sideview mirror exploded directly alongside the fleeing major.

  Even though the terrorist was just about out of range, Bolan continued to fire the Beretta and the Desert Eagle at the zigzagging terrorist, Kirkland levered in another cigar-size bullet and tried again. This time it was a clean miss, and Armanjani raced over the crest of the hill and out of sight.

  “Son of a bitch escaped!” Montenegro cursed, shaking the Neostead in rage.

  “Not yet, he hasn’t,” Kirkland retorted, offering Bolan the rifle.

  Dropping the handguns, Bolan accepted the Black Arrow and lay on the soft grass. Carefully sighting through the telescopic sight, he put the crosshair on a patch of empty air. He could still hear the Harley, but the sound was getting farther and farther away with every passing tick of the clock.

  However, the way Bolan read the man, Armanjani had once been the head of the infamous Republican Guard, and the he wouldn’t be the sort of man to cut and run from a battle unless being actively chased. If Bolan was right, the major would take a fast look over the hill to assess the situation. There was a blur of movement near the side of the hill overlooking the coastline. Instantly, Bolan fired.

  A split second later, the major tumbled into view, both hands holding a gushing, bleeding wound on the top of his head. As Bolan fired again, the major flipped off the Harley, tumbled over the cliff and plummetted onto the jagged rocks below. He bounced the first time, but splattered crimson on the next. There was no question that he was dead.

  Not yet finished with their mission, Bolan and the others went back into the tin mine to complete their blitz. But there was nobody left alive, and, as they stumbled onto the grassy hillside once more, a gentle rain began to fall.

  However, this time there was no sound of thunder.

  * * *

  “YOU OKAY?” MACK BOLAN ASKED.

  “Been better,” Brognola replied, pushing his wheelchair a little closer to the table. He was covered with bandages, and had spent an entire week at the Army hospital recovering from the near-miss of the lightning strike.

  At the moment, though, every inch of him ached so badly—especially his kidneys—that he almost wished the lightning had finished the job the first time.

  “By the way, are you interfering with TV reception yet?” Bolan asked in a deceptively pleasant tone.

  Brognola snorted. “No, and magnets don’t stick to my ass, either. These hit-by-lightning jokes are getting old fast.”

  “Fair enough.” Bolan laughed, leaning back in his chair. “By the way, did you hear that Edgar Barrington left everything to his wife? She’s a rich woman now.”

  “That’s hardly compensation for being chained like a dog, but I suppose it’s better than starting over without a dime to your name.”

  “Damn near. She’s hired Bill and Heather to help her dismantle Swampfox. By force, if necessary.”

  “Delighted to hear it!” Brognola said, then added, “She’s a fine-looking woman. Do you think Bill will settle down, start raising a family?”

  “Wild Bill Kirkland, the playboy of Brazil? Unlikely. But stranger things have happened.”

  “If he does get married, that would leave Heather available…” Brognola didn’t finish the sentence.

  Finishing the mug, Bolan made a face. “Better lighten up on those pain medicines, Hal, they’re making you hallucinate.”

  “No, they’re not! And why are you dressed as Godzilla?”

  “Hey, don’t ask, don’t tell.”

  “My apologies, soldier. Enjoy your fins.”

  “Thank you, Hal!”

  Pouring himself a fresh cup from the small carafe on the table, Brognola smiled. “By the way, we found a third Ophiuchus base down in Australia on the Nullabar Plains.”

  Bolan frowned. “Was the equipment recovered intact?”

  “No. Killing the major seemed to forced the terrorists to trigger a self-destruct sequence. The whole base is just rubble now, so we may never know how it was done.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” Bolan said with a shrug. “Every time humanity tries to outwit Mother
Nature, she consistently bites us in the ass.”

  “Yet somebody will keep trying.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Hal, to stop them,” Bolan said gravely.

  “Till the day we die,” Brognola stated.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN: 9781459233867

  FIREBURST

  Copyright © 2012 by Worldwide Library

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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