Bolan tracked the Land Cruisers around the steel mill like a man with a fire hose, dousing vehicles whenever he managed to intersect one’s path. One of the trucks even caught fire when fumes from the ruptured gas tank ignited. Russian soldiers fled, running across the plant’s floor, and Bolan let them escape the barrage. They would head for the armored vehicles outside. Men tended to take refuge in heavy armor when things got heated. That was right where Bolan wanted them to go.
He did as much damage with the Gatling as he could. When he eventually ran out of targets, he secured the Suburban and climbed out of it.
“Warlock!” a voice growled from behind him.
Silently berating himself for this combat error, Bolan turned slowly, careful not to put hands near his weapons. If his enemy had wanted him dead, he already would have been killed. Standing there, blood streaming from a wound in his head, was Dobry Mikhailov. The OMON commander had a Fairbairn-Sykes combat knife in his hand. He gestured at Bolan with the knife.
“This knife belonged to my friend,” he said. “I’m going to kill you with it.”
“You and your dead friend,” Bolan said, “shouldn’t be here. You’re enemies of this nation. Your presence, and your activities, are acts of war.”
“I am not impressed with your outrage, American.”
“Well, what about this?” Bolan made his move, slapping Mikhailov’s knife hand up and to the right with the back of his own hand, moving in and to his adversary’s blind side. He turned the move into a grab and locked the man’s arm into a standing arm bar. Because the Russian still held the knife, Bolan applied full pressure at full speed, snapping the arm.
Mikhailov screamed. He dropped the combat knife. Bolan swept out one of the man’s legs and dropped him to the ground, then smashed his head into the gravel. He followed with a downward elbow strike into his opponent’s skull.
A bullet struck the ground at Bolan’s feet. He didn’t waste time looking for the source. He simply ran, moving in a zigzag pattern, putting some distance between him and his last position. There was a sniper somewhere here in the steel mill. Bolan jumped back into the bulletproof Suburban and once more prepared to use the minigun.
It took him a few minutes of sweeping back and forth to find the culprit. One of the Land Cruisers’ occupants had escaped. He had a Kalashnikov rifle, and he had quietly climbed a scaffold near one end of the plant to carry him up to a second-floor office area. The office was one of those afterthought construction projects, a small platform with walls and a door erected long after the original steel mill was constructed. The structure was supported by beams of wood on three sides, long poles that were essentially stilts.
Bolan fired the Gatling gun. A stream of 7.62 mm NATO bullets tore apart the support under one corner of the office. The soldier swung his weapon around and hit the second one then the third. Before he could strike the fourth support, the lopsided office in the abandoned steel plant began to collapse. The sniper within screamed as the floor was pulled out beneath him. The structure was old, unsound and partially rotten. It splintered and cracked as it fell apart, piece by agonizing piece. The Russian gunman plummeted to the floor below and hit with a sickening thud. The fall alone might not have killed him...but then the structure through which he’d fallen collapsed on top of him, crushing him.
Bolan, his M-16/M-203 hanging from its single-point sling, marched back toward the doors of the steel mill. A bullet whistled past his head.
He spun. Dobry Mikhailov was back up. He looked dazed, but the pistol in his hands was effective enough. The Russian fired several times, his shots going wide. Bolan drew his Desert Eagle, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.
The .44 Magnum hollowpoint round burned through the air and punched through Mikhailov’s chest. He spun and collapsed on his back.
Bolan walked forward to stand over the Russian commander.
“Warlock,” Mikhailov said, “you have won.”
“I don’t know that name.”
“It is simply what we in OMON call you.” The Russian coughed. “I cannot feel my legs.”
“Tell your men to surrender,” Bolan demanded. “Tell them to put down their weapons. If you do, I’ll see to it that you get medical care.”
“No,” Mikhailov said weakly. “I do not think I will.”
“The wound can be treated,” Bolan told him. But he was lying—and they both knew it. There was no medical care in the world that would save Mikhailov. He was bleeding out and would be dead in minutes.
“You are...kind to say so.”
“Any last requests?” Bolan asked. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“I have a question. What manner of man are you? Who are you?”
“I’m just a man. An American fighting for his country and its interests.”
“What...is...your real...name?” Mikhailov was fading fast now.
“I’ve had a lot of names over the years.”
The Russian opened his mouth to try to say something. No sound came out. His stare became glassy, his eyes gazing into the distance. That was it. He was dead.
Bolan reached out and closed the man’s eyes. He stood to his full height and surveyed the wreckage in the steel mill. Outside the massive doors, the rest of the Russians waited with armored vehicles. The odds seemed impossible. He was one man wielding small arms. How could he take on multiple soldiers with mounted machine guns and armor?
He had successfully severed the Russians’ leadership from the rest of the group. That would hinder them. When they realized they couldn’t get through to Mikhailov or Smyrnoi, they might even panic. Bolan didn’t plan to count on that, however.
The Executioner wasn’t done.
* * *
Farhad Dabiri crept into the steel mill. Getting past the Russian troops outside had been relatively easy. A single man could slip past them, for what could only one person do? But as he looked around, the question almost terrified him, for all around him was evidence of what one person could do.
He ducked into the shadow of a large metal container, some kind of drum for refuse, as the man in black started to approach. Dabiri would face him in good time, but not before he finished his mission. He waited for the big American to move past him and head outside the steel mill. The Iranian sprinted for the far end of the building. It was so large that walking would take too long.
Octavios could be hidden anywhere. There were many suitable spots. Dabiri avoided the wreckage of the trucks, the bodies, the crushed wooden beams and floorboards of what had apparently been a second-story office. Then he spotted the structure with the overhead door.
Dabiri saw no sign of the American’s car. The structure was large enough to hide it.
He crept forward. There was no way to open the overhead door quietly. He brought out his little sound-suppressed Beretta, made doubly sure a round was chambered, and put his hand on the door and lifted.
The door rose to reveal the Mossad agent who had given the North Koreans so much difficulty.
She palm-heeled him in the face.
Dabiri reeled. The woman was smaller than he was, at least a head shorter, but her body was taut and muscular. Her strike had dazed him, made him see stars. The Iranian lashed out with a wide crescent kick that caught her unexpectedly. The blow blasted the air out of her and knocked her down. Dabiri pounced.
He jumped on top of the agent, intending to punch or choke her. She surprised him by wriggling free, arching her back and bucking him off before he could properly brace himself on top of her. Pushing to her feet, she threw herself at him with a vicious series of elbows that knocked him this way and that.
Dabiri brought up his knee, smashing her in the midsection again. That strike did some damage, for he watched her eyes bulge when it landed. He pressed his advantage, punching her once, twice, a third time.
He didn’t enjoy beating
up women, but it came with the job. He couldn’t remember the last time he had fought so comely a specimen, though. Under different circumstances, he might really take his time with her. Right now, though, he had to make sure Octavios was killed and his release of sensitive data initiated. That was the assignment. Until it was completed, that was Dabiri’s sole reason for existing on this Earth.
He drew a tactical folding knife with a four-inch, spear-point blade from his pocket and snapped open the blade. The Mossad agent looked down in time to see him plunge it into her, twisting it for effect. Then he slammed his elbow into her head. She fell to the ground and stopped moving.
She had been trying to stop him from going to the car. That’s where Octavios had to be. Dabiri entered the little enclosure. As his eyes adjusted to the even dimmer light, he spotted the slumped figure in the back seat of the Chevrolet sedan. He went to it and opened the rear passenger’s-side door.
Javier Octavios sat there, staring at nothing.
Dabiri snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. He put two fingers to the Greek’s neck. He couldn’t tell if there was a pulse or not. It certainly wasn’t a strong one.
He ripped open Octavios’s shirt. There was nothing on the device attached to the Greek’s chest that showed whether it had been triggered. No LED readouts, nothing.
So. That was it. Javier Octavios was dead. His legacy would be one of injury dealt to the United States, which so richly deserved it, for its arrogance.
He raised his little Beretta and put it to Octavios’s temple. It couldn’t hurt to be doubly certain. If there was any chance Octavios could be revived, it would be better to put a couple more bullets into the man, to erase all doubt. There would be no saving him by some American medical miracle if his brains were a scrambled mess.
* * *
Alisa Hazan’s eyes opened. The searing pain in her gut made her want to throw up. She put her hand over the wound and, drawing the Jericho pistol from her hip, managed to stand. Her vision started to turn orange around the edges. She almost passed out.
No time for that, she thought. Move. Protect the Greek. That is your job. Staggering, stumbling, almost crawling, she managed to get into the enclosure. The assassin had left the door open. Now he was at the car, getting ready to shoot an unconscious Octavios.
She raised her Jericho and started to pull the trigger.
The Iranian ducked. Hazan’s shot struck the far wall. The noise, meanwhile, roused Octavios, who had been doing a very good impression of a dead man. When the Greek started to move, the Iranian turned to see what was happening. He froze in disbelief to see that the hacker leader was indeed still alive, and raised his pistol once more.
Hazan clubbed him across the face with her Jericho. She wasn’t thinking clearly; her wound and her blood loss were making it difficult to make decisions. All she knew was that she had to do something. She smashed Dabiri in the face again, and again, driving him back. The Iranian turned and fled across the steel mill. She tried to level her weapon and fire off a shot, but she couldn’t seem to focus on the sights. Everything was blurry...
* * *
Javier Octavios watched the Israeli collapse. Now was his chance. Now he could escape. He tried to will his legs to move, to lift his arms up, but he couldn’t. He tried to reach out and take her gun. He was too weak.
No! Now is my opportunity.
It embittered him to think that this was how he would end. Not with a bang, not with a mighty exposé, but alone, in the back of a domestic automobile, a victim of his body’s own frailty. There was no honor in that. There was no story to be told here. There was only failure. At least he was no longer wrapped in a reflective blanket like holiday leftovers. The tape had proved easy enough to break, the space blanket easy to remove...until his physical strength had given out.
He pondered his elegy. “Here lies Javier Octavios,” it might say. “A titan who strode the world making governments and those in power fear him...who got sick and died in the back of some government rental car.”
Life was not without its vicious ironies.
No. He would not permit it. This was not how he chose to die. He would steal the car. He would drive out of here. Perhaps he would take the Israeli woman with him.
But he would do none of those things, because he couldn’t lift his arms.
Octavios, helpless and alone, began to weep in the back of the Malibu.
Chapter Seventeen
Bolan stood behind one of the massive doors of the front entrance of the steel mill, looking out at the odds he faced. He was one man with a rifle and some grenades. Beyond his location, a small army of Russian special forces troops were hiding in the cover of armored vehicles. Their machine guns were belt fed and fired powerful rounds. They were primed, ready and—perhaps worst of all—they knew Bolan had slain many of their comrades.
The Executioner drew a deep breath. He was almost ready.
“American!” came a voice through a loudspeaker. At first, Bolan thought one of the Russians had to have a bullhorn. He realized after a moment that he was listening to a public address system in one of the Russian MRAPs.
“Sorry,” Bolan shouted back. “No solicitors.”
“American!” the amplified voice came back. “Turn over Octavios and no one will be hurt.”
“Send in someone,” Bolan said. “Let’s negotiate.” He had no intention of negotiating, but the Russians couldn’t know that. There was a long silence from the other side.
Finally the amplified voice said, “Very well. Do not shoot. If you fire on the negotiator, we will fire into the building until you are dead.”
“Understood,” Bolan called back.
He waited. Eventually, a man wearing civilian clothes, a Kalashnikov rifle slung over his shoulder, approached the building. He stopped a few paces from the door.
“We want the Greek,” he said simply.
“You can’t have him.”
“We’ll kill you to get him.”
“You still can’t have him,” Bolan said. “And he might die during the fight if you’re not careful. Is that what you want? You know what happens when he dies.”
The Russian swallowed, hard. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Did you kill—?”
“Mikhailov? Smyrnoi? Yes. I did. It was easy. And I’m going to kill the rest of you.”
“That is not how you are supposed to negotiate.”
“That’s how I negotiate,” Bolan told him. “If you don’t give this up, people are going to get killed. A whole lot of people have already been hurt. Your leader, Mikhailov, and Smyrnoi. Both dead. The rest of you are next. Lay down your weapons and surrender to this duly authorized agent of the United States Justice Department. That’s the only option left for you.”
“I regret that we will have to kill you now.”
“You don’t regret it yet. You’re about to.”
The negotiator walked back to the ranks of the Russians.
“Cooper,” Hazan said.
Bolan turned. The Mossad agent had been in hand-to-hand combat and had suffered injuries. She was pale and holding her stomach, which was crimson with her blood.
“Let me get the med kit—”
“No,” she protested. “I have it already. I moved the Malibu to the rear of the steel mill. Octavios is awake, but he’s having trouble moving. We need to get him medical help very soon. The Iranian assassin, Farhad Dabiri. He attacked me. Stabbed me. I fought him off, and I think I hurt him badly enough that he slunk away to tend to his wounds rather than finish me off. But he’s out there. Somewhere.”
“Understood,” Bolan said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do something for you?”
“You can kick their asses for me,” she replied. “I’ll patch myself up and see to Octavios. We’ll be waiting for you when you get
done. But, looking out there, Cooper... I don’t like your chances.”
“You might be surprised,” he said.
“American!” roared the Russian voice on the PA. “I am going to count down to zero. At zero, we are going to move on your position, and when we do, we will kill anyone and everything that is not one of our number. You can prevent this. Give us Javier Octavios.”
“I don’t think so,” Bolan stated. “I’m definitely feeling contrary today.”
“Are you mad?” Hazan asked.
Bolan took out his smartphone. He typed a name from the contacts and selected a phone number. He texted a single phrase: G-Force. He put the phone away.
“What was that all about? Cooper? Why are you suddenly so pleased with yourself?”
“I’m always happy,” Bolan told her, “when I get to work with my old friend.”
The Israeli arched a brow.
“Five!” the Russian roared. “Four! Three! Two!”
“One,” Bolan said in unison with the enemy, and looked in the direction from which he knew his friend would be arriving.
Nothing happened.
“Cooper?” Hazan queried.
As the Russian vehicles started to advance, Bolan said, “Wait for it.”
The McDonnel Douglas Helicopter Systems MD 500 Defender flew in low, as close to the towers and structures of the steel plant as its daredevil pilot could manage. A variant of the OH-6 Cayuse Light Observation Helicopter, sometimes referred to as a “Loach,” the chopper was propelled by a single Allison turboshaft generating 420 horsepower. This particular Loach was armed with two 7.62 mm General Electric M-134 miniguns and two 7-shot rocket pods.
Bolan took his lightweight transceiver from his pocket. The little two-way device was used for short-range communications with other personnel from the Farm.
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