Sabotage

by Don Pendleton

  He eased the fire door open. The layout of the TBT building was similar to that of Gareth Twain’s offices in New Orleans, but this building was larger and, judging from the furnishings, much more expensive. The materials used in its construction, from the marble tiles to the brass railings on the auxiliary stairs, were expensive and well-maintained.

  There were no enemy gunners in the stairwell, at least not from the ground floor to the first landing. Each landing had, from what Bolan could tell, a double door setup, which was apparently used for fire containment. The next set of stairs, and the next landing, was only accessible after breaching the second set of doors. That worked for him in that he would know if an enemy presented himself, but it made it harder to blitz his way from bottom to top in his search for Trofimov.

  The Russian would occupy the high ground; of that much Bolan was certain. It was a natural impulse among his type. He’d be counting on the small army of SCAR personnel and, presumably, Chinese operatives mixed in with those forces to form a barrier between himself and whomever might come calling to take him down.

  Holding the Kalashnikov at the ready, Bolan eased open the first of the double fire doors leading to the next floor. Then he planted a booted foot against the second and kicked the door open.

  Gunfire ripped through the hallway beyond. Bolan triggered a burst to suppress the enemy, charging forward and cutting left to take cover behind the corner. The floor was divided into what he assumed were offices, with a perimeter corridor segmented by one hallway leading from front to back, from the elevators to some larger space at the other end. The layout was inherently dangerous for him; there were any number of places the enemy could hide.

  He wasn’t concerned with covering the stairwell. It was inevitable that some of the mercenaries would break discipline and flee. Such behavior was fairly typical when a serious firefight came down. While they were criminals, and he would take down any that got in his way, the individual fighters weren’t the target. The target was Trofimov, and he wouldn’t risk himself out in the open. He would stay buttoned up in whatever hole he maintained here, trusting his gunmen to take out any threats directed at him.

  When they failed, he would be trapped.

  The SCAR computer system had already been breached. With the financial data Bolan had helped acquire at SCFI, there would be no hiding any records of disbursements to Trofimov’s employees. Every transaction, every person on whom Trofimov, Twain and SCAR had files, would be exposed, in time. Bolan imagined that the cyberteam at the Farm was even now going through that data. Standard operating procedure would be to run the identities of the mercenaries and any other personnel involved with Trofimov and SCAR, run automated background checks on them and arrange for arrests through the myriad local law-enforcement agencies in whose jurisdiction the affected employees lived.

  A clean sweep.

  The cleanup was inevitable. It would happen regardless. Any of the gunners who escaped Bolan’s final push for justice here would be rounded up later.

  The Executioner was, in other words, free to do what he did, to charge the battlements and make sure a vile predator was stopped in his tracks.

  Bolan moved quickly down the perimeter corridor. The doors to the outer offices were glass, and he saw movement through one of them. The man beyond was a SCAR gunner with an M-16. The soldier shot him in the head, shattering the glass of the closed door.

  Two shooters ducked out of offices farther up the hallway. Their subgun rounds stitched the walls to either side of the soldier, converging on his location. Bolan dropped to one knee and fired back, triggering short, measured bursts. The gunners toppled, one dead before he hit the floor, the other screaming. He had moved at the critical moment, taking the bullets through his knees as Bolan’s rounds cut his legs out from under him.

  The Executioner stood and crept down the hallway. The wounded man was fighting through the pain and bringing up his weapon, an Uzi. Bolan snapped the AK to his shoulder and put a round through the man’s head.

  Rounding the corner, Bolan checked the next offices. They were empty. At the far end of the hall, he found a dead woman.

  It wasn’t a mercenary, and it wasn’t someone he’d shot. She looked like a civilian. She’d been very pretty.

  “It is Trofimov’s secretary,” someone said behind him.

  The Executioner whirled, leveling the Kalashnikov. The gaunt Asian man who stepped from the nearest open office was smoking a cigarette. He held a Makarov pistol, casually, as if the weapon were a toy.

  “Drop the weapon,” Bolan ordered him.

  “I do not think that would be wise,” the man said. His accent was light, his English fluent. He looked at Bolan, then down at the woman. A blood trail led from her body to the office from which the Asian had just emerged.

  “Did you shoot her?” Bolan asked.

  “I did not,” the man said. He stood a little straighter and said, “My name is Mak Wei. I am a representative of the People’s Republic of China. I assume you are a representative of your own government.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “I thought as much.” He indicated the woman. “It happened only moments ago. When it became clear the building was under attack. He has only just received word that his facility in Jacksonville was lost. I am afraid the strain was too much for him.”

  “Drop your weapon,” Bolan ordered again.

  Mak regarded him coolly. “Please,” he said. “Let us not engage in fictions. I can no more surrender than you can. But I would have a reasonable word with you, before we conclude this.”

  Bolan eyed him. The barrel of the Kalashnikov never moved; it was pointed at Mak Wei’s head.

  “My government,” Mak said, “thought this Trofimov represented an asset we could use. His goals were our goals, up to a point, and his motivations, while complicated, did not seem likely to impede us in using him for our purposes.”

  “Didn’t work out for you?”

  “No,” Mak admitted. “It seems he is more unstable than we at first thought. I saw signs of it, of course, but I took action too late. I have, what is the expression? ‘Hitched my cart to the wrong horse.’”

  “Something like that,” Bolan said.

  Mak looked at him curiously, then past him. “Are you, indeed, alone?”

  Bolan said nothing.

  “Amazing.” Mak shook his head. “Very well, I will make certain assumptions. If you would correct me when I am wrong, I would appreciate it, but if you must remain silent, I understand.”

  “Go on.”

  “Among those who work in my profession,” Mak said, “it is rumored that there are certain elements within the United States government, or allied with it, who operate much as you do. Guerrilla units, of a type. Men and women who appear from the shadows, kill the enemies of the United States and disappear as quickly as they arrive. Among them, there are reports of one man, in particular, who keeps recurring. Reports of a counterterrorist agent, if we shall call him that, who answers to your description. Tall. Perhaps ninety kilograms. An expert in small arms and the tactics of personal warfare. A man who has personally intervened in multiple operations sponsored with at least the tacit approval of my government.”

  “Why tell me this?” Bolan said.

  “Because I believe you are that man,” Mak said. “If that is so, I am telling you nothing you do not already know. My admissions will mean little beyond these walls. We both know that. My country will disavow any knowledge of me and my activities. They will provide records that prove I have left the country in disgrace, or perhaps faked my death, as so many of my men have had arranged for them. It does not matter. We both know the truth. We know it because, well, you are he. You are the warrior who has faced my country’s most covert operatives, besting them time and again. I wasn’t sure until now, but I suspected it as soon as I heard the first reports of interference with these schemes masterminded by Trofimov and Twain. It was all too…close to the mark, I believe is the expr
ession.”

  “Do you expect me to confirm it?”

  “No,” Mak said. “But your reaction tells me already that it was you.” He took a long drag from his cigarette and looked down at it. His Makarov had drifted off target and was pointing at the floor. “A man, near the end of his life, comes to understand a great many things.”

  “I don’t have to kill you,” Bolan said. “You could surrender.”

  “I suspected you might say that.” Mak nodded. “I suppose I thought, in presenting myself to you, that I might have the courage to take you up on your offer. But I cannot. My family in China would suffer greatly were I to cooperate.”

  “I can’t just let you go.”

  “It would not matter if you did,” Mak said. “If I return to China in defeat, the successor to a long line of failed operatives returning from the United States with disgrace their only prize, I would be killed anyway. If, however, I die fighting to the last, attempting to salvage the operation in some vain, impossible way, then at least my family may be spared any reprisals.”

  “I’m not going to do it for you,” Bolan said.

  Mak looked at him. “No,” he said. “I do not suppose you would. Do not worry. I will make it easy for you.” He finished his cigarette, savoring the smoke as he blew it out his mouth and inhaled it through his nose again. Finally he exhaled what remained. “It is amazing to me,” he said, “how precious things become, when they are the last things.”

  “Put the gun down,” Bolan ordered him. “Get on your knees, hands behind your head.”

  “I am not quite finished,” Mak said. “American, believe me when I tell you that, as much as I wish for my country to dominate yours, as loyal as I have been to my government, I have not lost my sense of personal honor. Watching Trofimov come apart before my eyes was a very informative experience. Had I everything to do over again, I believe I would do it differently. But now—” he stood straighter, smoothing his dark suit with his free hand “—my course is chosen, and the way is clear, however distasteful it may be.”

  “Don’t,” Bolan warned.

  Mak ignored him. “You have killed the last of the SCAR men on this floor,” he said. “Were you to take the stairs to the next levels beyond this one—” he nodded upward “—you would find no shortage of men with automatic weapons, just waiting to kill you. Trofimov, however, believes in leaving himself an out. This office—” he nodded back the way he’d come, in the direction from which the dying woman had apparently crawled “—connects to a private lift. That lift emerges in a large anteroom that occupies half of the floor space on the uppermost floor of the building. Trofimov himself is secured within.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Please.” Mak held up his free hand. “Allow me to finish. My men, a select team of warriors and all that remain of my forces here in the United States, are waiting outside Trofimov’s office, in that anteroom. They have removed all furniture from the room. It is completely barren, a killing field containing only men and their weapons. They will be expecting you from the stairs, if indeed you were to make it past all the other men arrayed against you. You will have perhaps a moment once you clear the elevator, a moment in which to take them by surprise. I cannot guarantee that, however.”

  “Do you expect me to believe you?”

  “I hope you do,” Mak said, “for I would not dishonor my last moments by telling lies. Ultimately you will do as you will, and I can change nothing. Based on your actions to this time, I am not worried that you will succeed. We are enemies, American, but I must admit, you have my grudging admiration. With a squad of men such as you, I could bring the West to its knees, and exalt the People’s Republic to its rightful place.”

  “You aren’t making any sense,” Bolan said.

  “I am making perfect sense, American.” Mak smiled. “Is it really so hard to believe that you have earned the respect of an enemy? At the same time, my allies have proved not to be worthy of that respect. I go now to my death, American. I do so willingly. I hope my men kill you. They are the best my nation could provide, and they are fierce. The fact that you are still alive, however, tells me that you are fierce, as well.”

  “Don’t do it,” Bolan warned again.

  “Goodbye, American,” Mak said. “I hope you will be joining me soon.”

  The Makarov came up, and it was no halfhearted attempt. Mak’s shot came very close to putting Bolan down forever. The 9 mm round burned the air by Bolan’s left ear as the soldier sidestepped and triggered a burst from the Kalashnikov. An expert marksman and sniper, Bolan couldn’t miss, especially at this range. Mak hit the corridor wall and slid down it, blood spreading across his chest.

  “I…think…” Mak said. He never finished his sentence. Bolan looked down at him, his eyes open in death, a strangely serene look on his face.

  “Whatever you were thinking,” Bolan told him, “it doesn’t matter now.” He offered a silent salute to this strange foe, who had proved honorable at the last, and moved cautiously into the office Mak had pointed out.

  The blood trail led to a panel in the wall that stood ajar. Closed, it was obviously designed to blend in with paneling on the wall, but the seam was broken. Removing his combat flashlight from his pocket, Bolan illuminated the space, holding the Kalashnikov with one hand only.

  There was a small switch set in the wall, and the floor was a metal grid clearly connected to hydraulics of some kind.

  Bolan stood within the lift and hit the switch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When the lift door opened, Bolan found himself standing behind a crowd of armed men. They were all Asian, presumably Chinese, and they held a variety of weapons. Many had guns; others held knives and even clubs. Bolan was at a loss to explain that, unless these special forces operatives expected the fight to get up-close and bloody. It wasn’t, he reflected, an unreasonable expectation.

  At the sound of the lift doors, the men turned almost in unison.

  Bolan pulled back the trigger of the Kalashnikov.

  The weapon’s muzzle-blast lit up the darkened room, whose windows had been partially blacked out. As Bolan fired into their midst, he did the only thing he could do, given the complete lack of cover. He moved straight into the crowd of fighters, using their bodies to shield him. He managed to fire out the magazine of the Kalashnikov before they swamped him.

  The crush of bodies wasn’t unexpected, but this was the most difficult part of Bolan’s play. If he let them take him to the ground, or smother him completely, he would be helpless. They could kick him to death or simply put a gun to his head, and that would be the end of his War Everlasting.

  Bolan slammed the wooden stock of the Kalashnikov into one of the approaching fighters. He lashed out with a kick, breaking another’s knee. He threw an elbow into the face of one, then another. He smashed his fist into the throat of yet another. Reaching into his pocket, he snapped open the switchblade he’d taken from the late Gareth Twain, and he drew the Boker Applegate combat knife from its sheath in his waistband.

  The Chinese operatives were still on top of him, grunting in their attempts to grab and hold him, strangely silent. He felt a truncheon across his back and did his best to roll with the blow; a kick slammed into his ribs; someone tried to stab him in the stomach. He was able to arch his back and avoid the knife, then bring his own large blade up and slash the attacker. With the Boker and the switchblade whirling like the teeth of a threshing machine, Bolan began carving his way out of the mass of enemy bodies. There were screams, and then the gunfire started. The enemy operatives had started shooting without regard for their comrades’ safety, as it became clear that the demon in their midst was rapidly scything through them like the grim reaper.

  Bolan grabbed one of the operatives and wrapped an arm around his throat, twisting and turning, making the man roll with him. The unfortunate operative absorbed several rounds fired by his fellows, and Bolan backed up toward the double doors the Chinese were
protecting. If Mak Wei had been honest, Trofimov would be beyond that portal.

  An expandable baton sang through the air, just missing Bolan’s face. He dropped the dead man he’d been using as a shield, firing a savage kick that snapped the shin of the man with the baton. Then Bolan’s Desert Eagles were in his fists, and he was jacking back the hammers as the triangular muzzles covered the enemy.

  Bullets punched holes in the wall behind him, ricocheting when they found the metal of the reinforced doors. A bouncing round singed Bolan’s leg, but did no serious damage. He ignored the sting as he started pulling the triggers of his pistols, hurling .44-caliber death at the foreign agents who sought to kill him.

  He felt the blow to his legs too late, as one of the Chinese threw himself at Bolan’s lower body. The soldier toppled, and several of the operatives scrambled to hold him down. Rolling and twisting, bucking like a wild animal, Bolan was able to throw off the one trying to grab his arms. He fired the Desert Eagles again and again at close range, almost blowing the men off him as the bullets slammed into them. Another man grabbed him in a bear hug and Bolan fought blindly, slamming his elbow up and back, feeling the operative’s nose give. Deafening gunfire sounded all around. Bolan was shooting; the operatives were shooting. Muzzle-blasts burned him through his blacksuit. His war bag was ripped free from his shoulder. Without realizing he was doing it, he grabbed the edge of the canvas bag, holding fast to keep it from being lost in the fray. A knife blade found his thigh and dug in deep, but he fought the pain.

  One of the Chinese got an arm around Bolan’s throat and began to squeeze. He felt himself being dragged down. As the air was cut off, his vision began to go black. He saw floating shapes. Several Chinese were still up and functional, and they were closing in, hammering away at him with their fists and their feet, animal rage having supplanted professional detachment. They were going to beat him to death while their comrade strangled him.

  A last, desperate thought came to Bolan as the rushing in his ears became almost overwhelming.