Riba raised his cell phone. “I found Cooper,” he said to Mitchell. “Laura was supposed to be on her way home. Looks like they picked her up.”
Riba ended the call.
“How did the cops get involved?”
“We had unwelcome visitors at the diner. Looking for you, I guess. It got a little heated. After I called Brognola, he sent in the local law enforcement to handle things so I could go looking for you.”
Bolan’s face was set, his eyes cold with barely repressed fury.
“They made a big mistake, Joshua. They keep making them. This was their biggest and their last.”
“So let’s go start a war, friend.”
Chapter 13
The rain Riba had felt arrived with a vengeance. Far-off thunder continued, grumbling at a distance that rapidly closed in on Bolan and his companion. They heard it pounding the high cover of foliage, then the heavy downpour hit them. It was both a blessing and a hindrance. It covered their movements and drowned out any sound they might make; the reverse was the fact it did the same for the opposition. The enemy could move without being overheard, and visibility was reduced.
Mack Bolan felt at home in this environment. The discomfort from the rain was something he could tolerate. Even though he couldn’t understand his affinity for this kind of terrain, he gained a degree of comfort from his surroundings.
He felt a light touch on his shoulder.
Riba.
“We got company. Your five o’clock. Two of them. Well armed. Three yards out. They don’t see us.”
Bolan nodded. He stopped, crouching, and Riba followed suit. They let the pair move on.
“No contact yet,” one of them was relaying over his comm unit. “Yeah, we got that. Terminate on sight now...”
Riba leaned in close. “They must have spotted those two I dropped before I found you.”
“They chose the game plan,” Bolan said.
They allowed the hunters to move ahead before they slipped silently to the rear.
Riba hung the P90 around his neck by its strap, leaving his hands free. His final stride took him up to his target. He clamped a hand over the guy’s face, yanking his head back so the throat was pulled taut. Riba’s blade made its deadly pass, cutting deep. His prey made a wet gurgle of sound as he succumbed to the fatal slash.
The dead man’s partner was drawn to the noise. He turned, bringing up his weapon. That was all he managed before Bolan snaked an arm around his throat. The soldier’s other hand was placed, open palmed, against the guy’s skull, pushing forward to complete the lock. With his air supply cut off, the man began to struggle. All he did was use up what oxygen remained in his lungs.
Bolan arched back, lifting his adversary off his feet, adding more pressure to his choke hold. The guy’s struggles continued. There was no way he could free himself from Bolan’s grip. It was ended quickly.
The Executioner lowered the limp body to the ground. He retrieved one of the abandoned P90s and an extra magazine, tucking it behind his belt.
Both bodies were searched. They carried no ID. No cell phones. Their only communication link came from the comm units they wore.
“Who are these guys?” Riba asked. “Ex-military? Private security?”
“Right now,” Bolan said, “your guess is as good as mine. Whoever they are, they’re mixed up in a dirty deal.”
“No argument there.”
“It’s time we shut down this operation.” Bolan faced his partner. “What they’re working with is deadly material. It doesn’t have any favorites. Get exposed, there’s no turning back the clock.”
“My shaman told me I have a long lifeline. This is not my time.”
Bolan smiled. “Let’s hope he was reading from the right page, Joshua.”
“You must have faith. And anyhow, the shaman is my uncle. On my mother’s side. Would he not tell the truth to his favorite nephew?”
Bolan checked the P90.
“Let’s do this.”
* * *
THEY MADE THEIR WAY through the thick undergrowth, drenched by the rain and aware there were still members of Rackham’s team out looking for them. The forest floor underfoot was shedding water. It had absorbed as much as it was able. Now it pooled and created runoffs. Thunder was grumbling overhead. In the far distance the occasional flash of lightning illuminated the sky.
Bolan’s hand reached out to stop the P.I. He made a quick gesture, indicating moving shapes ahead: an armed pair of gunners in camou outfits, wielding automatic rifles. They were approaching from the opposite direction. They had come from the home base.
“I see them.”
Without a word Bolan pressed his upper body against the wide trunk of a tree, using it to steady his aim as he raised the P90. He slid the fire selector switch to semi-auto. Bolan’s finger eased back on the trigger, and he sent a tight two-shot burst at the closer man. The 5.7 mm slugs took the guy in the high chest, punching into his heart. The gunner toppled back without a sound.
His partner swiveled with surprising speed, opening up on full-auto, lacing Bolan’s area with heavy fire. The Executioner had dropped to a crouch the moment he fired, using the thick base of the tree as protection. The air was filled with eruptions of bark and raw wood as the long burst hammered the timber.
Riba had moved away from Bolan’s position, allowing him precious seconds to settle his own aim. He hit the shooter sideways on, and laid down a long burst that ripped into the guy’s body. He was kicked off his feet by the high-velocity impact of the slugs.
By the time Bolan and Riba reached the bodies, the heavy downpour had washed away most of the blood. They cleared weapons away from the men; the move wasn’t necessary, as they were both dead. It was purely a reflex action.
With the knowledge that additional teams were in pursuit, Bolan and Riba moved quickly, pushing their way through the increasingly dense forest. The terrain began a slight rise in elevation. Bolan recalled his flight from the base, the downslope that had allowed him to build up speed quickly.
Beside the Executioner, Joshua Riba moved at an effortless pace. The P.I. appeared to possess limitless energy, enabling him to match Bolan’s own dogged rate of travel. He focused on the way ahead, concentrating on the immediate task.
The crackle of autofire drowned out the rainfall. The air was filled with shredded greenery as slugs tore through.
Bolan crouched, seeking the source of the gunfire. Off to his side Riba made an angry sound and fell out of sight.
Bolan stared ahead, his eyes scanning the area, and spotted movement.
A man slipped into view, closely followed by a second.
They both wielded automatic weapons.
Riba’s going down seemed to encourage them, and they lost some caution as they hurried forward.
Bolan let them come, then caught them as they stepped into an open area, the muzzles of their weapons probing the air.
He let them advance so they were fully exposed.
Then he tracked in the P90 and hit them on full-auto.
The men jerked as the 5.7 mm slugs hit home, tearing into clothing and the flesh underneath. Bolan arced his weapon’s muzzle between the two, stitching them with a sustained burst. The pair turned and twisted as the slugs cored into them, tearing at flesh and spraying blood. There was no chance for them to retaliate. The pair tumbled to the ground, blood spurting as they fell. Bolan took a moment to replace the mostly spent magazine.
He turned to where Riba had fallen and saw the man kneeling on the sodden ground.
“Joshua? Were you hit?”
“Only in my wallet,” Riba said. “Another damned jacket ruined.”
He twisted his arm to show Bolan where a slug had sliced the sleeve of his leather jacket. His fingers were red with b
lood where the offending projectile had grazed his flesh.
“I thought it was serious,” Bolan said.
“You think this isn’t serious?” Riba grumbled. “Brother, I go through so many jackets in this business. Be cheaper to have my own herd of cows standing by.”
“At least it’s got you to practice ducking.”
Riba made a mumbled retort as he bent over the bodies and retrieved extra magazines for the P90s. He handed one to Bolan.
“Let’s move,” Riba said.
A heavy roll of thunder followed as they made their way up the slope. They were hammered by the rain. It had increased to torrential proportions now. It made spotting moving figures harder.
“There,” Bolan said, indicating the chain-link fence cutting through the landscape west to east of their line of travel.
“How did you get through?” Riba asked.
They were crouched in the tall grass, shadowed by trees. The metal fence looked unbroken despite having a substantial growth of creeping foliage curling around the links.
“I had an escort,” Bolan said. “They brought me in through the gate.”
“Easy way in.”
“It didn’t feel that way at the time.”
Bolan indicated the direction they needed to go.
It took them almost five minutes to reach the gate. Still concealed in the undergrowth, they studied the gate and the empty gatehouse set to one side. There were no signs of cameras mounted at the gates, or set farther inside the fence. Some fifty feet back from the entrance was the hazy outline of the facility’s main building. Dark and austere, it had the unmistakable look of a military installation.
“They’re not going to invite us in,” Riba said.
Bolan nodded in agreement. “Then we’ll have to invite ourselves, Joshua.”
He had picked up the sound of an approaching vehicle. Bolan tapped his partner on the shoulder. The P.I. glanced downslope and saw the dark bulk of an SUV. It slowed as it neared them. The gates were still open, as they had been when Bolan had made his break.
Crouching low, Bolan and Riba ducked inside the compound at the rear of the SUV as it rolled forward through the gates. Once they were inside the perimeter fence, they peeled away from the vehicle, left and right, flattening to the ground at the base of the fence. The SUV pulled away across the compound and stopped near the entrance to the facility. Three men climbed out. They moved to the main door and went inside the building. Bolan crawled to rejoin Riba. The encroaching foliage growing through the fence provided cover as they discussed their strategy.
“I need to locate Laura and get her out of this place. And find out exactly what Rackham and his crew are doing.”
“You want to split up?” Riba asked. “We can cover more ground.”
“Just remember this is a tough crew.”
Riba grinned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. And I want to get out of this damn rain.”
Chapter 14
Bolan ducked through the door, moving forward. The trio from the SUV, ahead of him, heard the sound of his entry and turned, expecting to recognize a familiar face rather than an enemy’s. By the time they realized their error, Bolan’s P90 was on its tracking sweep. He fired the second he gained his first target, the stuttering crackle of autofire loud inside the building.
Bolan arced the muzzle left to right, the 5.7 mm slugs pounding into flesh and fracturing bone. The engagement lasted seconds. The three men tumbled to the floor in a mist of blood, weapons spilling from their fingers. Still on the move, Bolan delivered final short bursts that ensured none of the men would be getting up again.
From his earlier incarceration, Bolan remembered where Rackham had kept him and Laura. He moved down the branch corridor. Partway along he picked up the slap of running feet behind him, raised voices as the downed trio was discovered. As he registered the sounds, Bolan was ejecting the partly used magazine and slotting in a fresh one. With the P90 loaded and cocked, he swung in close to the wall and dropped to a crouch.
A pair of shooters rushed into view, weapons up and ready. For a few seconds they saw only an empty corridor. They lost any chance to gain the advantage when they spotted Bolan crouched at the base of the wall. His finger was already easing onto the SMG’s trigger, the muzzle covering them. The FN cut loose, a stream of shell casings ejecting as the weapon fired.
Bolan caught a glimpse of the lead guy twisting to the side as the burst of slugs ripped at his throat and jaw. His scream of pain was cut off as the lower half of his face vanished in a welter of bloody flesh and shattered bone. His partner stumbled over him. The soldier caught the guy before he was able to recover and dealt him a long stream of slugs to his chest. The guy slumped against the wall, then slowly sagged to the floor.
The Executioner straightened, turning away from the dead and continuing along the corridor.
He was hoping he would locate Laura Devon in one of the rooms and not across the facility in the lab where the virus was being developed.
Bolan saw the door at the end of the corridor and recalled it was where he had been held. When he reached the first of the doors lining the corridor he raised a foot and kicked it open, stepping up close to check it out. Apart from a bed the room was clear. Bolan repeated the move on the next door with the same result.
He was turning away from the open door when he sensed a moving shape closing in on him.
Before he could react, a powerful backhand blow slammed across his cheek, knocking Bolan off his feet. He hit the floor, the P90 jarred from his hands. A large man hovered over him. One big hand caught hold of his shirt, dragging him upright. Bolan felt the SIG Sauer being yanked from his belt and cast aside.
“You won’t be needing that.”
Bolan recognized the voice even before he saw the face.
Cody.
“Good of you to come back,” the man said. “I still hurt from the whack you gave me with that shotgun. And Rackham wants you. He’s the boss and he said alive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you first. I owe you.”
Cody’s heavy fist cracked across Bolan’s jaw, spinning him back as his adversary let go of his shirt. He hit the wall and rebounded in Cody’s direction. In his dazed state Bolan still understood what was happening. Cody would simply toy with him until he decided he had extracted enough payback. If Bolan failed to gain the upper hand, Cody would beat him senseless before he delivered him to Rackham.
“You feeling the pain yet?” Cody asked. “You feeling the fucking pain?”
Bolan decided he wasn’t going to get into a war of words with the man. It would serve no purpose. He didn’t respond and saw the expression in Cody’s eyes change. Bolan’s objective was to get to where they had Devon. The way was blocked by Cody, and the soldier needed to focus on taking the guy down as quickly as possible.
Cody was big, with a powerful build. Solid. He was no lightweight, and that could work to Bolan’s advantage. Because of his sheer physical bulk, Cody wouldn’t be fast. And physically powerful didn’t mean invincible. There were parts of the body vulnerable on any man, large or small.
“Let’s go, Cooper, you mother. Beating you stupid is going to be a real pleasure.”
Bolan moved forward, feinting an attack, and as he closed in on Cody he watched the man’s response. He was able to avoid Cody’s massive fists as they swung left and right. Avoiding those large hands was a priority. Bolan ducked under the loose, slow swings. Before he stepped back, the Executioner launched a calculated kick that hammered in at Cody’s groin. The big man grunted in agony as the hard kick slammed against his testicles. No amount of muscle building was going to make that part of his anatomy invulnerable. Cody hunched over, cupping his injured testicles.
As Cody’s massive shoulders drooped, lowering his head, Bolan moved in again. He dropped his h
ands to the back of his opponent’s skull and pushed down hard. Before the man could take defensive action, Bolan’s right knee drove up in a brutal sweep, connecting with the man’s face. Cody howled in pain as Bolan’s knee smashed full into his face. The force shoved him upright, a glistening fan of blood and mucus streaming from his torn mouth and crushed nose.
Bolan launched a repeat kick that sank his booted foot into Cody’s groin again, delivered to maximize the pain. This time Cody let out a loud wail. He used the pain to push himself at his tormentor, no pretense of any style; he was simply a hurt man going for the source of his agony. His momentum carried him directly into Bolan’s path. The Executioner ducked low, hammering a clenched fist into Cody’s left side, over his ribs.
Despite the taut muscle, Bolan’s fist made a telling impact. As Cody stumbled past, Bolan slid to the floor, hooked his left foot around Cody’s ankle, then made a pile-driving kick with his right foot against the side of Cody’s knee. He heard a crunch as the joint collapsed, saw Cody’s leg bend at the joint. The man lost his balance and went down, and Bolan rolled, pushing up to straddle his adversary’s back, his arms coiling around his neck. Bolan levered hard, locking his grip around the thick neck to shut off the man’s air supply. Cody began to thrash about, trying to reach back and get a grip on Bolan, but his muscled arms were not as flexible and he couldn’t reach. Bolan snugged his head down against Cody’s, increasing the pressure and ignoring the discomfort from his own injuries. Cody’s struggles eventually ceased, his body becoming limp, and he dropped to the floor. When Bolan finally released his grip there was no further response from the man. He laid his fingers against the side of Cody’s neck. There was no pulse. He pushed to his feet, his body taut from the effort. He felt the sting from his aggravated hip wound and felt the warmth of blood oozing from beneath the plaster. The side of his face and jaw ached from Cody’s blows.
Bolan retrieved his weapons. He stepped through the door Cody had exited and negotiated the empty corridor. Doors to a number of the rooms were open. The soldier checked out each one. They were all empty. Midway along he saw that the door ahead was closed, the outer bolt in place. He slid the bolts back and swung the door wide, the P90 tracking into the room.
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