The vehicle crashed into the pit, half in and half out, the rear end of the vehicle almost vertical. Then a second SUV crashed into a pit. The others started to slow, but it was too late. Bolan had been forced to dodge and weave to reach the earthen berms because there was no straight path to the destination. If you did not know the pattern, it would be almost impossible to avoid the pits.
Automatic gunfire began to fly Bolan’s way. The troops in the tour vehicles were spraying and praying, hoping they’d hit something, anything, before their SUVs were neutralized. The sound was the unmistakable metallic clatter of Kalashnikov-pattern assault rifles.
And who preferred the AK so much they’d bring full-auto variants onto American soil? he contemplated. Had to be the Russian contingent.
Some of the vehicles managed to stop. The troops within then piled out and started using the pits as foxholes. From their new place of what they thought was cover, they targeted the berm. Bullets began to shower Bolan with clods of earth. He backed up a little more, making sure they would not be able to hit him effectively.
He was not done with them yet. He had barely begun.
Now it was time to rain down hell.
Bolan hefted the Milkor grenade launcher, then loaded half a dozen XM1060 thermobaric grenades into the weapon. The grenades, an urban combat weapon, generated more heat and overpressure than conventional high-explosive grenades. Bolan braced the launcher, chose his angle and began pumping 40 mm projectiles into the sky.
The bombs began to explode, bringing death and horrible injury wherever they detonated. Bolan was not about to let up on the pressure, though. This small army of foreign nationals had invaded Canada and the United States. Their only purpose here was to injure the interests of the United States and its Western allies, directly or indirectly. They had brought illegal weapons into the country with them, and they engaged in what could only be considered an act of war.
Bolan reloaded the Milkor, fired out another half dozen grenades, and repeated the process. He kept at it until the field stretched below him was awash in dead men, pools of blood and smoking SUVs. When he was satisfied that the enemy troops had been softened up enough, he put down the Milkor and unslung the Tavor.
From his vantage on the berm, Bolan could see the road. A few of the vehicles had hung back, which was a wise strategical move. He took his monocular from his war bag, extended the little tactical spyglass and swept the field.
He didn’t recognize most of the faces, but one face that he did see from his Farm briefing was visible for a few moments as the man hopped from one SUV-killing foxhole to another. Dobry Mikhailov of the Russian OMON. Bolan regretted not being able to get a round on target while the man was visible. Shooting the enemy leader might put the Russians in disarray. Then again, if their chain of command was well defined, it might not.
It didn’t matter. Bolan was about to give the men, scattered among the truck-size graves he’d had mined for them, a lesson in how he had earned the nickname “The Executioner.”
The Tavor had a nice set of mounted red-dot optics. Snugging the bullpup weapon to his shoulder, he began tracking the men below. The smart ones were staying well beneath the edges of their foxholes. Some of the trucks had caught fire, driving men from that cover to neighboring shelter. Bodies were everywhere. The XM1060 thermobaric rounds had done their work with sinister efficiency.
What impressed Bolan was just how many men the Russians had fielded. They had to want Octavios more badly than any objective the Russians or Soviets had gone after for years. He was glad he had taken the precautions he had. There was a seemingly endless supply of OMON soldiers.
Bolan drew in a breath, let part of it out and held the rest. He felt his body go limp. Every muscle relaxed; every fiber of his being focused on the single point of light that was the red dot scope. He chose a target, tracked the man as he tried to jump from one hole to another, and took up slack on the Tavor’s trigger.
The weapon wasn’t intended to be used as a sniper rifle, but any rifle in the hands of the Executioner was a sniper weapon. In combat, a lifetime ago, he had proved just how effective he could be when it came to long-distance shooting. There was a time, before he’d been forced to hide his true identity, that he was known as Sergeant Mercy. In part, because he was a man of compassion. But it was mostly because he dealt the sweet mercy that was a quick death to his enemies, over and over again.
Legends had been told over the years about the man who killed criminals, Mafiosi, terrorists. A man who, early in his career of bringing death and destruction to those who richly deserved it, left a grim calling card on his target’s bodies. That calling card was a marksman’s medal. The unparalleled sniper who took the lives of so many hardened criminals—so many predators who didn’t care whom they raped, murdered, abused, or humiliated—was one of the most skilled marksmen in the world.
And now the OMON fighters were learning this, however indirectly.
Bolan was patient. It was one of the skills a sniper needed. He could sit up here, on this berm, all day and into the night. In fact, darkness might be the only hope some of these Russian killers had, if the Executioner decided to keep them pinned down. The jury was still out on that; it would depend on what Bolan determined to be the best strategy for keeping Octavios alive.
Another gunner tried to take out Bolan with an AK-74. Bolan shot him twice. The first round took the Russian in the throat; the second round blew a hole through the bridge of his nose.
Minutes turned into half an hour as Bolan stalked and killed his prey from on high. Even out here, a gun battle this extensive, with plumes of smoke from burning SUVs climbing into the sky, would draw attention. But the team Price had referred to would be routing traffic away from his position. Blacksuits from Stony Man Farm—commandos who formed the backbone of the Farm’s troops—would, using the authority Brognola could provide them through the Justice Department, keep any civilians and any interfering law-enforcement officers from blundering into Bolan’s way.
No, not blundering, Bolan thought. Members of law enforcement were good people doing their jobs. It’s just that he didn’t want them in harm’s way while he did his job.
Bolan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He ducked down behind the berm and checked it. If the Farm was sending him a file, perhaps some surveillance from the satellite, he’d want to see it.
There was a single text message waiting. It said, Danger. Incoming.
Bolan gritted his teeth. He knew what that meant. A hostile force had breached the cordon and was, presumably, heading for his location. Whatever it was, the blacksuit commandos hadn’t been able to stop it.
With renewed urgency, Bolan began sniping the Russians again. He smiled grimly when he noticed a group of three trying to flank him. It was about time. They’d been sitting ducks for so long that the soldier was starting to wonder if they had completely given up. He put down the Tavor, picked up the Milkor, reloaded the launcher and took aim to his left.
One, two, three and then four grenades flew through the air. The thermobaric bombs exploded in rapid succession. The flanking Russians experienced firsthand the heat and overpressure of the deadly rounds. Bolan shook his head. It wasn’t how he’d want to go out. He felt little pity for these armed invaders—only a sense of sadness that these battles were necessary at all.
Switching back to the Tavor, he mopped up those Russians that he could. The vehicles that had hung back were now trying to pull out. Several men had made a run for the SUVs. Bolan took out most of them. Several more managed to slip through while he was busy killing their comrades. They were literally using their own people as cover to extract some of their number.
Bolan rolled back down the berm, went to the trunk of the Malibu and removed a pair of LAWS rockets. The light antitank weapons were just what he needed to take out the fleeing trucks. With the Russian contingent effectively eradicated, the road fo
rward would be that much clearer. Bolan reached the top of the berm, extended one of the two launchers and took aim at—
An explosion, in front and below his position, threw gouts of dirt into the air. The blast was enough to drive Bolan back the way he’d come, rolling down the berm and into the pit where the Malibu was parked. He struck the side of the vehicle, rebounded and lay in the dirt, his ears ringing.
Another explosion targeted the opposite berm. Still another dug a crater dangerously close to the Malibu.
Somebody was tossing hand grenades. But who could be doing it? The Russians were in no position to attempt to mount another assault. The new arrivals weren’t using launchers, either; he would have heard the telltale “bloop” of a launcher like his own.
Where was the attack coming from?
Shaking off the fuzziness in his head, he crawled back up the berm, exposing as little of himself as possible so he could take a look at the field beyond. From this height, he could see men moving in from the right flank. They were Asians, throwing grenades and firing submachine guns and pistols.
The SSD had found him, broken the cordon and parked their vehicles far enough away to walk in on Bolan’s position. That was the only explanation. Again, he racked his brain trying to figure out how they always knew precisely where to find Octavios. The man had been given no opportunity to send coded messages or to make furtive telephone calls. How was he tipping them off? And why?
There was also the possibility that Octavios wasn’t tipping anyone off. After all, the North Koreans wanted him dead. The tracking might be by some means implemented by Octavios’s many enemies, a technology or a method that the Greek couldn’t detect. Was the man complicit? Was he shamming? Or was everything more or less what it looked like?
What it looked like, Bolan thought, was a complete mess.
The soldier struggled to the top of the berm again. The North Koreans had run out of grenades and were now simply shooting. Bolan pressed himself into the dirt to minimize his target profile, then he spotted something unexpected and did a double-take.
Coming up the road was a cherry-red Lamborghini.
Chapter Eleven
Outside Bradford, Pennsylvania
The situation was now untenable. Bolan had put the Russians on the defensive and had stood a good chance of defeating them, but the North Korean reinforcements—even though the two teams were not working together—changed things drastically. The soldier’s careful planning had the Russians hemmed in. The North Koreans had ruined that by inadvertently giving the Russians the cover they’d needed to retreat to their vehicles and circle the battleground.
The OMON began shooting at the SSD.
The two enemies were now battling each other, trading fire as the North Koreans jumped into the giant foxholes the Russians had just abandoned. Bolan, still a little unsteady on his feet, made his way to the Malibu and threw open the driver’s-side door.
“Can you give me a ride?” a female voice asked from behind him.
Bolan whirled, the Beretta 93-R coming out of its holster with rattlesnake speed. The attractive, dark-haired woman who stood before Bolan wore black battle dress utilities and combat boots. She also wore fingerless leather gloves. On her hip was a pistol of some kind. She hadn’t drawn it.
“Matthew Cooper,” Bolan said. “United States Justice Department. And you are? Keep those hands up.”
The woman raised her hands, palms out, and stopped closing in on him.
“Alisa Hazan,” she said. Her Israeli accent was obvious enough.
“Mossad?” Bolan asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I won’t be offended if you have to check with your superiors.”
Bolan took out his secure smartphone and snapped her photo. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “What do you want?”
“What you want,” Hazan said. “For him—” she nodded at the Malibu with Octavios inside “—to live until we can figure out how to dismantle the dead man’s switch wired to his heart. We are on the same side, Cooper. Although, you’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical of the precise department to which you report. I don’t know of many Justice Department figures who could wreak the havoc you’ve accomplished here.”
Gunfire among the North Koreans and the Russians was growing more fierce, not less. Bolan stole his way to the top of the berm once more and surveyed the field with his monocular. The Russians had formed up on the few SUVs they still had operable. The North Koreans, meanwhile, were trying to circle them with a collection of black and silver Mercedes sedans. One of the sedans ended up in a pit, sharing space with a flaming “tour” vehicle. The driver had miscalculated. The Russians took advantage of the momentary distraction to hose the Mercedes with their Kalashnikovs.
“Who’s winning?” Hazan asked.
“Hard to say.” Bolan transmitted her picture to the Farm with an urgent code. The response took only sixty seconds.
Confirmed. Alisa Hazan, Israeli Mossad. Facial recog verified. She’s one of the good guys, Striker. Hal vouches.
A dossier file appeared on the smartphone’s home screen. Bolan took the briefest moment to thumb through the file to make certain.
“We have a certain mutual friend, apparently,” he said. “A large man with a chronic stress problem.”
“Hal Brognola,” she said, smiling. “I have known him for several years. My work has brought me into contact with him on occasion. And, like you, it is doubtful that Mr. Brognola works only for the Justice Department. But then, those are merely my suspicions.”
“All right,” he finally said. “It looks like you are who you say you are.”
“I should think the delay I created for the North Koreans was proof enough of that.”
“You did what?” the soldier said.
“They’d have caught up with you much sooner,” she stated, “if I hadn’t given them a series of flat tires to deal with.” Bolan turned back and looked through the monocular more carefully. Several of the Mercedes sedans were indeed sporting low-profile “donut” spares.
“They’re going to get bored with each other,” Bolan told the woman, “and come at this position again. I had the Russians pinned, but the North Koreans didn’t follow the program. If we break for it, they’ll pursue. I’m outnumbered.”
“Then give me your car keys,” Hazan said. Bolan’s eyes narrowed. She noticed. “Your choices are to refuse to trust me and to be overwhelmed, or trust me and risk that I will murder Mr. Octavios. In that event, I assume you would hunt me down and take terrible revenge for my betrayal?”
“Something like that.”
“Then worry not. Give me your keys. I will drive Octavios away from here.” She pointed. “Meet me to the west. We will drive in that direction and wait for you to return.”
“Return?”
“I assumed you would want to leave this position of cover and hunt your enemies on the field of battle, remaining mobile enough to bring the fight to them.”
Bolan raised one eyebrow. That was exactly what he wanted to do. The Executioner hefted the Tavor and offered it to his new ally. She took it with surprise, but looked even more surprised when he handed her the Milkor.
“There are more grenades in the trunk,” he said. “I’ll keep the ones I have with me.”
“Don’t you need these?” she asked.
“No. I brought enough for everybody.” He popped the trunk and took from it several loaded 30-round M-16 magazines, which he stuffed in his war bag. Then he took the M-16/M-203 launcher combination from the trunk and threw its attached single-point sling across his chest.
The gunfire from the field beyond reached a fever pitch. “That’s my cue,” Bolan stated. “While they’re distracted.” He tossed Hazan the car keys. “Terrible revenge,” he said, pointing a finger at her.
“I believe you.” Hazan climbed into the car and starte
d it. “Mr. Octavios, I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to meet you. But it’s not.”
“Oh good,” said the Greek. “Another heavily armed Fascist with a sense of humor.”
“He’s like that,” Bolan cautioned.
“I assumed,” Hazan said. “Watch your back, Cooper. We’ll be a long walk to the west.”
“You’d better be,” he told her. Bolan brought up the M-16/M-203 in both hands, sent her a quick salute, and disappeared around the berm, retracing the path the Malibu had taken.
He didn’t have much time to cross what would quickly be a no-man’s land between the berms and the pits he’d had dug. The North Koreans continued circling in their remaining vehicles, firing at the enemy team. The Russians, now cut off from the path back to the main road—their substantial force cut to numbers roughly equal that of the Koreans—were using their remaining SUVs as dubious cover. The vehicles were absorbing a lot of lead.
Time to remind them why they were really here—and who was standing in their way.
What had been an open field was now pocked with deep trenches and littered with wrecked, smoking, or immobile vehicles. Some of the trucks jutted out of the traps that had stopped them. Another couple of vehicles had been stopped dead by Bolan’s barrage of XM1060 grenades. There were plenty of angles to cover the Executioner as he approached, but not until he could get past the North Koreans. They were circling like something out of an old cowboy movie, firing on the Russians and keeping what was left of the OMON troops from moving out.
Bolan raised his rifle, jacked a 40 mm grenade into the launcher, judged the trajectory and let fly. The bomb sailed through the air and struck one of the Mercedes sedans, blowing apart the rear of the vehicle and causing the gas tank to detonate. The fireball was brief but impressive. Bolan charged through the scene, using the smoke and carnage to mask his movements.
Once inside the perimeter established by the North Koreans, Bolan chose a pit and jumped into it. A couple of Russian corpses rested there, one of them still clutching an AK. Bolan moved to the edge of the pit, dug the toe of his boot into the dirt of the side “wall” for purchase, and lifted himself up so he had a clear firing position. Then he began sniping with the M-16, shooting both Russians and North Koreans who moved into his field of fire.
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