And on the fourth try, he found Toby Ranger.
She was naked to the waist, limbs bound with rope and tied in turn to a military cot that was bolted to the floor. McCarter noted angry welts across her stomach, ribs, and something churned inside him as he saw the stylus with its long extension cable lying on the floor beside her bed of pain. He crossed the room in four strides, knife out. He bent to slit her bonds when Toby snapped, "Look out!"
McCarter swiveled, his eyes resting on the figure of another Raven in the doorway. He was sighting down the barrel of an automatic pistol, and McCarter threw himself aside, at the same time holding down the Uzi's trigger as a single bullet slapped the wall above his head.
The blazing figure eight was dead on target, and he watched the Raven dance, an awkward little shuffle as the impact of a dozen parabellum rounds propelled him backward through the doorway and across the narrow corridor. His body slammed against the wall there, and the Raven clone was dead before he hit the floor. McCarter turned back to Toby, working at her bonds.
The rescue mission was accomplished, provided he could get her out alive while Katz and Bolan finished mopping up. Two Ravens down, at least one more to go, and he imagined sirens in the distance now, electric minivans converging on the slaughterhouse with riot squads inside.
"Come on, let's get you out of here."
He let the lady have his coat, and she retrieved the pseudo-Raven's fallen pistol as they passed his mutilated corpse. Together they started down in the direction of the killing ground.
* * *
Julio Ramirez double-checked the Browning automatic, set it on the desk in front of him and started stuffing extra magazines into the pockets of his overcoat.
"What are you doing?" Rylov's voice was angry, strained, and it revealed a trace of fear that made Ramirez smile.
"I'm getting out," he answered.
"But the others..."
"Will maintain their posts," he snapped, "and hold the enemy in place until authorities arrive."
"I see."
There was a hint of condemnation in the Russian's tone, but it was tempered with relief at the idea of getting out. Around them, bursts of automatic fire were rattling the walls.
"Where shall we go?"
Julio had been waiting for the question with its presumption that they would be going anywhere together.
"We aren't going anywhere," he told the Russian pointedly, his fingers wrapped around the Browning autoloader, raising it to target acquisition, level with Rylov's chest.
"You must be mad," the Russian stuttered, wild panic in his eyes.
"Perhaps."
"The KGB will hunt you down."
"I wish them luck."
The Russian tried to twist away, groping for the little automatic holstered in his jacket, but he did not possess the necessary speed to pull it off. Ramirez shot him twice, the bullets ripping through his throat and chest at almost point-blank range, their impact hurling Rylov backward, draping him across the arms of a reclining chair. A final tremor gripped him, jiggling his feet as if he had been cut down in the middle of a dance.
Ramirez dragged a satchel out from underneath his desk, acutely conscious of the gunfire drawing closer now. He spent a moment at the wall safe, fingers working the combination. The final click was like a gunshot in his ears, then he eased the door open. The currency of varied nations and mixed denominations went into his bag, a portable defense fund that he had secured against a moment such as this.
The others would be forced to look out for themselves. He thought about the woman briefly, wondering what she had to do with all of this, then put her out of mind once and for all. His life was finished here, but there were other lives, with new identities, and he was ready for a change. As for the rest — his doubles, Gerry Axelrod — it mattered little to him if they lived or died. Ramirez would be busy looking out for number one.
A dull explosion rocked the corridor outside, and shrapnel pattered on the walls. Ramirez crossed his study, threw the French doors open, risked a backward glance in time to see the door burst inward, slamming back against the wall. A scowling warrior shouldered through, his submachine gun rising, tracking on Ramirez as the Raven raised his pistol, squeezing off in rapid-fire.
No way to tell if he had nailed his target. The Raven bolted through the garden, vaulting across the picket fence instead of veering toward the gate and wasting precious seconds. He was sprinting as he reached the narrow downhill alleyway that would eventually lead him to the street and waiting minicab. The vehicle was slow, but it would outdistance anyone on foot. It would provide him with all the edge he needed for his getaway.
The dawn reached out for him with golden fingers as he ran, retreating shadows always one long stride ahead of him. Ramirez wished that it was darker, that he had the safety of the night, but experience had taught him that the warrior cannot always choose his time or place.
The Raven's time was now. His place, well, that still remained to be decided, and the sound of running footsteps in the alleyway behind him told Ramirez he would have to make the choice while time and opportunity remained, before his enemies preempted the decision and destroyed him in the process.
And before he reached the minicab, he knew precisely where to lead the hounds, a place where he could isolate his enemy, destroy him piecemeal.
It was perfect.
It was Gornergrat.
* * *
Bolan ditched the submachine gun's empty magazine and fed a new one into the receiver on the run. He hesitated at the tall French doors, alert to any indication of an ambush on the other side, and finally chanced it, diving through and landing prostrate on the flagstone patio. No target for the MP-5, and he was on his feet again before he came to rest, intuitively following his quarry downslope, toward the narrow alleyway in back.
Ramirez would have crossed the garden here, fullspeed, frightened by the near miss in the study and intent on putting ground between them now. There might be other hiding places nearby, and Bolan knew that he would have to overtake his prey before the Raven lost him.
If he allowed Ramirez to escape, when they had come this close, his quarry would evaporate like mist before the sun. Once he had fled the Swiss resort, where could Bolan ever hope to find him? How could the outstanding blood debt ever be repaid?
It had to be today — or never.
He reached the alley, risked a glance around the corner, caught a glimpse of Julio Ramirez running with the sun against his back. Too far for sniping with the MP-5, but he was still in sight, and that meant Bolan had a chance. He pounded downslope, letting gravity assist him in the chase. The momentum swept him past houses where the gentle people of Zermatt were waking to a bloody dawn, with gunfire ringing in the street. Past blooming window boxes, some with crimson flowers that reminded him of bloodstains spattered on the rustic walls. Past sleepy generations who had taken pride in their neutrality, and found it tested now through no fault of their own.
Downrange, Ramirez almost lost it on a corner, sliding on the dew-slick pavement, nearly going down on hands and knees before he finally recovered, disappeared from view. Still thirty yards to go, and Bolan heard a door slam, followed by the revving engine of a minibus. Spurred on by sudden dread, he tapped the energy reserves that lie in wait for desperate emergencies, ignoring caution now and sprinting furiously toward the open street.
A vehicle would mean that he was being left behind, the odds against him leaping astronomically.
He took the corner blind and skidded on the pavement where his prey had stumbled, going down on one knee painfully. His chest was heaving, lungs on fire, his throbbing pulse a bludgeon hammering the brain. As Bolan scrambled to his feet he spied the minibus, already fifty feet away and accelerating out of range. He chased it with a burst of automatic fire, rewarded by the slap of parabellum rounds on Plexiglas, and then the rig was meandering from curb to curb, Ramirez brandishing a fist with middle finger hoisted as he pulled away.
&nb
sp; The Executioner began to chase him, long legs eating up the pavement, altitude and angle of descent conspiring now to undermine his footing, bring him down. He could not hope to catch the minibus, any more than he could let it go while life remained. The soldier knew that he would run until he dropped, until the men in uniform surrounded him and dropped him with a volley of their own.
From nowhere, looming up on Bolan's flank and bleating at him with its tinny horn, another minibus appeared. It swung around to pass, the driver grinning broadly, having fun with Bolan till he saw the automatic weapon in the sprinter's hand. The wheelman did a rapid double-take, and he was starting to accelerate when Bolan caught the running board. He thrust one arm through the driver's open window, latching on to the window post. He jammed the MP-5 against the driver's neck and barked at him to pull it over.
When they were snug against the curb, he dragged the driver clear and took his place behind the wheel, MP-5 wedged in beside him. Bolan gunned the minibus, its small electric engine winding through the gears until its whine achieved the volume of a dentist's drill. Ahead of him, the Raven's vehicle was nothing but a speck in motion, fleeing from the dawn. Wherever they were going, Bolan knew that they would be there soon. They would be running out of road and out of city in another quarter mile or less.
As he was running out of options, out of time.
If both survived the breakneck chase, there would be one more chance to pay his debt of blood. Whoever walked away would bear the mark of the survivor in a game where there could be no other laurels.
But survivors were not necessarily the same as winners, Bolan knew.
Beyond a certain point, there could be only losers, recognizable by the degree of damage they sustained while clinging to the tattered thread of dignity. Survivors were the ones who lost the least part of themselves. The ones who walked away.
Whatever happened, Bolan wasn't counting on a walk. He would be satisfied to take the Raven with him when he went, to know that every vicious tentacle was severed, left to wither in the dust.
Survival would be gravy on the side, a little something extra at the feast of death.
Still hungry, Bolan stood on the accelerator, both eyes fixed upon his prey.
Survival was a luxury he might not be able to afford.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Julio Ramirez swung his minivan against the curb outside the railway station in Zermatt and left the engine running as he vaulted clear. He dashed across the outer platform and hit the swinging doors without a backward glance. He had no doubt that his pursuer would acquire some means to trail him here; in fact, the Raven had been counting on it. It would not be enough, this time, to temporarily lose the tail. If he was to escape successfully and begin his life anew, the track must terminate at Gornergrat. No witnesses must be allowed to live, to point the way for other hunters to resume the chase.
And Gornergrat was perfect for his needs.
The isolation would provide him with an opportunity to do his work in peace, to play out the drama's final moments without an audience. The peaks and glaciers would protect his secret through eternity.
The railway station would not open for another ninety minutes, but Ramirez could not afford to wait. He needed transport now, and he was banking on the fact that some employees would be scheduled for the early shift, to get the terminal and trains ready for the day to come. He only needed one such early bird, but he would have to search one out, and time was slipping rapidly away.
He wasted several seconds on perusal of a timetable mounted on the wall. The run to Gornergrat took forty-three minutes, including three intermediate stops — at Riffelalp and Riffelberg, at Findelnbach. Elimination of the other stops would shave at least eight minutes off the run, provided he could find an engineer who knew his business and would push the train on the upgrade.
Footsteps ringing in the empty terminal, he went in search of someone who might fulfill his needs... and found him, emerging from a tiny office tucked away behind the empty cashier's cage. The man was middleaged and dressed in a conductor's uniform. He frowned at the sight of Julio Ramirez, glancing at his watch to verify that it was not yet six o'clock.
Ramirez did not give the man a chance to speak.
"The train to Gornergrat," he said in textbook German, glancing past the older man in the direction of the platform.
The conductor shook his head and pointed to a large clock mounted on the wall beside the schedule of arrivals and departures.
"Tours begin at seven," he explained, as if interpreting the mysteries of nature for an idiot. "You're early, mein Herr."
"Do you know how to operate the train?"
It caught the older man off guard. He hesitated for a moment, finally puffed his chest out with Teutonic pride and smiled. "Of course."
"All right, let's go."
Confusion took the place of smug self-satisfaction. "Vas?"
Ramirez slipped the Browning automatic from his pocket, shoved it in the old man's face, the muzzle cold against his cheek.
"Right now," he grated. "Raus!"
The conductor led him across the platform to the waiting train. The power had already been turned on, facilitating tests and servicing in preparation for the hourly runs, but they were all alone as they approached the lead car with its glass-walled driver's booth. The old man found a key among the two score on his jangling belt ring, opened up the booth and slipped inside. Behind him, Julio Ramirez blocked the door from closing with his body, automatic trained upon his hostage as he scanned the platform for a sign of his pursuer.
Soon now. He could feel them close at hand.
The car began to tremble, inching forward, and Ramirez jammed his pistol tight against the old man's neck.
"Not yet," he snapped. "We're waiting for a passenger."
* * *
Mack Bolan spied the Raven's minivan and swung his own vehicle hard to the left, bracing himself for impact with the curb. Momentum carried him across with only minor damage to the undercarriage, and he coasted to the entrance of the terminal. The MP-5 was in his hand as he dismounted, scanning for his quarry, watching for any sign of ambush.
It was an hour or more before the trains were scheduled to begin their morning runs, but Bolan found the entryway unlocked. He entered in a crouch, prepared to answer any hostile fire. The Raven might be able to obtain an engineer at gunpoint, Bolan reasoned, but there hadn't been sufficient time for the terrorist to get away. Not yet. His prey was somewhere in the terminal, or on the loading platform just outside, and Bolan meant to run him down before he had the chance to commandeer a train for Tasch.
It never entered Bolan's mind that Ramirez would run for higher ground, away from the security of town and crowds — until the train began to move. A glance was all it took to brief the Executioner on his mistake, and in a flash he saw the Raven slipping through his fingers.
Unless he found a way to board the train.
A short dash through the exit, out along the platform, and the train was creaking forward. He caught a glimpse of Julio Ramirez in the lead car with the engineer, cold eyes regarding Bolan through distorting glass. The train was gathering momentum and his legs were failing; there was no way he could catch the lead car now. As Bolan faltered, broke his stride, a second car slid past him, and a third.
It would be now or never, with the fourth car bearing down on him. He leaped and caught the steel rungs of a ladder that was welded to the outer bulkhead midway down. His toes dragged on the concrete platform for a moment, but the soldier's grip was solid and he found a foothold on the ladder. Then the platform fell away behind him, trees and shrubbery sprouting up in place of man-made structures.
Bolan swung the muzzle of his MP-5 against the window on his right, but it rebounded from the safety glass. Again, and no result. His fingers were already aching from the cold, the strain, when Bolan held the submachine gun up against the window, turned his face away and held the trigger down. The glass shattered on impact, and he
swept the stubby weapon's silencer along the windowsill, removing jagged shards of glass. When it was clear, he hooked a leg across the sill and pulled himself inside, aware that any fumble now would drop him to the tracks and suck him underneath the grinding wheels.
He fed the MP-5 its last magazine, then paused to regain his bearings. He was in the last car on the train, with two more empties between Ramirez and himself. The cars were coupled to allow for access in between, but Bolan took his time about advancing through the train. The Raven had a hostage, and he would not hesitate to kill his captive if Bolan came too close. Their destination was unclear to Bolan, but he recognized the fact that Ramirez had been waiting for him, killing time until he had arrived.
The guy was looking for a showdown, but in a place and time of his selection, with the odds presumably arranged on his behalf. It was too late for Bolan to divert their course; he could do little more than stick around, hoping for a chance to drop Ramirez.
Behind them, in Zermatt, the men of Phoenix would be mopping up — or would have been mopped up themselves. He put them out of mind, aware that there was nothing he could do to help them now. A vision of Toby Ranger came to Bolan's mind, and he pushed it brutally away. If she was still alive, she would be safe with Katzenelenbogen and McCarter. If the cavalry had come too late, then Bolan held her vengeance in his hands.
He crossed between two cars, encroaching on the third, Ramirez visible in silhouette before him now. He could not risk a shot with the hostage standing rigid just behind his target. Any rounds he wasted now might well be missed when they reached their destination, and Bolan swallowed the frustration welling up inside.
Flight 741 Page 29