Nightmare Army

by Don Pendleton

  “Not kill. I’m taking him on behalf of the American and European governments—or I was, until all this happened. You, however, don’t exactly look—or fight—like a prostitute. Who are you really?”

  “Dina Finigian, Armenian police. I was on the inside, working undercover, which you blew wide open, thank you very much.”

  “The Department of Justice and the FBI had no intel on anyone inside Sevan’s organization,” Bolan replied.

  “That’s because it was on a need-to-know-basis, and we felt you Americans didn’t need to know,” she retorted. “After all, you certainly haven’t given much attention to other crimes in our country or the surrounding region.”

  “That you know of,” Bolan countered. He was pretty familiar with this region of the world, having battled organized crime and terrorists from this area more than once. “Besides, if you don’t tell other police forces, they can’t really be blamed for not knowing, now, can they? Look, there’ll be plenty of blame to pass around later. Right now we all need to get out of here. Does your car run?”

  She turned the key and it started, but when she shifted it into gear, the car didn’t move. “Something’s wrong with the transmission, it’s going nowhere.”

  “This day is just getting better and better,” Bolan said. “Are you hurt?”

  “I was bitten by one of those—things—earlier today, but I’m okay so far. I can walk. Aram!” She turned to the boy, who had watched the whole exchange without saying a word, and checked him over. “He’s fine. We need to find transportation and get out of the village as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah, not to mention the other four in my car.” Bolan nodded at the Peugeot and heard a low whistle from it. “Come on, let’s get under cover until we can figure out a plan. Let me grab him—” He reached for Aram, who shrank away from his hands.

  “No, I’ll take him.” Gathering the boy in her arms, she pulled him out of the car and hobbled over with Bolan to the wrecked Peugeot, where the other four were huddled behind it.

  “What’s happening?” Bolan whispered as he rejoined them.

  “Couple of crazies at the far end of the street,” Alcaster whispered back. “I don’t think they’ve seen us yet.”

  A low scream sounded, rising to a high screech. “On second thought...” Scott began.

  “Fire, now!” Bolan ordered.

  The two students lit their Molotov cocktails and heaved them over the car. The bottles burst in a whoosh of flames.

  “Everyone else, follow us!” As he said this, Bolan scanned around for other villagers and, sure enough, saw a couple round the corner of the hotel, followed by several more. As soon as they saw the group of people down the street, they all broke into a run.

  “Gary, a bottle over here!” Bolan said. Alcaster lit another one and hurled it as hard as he could down the street. The flaming missile exploded only a few steps from the vanguard of the pack, and he couldn’t slow down or change course in time to not run through it. Fire caught at his boots, making him run faster, which only fanned the flames on his body, until he was busy slapping out the conflagration even as he moved forward. Several people behind him were able to avoid the patch of flames and kept running relentlessly toward them.

  Bolan and the others were already moving by this point, away from both the hotel and the direction Dina Finigian had come from. “Head for the wall!” Bolan shouted, pausing just long enough to grab Sevan by his shirt collar and haul him forward. “We might have to climb over and make our way on foot.”

  “I don’t advise that as an escape route, Striker,” Kurtzman said in his ear. “In fact, I suggest that you do not approach the walls under any circumstances.”

  “Why not? Have they made it outside?” Bolan asked.

  “No, but we’ve got a visual on armed teams that have been setting what appear to be timed incendiary devices along buildings,” the Stony Man computer genius replied. “It looks like they’re going to burn the entire place to the ground. No doubt they will repel anyone trying to leave with lethal force.”

  “Damn!” Bolan swore. “That must be the team that introduced the pathogen in the first place. Track them and make sure you don’t lose them! I need to know everything about them we can.”

  “Already on it,” Kurtzman said. “They won’t be able to fart without us knowing what they had for lunch. What are you going to do?”

  “Get wheels, first and foremost.” Bolan veered left at the first intersection they came to, heading deeper into the village.

  “Where are you going?” Siranush asked. “The nearest wall is that way.” She pointed in the direction they had been heading.

  “Change of plans.” Still trotting along, Bolan informed them of what he’d just heard.

  “But that—that’s monstrous!” Finigian exclaimed. “Surely there are other people here who may be uninfected! They’ll need help, too!”

  “You’re right, but how do you propose evacuating them?” Bolan asked. “Between the psychotic villagers roaming the streets and the armed men on the walls, we can’t help them, not without risking ourselves. And we have to make it out of here to tell people what we’ve seen. A lot of these houses are made of stone. Hopefully anyone who’s taken shelter is in one of those. They should be safe enough from the fire to survive.”

  “That’s just as heartless—” Finigian began.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell all of you,” Sevan said.

  “But he’s right.” The policewoman shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just said. “Everyone I’ve seen except for you people has been affected by whatever is here. Searching for others will be dangerous, and most likely fruitless. We need to go now.”

  “We’re going to need a sturdy vehicle to get out of here...” Bolan sniffed the air. “What is that smell?”

  Finigian lifted her nose into the air, as well. “We must be near the waste collection depot. USAID distributed garbage trucks across Armenia in 2008. This village probably received one.”

  “That could work,” Bolan said. “Let’s find it.”

  They followed their noses to where the smell was coming from—a squat, cinder-block building that took up half a village block, with the other half encircled by a chain-link fence. On the inside was what Bolan was looking for: a dirty, dingy but relatively new garbage truck, painted red and blue. And even better, it still had a large, dirty green metal bin on the front hoist.

  “This should take us where we need to go,” Bolan said. “All right, Gary, William, let’s get inside, get that thing started and get the hell out of here! The back should provide enough protection for everyone in case we’re shot at.”

  He handed Finigian the pistol. “Since you’re carrying the boy, please watch Sevan until we get back out here, okay?”

  Setting the child down, she took the revolver and aimed it at the mobster, who stared at her in disbelief. “You’re seriously leaving her in charge of me?”

  Bolan had already begun climbing the fence. He glanced back at them. “Yeah. She’ll just kneecap you if you try to run, and we’ll leave you for the villagers.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Finigian said, her grip on the pistol rock-steady.

  Sevan’s face paled and he looked around nervously. “Well, hurry up and get the truck out here already!”

  By the time he was finished speaking, Bolan had hit the top, swung over and landed on the ground inside the fence. Alcaster and Scott were right behind him, leaving Sevan, Siranush, Finigian and Aram still outside.

  “Normally, I’d be concerned about leaving this still working for the village after we’re done—” Bolan grabbed a piece of thick steel rod from the ground as he climbed up on the step to the driver’s door and tried it, only to find it locked “But since that probably won’t be an issue...” Holding the r
od so a couple inches jutted from the bottom of his hand, he drove it into the safety window. It starred under the first blow and shattered on the second.

  Bolan swept the glass pebbles off the seat and checked the glove compartment and visor for a key, finding it as it fell into his lap. He unlocked the passenger door and started the vehicle as the two men began to climb in. “No, you guys are going into the back.”

  “Why?” Scott asked.

  “Because the men on the wall are probably going to be shooting at the cab, and I don’t want any of you getting hit.” Bolan maneuvered the rear door controls, and listened as the back door began rising. “Get in there so you can help the others when we pick them up. Signal me on the wall when you’re both inside.”

  The two men headed to the back of the truck and once Bolan heard the signal, he put the truck in gear and headed straight for the gate, managing to get it up to about thirty kilometers per hour before hitting the wooden-slatted, metal-framed gate.

  Even going that slow, it was no contest. The heavy sanitation vehicle smashed the gate wide open and sent it spinning off its hinges. Bolan pulled to a stop outside and watched in the side-view mirror as the others climbed into the back. He heard two thumps on the back wall, and was about to pull out when the passenger door opened.

  Bolan turned, ready to repel boarders, but stopped when he saw Finigian climb in. “You know the cab is going to attract the most fire, right?” Behind her, he saw the first of the crazies appear at the end of the street and quickly got the truck moving again.

  “I know. That’s why I’m here!” she replied. “You can’t drive and shoot effectively at the same time.”

  Bolan locked the doors again. “That popgun doesn’t have the range to reach anyone!”

  “Maybe not, but they won’t know that—gunfire is gunfire. If this makes them duck their heads for even a few seconds, it’ll be worth it!”

  “Okay. Hang on and keep your head down,” Bolan said as he downshifted.

  “Turn right at the next intersection,” Finigian said. “There’s a side street you can take that’s flanked by buildings. Follow it to the end and you’ll practically be right in front of the gate.”

  “Great,” Bolan replied as he cranked the wheel. “Hopefully we’ll have enough power to smash through the gate without breaking anything vital.”

  “I’d think that—” the policewoman pointed at the metal bin, which blocked the top half of the windshield “—should do the job.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” Bolan shifted into fourth gear and put the gas pedal down, feeling the truck lumber forward on the stone streets toward freedom.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “They’re heading for you right now.”

  Firke spoke into his headset while still sighting on the main gate, which was constructed of thick wood banded with metal strips at the top and bottom. The sound of automatic weapons fire could be heard from behind the walls. “Can you stop them before they leave the city?”

  “Negative! They’re...a—age truck!” The explosives team leader, a normally unflappable German, sounded as upset as Firke had ever heard him.

  Firke tapped his earpiece even as he heard the growl of a diesel engine growing louder in the distance. “Say again? Your last transmission was garb—”

  A large truck with a big green bin in front of the cab burst through the gate with a deafening crash, sending wooden splinters and entire boards flying everywhere. The driver punched the gas, making the heavy truck lurch forward in a cloud of black exhaust.

  “Never mind, we have acquired the target. Leader out.” Firke settled his eye back behind the scope and his reticule on the front tire and fired. The 7.62 mm jacketed hollowpoint round exploded the tire in a cloud of rubber shards. The truck swerved to one side, but the driver wrestled it back into the middle of the road and kept going.

  “Target the rear tires, I’m taking the driver,” Firke said, adjusting his sights to the driver’s window. He could just make out a shadowy form trying to sit as far back as he or she could in the cab, but it wouldn’t make any difference. The Winchester rounds he was using would have enough power to punch right through the cab wall and into them.

  “You’re not getting away that easily, I’m afraid,” he muttered as he squeezed the trigger.

  * * *

  “RIGHT! A LITTLE MORE right! Ten degrees more! Straighten out! Okay, punch it—”

  Hearing a ponk! above him, Bolan looked up to see a hole in the cab fuselage right where his head would have been if he’d been sitting upright.

  “Left five degrees! Hold it!” Finigian shouted from her perch on the outside of the passenger side of the cab, holding on to the side mirror as they barreled down the road. “Keep it straight!” She was guiding him on the road by sight, since Bolan couldn’t see anything where he was, crammed in the leg compartment of the driver’s seat.

  Warned by Kurtzman about the two-man sniper team positioned outside the main gate, he and Finigian had come up with this improvised solution. They had to go a little over a kilometer before they’d reach the cover of the foothills. Bolan was hoping the marksman wouldn’t turn his attention to the engine, or their escape plan would come to an abrupt end.

  A second tire blew on the driver’s side and Bolan wrestled with the wheel as the truck slewed again. It was already running rough from the loss of the front tire and another one gone didn’t help very much. Just then another bullet pierced the cab, this one flying astray upon impact and shattering the glass of the half-lowered passenger window.

  “You okay?” he shouted at Finigian.

  “I’ve been better,” she shouted back. “Right ten degrees! You’re coming up to a left-hand turn! Start turning...now!”

  Bolan turned the steering wheel as directed, leaning with the truck as it lumbered into the turn. He figured they were more than halfway to the hills and if their luck held out a little longer, they just might make it.

  “Ditch, ditch, ditch—right fifteen degrees!” Finigian shouted at him. Bolan corrected, just enough to feel the tires on the passenger’s side grab the dirt road again.

  “Hills coming up!” Even as the policewoman said that, Bolan heard another ponk! but didn’t see a new hole appear in the cab. It was followed by another one and again he heard the impact, but didn’t see any damage. This time, however, the truck lurched and slowed a bit. “Damn...” he said as he realized the engine wasn’t running as smoothly as before.

  “We made it!” Finigian opened her door and gracefully swung inside. “I can’t believe it! Out of the village and into the hills!” She glanced at him with a wide smile. “You can come up now, you know.”

  Bolan unfolded himself and emerged from his hiding place, feeling the distant tingle of blood returning to his legs and feet. “We’re not out of trouble yet. Hear that?” He paused while Dina listened to the grumbling engine.

  “Sounds rougher now,” she said.

  “Yeah, the engine’s been hit. I don’t know how much farther it’s going to go.” As if hearing him, a loud bang sounded from the somewhere under the hood and the garbage truck began decelerating even more. Bolan pumped the gas, but to no avail—the truck began slowing just before the crest of a shallow hill where the road descended for a good half kilometer.

  “Take the wheel!” Bolan said as he punched the back hatch open and opened the driver’s door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To push it over the top.” By now the truck was down to a crawl and Bolan was able to step down and run to the back, where the rest of the group was clustered near the open hatch.

  “What’s going on?” Alcaster asked.

  “We’re all dead if you don’t get out and push,” Bolan snapped as he grabbed the rear bumper and shoved with all his strength. Alcaster and Scott jumped out and l
ent their strength to the effort. Even Siranush hopped down and heaved at the slowly stopping truck.

  “Just a few...more...meters...” Bolan grunted as the front of the truck reached the top of the hill. It hesitated, as if gathering strength, then started slowly rolling forward again, gathering speed on the noticeably downward slope.

  “Everyone back inside!” Bolan helped Siranush into the rear compartment as Alcaster and Scott scrambled back up and in. The soldier pointed at Sevan. “Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere!”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t!” Alcaster replied, but Bolan was already sprinting forward to the cab again.

  Leaping onto the step, he pulled himself up and into the driver’s side. “Move over!”

  “Gladly!” Finigian said as she scooted out of the way. “How far do you think we’ll get?”

  “Maybe a half to three-quarters of a kilometer, if the blown tires don’t slow us down too much,” Bolan replied. “But the airfield’s still about twenty-five klicks away. If we don’t find some other transportation—or stop them from coming after us—we’re as good as dead.”

  “We could always try going overland, as the crow flies,” the policewoman suggested.

  “If we can maintain enough of a head start to truly lose, them, I’d risk it, but if they spot us on foot, we’re sunk.” Bolan could already feel the truck slowing as they reached the bottom of the hill, and cursed under his breath. “Whatever we’re going to do, we’ve got maybe a minute to figure it out. After that, we’re sitting ducks.”

  * * *

  “I DON’T CARE what you think!” Firke said into his headset. “My orders stand—capture at least one alive before you leave the village.” He cut off his subordinate’s protest. “Well, if you had stopped them, then another team would be getting this assignment, but you didn’t. For God’s sake, it can’t be that hard. I said alive, not uninjured. Just find one near the truck, shoot it in the knee, club it over the head, tie its hands and feet, and toss it in the back.”

  He interrupted himself to point ahead. “They should be just around this bend,” he said to his driver, who nodded. Firke turned his attention back to his conversation while pulling the charging lever back on a HK MP-7 A-1. “I don’t care what you have to do, just get it done, or I’ll hand you over to the scientists for research!”