Doomsday Disciples te-49 Read online

  An army psychologist described Bolan as the perfect sniper — a man capable of killing "methodically, unemotionally, and personally," without losing his humanity along the way. A committed man, equal to the task he selected for himself.

  That was half the man, but at the same time Bolan showed another side and built another reputation. Time and again the warrior risked his life, jeopardized his mission to relieve a suffering soul. Hostages and casualties, civilian or military, Bolan drew no lines, recognized no distinctions. He crept or fought his way through hostile lines on more than one occasion, bringing home the helpless.

  And another kind of legend attached itself to Bolan in the Asian hellgrounds. The peasants of a war-torn land tagged him with another name to compliment — and contradict — The Executioner label.

  It translated: "Sergeant Mercy" — and it fit.

  Few men could wear the dual label of soldier and humanitarian. Mack Bolan wore them both, and wore them well. It was a measure of the man that he discerned no contradiction in the varied aspects of his character.

  When Bolan brought his war home from Asia, to confront another breed of cannibal, the whole man arrived on a different kind of battlefield. His enemy — the mafiosi— came to know an Executioner who struck without regard to fear or favor, ravaging their ranks at will, leaving death and ruin in his wake. At the same time, he showed another face to friends and allies, soldiers of the same side fighting on behalf of Man the Builder.

  The face of Sergeant Mercy, yeah.

  Bolan recognized that while the battle front shifted and names and faces changed, his war remained the same. Savage Man was still the enemy, devouring and polluting everything he touched. The same universal goals applied whether Bolan found enemies in Saigon or San Francisco.

  It was the same war, and Bolan fought it with the same tactics he had used in Asia. No quarter asked or given as he purged cannibals with cleansing fire. Incredibly, against all the odds, he saw the "invincible" Mafia tremble, crack and begin to crumble under the stunning blows.

  War Everlasting, right.

  Bolan was committed to the hellfire trail, and there was no turning back.

  Every time the cannibals were beaten back, Man the Civilizer gained another foot of ground. Perhaps, if the enemy was trampled enough...

  Bolan rose, scooping up his rifle and the Starlite scope, swiftly retracing his steps to the rented sedan. Misty darkness hid the warrior as he put the place behind him.

  Minh, unknowingly, bought himself a stay of execution. A reprieve, perhaps, but not a pardon.

  There were debts to pay, and his bill was coming due.

  And, if Bolan was too late for Amy, there would be no place on earth where Minh could find a sanctuary from the Executioner.

  11

  Bolan parked his car on Downey Street, two blocks from the drop, and prepared to go EVA. From his mobile arsenal, he chose an Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun with shoulder rigging. It would be invisible under his overcoat, but easily accessible through a special slit pocket, providing him with a devastating backup for the silent Brigadier. Extra clips for the Ingram filled an inner pocket of his overcoat.

  The streets of Haight-Ashbury were deserted, silent. Bolan moved along the sidewalk, keeping one hand on the Ingram's pistol grip, rubber-soled shoes muffling his footsteps. The hunter didn't plan to be taken by surprise.

  Blocks away, he heard sirens fading into distance and voices made eerie by the fog. He paused on a street corner, listening until the sounds died, then crossed the street to enter his apartment building from the rear.

  An alley cat arched its back and hissed at his approach, reluctantly giving ground. Bolan wished it well then turned his full attention to the door. It was locked. The ancient mechanism yielded to his key, stashed in a pouch on his belt. He slipped inside.

  Bolan stood in a darkened corridor sending out combat feelers, probing the building's stillness. He listened to the structure settling, testing each new sound to see if it betrayed a hostile presence. One by one the warning signals were decoded, found innocent, then dismissed.

  Satisfied he was alone, Bolan moved along a short hallway to the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he reached the first landing when footsteps sounded overhead, drawing closer. In another moment they would be upon him.

  Bolan froze, easing off the Ingram's safety. One person by the sound, but he wasn't taking any chances.

  Above him, a disheveled figure reached the stairs and started down. Graying, shoulder-length hair with a drooping mustache, O.D. jacket, faded denims — the guy was an aging relic of the Flower Generation. The eyes that met Bolan's were burned-out, having seen too much and understanding too little.

  The guy smiled at Bolan, revealing missing teeth, and raised a hand in greeting.

  "Hi, man."

  The Executioner nodded and stood aside to let him pass. When the front door closed behind him, Bolan counted ten and resumed his climb.

  The third floor was dimly lit. The paint was drab, discolored by years, the cheap carpet dirty and threadbare.

  Bolan paused on the stairs to take another reading of his gray surroundings. Down the hall, a stereo was playing, bass guitars throbbing through the walls like an erratic pulse. He scanned the corridor for other signs of life, detected none and finally moved toward the door of his apartment.

  The door was open.

  Either Amy had left, or someone had entered.

  Bolan let his coat fall open, the stubby MAC-10 nosing out. He stepped back, avoiding a direct line of fire, and gave the door a cautious nudge. It swung inward with a rusty creak. Bolan's view of the apartment was expanded, broadened inch by inch.

  The empty room mocked his caution.

  Bolan entered, lowering the Ingram as he closed the door behind him. Glancing through the open bathroom door, he knew he was alone.

  Amy Culp was missing, right, and from the evidence, she did not leave willingly.

  Bolan found the telephone lying where it had been dropped, or thrown. A knife was on the kitchen floor, and near it, something else...

  He stepped closer, bending down to make the confirmation. There was no mistake, and Bolan's face was a mask of grim determination as he straightened up. There were blood spots below the sink, already drying rusty brown against the backdrop of pale linoleum.

  Bolan checked the knife and found it was clean, Amy hadn't found a chance to use it. The blood, in all probability, was hers.

  Bolan cursed softly, his imagination filling in the gaps. He damned Amy for ignoring his instructions, turning the safehouse into a death trap. Clearly, she made a call, brushed against the strands of Minh's web, and brought the danger upon herself.

  He let the anger slide away, concentrating on the here and now. Amy was beyond his reach; unless the "elders" took her back to Minh's estate, there was no way for him to trace her.

  But if he couldn't find the lady, if he couldn't help her, there was still something he could do to avenge her.

  Something massive.

  Armageddon, sure, for the Universal Devotees.

  Cold fury rose, supplanting the warrior's early flash of anger. He knew the feeling, he lived with it and he let it guide his hand against the enemy in other confrontations, other wars.

  It was the righteous anger of a soldier who shared the pain of others, and who was simply too much a man to turn away.

  His enemy had called the game, and Bolan was prepared to take the game to the limit. It would be scorched earth for Minh and the soldiers of his private army.

  Bolan made a final sweep of the apartment, seeking clues and coming up empty. He considered calling Able Team's referral number, but dismissed the thought. If Amy Culp was alive, if she was being taken to the hardsite, every second counted. If she wasn't, he had given Minh and Carter too much time already.

  Bolan put the apartment behind him, checking each direction as he left. The corridor was empty, and the stereo's pulsing had receded. Half a dozen paces brought him to
the stairs and he started down, keeping one hand on the MAC-10 beneath his coat.

  He was on the landing, with a single flight to go, when he met the raiding party — three men, their eyes and faces mirroring the Executioner's surprise.

  The two in front wore police uniforms while the trail man wore a trench coat. Despite their surprise, the trio was braced for trouble: the nearest had a pistol in his hand; the sergeant to his left held a riot gun at port arms; and the backup man was fumbling with the buttons of his coat, edging a hand toward some hardware.

  Bolan stopped short as the shotgunner hailed him, letting the stubby scattergun slide down to waist level.

  "Hold up, slick. We need to have a word with you."

  Bolan raised an eyebrow and allowed confusion to enter his tone.

  "What's the trouble, Officer?" he asked.

  The uniform with the pistol chimed in.

  "We have reports of a disturbance.''

  Bolan's eyes dropped from the patrolman's face to the weapon in his fist, locking in instant recognition.

  It was a Walther P-38, the classic 9mm autoloader favored by German Wehrmacht officers in World War II. Collectors would pay a hefty price for such a piece in mint condition — but no San Francisco cop would ever carry one on duty.

  Bolan smiled at the "officers."

  "I must've slept through it," he said. "Never heard a thing."

  The shotgunner scowled.

  "We're gonna have to take you downtown for questioning," he growled.

  Bolan feigned amazement.

  "Hey, listen now..."

  Growing nervous, the "sergeant" snapped, jabbing the air with his scattergun for emphasis.

  "Shut up, and let's see those hands," he ordered.

  "Okay, Jesus," Bolan stammered, "just don't shoot, all right?" '

  His left hand was already shoulder high when the right hand poked through the open front of his overcoat. Downslope, his huddled targets had but a heartbeat to read the death message in his eyes before Bolan stroked the trigger.

  The Ingram man-shredder fires at a cyclic rate of 1,200 rounds per minute, rattling off a clip of thirty-two 9mm parabellums in a second and a half. Bolan held the trigger down, and few of his bullets missed flesh inside the narrow stairwell.

  He took the "sergeant" first, neutralizing his deadly riot gun. A line of steel-jackets zippered him from crotch to throat, opening his stolen uniform and releasing his stuffing in a surging, liquid rush. The hollow man tumbled backward, dead fingers triggering a blast that released a rain of plaster.

  The other uniform gave a startled cry and swung his Walther up, tracking his target. His hands were shaking, and his first shot gouged the wall a foot to Bolan's left.

  Bolan hung a wreath of parabellum manglers around the gunner's neck, watching face disintegrate. The uniform's cap was blown away, his scalp inside it, sailing down the stairs like a bloody discus.

  The third man was still groping for his weapon when the headless corpse hit him, knocking him off balance. Already smeared with blood, he swatted the thing away, half turning and tugging harder at reluctant gun leather.

  Bolan's automatic fire hit him in a blazing figure eight, and the half-turn became a jerky, spinning dance of death. His trench coat rippled with the deadly drumming impact, releasing a crimson tide, mingling with his partner's blood. A final burst swept him off his feet and pitched him headlong down the staircase, joining the others in a tangled heap of arms and legs.

  In the sudden, ringing stillness, Bolan heard the building come alive. Doors banged open, sleepy voices shouted questions. Bolan fed the MAC-10 a fresh clip, moving past the bodies toward the back door.

  Bolan knew enough of Minh's strategy to expect a backup outside. If the sounds of battle hadn't carried to the street, there was still a chance for him to take the backup by surprise. With luck, he might even learn the whereabouts of Amy Culp.

  He gave Minh credit for the suck play. The man counted on his enemy returning to the nest, and it worked... almost. Another moment either way, and it could have been Bolan sprawling in his own blood at the bottom of the stairs.

  He gained the back alley, melting into darkness as he circled cautiously around the building. If Minh was running true to form, a car and driver would be waiting for him on the street in front. Whether he could take the guy alive, whether such a hostage would know anything about the girl, remained to be seen.

  He was running on the numbers now knowing only moments remained before police received a call about the shooting. They might be on their way already, and he had no desire for confrontation with legitimate authorities.

  In Bolan's eyes, police were soldiers of the same side. He never fired on them, even at the height of his war against the Mafia, when they pursued him as the most-wanted criminal alive. His uncompromising stand won the Executioner a host of secret friends in law enforcement, and more than once his freedom depended on an officer who looked the other way.

  To all but a few, the Executioner was dead, consumed in the grim finale of his last Mafia campaign. There were no more friends and allies now; San Francisco's finest would respond at full alert to a report of shooting in their streets.

  Bolan reached the avenue and found the Caddy sitting at the curb with engine idling. He drew the silent Brigadier from side leather, moving to take the driver on his blind side. Misty darkness hid him as he passed along the street with hurried strides.

  The driver was distracted, straining for a view of the apartment house, ablaze with lights. As Bolan reached the car, the front door of the building opened, spilling yellow light and frightened, shouting tenants into the street.

  The guy was torn between an urge to run and the desire to help his crewmates. Bolan made the choice for him, reaching in and tapping him on the shoulder with the Belle.

  The driver's head whipped around, eyes widening and crossing as the pistol hovered inches from his nose. Bolan let him stare at it for a moment, ticking off the numbers in his head.

  "Wha... what the hell..."

  "Nice and easy," Bolan told him. "Move it over,"

  "You're the boss."

  But the man's eyes were darting, shifting, seeking something over Bolan's shoulder in the fog. Something dark and dangerous stirred in the back of Bolan's mind, setting off alarms.

  The soldier risked a backward glance and saw the trap closing.

  A limousine was cruising slowly toward him from the east, running without lights. Across the street, dark figures were approaching through the fog, flashlights probing, feeling for him.

  A classic suck play, and the Executioner had walked into it with his eyes wide open, never thinking his adversary might deploy a secondary backup.

  A fumble, sure, and potentially a lethal one.

  He was out of numbers now, running on guts and nerves of steel. The warrior knew that when the odds were insurmountable, you took the only course available.

  You attacked, with everything you had.

  12

  Bolan sprang into action as the flashlights spotted him. The driver panicked, disengaged the parking brake, and Bolan chopped him hard across the temple with his pistol. The guy folded. Bolan opened the door, pushed the driver's slack form across the seat and slid behind the wheel.

  Downrange, the limo's headlamps blazed forward, blinding in the fog, and the tank leaped forward with a screech of tortured rubber. Across the street, foot soldiers were advancing in a line, firing as they came. The Caddy was taking hits, lead hail drumming on the doors and fenders.

  A bullet struck the window behind him, ricocheted and burrowed into Bolan's headrest. Tiny fragments stung his cheek, drawing blood below his eye. Angry bullets filled the car's interior, buzzing in one side and out the other.

  Bolan dropped the Caddy into gear and floored the accelerator, tires smoking into a collision course with the limousine. He also kicked on the high beams, giving the enemy driver a taste of his own medicine. He caught a glimpse of angry faces, blinded by ligh
t.

  The two cars stormed toward each other, engines snarling. Bolan saw guns bristling from the limo, dirty orange flame winking madly from the muzzles. The rounds were on target, blasting paint off the hood and fenders of his car. One of Bolan's headlights exploded, but the tank rolled on, a speeding cyclops.

  At the last instant, with a heartbeat to spare before collision, Bolan cut the wheel hard left and veered across the limo's path, barely skimming past. Startled faces swiveled toward him as they passed, and Bolan snapped off a quick double-punch from the Beretta. One of the gunners grew an extra, sightless eye in the middle of his forehead, his face going slack as he melted out of sight. The Executioner was past the limo, gunning the Caddy toward open road as the enemy driver stood on his brake, fighting to bring his car around.

  At his back, the firing faltered, trailing off as the limousine came between him and the skirmish line of soldiers. Bolan seized the opportunity to make his break, squeezing yet another ounce of speed from the crew wagon's straining power plant.

  Beside him, Bolan's captive groaned, shifting on the seat, stirring fitfully. The Executioner dismissed him with a glance; the guy was out of it for now, and even if he came around, there was no place for him to go at their present speed. He was with Bolan for the duration of the ride.

  They were halfway down the block when a garbage truck cut across their path. The truck emerged from an alley, gears grinding, gray bulk filling the street ahead of Bolan. Gunmen hung off the truck, some scrambling down from the tall cab, unlimbering their weapons for a point-blank fusillade.

  Minh had done his homework in a hurry, right, and it might be a costly lesson for the Executioner.

  Bolan ducked as a fiery attack erupted from the truck. The crew wagon shuddered, its windshield rippled, raining pebbled glass over Bolan's head and shoulders. Hot tumblers ripped the seat where his chest was only seconds earlier.

  He stomped on the brake, cranking hard on the wheel, screaming into a 180-degree turn to show the enemy his tail. The Caddy fishtailed, a fender slapping a gunner, slamming him into the middle of next week. Other gunners raced for safety, still pumping wild reflexive fire in the direction of the crew wagon.