Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  "I will not trouble you again," the Raven said, surprising her, and Toby felt her hopes collapse. "There will of course be others. Very soon. Perhaps you will be more communicative then."

  He was already at the door, and Toby saw her last chance slipping through her fingers.

  "You bastard! Can't you even take care of the dirty work yourself? You're scum!"

  The door clicked shut behind him, locking automatically, and Toby felt like weeping as she heard his footsteps fade away. When he returned — when they returned — the rough interrogation would begin in earnest, and her final hope of cheating fate had slipped away beyond recall.

  There will of course be others. Very soon.

  She couldn't stem the tears, the sobs that racked her frame. She was alone, condemned to live through hell on earth, and no one in the world had any clue to where she was, precisely what had happened. She was finished, and her greatest fear was that the Raven's turkey doctors would be proficient at their butcher's trade, that she would be condemned to live until they satisfied themselves that she was holding nothing back.

  The lady cherished life, and dreaded it. She prayed for death — and, failing that, for madness. Pinned beneath the cold, unblinking light, she waited for the darkness that was coming, struggled to convince herself that it could not be far away.

  * * *

  "I've got the bastard."

  Dave McCarter's smile was brilliant in the darkness, fired with personal enthusiasm for the swift approach of combat. He was looking forward to their contact with the enemy, but Bolan had no time for guessing games.

  "Ramirez?"

  "Correct. Throw in a couple of his clones... and Gerry bleeding Axelrod."

  "Goddammit!"

  Bolan saw it all before the Phoenix warrior had a chance to spell it out in detail. Toby would have spotted Axelrod while she was shopping, would have tailed him instead of running for a telephone and risking disengagement. Somehow, Axelrod or one of his compatriots had tumbled to the tail, and they had taken her.

  McCarter's hasty narrative confirmed as much. The Georgian's playmate, Billy French, had spilled his guts before McCarter spilled his blood. They had taken Toby to the Raven's hideaway, and Billy had revealed the address in a vain attempt to save himself.

  "How long?"

  "He made it close to seven-thirty."

  "Damn! We'll have to case the house," he said.

  "Wait, there's more," McCarter said.

  "Like what?"

  The Briton's smile was broadening. "The bugger's got a Russian tucked away up there. Billy reckoned he was KGB."

  "Ramirez's control?"

  "I'd say."

  "How many guns in residence?"

  "Billy wasn't sure. There's Axelrod, Ramirez and at least a couple of his clones, some housemen. Anywhere from six on upward to a dozen."

  Shaky odds and weak intelligence, but it was all they had, and Bolan knew that they would get no closer look before they crashed the Raven's hideaway. Some reconnaissance might offer them an opportunity for verifying numbers, a chance to check the layout prior to barging in and firing blind, but for the most part, Dave McCarter had supplied them with the information they would have to move on, if they moved at all.

  And there was never any doubt in Bolan's mind. They had to move, as Toby's life depended on it. He was closer now than he had been at any time since disembarking from the 747 in Beirut, and if he let the opportunity slip past, it might not come again.

  "If we can pen them up inside, we've got a chance," Bolan said.

  The gruff Israeli shifted nervously and scuffed his boots against the cobblestones. "And if they bolt..."

  "We might not ever run them down," McCarter finished for him, glumly.

  "Okay. We do it right the first time, then. No one comes out of there alive."

  Bolan realized the implications of his words. If Toby was alive, he would do his best to bring her out intact. But for the moment, Bolan forced himself to face the worst.

  "Let's check it out."

  McCarter led them through a twisting labyrinth of narrow streets, with Katzenelenbogen at his side and Bolan bringing up the rear. Away from streetlights and the night-lights of the shops, oppressive darkness settled around them, cloaking Bolan's spirit like a pall of fear. He was afraid to look inside the Raven's lair, to find what might be left of Toby — and to find what might be still remaining of himself. He had a debt to settle here — two debts, in fact — and Bolan wondered if he had the wherewithal to stand his ground and make it stick. The several Ravens had humiliated him in Lebanon, in Canada, had taken Toby Ranger hostage in Switzerland. So far, the opposition team was running far ahead, and Bolan was no longer sure if he possessed the drive, the stamina, to overtake his enemies.

  It was an unfamiliar feeling, this uncertainty, and Bolan realized that he must beat it now. A warrior burdened with uncertainty and doubt was beaten long before he took the field. Self-pity followed after, yet another signpost on the road to suicide.

  The Executioner would need his faculties this night, unburdened by the excess baggage of emotion. Any motivation he required would amply be provided by his rage, the righteous fury of a warrior fighting for a cause — and for his loved ones, right.

  Knowing that the odds were long against him — even longer against the lady — Bolan still could not turn back. He owed the Raven hell on earth, and more. He was prepared to pay that debt tonight, and with his own life's blood, if necessary.

  But there would be blood enough to go around, before they finished in Zermatt. The blood of Ravens and survivalists, of Russians far from home. Maybe the blood of Phoenix warriors, and a lady who had opted for the hellgrounds over hearth and home.

  And, possibly, the blood of one bold Executioner.

  Committed to the struggle, Bolan's road lay straight ahead, directly through the fire, and there was simply no way he could turn aside while life remained. His duty called him to confront the savages, and he was ready for the battle to be joined.

  Tonight.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The cold settled into Bolan's joints and stiffened them until he felt more like a living statue than a man. His feet were numb, but he could not afford to shift position, run the risk of letting sentries spot him now. He had been waiting for the best part of an hour, letting Katz and McCarter find their own positions, chafing at the unavoidable delay. Alone, he might have stormed the Raven's hideaway at once, without the necessary preparation.

  Soon, he counseled himself. Whatever had befallen Toby Ranger, he would know the worst of it within another hour.

  The Phoenix men should be in place by now, he thought, and double-checked his watch. Another minute, and he cursed beneath his breath, the cold gnawing at his bones. He flexed his hands inside the leather driving gloves, intent on keeping fingers nimble for the task ahead. If anything should fail, it must not be the hands. Not yet, until their job was finally done.

  Beneath the greatcoat, Bolan was in blacksuit, with the VP-70 in clip-on leather at his waist, positioned for a cross-hand draw. The pockets of his skinsuit had been weighted down with extra magazines for both the pistol and the larger weapon Bolan clutched against his chest.

  The submachine gun was an H&K MP-5 SD-3, a favorite among West German military personnel and law-enforcement officers. Chambered in 9 mm parabellum, it came equipped with a modular muffler-type silencer. More accurate than most submachine guns because it fired from a closed bolt, employing a hammer notch, the MP-5 possessed a cyclic rate of some 800 rounds per minute.

  At the moment, the initial magazine and Bolan's spares were loaded up with Glaser safety slugs, essentially designed to maximize ballistic stopping power while eliminating any risk of ricochet or wounded passersby. The slugs consisted of a birdshot charge, suspended in liquid Teflon, which would literally detonate in human flesh. The bullets would not penetrate a wall or pierce a human body, but their impact on a living target was horrendous. If the wound was not imme
diately fatal due to hemorrhage or tissue damage, there was still another deadly twist in store, as the internal residue of Teflon worked its way by slow degrees along the venous system, homing on the heart, to foul its valves and bring about a massive cardiac arrest.

  The soldier checked his watch again and cursed the time. He would allow them thirty seconds more to take position, as agreed, before he made his move. Already, he could sense the gray dawn creeping up behind the mountains at his back. He needed darkness to begin his work, and it was fading fast.

  There was a reason, Bolan knew, for timing military raids to coincide with dawn. It was a matter of biology, a simple fact of life that Homo sapiens responded to the coming sunrise with a metabolic charge that dulled the nerves and slowed instinctive reflex action. In military terms, you struck at dawn because the sentries were most likely to be sluggish, dozing at their posts, the night behind them and its dangers out of mind. It was the perfect hour to surprise an enemy and kill him in his bed.

  Except that Julio Ramirez and his household had not been to bed this night. There had been lights on in the sumptuous chalet since Bolan and the Phoenix warriors started checking out the grounds. Whatever might have cost the Raven sleep, his would-be Executioner could only hope that it would have him dragging now, his normal swift reactions dulled by time and false security.

  The thirty seconds had elapsed, and Bolan straightened slowly, giving stiffened joints a chance to crack and yield without producing muscle cramps. He stepped across a knee-high rustic fence, designed for decoration rather than security, and closed in on the west side of the Raven's roost. As Bolan moved, he eased the safety off the MP-5 and set the fire-selector switch to automatic mode.

  Beyond his line of sight the others would be closing now, their weapons primed and ready. Three against as many as a dozen, with their only edge supplied by the advantage of surprise.

  The Executioner meant to take as many of the bastards with him as he could, before they cut him down.

  The Executioner was going in for blood, and at the moment, it mattered little to him if the blood should be his own.

  * * *

  "Shall we begin?"

  Still groggy from the sleep that had surprised her, she had mistaken her interrogator for Ramirez. They resembled each other, Toby thought, but when her mind had cleared, she realized the physical resemblance was no better than approximate.

  The new man had the Raven's hair, his dark complexion, stature... but there was a subtle difference that she could not define precisely. Something in his attitude, his mannerisms, even in his voice. There was a cruelty apparent in the younger man that Julio. Ramirez had, perhaps, concealed from her. This one was cold and dark inside, impervious to flattery or insult.

  "Shall we begin?" he asked again, and Toby's flesh began to crawl.

  There was no room to maneuver on the cot. Bolted to the floor, it could not be upset or overturned. Her ankles were hobbled to the frame and her hands secured behind her back, so she could do little more than cringe against the cold, unyielding wall as he approached, setting down a leather doctor's bag between his feet.

  "I am required to ask you certain questions," he informed her. "If you respond, all will be well. If you refuse... I am instructed to encourage you with every means at my disposal."

  Toby had no doubt that he possessed considerable means, but she said nothing, feeling vulnerable as he loomed above her prostrate form.

  "We must begin," he said, and smiled, reminding Toby of a hungry reptile. "Who is your employer?"

  "I'm free-lance, self-employed."

  "As what?"

  "As a companion," she retorted. "Hey, why don't you save yourself some time and ask your buddy, Axelrod?"

  "In time." The lizard smile was back. "With whom are you employed?"

  "I told you..."

  She expected him to strike, and flinched at his approach. But he surprised her. Fingers tangled in the neckline of her blouse, dug deeper, snared her bra as well and ripped the fabric down, denuding her. He finished swiftly, stripping tattered sleeves and cuffs, discarding shreds of fabric on the floor.

  The air was cold against her flesh, and Toby tried to hide herself as best she could by burrowing into the fabric of the cot, but it was hopeless. Her interrogator seized a handful of her hair and wrenched her around, her shoulders flattened out against the canvas. She cursed at him and spit directly in his face, but he responded calmly, reaching out to seize a nipple, twisting savagely until her spine arched, her lungs on fire from screaming.

  "We must really try to be more civilized," he told her when the echo of her cries had died away. "You are employed by whom?"

  She did not answer this time, concentrating on the pain to come.

  "Ah, well."

  His hands were busy digging through the doctor's bag, producing soft metallic clinks as different instruments were jostled, pushed aside. When her interrogator straightened up again, he held an extension cord and what appeared to be the stylus for a wood-burning set. She watched him as he found a socket in the wall, plugged in the cord and reeled it back in the direction of the cot.

  "The simple means are best, I think. Don't you agree?"

  She couldn't force herself to answer him. It felt as if a mouse had crawled inside her throat and died there, choking off all sound.

  He tested the device against a callus in his palm and winced, the grimace instantly supplanted by a beatific smile. He knelt beside the cot, and Toby watched the stylus, wide-eyed, as he brought it nearer... finally pressed its tip against the canvas fabric of the cot. She smelled the fabric scorching, saw a tiny curl of smoke escape from underneath the branding iron.

  "Ah, now... as you were saying?"

  Toby mustered all her strength to keep a tremor from her voice. "Go straight to hell."

  "Of course."

  Stylus poised, she could feel the heat against her skin, the fingers spider-walking now across one breast as he decided on a point of contact, and she braced herself, determined not to scream until the pain became unbearable. With any luck, she might hold out for several minutes, might lose consciousness before she could begin to spill her guts.

  Somewhere a sudden burst of gunfire cut the cemetery silence of the house. A voice started braying orders, barking sharp commands in Spanish and in German. Other weapons joined the free-for-all, and Toby cracked her eyelids, found her dark inquisitor distracted by the new commotion. He was frozen for a moment, listening, and then he rose to stand behind the cot.

  "I will return for you," he said — and dropped the stylus on her naked stomach.

  Toby gasped and twisted frantically to shake it off, her flesh already blistered from the fleeting contact. As she wriggled free, the stylus rolled between her body and the cot, pinned down beneath her as she thrashed from side to side. She caught the stylus with an elbow, burned herself again before it finally clattered to the floor.

  Across the room, she heard the door close softly, locking automatically — and she was alone. The sound of gunfire meant salvation, she was sure, but she fought the optimism down, refusing to believe until she had some solid evidence.

  The cavalry might save her, but then again, it just might get her killed.

  At best, she had received a respite from interrogation, and for now, she thought, the respite would be miracle enough.

  * * *

  McCarter cleared the sliding windows with a high-low burst of automatic fire and followed through, his Uzi stuttering in answer to the challenge of defending guns. He hit a flying shoulder roll and came up on his knees behind a sofa, clinging to the marginal security that it provided, popping up to hostile fire at one point or another, keeping on the move.

  Their strike had been precision-timed, but they were bogging down already as the occupants of the chalet reacted swiftly and professionally, hosing automatic fire at windows, doors. There should have been no more than ten or twelve in residence — and he had dropped one coming in — but it was difficult to
calculate from the converging fire that scattered stuffing from the sofa, whistling just above his head.

  They wouldn't have much time, McCarter knew, before police responded to reports of gunfire. If his team meant to make a kill, they would have to do it soon, and no mistake.

  McCarter fished inside the pocket of his overcoat and came out with an MU 50-G grenade. The plastic egg was filled with fifty grams of high explosive and another eighty grams of shrapnel. With a five-yard killing radius, it was the perfect tool for clearing out a roomful of the opposition in a hurry and McCarter was most definitely in a hurry now.

  He risked a peek around the corner of the sofa, drawing fire, and marked the hostile guns for future reference. A pair of them were crouching on the staircase, firing between the banister supports, and number three was hunkered down beside a china cabinet, attempting to triangulate their fire. It would be risky, but they would kill him if he lingered where he was.

  He yanked the MU 50's pin and let the grenade fly. Thunder rocked the parlor, bringing down a rain of plaster on his head.

  McCarter bolted out of cover, tracking with the Uzi, seeking targets. On the stairs, his opposition was a tangled mass of arms and legs, their weapons silenced by a near-direct hit with MU 50-G. Across the room, their shaken backup was emerging from his hole, astounded by the damage and recovering too slowly to save himself. McCarter stitched him with the Uzi, bounced him off the china cabinet, shattered glassware raining down around him as he fell.

  Sporadic gunfire erupted from the kitchen now, where Katz had engaged the enemy. McCarter thought of coming in behind them to help the Israeli mop it up, but decided that he didn't have the time to spare. He hit the staircase running, hurdling the risers and the twisted bodies, pausing long enough to recognize the shattered profile of a Raven clone. The bastard had a bandage plastered to his cheek, but no amount of bandaging could help him now.

  McCarter fed the Uzi with a second magazine, then moved along the corridor, alert to any sound behind the several doors he passed en route. He kicked them each in turn, the submachine gun probing out ahead of him to meet the challenge when it came, and each new room yawned back at him, deserted. Below, the heavy metal thunder was continuing, and he was anxious to regroup with Katz and Bolan, join the melee while some fight remained in their opponents... but he had a job to do.