Righteous Fear Read online

  She nodded. Indeed, she understood what he meant when the Glock came free in her grasp with a deliberate pull. She reinserted it into the holster, and it held the pistol just fine. “I guess I’m ready to—”

  “You’re ready to protect yourself if anyone gets past me. You might know how to fend for yourself, but I’m experienced at meeting and breaking groups of numerous, heavily armed enemies. I know the dirty tricks to even the odds at ten or more to one,” Bolan said.

  With that, he peeled off his Hawaiian shirt and got out of his jeans. Underneath, he wore a blacksuit snug against his skin. He rolled down the sleeves of the top, the black fabric conforming to his skin almost as if it were a compression stocking. He unhooked his pistol from its holster in his jeans and stuffed it into a shoulder holster. He strapped a belt around his waist, a big heavy pistol hanging low and along his thigh. He secured the bottom of the holster around his leg. Next, he looped a butterfly-wing vest over his broad shoulders. He attached the snaps under his arms, tucking one of the wings underneath his shoulder holster so nothing was in the way of his draw.

  He took several magazine scabbards from the rifle case and snapped them onto the load-bearing vest. Other pockets and pouches were already in place, each filled with some form of tool or munition. Spare magazines for the handguns were snapped onto the shoulder holster or the gun belt, balancing out the weight of the pistols they would feed.

  He finished his preparations by inserting a set of earbuds, then applying black greasepaint to his face and hands.

  “It’s midday, so if you’re looking to hide,” the doctor said, “you’ll be kind of obvious.”

  Bolan shook his head. The movement of the jet-dark figure in front of her was disturbing. “I won’t be hiding for long. This is my night work, but it’s also my scare-to-death image.”

  She couldn’t make out any of his features except his eyes, cold blue on white, and his mouth. He’d gone from human to walking shadow. There was little differentiation between his painted flesh and the skintight uniform he wore. He was masked by midnight black. A pillar of void that walked.

  “Stay here in the van with Howard. I’ll draw fire away from you,” Bolan told her. Even his voice seemed to have changed with the donning of the greasepaint. It was harder, deeper, more threatening.

  Hassan felt a cold fear seize her chest. This was not the man who had come to the rescue. This was walking death that slithered out the back of the van, closing her inside the metal box before disappearing in broad daylight.

  “You’ll be kind of obvious,” she repeated. But within five steps, Bolan had vanished. His dark shape was gone, slithering among the trash and abandoned, burned-out cars in the lot.

  She was chilled, even with the sun turning the van into a hot box.

  She’d expected to wait an hour, but it hadn’t been five minutes before she heard then saw pickup trucks pulling in beside the derelict factory. She saw three trucks, and gunmen were exiting the beds of the vehicles. They must have hidden their weapons on the floorboards to keep from being stopped in traffic. Several of the gunners pulled up bandanna masks to cover their lower faces.

  Their approach was all too familiar to Hassan. This was the same kind of roll-up Taliban killers used to gather men in opposition for execution.

  “Howard!” a voice shouted. She glanced reflexively to their unconscious prisoner, but he was deep in the embrace of ketamine. Nothing would stir him for at least an hour. This was the first time she’d seen him at peace.

  A pang of sympathy for Colton Howard rose. This was a man who had been deluded, steered in hatred toward an attack on the Foster Portman Women’s Health Center. This was someone who had biblical verse twisted to justify murder and mayhem in God’s name, just as she had seen too many young men written blank checks for carnage by imams perverting the Koran in Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Rough young men were easily recruited to causes with the thinnest of motivations. Throw God into the mix, and a sense of belonging, and you could pull an army from the woodwork. Put money into the equation, or politics, and you had instant-brewed organized crime or revolution.

  She reminded herself that just because a person had been duped into a cause didn’t mean that he or she was innocent of the actions committed for that movement. Howard would still be a killer, was still an armed robber, still a menace to society, but she could understand why the cold-blooded murder of him on the van’s floor was something she could never stomach.

  Hassan looked out of the rear window and noticed that there were more than twenty men outside.

  “Hey, I see a van over here!” one of the gunmen shouted. He was looking right at her, an assault rifle balanced over his forearm, his face engulfed in a bandit mask.

  He started to point toward her, after getting the attention of the other men in the abandoned factory lot. Then the perceptive rifleman jerked violently. Hassan heard a soft crack, not the loud bang of a naked gunshot, and the man’s glasses somersaulted off a face spewing red mist. The dead man toppled forward, crashing to the ground in a boneless flop.

  Behind him, near a tower of rusty, forsaken shipping containers, a window-rattling boom erupted. The gunners nearest to the van spun in reaction to the roaring violence, and their rifles cut loose. These weren’t semiautomatic weapons. They were spitting bullets at lightning speed, tongues of muzzle flame wagging as they opened fire on the perceived source of the attack.

  Another gunman folded over, his hunter’s camouflage T-shirt darkening with arterial blood. The man wrenched again, this time his head bobbing as a bullet smacked into his skull.

  The battle had just begun and the superior numbers were firing wildly, unfocused and scrambling, suffering casualties before their adversary even showed himself.

  This was indeed the one-man army she’d met seven years ago in Afghanistan.

  Chapter Five

  Mack Bolan saw the man shout, his eyes locked directly on the secluded van. Attention suddenly was too close to Hassan, whom he’d come to Alabama to protect, not to make into a target. He took out the SALT operative with a single pull of a trigger. The Advanced Armament Corp can on the end of his assault rifle swallowed the escaping hot gases as they pushed a single bullet downrange at over 2500 feet per second. It didn’t silence the gunshot, but it altered the loud pop enough that nobody could narrow down where it came from.

  The result was a 5.56 mm hole in the back of the rifleman’s head and a geyser of blood and brain matter erupting through his face. The Executioner didn’t need to watch the falling SALT killer to make sure he was down for good, not with that display. It was a clean, fast kill, so the gunman wouldn’t suffer.

  Bolan pulled a flash-bang grenade and tossed it in the opposite direction of the van. The mini bomb detonated moments later, pulling the attention of the dozens of SALT hit men toward it. Hassan, Howard and the van were now forgotten in the explosion’s wake. That was the point of the flash-bang, a distraction device, the official title of the little boomer. And a moment later, gunfire rattled, ripping into the factory and shipping containers where the grenade had erupted.

  The gunmen were on edge, which sprang their spring-taut reflexes. That was how Bolan controlled the battlefield. One gunman glanced back toward the van and the Executioner punched a single 5.56 mm round through his belly. The SALT shooter folded over and Bolan finished him off with a punch through the top of his skull.

  Two down, lots to go.

  The Executioner saw them scatter, which meant that they might stumble upon the woman he’d come to Mobile to protect. The battle needed to stay focused away from her, which meant he let the assault rifle drop on its sling and pulled the very loud .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from its quick-draw holster. He stepped from behind a shipping container, spotted the closest group of gunmen, a pair of SALT hitters who were in the middle of reloading their converted to full auto M-4 carbines. The Execu
tioner slammed a fat .44 Magnum hollowpoint round into the chest of the man furthest to the left, the roar of the pistol as loud and riveting as his distraction grenade.

  The falling SALT gunner and Bolan’s sudden appearance, clad head to toe in the guise of a vengeful shadow, gave the entire assembled group a moment’s pause.

  Bolan took the opportunity to shoot his first target’s partner in the face, a heavy chunk of lead and copper twisting his head like a bottle cap. The Executioner tracked to a third target and punched a double tap of slugs into his upper chest. The third man was wearing a gren-loaded vest. Bolan fired until he hit one of the stored bombs. The impact was phenomenal; the detonation of the canister showing it to be merely another flash-bang. It didn’t matter. At that range, the steel central fuse rocketed up through the gunman’s face, ripping a bloody canyon across his features.

  The thunderclap death of the grenade-bearing SALT shooter induced flinches through the enemy ranks, and even though the Executioner was a towering figure of living void, bullets flew wildly. Bolan took advantage of the distracting demise and sought cover between a pair of shipping containers. The opening of the gap between them was at a hard right angle to the bulk of the group, providing a funneling effect against the superior numbers. They saw him go in, which meant that they’d follow him. Depending on how professional they were, they’d either clump up and present easy targets, or take a more cautious approach.

  Either way, Bolan had a precious few seconds to prepare for their next onslaught. Outside of the fatal funnel, he heard the clatter and ratcheting of weapons and magazines. Men spoke in hushed tones as they hastily conferred. The Executioner, however, had a way out. The closed end of the left container was facing out, so no one could open a door to get to him. Someone had punched a hole in the rusted metal near the wall sealing off the corridor. It provided entry into a little hobo cave, out of sight, out of mind, and there was a midway exit on the other wall of the container, in case someone raided from one direction or the other.

  That was Bolan’s exit strategy, but he had plans before that. In the minutes it had taken for the SALT assault to arrive, he’d explored and set up a series of supply pickups and traps to make this battlefield completely his.

  “Where’d he go?” someone called from the entrance of the corridor.

  Bolan leaned out, his rifle shouldered. He saw the confused speaker and cut him off with a short burst of rounds, folding him double in an instant. Three more men were in sight of the mouth of the containers, but the Executioner was only able to kill one with a burst to the head. The other two dived behind cover, out of his line of sight, but the enemy was already in a panic, suddenly gun-shy of one area. Still, there would be others who would seek an alternate way to get at him.

  Bolan heaved a smoke grenade down the container gap and it vomited chemical clouds at the mouth. That impelled the gunners to open fire, the clang and clatter of bullets on metal loud and arrhythmic, a distorted art piece of a song.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” a SALT commander ordered. “We’re bouncing bullets at ourselves! Cease fire!”

  Bolan smiled grimly at the trick; ricochets off heavy metal had done some of his work for him. There were at least injuries, and the more injured among the SALT force’s numbers, the better the odds tilted in his favor. Rustling at the trap door on the side of Bolan’s container drew his attention. In a moment, the container shook, and only his earbuds protected his hearing from the metal box’s thunderous drumbeat. The exit door expanded in size, but a sheet of metal kept the Executioner from being slashed to ribbons by splintered metal.

  Though not a smoke bomb, the explosive still produced as thick a cloud as the real deal. Bolan vaulted over his shield, assault rifle up and tracking, and cut through the newly torn larger entrance. He was a blackened bolt, slicing through the cloud and debris. Stunned and injured men were spattered with blood from their compatriots, their ears ringing from the bomb blast. Bolan used fragmentation grenades as a booby trap at the doorway, and as he cut through the smoke, he avoided severed limbs and sidestepped ragged torsos.

  The sudden reappearance of a heavily armed wraith was accompanied by gunfire. Not gunfire from the assembled SALT force, but the Executioner and his lead-spitting rifle. Single taps and full-auto bursts ripped through the weapon’s suppressor, still loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be painful to Bolan’s own ears. The magazine emptied, but he didn’t lower the rifle. The Executioner ejected the spent box, rocked home a new one and had the weapon back in action within two seconds. In five seconds, he’d swept the assembled gunmen.

  Two magazines, and ten more targets permanently flattened to the ground. He’d counted just over two dozen men when the SALT force had arrived, not including the drivers of the pickup trucks, but the swarm of gunmen had lost a large chunk of their numbers. Bolan hadn’t counted the dead, but he kept his eyes and ears peeled for motion and sound. So far, the rest of the force had taken cover, still and silent, waiting for their target to show himself.

  Bolan backtracked to where the booby trap went off. He was behind cover and could control the access points against him. Picking up one of the assault rifles from a downed shooter, he looked it over for serial numbers or marks. The serial numbers had been erased, or rather, buried under a layer of solder.

  The Executioner also checked the man’s pistol. This one had its serial numbers gouged out with a drill tip, which was the hallmark of a professional armorer for a clandestine operation. He dropped the handgun on its owner’s corpse.

  At least twenty-four men had been on standby for killing today at SALT’s whim. Many of them were dead now, but the size of this kill force was coldly sobering. A “pro-life” movement having a veritable army on hand sent a brief chill through Bolan. The troops had some skill, and an armorer had cleansed their weaponry to render it untraceable. He knelt near a dead man and pressed the man’s thumb against the screen of his smartphone to capture his fingerprint. He did that for two other men, while always alert for approaching gunmen.

  They were so silent, he almost felt they had chosen the better part of valor and retreated. But none of their trucks had started up; they hadn’t driven away. A half dozen gunmen weren’t just going to walk away from this battlefield. Bolan looked toward the mouth of the corridor between the container and the factory wall. Nobody could lean out of the factory and get a good shot at him because of the barred windows. Broken glass from tossed stones filled the frames, but no one had managed to get through the metal grating to play around within the abandoned building’s guts.

  A grunt from behind was Bolan’s only warning of an assault, and he spun in time to use his rifle to cross block a falling knife. One of the men who had tripped the booby trap wore shrapnel scars across the right side of his face; open gashes spilling blood between dust-caked wounded lips. The knife deflected off the rifle’s frame, jarred it out of Bolan’s grasp. The goon grabbed the FN SCAR’s barrel and pulled hard. The sling over Bolan’s shoulder gave the scarred man leverage against him, and the Executioner staggered forward. His foe’s forehead met him halfway and an explosion of stars sparked in his vision.

  Bolan hit the quick release snap on the sling and backed away before the attacker could follow up the initial dazing strike. That didn’t mean that he was going to have an easy time, but a few steps of distance and a moment of recovery enabled him to greet another knife slash.

  Bolan slammed his forearm into his opponent’s, keeping him safe from the slashing edge of the blade and loosening his foe’s grip. In a heartbeat, the Executioner rammed a knuckle punch into the SALT fighter’s stomach, just up under his sternal notch. The impact against his xiphoid process burst the air out of his lungs violently.

  The breathless attacker stumbled and finally dropped his knife. Bolan swept the man’s feet out from under him, then stomped hard on the stunned man’s neck. Bone crunched. The knife man went still, his head tu
rned at an obscene angle.

  The entire battle had taken only seconds, but Bolan heard others respond to the noise of violence. Footsteps hustled and, without his rifle, he had limited options. He’d half emptied the Desert Eagle in his previous use and hadn’t had time to reload the hand cannon. That left the Beretta 93-R. He cleared it out of shoulder leather just as the first rifleman rounded the corner.

  “You’re dead, ass—” was all the SALT gunner got to say before the Executioner stitched him with a 3-round burst at eye level. Most of the man’s face disappeared under the sudden 9 mm onslaught. However, even as the Executioner killed their point man, others joined the fight, their rifles aflame.

  Bolan threw himself through the container’s entrance, bullets plucking at his load-bearing vest. He was thankful for the Kevlar and trauma plates built into the vest portion, but he’d still nurse deep bruises.

  Bolan unhooked a grenade from the vest, armed it and executed an underhand toss. The bomb rebounded off the factory wall and flew toward the approaching gunmen. Bullets hammered steel from the other end, and this time they cut through the metal container.

  M-16s with steel-or tungsten-cored ammunition—these men were well prepared. Such firepower would cut through a car if necessary, and the SALT death squad had remembered to use it now. Bolan threw himself flat, even though the enemy was firing blind. No longer were they afraid of ricochets as the new bullets sliced through rolled alloy in a relentless storm of fire.

  Bolan regretted not holding on to his assault rifle, but knew that going back for the gun would only expose him to more incoming fire. He would retrieve it after the battle. His Beretta machine pistol and the mighty Desert Eagle were ready. He took a moment to top off the .44 Magnum, then put it back in its holster. He flipped down the folding foregrip on the 93-R and waited. Steel-cored projectiles continued to turn the walls of the container into a sieve. Splinters and flakes of rust rained upon the prone Executioner, almost as if the shooters would not imagine that a man could lie down beneath their shredding scythes of automatic gunfire.