Death Gamble Read online

  “What the hell do you call this?” Rytova asked.

  “I call it improvisation,” Bolan replied.

  A slight drift to the right and the side-view mirror scraped brick, eliciting a quick shower of sparks. Bolan corrected before the impact sheared the mirror completely from the passenger door.

  “You’re insane,” Rytova said.

  Bolan didn’t argue the point. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the lead motorbike break away from the pack and close in on the Jeep’s tail end. The vehicle shot from the alley and into a cross street. The impact jolted Bolan, and he fought to steady the rocking vehicle as it raced over broken roadways. He heard tires screech and saw headlights as he interrupted traffic flow and caused cars to jerk to a stop on either side of him. He aimed the vehicle into the mouth of the next alley and drove in with the motorcycles following close behind.

  Gunshots continued hammering the vehicle. A scrape followed by a loud crack to Bolan’s left gripped his attention. The driver’s side mirror had struck the brick wall. He watched as it tore free and disappeared from sight.

  The Jeep again broke free from the alley and rolled into another cross street. Ahead lay a row of burned-out buildings—drooping heaps of exposed steel, shattered windows and charred brick. The alley had come to an end. Bolan braked hard, steered left. The big tires screamed in protest as the SUV spun 180 degrees before finally coming to rest. The stench of burning rubber and the roar of approaching motorcycle engines filled the SUV’s interior as Bolan regrouped.

  Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he backed onto a nearby curb, then cut the wheel right to straighten the vehicle. Thumbing the electric window’s switch, the warrior grabbed the MP-5’s pistol grip, hefted the weapon and jammed it through the open window. Bolan pushed the stock into his shoulder and steadied the weapon. Rytova had opened her own window and aimed the Beretta’s muzzle ahead.

  The motorcyclists emerged from the alley, weapons spitting flame and lead as they raced their way to Bolan’s position. Two more motorcycles approached the Jeep from either side.

  The Executioner triggered the subgun, sweeping the muzzle across the alley and hosing down the approaching bikers. Return fire smacked into the windshield and burned past Bolan’s arm as he continued laying down sustained blasts of hellfire. Hot shell casings from the MP-5 flew, and bounced across the windshield and hood. Gunsmoke swirled in Bolan’s face, stung his eyes.

  The night burst into thunder and flames as a round from Bolan’s subgun ignited one of the motorcycles’ fuel tanks, the resulting blaze immolating the driver in a spontaneous funeral pyre.

  Bolan’s peripheral gaze caught another of his original pursuers bearing down on the Jeep. Before he could react, Rytova unloaded a 3-shot burst from the Beretta. The Parabellum rounds pounded into the man’s chest, and his dead fingers simultaneously released the SMG and the handlebars. The rider fell backward from his two-wheeler while momentum carried the bike onward until it collided with a wall.

  The soldier took down two more bikers with the MP-5 before it locked dry. In the same instant, Rytova’s weapon ran empty. Bolan extracted two more 20-round magazines for the Beretta and tossed them to Rytova. He reloaded his own weapon. Just as he prepared to resume fire, the remaining attackers turned nearly in unison and fled.

  Bolan and Rytova shared confused looks.

  “They ran?” Rytova asked.

  A sinking feeling told Bolan otherwise.

  “More like a strategic retreat,” he said. “That can only mean something bad for us.”

  The beating of helicopter blades in the distance told the Executioner he was right.

  3

  A sleek black chopper, its landing lights extinguished, crested the jagged skyline of burned-out buildings that walled in Bolan and Rytova and darted toward its quarry. The craft’s handlers had ignited searchlights and locked the Jeep under a white glare. Rotor wash kicked up dirt and debris and swirled it about the street. The thrumming noise of the blades and motors threatened to drown out all other sound.

  Bolan was already popping open his door. “Get out,” he yelled.

  He watched as the helicopter closed in on the Jeep. Gunfire blossomed from the helicopter’s machine guns, and bullets chewed a path leading straight toward Rytova’s side of the vehicle. Stepping from her door would only hasten her death, Bolan realized. The woman froze for a moment as the chopper, which Bolan recognized as Russian-made, sliced its way toward them.

  Reaching across the driver’s seat, he grabbed her arm and dragged her toward him. His touch broke her paralysis, and she began moving under her own steam to escape the vehicle. Just as she came free, a swarm of bullets thrashed the Jeep, first denting and eventually shredding the vehicle’s outer skin.

  Bolan knew what was coming next. Rotor wash smacked against him like an invisible fist, threatening to knock him off balance. Pushing Rytova ahead of him, he fired up at the helicopter. Slugs from the MP-5 danced across the helicopter’s exterior but were no more effective than pelting an elephant with grains of sand.

  Cutting across the street, Bolan tried to gain some combat stretch from the warbird. The telltale whoosh of a missile sounded over his shoulder. Glancing back, Bolan saw the weapon drill into the Jeep. Orange and yellow flames exploded upward from the strike point and rolled through the vehicle.

  Bolan shoved Rytova hard into the alley from which they had emerged only moments before. With a gasp, she disappeared into the dark space.

  Shock waves smacked into Bolan’s back, knocking him facefirst to the ground. He felt the MP-5 slip from his grasp as he went down. Landing in the dirt, Bolan felt solid walls of hellish heat pass over him. A door from the Jeep cut the air a foot above his head before burying itself in a nearby wall.

  He gasped to regain the breath stolen from him by the explosion. Even with the greediest pulls, he captured only bits of the superheated air. His ears rang, drowning out all other sound.

  As he tried to collect himself, Bolan saw the big predator turn on its nose, seeking him out. More autofire erupted from above. Bullets pounded a trail toward him as he struggled to crawl or roll away.

  But even if he did, what then? He had the Desert Eagle, the Colt Python, a combat knife and two stun grenades, hardly enough arsenal to stop an air assault. Even the lost MP-5 would have done little for him.

  Slender fingers dug under the straps of his web gear and tugged. Bolan looked up, saw Rytova trying to drag him from the kill zone, grimacing as she did. The effort of yanking his 200-plus-pound frame to safety was agonizing for the injured woman.

  Bolan willed muscles to move and, with Rytova’s help, he came to his feet and the pair disappeared again into the alley just as a fresh barrage of gunfire rained from the helicopter and dug into the twin structures making up the corridor. Fire from the Jeep had spread to the already shattered structures near it.

  Rytova, who had recovered the MP-5, handed the weapon back to Bolan. Maybe his gut had been right about the enigmatic woman.

  Thick smoke rolled into the alley as Bolan and Rytova looked for an escape route. Each building stood four stories, but had no ground-level windows or fire escapes. Bolan noticed a wooden door to his left. Moving to the door, he tried the handle, but found it locked.

  The helicopter flew over the alley. Wash from the blades cut through the heavy gray smoke and a searchlight scrambled over the walls and ground, scouring the area for signs of Bolan and Rytova.

  Fisting the Desert Eagle, the soldier fired three rounds into the door’s handle and an accompanying dead-bolt lock. The rounds shattered both mechanisms, allowing the heavy wooden slab door to swing open.

  The pair disappeared inside the building.

  Holstering the pistol, Bolan raised the MP-5 and turned on a flashlight affixed to the front of his weapon. Running the white beam of light around the room, he saw a pair of deep porcelain sinks, a stainless-steel refrigerator and a stove, all of them weathered. The room smelled of boiled cabbage, fish an
d dish soap.

  “A restaurant,” Rytova said.

  Bolan nodded, instantly realizing the gesture was impossible to see in the darkened room.

  “Keep moving,” he said. “More than likely they’re going to sink a couple of missiles in this place and burn it to the ground. We need to get the hell out of here before they do.”

  Rytova didn’t argue. She pulled a small flashlight from a pocket and let the light play over the walls and floor. Bolan picked up a few pots and pans hanging from the walls and some large knives arranged neatly on a steel cutting surface.

  A chill passed down his spine as he heard the helicopter gain some altitude. The way Bolan figured it, a kill shot from the helicopter into the building could only be moments away. And the aircraft positioning itself farther from the strike zone told him attack was imminent.

  Moving fast, they left the kitchen and entered what appeared to be a small dining room furnished with three wooden tables and a few scattered chairs. Bolan ran the flashlight in search of the door and saw a large wooden hutch had been moved in front of it, probably by at least two people. A glimpse of a shattered lock on the door explained the crude security measure. Sweat trickled down Bolan’s back and his heartbeat hastened as he realized they’d never get the door open in time.

  His gaze settled on a large, rectangular picture window. Bolan peered through the dust-covered glass, but saw no one in the street. Apparently, the fighting had intensified enough to send even the most shell-shocked citizens running for cover. Surging across the room, he fired the MP-5 as he went. Bullets pierced the glass, causing the window to fall in on itself, showering the floor with jagged fragments.

  Glass crunching under foot, Bolan and Rytova closed in on the exit, vaulted over the sill and through the opening. Both landed on their feet and continued sprinting, grabbing precious distance from the building as they waited for the inevitable.

  Then it came.

  With a hiss, the chopper unloaded more of its deadly payload. The explosion rumbled behind Bolan and, checking the reflection in a shop window that lay ahead of him, he saw flame and smoke burst from the windows of the building’s top two floors. Bolan threw himself into Rytova, knocked her to the ground and covered her body with his own. Pulverized bits of concrete and brick showered the pair. A piece of concrete the size of a cantaloupe landed inches from Bolan’s head. Smaller pieces pelted the soldier’s back and thighs as he rode out the blast.

  With a low grumble, the building caved in on itself. A tide of smoke and dust rolled across the ground, covering the two in several inches of powdery debris.

  The warbird circled overhead, then began its descent.

  Bolan rolled to his feet. Figuring himself for a dead man, he raised the MP-5 and drew a bead on the cockpit of the approaching chopper.

  A rush of vehicles coming from both directions changed his plans. Troop carriers outfitted with chain guns converged on the war zone. Searchlights scoured the area, settling on Bolan and Rytova. The Executioner found himself blinded by bright lights.

  As he raised an arm to protect his eyes, Bolan heard the chopper suddenly gaining altitude. The roaring engine grew fainter as the craft turned and retreated.

  “We are Nigerian peacekeeping troops,” a voice called out over a loudspeaker. “Drop your weapons, lie facedown on the ground. You will not get a second warning.”

  Body battered, lungs choked with dust, Bolan didn’t need a second warning; he needed several hour’s rest, perhaps a hot shower and a meal.

  He’d settle for a miracle.

  With Dade and his secrets still missing, held captive by an as-yet unidentified enemy, countless American lives hung in the balance. And the involvement by the Russians—if the woman was indeed who she claimed—did nothing to ease Bolan’s mind. It all reeked of a much larger conspiracy, one he needed to unravel before all was said and done.

  Still covering his eyes with his right arm, Bolan knelt and set the MP-5 gently to the ground. Backing away from the weapon, he laid face down on the pavement and waited to be arrested.

  NIKOLAI KURSK EYED the pair of African hardmen with disdain and weighed who should die by his hand.

  The men—two of Talisman’s flunkies—had arrived from the mainland bringing bad news. They fidgeted in front of him like boys before a schoolmaster, waiting for him to mete out some sort of admonition or punishment. On that front, he decided, he’d not leave them disappointed.

  Uncoiling himself from his chair, Kursk came around his desk. Standing with his legs two feet apart, he kept his back rigid and crossed arms across his broad chest. At fifty-two, the man was in better shape than most men twenty years his junior. He ate sparingly, drank alcohol even less. He allowed himself a single vice: ten hand-rolled cigarettes a day.

  He began each day with an hour-long run, followed by another hour of yoga and a third of weight training. The former KGB agent knew that in his line of work his body had to remain strong, ready to take on all comers. Everyone wanted to knock Nikolai Kursk from his perch, even those closest to him, and he devoted hours daily to making sure he was ready to fend them all off.

  However, he rarely met a challenger with the strength and courage to offer him a real fight, only brief diversions to break up the monotony of running his worldwide gunrunning empire. The world had an overabundance of tough guys and bullies, but very few true warriors. To his way of thinking, that was a shame.

  The Russian appraised each man, stifling a yawn as he did. The man in charge stood six inches shorter than Kursk’s own six-foot-four-inch height. He wore crisp camou pants and a brown T-shirt. He’d surrendered his pistol belt before gaining an audience with Kursk.

  Like most Revolutionary United Front soldiers, he’d adopted a nickname, one that was, under the circumstances, utterly ridiculous. He called himself Iron Man. Kursk considered him anything but.

  The second man stood just two inches shorter than Kursk and, the Russian guessed, weighed about 250 pounds. Dressed similarly to Iron Man, he took in his surroundings with a sociopath’s dead stare. Unlike his associate, he seemed to sense, perhaps even revel in the violence threatening to explode within the room at any second. Whether from nervous habit or giddy anticipation, he continually ground the knuckles of his right hand into the palm of his left hand.

  To Kursk’s amusement, the bigger man called himself Blood Claw.

  Kursk rested his eyes on Iron Man, waited for him to speak and let him squirm a while longer. After a few more moments of strained silence, Iron Man did so.

  “Colonel Talisman sends his deepest regrets.”

  “His regrets, but not himself,” Kursk replied. “He is a coward.”

  “You misjudge him,” Iron Man said. “Even as we speak, he’s on the mainland trying to correct the problem.”

  “He should have corrected it when it first occurred. He had ample warning. I gave him guns, technology and support. Still, he let the whole incident go to hell. Now I must pick up the pieces.”

  Iron Man took a few steps forward. The plastic tarp surrounding him and Blood Claw crunched underfoot as he did. That they were the only two required to stand upon the protective floor covering hadn’t escaped their notice. He looked at the tarp, swallowed hard and returned his gaze to Kursk.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Kursk, your own men, Cole and Armstrong, did no better. They had helicopters, missiles and the cover of darkness. Still, they failed. Our men fought in the open. We were only to be bait.”

  Kursk remained silent, knowing Iron Man’s words rang true. The Russian had gotten word of the American interloper shortly after he’d arrived in Sierra Leone. A contact within the State Department had gladly shared what he knew in exchange for a hefty deposit in a Cayman Islands account. Details were spotty: a Justice Department agent was coming into Sierra Leone and was slated to meet with a small group of American agents who were expected to help him carry out a paramilitary operation of some sort.

  Kursk’s men had fleshed out the details
by hunting down the State Department operatives tapped for the mission and sweating the details out of them. Then they killed the men and dumped their bodies in a burned-out building miles from Talisman’s compound.

  The Justice Department suspected Trevor Dade was in Africa, and the American agent was coming to rescue the scientist. Little did the Americans know that Dade already had been transferred to Kursk’s coastal island location. Any sightings linking him to Sierra Leone were old news.

  The plan had seemed foolproof. An agent robbed of his backup would most likely turn tail and run rather than tackle an armed camp on his own. Kursk had assumed he’d insured the man’s death not only by leaving him to fight Talisman’s people, but also by sending a team of his own mercenaries to take the man from behind. By the time the Americans retaliated, Kursk had planned on being gone.

  Apparently, he’d been wrong.

  “Where is the American?” Kursk asked.

  Iron Man shrugged. He gave Kursk a placating smile, spoke in a soothing tone. “Still in United Nations custody,” the African said. “That should keep him away from us for a while, anyway. Everything will turn out all right. Leave this to us.”

  From what Kursk knew of Iron Man, he’d studied political science and diplomacy at a British university before returning to his homeland to rape and pillage. He considered himself the consummate politician, negotiating with the local government and the international community even as Talisman terrorized with his strong-arm tactics.

  Without a doubt, Iron Man was good at handling people. But no one “handled” Nikolai Kursk, especially when he smelled fear, as he did with this man.

  “I will leave nothing in your hands,” the Russian said. “You people fight well against unarmed civilians. You cannot withstand a real battle, with a real warrior.”

  Iron Man shot Kursk a hurt look. Like everything else with the man, Kursk assumed it was calculated and insincere.