Combat Machines

by Don Pendleton

  “Ternes station,” she replied.

  “Have all reinforcements converge there,” he said over his shoulder as he ran into the darkness. “I’m going after him.”

  “Wait! I’m coming with you!”

  “You can’t!” he called back. “There’s no cell phone reception down here. You have to stay and make the call!” After that, he didn’t look back, concentrating instead on listening for the man’s footsteps in the dark.

  Bolan ran about one hundred yards up the tunnel, then slowed to a walk as he listened for sounds of the man’s passage. His blood pounded in his ears, and he tasted copper from where he’d bitten his tongue when he landed on the Metro tracks.

  That was when he realized he couldn’t hear the man’s footsteps anymore.

  He was too far down for the light from the platform to do him any good. Slipping his hand into his pocket, Bolan grabbed his smartphone and pulled it out just as he heard the scrape of a shoe on the ground.

  He turned toward the noise just in time to get his jaw almost torn off by a powerful kick that made stars explode in his vision and sent him to his knees. Even so, he managed to lash out with a fist, but connected with nothing except air.

  “You can’t win, you know.” The voice, light and mocking, echoed in the tunnel, seeming to come from all around him. “Who are you—an American? Are you the best they could send?”

  Bolan gingerly touched his jaw, which bloomed in fresh pain at the merest pressure from his fingers. “Yeah, I am. Who are you?” he asked as he slowly rose to his feet again.

  “I’m something you cannot even begin to comprehend.” Shoes scraped over gravel again, and then another heavy blow struck Bolan, this one on his calf, causing a blinding pain that nearly paralyzed his lower leg. “I’m the next generation of warrior, far superior to you and your obsolete kind.”

  In the distance, the far-off rumble of an approaching train echoed down the tunnel, and a glimmer of light pierced the darkness from around the bend.

  “In fact, since you’re so obsolete—” A hammerblow pounded Bolan’s kidney, numbing the entire lower half of his back and sending him to his knees. He fired an elbow at where he thought the guy should have been, but again his strike found only air, and he nearly toppled from being overbalanced.

  “—I think it fitting that you die right here.” The assassin hadn’t moved as far away now, and Bolan seized the slim opportunity. Raising his smartphone, he triggered its camera, which also set off the auto flash.

  As he’d hoped, the bright light in the man’s face blinded him, and he staggered backward.

  The light from the train now illuminated the tunnel, and Bolan saw the man’s silhouette a few yards away. He charged forward, intending to tackle him and bring him to the ground, but just as he was about to get his hands on him, the man spun aside as he brought his fist down on the back of Bolan’s head, driving him to the ground, stunned.

  The assassin bent and flipped him over onto the tracks, staring into his face. “You will never find us. You will never stop us.” Then he took off again, sprinting toward the oncoming train.

  Bolan tried to push himself up, tried to crawl over to the narrow space next to the tracks, but his arms and legs refused to obey his commands. The train’s headlight was blinding now, overwhelming his vision, the thunder of its approach drowning out everything.

  His last thought before the blackness took him was that this was not how he’d expected to die...

  Chapter Twelve

  “Agent Cooper? Agent Cooper!”

  The insistent voice, along with a sharp, acrid smell wafting under his nose, conspired to jerk Bolan back to consciousness. He blinked and threw a hand up to shield his eyes from the bright lights of the Metro station. Blurry, indistinct shapes drifted around him, resolving into Palomer’s worried face, and the face of a paramedic.

  Looking around, Bolan saw he was lying on the concrete platform near the train tunnel, and that all of his limbs were intact. “I’m surprised that I’m in one piece,” he said.

  “You can thank her for that,” the paramedic said with a nod at Palomer. “She went into the tunnel, found you and moved you into a maintenance recess in the wall, then carried you out here. She saved your life.”

  “Thanks, Marie,” Bolan said as he attempted to sit up, wincing as more stars went supernova in his head. Nausea clenched both his gut and his brain, and he leaned over, breathing shallowly through his mouth until the feeling passed.

  The paramedic started to repack her bag. “We need to take you to a hospital to get a look at your head. You’ve taken some nasty blows—I’m frankly amazed that your jaw isn’t broken—and the fact that you lost consciousness is a concern.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t spare the time.” Slowly, he turned his head to look at Palomer. “I don’t suppose they caught our guy at the next station?”

  She shook her head. “DGSI closed it as soon as they got word, suspended all trains on the line and sent in a special tactics squad to sweep the entire tunnel, but they found nothing. There are several places where he could have gotten out by using maintenance tunnels or access to the sewers. He’s gone.”

  “But definitely not forgotten,” Bolan said. “We’ve got him and the other two on camera, and you and I both got a look at his face. We can cover the city with a BOLO announcement, and hope we get lucky...” His head throbbed again, and a gray fog clouded the edges of his vision. “You know, while we get those stills made from the hotel security cameras, maybe I should get checked out. It just can’t take very long.”

  Palomer nodded. “Good, and don’t worry. We’ll take you to the American Hospital of Paris. Since it’s private, the doctors should be able to expedite any tests they want to run. We can make some calls on the way and get the photo selection started. Now, come on.” She indicated a portable, wheeled gurney brought in by the paramedics. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Thanks, but I can walk.”

  * * *

  “WHO’S COMING OUT?” Illya Krivov asked from the backseat.

  “Not anyone we’re looking for...” Mikhail Sevaron said as he watched the Metro entrance through binoculars. “Unless...perhaps there is a way to use all of this craziness to our advantage.”

  “How so?” Natalya Zimin asked.

  “Take a look at the tall man with black hair walking to the ambulance,” Sevaron said as he passed the binoculars to her.

  She raised them to her eyes, then lowered them. “He was at the hotel.”

  “He’s American, and from what I’ve been hearing from DGSI radio transmissions, it sounds like he and a companion either foiled the assassins, or disrupted their plans at the very least. I think he’s after the same thing we are—stopping the products of Utkin’s program.”

  “And perhaps more,” Zimin said. “What if the Americans have gotten wind of Utkin’s program and want to capitalize on it? Then they wouldn’t be content with just stopping these operatives.”

  “They’d want to capture them if possible, or at the very least, take one of the bodies with them for autopsy,” Sevaron finished. “Good thinking, Natalya.”

  “So, how do we proceed?” Krivov asked.

  “I would like to know what they know if possible, so I think a more direct approach is in order,” Sevaron replied. “Sergei, let’s head to the embassy. We’ll need some new identification papers. Make sure you know what hospital he’s taken to.”

  “And let’s also requisition some armor-piercing bullets,” Krivov said. “Although I’m not surprised HQ sent us insufficient equipment, I am surprised it was this insufficient.”

  Sevaron nodded. “It will be done.”

  “What is the plan?” Bershov asked.

  “Natalya and I will make contact, posing as FSB agents on the trail of the assassi
ns, and offer to join forces with the American,” Sevaron said. “Sergei and Illya, you will be our shadows, ready to back us up if necessary, and also, when the time is right—” he grinned mirthlessly “—we will destroy the assassins and eliminate the American in the interest of national security.”

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER, Mack Bolan lay on a bed in the American Hospital of Paris, feeling a lot better. He’d gone through a complete CAT scan, and although the doctors were concerned about the large bruise he had on the back of his head, they said there appeared to be no visible damage to his brain, although they wanted to keep him overnight for observation, which he was strongly resisting.

  In the meantime, Marie Palomer and he had turned his room into a makeshift command center. On the way over, she had called Alain Deschaines regarding the photos from the camera footage, only to find he had already organized a collection of the best shots, and he emailed them to her. Bolan had been in contact with Akira Tokaido for the same thing from his button camera. By this time, they had excellent shots of all three available.

  “Of course, this assumes that they weren’t wearing any sorts of disguises,” Palomer said as they readied the best pictures to be made into BOLO announcements that would be distributed not only across France, but to Interpol to pass along to intelligence agencies across Europe and North America.

  “True, but even if they change their appearance, putting the word out about them should make them more wary about continuing their operations,” Bolan said, even as the assassin’s words echoed in his head. You will never find us. You will never stop us...

  “Yes... I just hope they don’t go to ground or flee the city,” Palomer said. “This is a calculated risk we’re taking to go public with an act of terrorism.”

  “We have no choice,” Bolan reminded her. “With seventy witnesses to the attempted assassination, followed by a high-speed chase and firefight on the main thoroughfare of the city, I think a lot of people are already aware of what’s gone down. Also, was anything discovered at the apartment of the real Yves Montauk?”

  “After everything that’s happened, I almost forgot about that poor man.” Palomer checked her phone, then shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. He was apparently selected due to his position at the hotel, and his resemblance to the assassin. There’s nothing else linking them.”

  She sank into a chair and sighed. “It is always a cat-and-mouse game with these terrorists. We make one move, they make another. Sometimes I don’t see how we’ll ever win against them.”

  “First, don’t forget that despite all the damage and destruction, you and your people didn’t fail. The Austrian president survived.” The latest update they’d received was that he was in serious but stable condition, undergoing chemical detoxification to neutralize the poison in his system.

  “That is true, but it came at a high cost,” she said. The final tally was five of the hotel security killed and two wounded, along with the two motorcycle officers shot and killed on the Champs-Élysées. The press was already screaming about it in their overnight editions, and the television news shows were merciless in their condemnation of the national security forces.

  “Every one of those men and women understood that they may be called on to lay down their lives for their people and their country, and they did so without hesitation, just as you would, I’m sure,” Bolan said. “The fact that they helped save the president makes them heroes. That’s cold comfort right now, but their sacrifice still means something.

  “Finally, it helps to take the long view about this fight,” he said. “Sometimes it’s a gain of inches instead of yards or miles. For me, every day I’m still breathing to oppose them is one more day of fighting the good fight. Every one of these jackals I take down is one more that won’t be around to spread their terror anymore. These three are just another bunch on the list, that’s all.”

  “Except they’re not just your everyday run-of-the-mill terrorists, are they?” Palomer asked. “I know what I saw, both at the hotel and in the Metro station—they were able to shrug off bullets like they were nothing. I watched you shoot that man at point-blank range, and he didn’t stop.”

  “High-level body armors can stop a bullet, even at close range,” Bolan pointed out.

  “Maybe so, but did it look like he was wearing a bulletproof vest?” Palomer asked, shaking her head. “You and I have both worn them and seen others wear them. We know what they look like. That guy wasn’t wearing one.” She blew out a breath. “Plus, he moved like no one I’d ever seen before. Watching the two of you fight. You’re obviously no slouch, but I’m sorry, you weren’t in the same league as him.”

  Bolan acknowledged that the guy had hit like a jackhammer. Everyone examining him had sucked in their breath when they saw the large bruises on his jaw, lower back and leg. Even he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t dislocated or broken his jaw from that first shot to the face.

  “You may be right, but I’ve got something none of them have—experience,” he replied, filling her in on his smartphone distraction. “Trust me, our next meeting will be quite different.”

  “I hope so—for all our sakes,” Palomer replied, biting her lower lip. “There’s also another element I’m concerned about with all of this.”

  “Yes,” Bolan asked as he gingerly adjusted his position on the bed. “Thanks to your file on the previous events that these killers are tied to, there is a pattern emerging here, besides the obvious tie of striking against anyone who speaks out against Russia. Their targets are escalating in terms of power, as well.”

  She handed the list of the incidents to Bolan, who scanned them, and nodded. “You’re right. So, who would be next? The UK prime minister? The US President?”

  “It would probably be best to see what international events are occurring in the next few days, and who’s attending,” Palomer said. “Off the cuff, my guess would be that they’d want to strike something much like what they found here, only on a larger scale, perhaps with two of their perceived enemies on-site.”

  “Right. I’ll get my people on it.” Bolan had filled her in on his connection with “his” people, although he’d been deliberately vague about any details, and now he contacted the Farm.

  “Striker to Stony Base.”

  “Striker, this is Stony Base,” the gravelly voice of Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman rumbled in his ear. “Go ahead.”

  Bolan filled him in on his conversation with Palomer regarding future targets.

  “Striker, we’ll prepare a list immediately. Were there any parameters you want us to use to narrow it down?”

  “The best I can think of would be to focus on Europe and North America, although I’d think flying would be a major issue for them at this point, especially once we get the BOLO out. Let’s stick with Europe, including the United Kingdom for right now. If nothing actionable comes up, we can expand outward.”

  “Roger that. As soon as we’ve finished crunching the data, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Bear.” Bolan disconnected the call and leaned back again, strongly considering trying to grab a couple hours of rest. A knock on the door interrupted that notion, however.

  Palomer was already on her feet and heading to the door. She cracked it open. “Yes?” Muttered voices could be heard outside, and she leaned back a bit. “Just a moment.”

  She turned to him. “Two FSB officers are outside, requesting to see you.”

  Bolan raised an eyebrow. “Now that I did not expect.” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Have them come in—might as well see what they have to say.”

  The moment Palomer turned back to the door, Bolan subvocalized to Kurtzman, “I think I’m about to have a very interesting conversation that you’re going to want to hear.”

  “Understood, Striker, my ears are on,” the computer expert repl
ied. “Let’s see what the Russians have to say about all this, shall we?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The second-story flat in the red-tiled house on the outskirts of Paris was located in an unremarkable neighborhood where students and young people often found more affordable housing that was still within commuting distance of the city.

  Shrouded in an oversize hoodie he’d purchased from a street vendor, Alexei Panshin arrived at the house at 0135, having walked the 11 miles from the middle of the city. After the debacle in the Metro, he didn’t trust any form of transportation that might have a camera, a human operator, or both, so he’d come back to their secondary safehouse on foot. The walk wasn’t difficult—he’d endured marches ten times that length during training.

  He stood on the other side of the street and checked the windows. A small lamp with a blue shade was on in the upper right corner, meaning all was clear. Checking both ways on the street, even at that hour, Panshin crossed and let himself in the side door, creeping up the stairs so as not to awaken their landlord.

  Amani Nejem and Kisu Darsi were already at the house, and had changed their appearances to more easily escape the country. Nejem was now a striking blonde, with light hazel eyes. It was a stunning combination against her dusky skin. Darsi had shaved his beard, and was in the process of wrapping a turban around his head. They both tensed when he slipped inside, with Darsi holding a pistol out of sight behind his leg. They relaxed slightly when he pushed back the hood.

  “You’re sure you weren’t followed?” Nejem asked as she crossed to the window and looked out over the deserted street.

  “Trust me, no one could have followed me considering the route that I took,” Panshin said. “Are you both ready to go?”

  “Just about,” Darsi said, tucking away the end of his turban. “You are aware that we failed in our mission here?”