"You think Eon and his cult could turn an agent to their side?"
"Stranger things have happened," Bolan said. "And who knows what could have been going on in his head before he was exposed to Dumar Eon and his minions? Human beings can crack in countless ways. Iron Thunder makes more sense than some cults I've seen, and draws a stronger following."
"It worries me that you seem to have such vast experience in these matters," Rieck said offhandedly. "You lead some kind of lifestyle, Cooper."
Bolan said nothing.
They parked a couple of blocks away from the target building, approaching it cautiously in the night. The memories of the carnage at Becker's condominium were fresh in Bolan's mind, and he knew better than to underestimate Iron Thunder's amateurs. They were ruthless, violent killers. The world they might have built inside the building was bound to be a dangerous one.
"Around back," Rieck suggested.
Bolan had already intended to do just that. He nodded. Rieck followed him as they skirted the building a block away, then moved in from the rear set of access doors. The glass panels had been spray-painted white from inside, which in itself wasn't all that unusual. It was what he would do, were his position reversed with the cultists'.
"Do we assume everyone within is hostile?" Rieck whispered.
"We can't afford to," Bolan said. "At least not right away. There could be innocents or minors inside, depending on how Iron Thunder's people do things. We'll have to take it apartment by apartment."
I understand." Rieck pulled the MP-5 K forward on its sling and checked the magazine before chambering a round. "Ready," he said.
"Let's go," Bolan replied. He eased the door open, drawing the sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R from its custom shoulder holster. The hallway beyond was quiet. There were metal mailboxes inset on the facing walls.
They took the first flight of stairs, expecting to find a typical floor plan on the second level. Instead, they found a steel security door, monitored by a closed-circuit camera. No sooner did Bolan and Rieck get within range of the lens than an alarm began to sound somewhere within the building.
"There goes the element of surprise," Rieck wisecracked.
Bolan reached into the war bag slung over his shoulder and produced a plastic explosive charge. He planted it on the metal door, pressed the delay switch and motioned for Rieck to move back around the corner. They got behind cover within the stairwell and the charge blew, echoing through the enclosed space with bone-jarring intensity. The clatter of the heavy door hitting the floor was almost anticlimactic.
"Go!" Bolan said. He threw himself around the corner.
"Eίsen-Donner!" someone shouted. The corridor was suddenly alive in bullets, as men and women — cultists all, from the shouts they roared — threw open their apartment doors and pulled the triggers of shotguns and automatic weapons. Bolan barely had time to ram open a door and take Rieck with him, spilling into a unit whose occupant had been slower on the draw. As the hailstorm of lead pocked the corridor behind them, Bolan and Rieck came face-to-face with a shotgun-wielding young man in a T-shirt and jeans. The Iron Thunder logo had been crudely stenciled in spray paint on the wall behind him.
"Die!" the cultist shouted in German.
Bolan put a single bullet in his brain.
Several cult members could be heard running down the hallway toward them. Bolan and Rieck stationed themselves at angles to either side of the doorway. One cultist, then another, then another stomped through the open door. The soldier and his Interpol ally cut down each one as they dashed in, recklessly failing to see the trap.
"Fools rush in!" Rieck said above the din of gunfire.
When the cultists stopped running blindingly through the killing chute he had improvised, the soldier knew he and his ally would have to move. If they became cornered and trapped in an enclosed space like this one, their lives would end in short order. Bolan reloaded the Beretta, holstered it and drew the Desert Eagle, knowing its powerful .44 Magnum rounds would be necessary for what he planned.
"Get ready," he said to Rieck. "On three, I go. Follow me. Diagonals across the hallway, from apartment to apartment, charging the gunners. On me."
"Understood!" Rieck nodded.
"One," Bolan said. "Two... three!" He charged.
Sloppy, unaimed gunfire followed him, but it didn't get close enough to be a real danger. Several cultists were firing from within their apartments by pushing their guns out the open doorways, not looking at what they were shooting, counting on the walls for cover and concealment. Bolan, however, could see that the divisions in these units were of relatively lightweight drywall, erected after the fact. The exterior shell of the building was heavy brick and mortar, but these dividers were little more than plasterboard and, presumably, insulation.
Bolan hit the next apartment on a diagonal angle from the first one. The cultist inside was hiding behind the door. He tumbled when Bolan bulled through the doorway, knocking him to the floor. Bolan put a .44 Magnum slug through his chest, turned and fired twice through the opposite wall at a forty-five-degree angle. The cultist hiding in that unit screamed, stumbled and fell, sprawling halfway into the hall.
The gunfire intensified as Bolan threw himself into the next doorway, leaping over the corpse. The cultists had realized what was happening and were determined not to fall prey to the same tactics. The Executioner was ready for that, reaching into his war bag to produce several flash-bang grenades.
Rieck joined him. Bolan, gun pointed to the floor, motioned with the flash-bang in his other hand and mouthed "grenade." The Interpol agent nodded, hunching his shoulders as if to cover his ears. Bolan nodded back.
A fresh wave of gunfire rolled through the space between them. The cultists were still firing blind but were emptying their guns as fast as they could load them, trying to erect a wall of flying bullets between themselves and the invaders. Bolan waited for the fusillade to abate somewhat, indicating that at least a couple of cultists were reloading. Then he started to activate flash-bangs, and toss them down the hallway, bouncing them off open doorways, as if playing a dangerous game of explosive billiards. The lethal little metal eggs caromed and rolled and found their way down the corridor and into several apartments.
Bolan pressed his arms against his ears, squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. The flash-bangs burst, one after another. The blinding white flashes and deafening explosions were followed by overlapping screams as the weapons did their terrible work. Bolan, guns in hand, wasted no time. He sprinted down the hallway, blasting writhing cultists as he passed their open doorways. It was brutal work, but there was no other way. This nest of killers couldn't be allowed to leave, couldn't be permitted to unleash Iron Thunder's evil on the people of Berlin and of the world.
Bolan encountered another metal security door at the opposite end of the building. Rather than blow it, he backtracked. He met Rieck halfway, and the two men checked each apartment for survivors. There were two men who appeared to have shot themselves with their own weapons, but the rest had fallen to the Executioner's guns. There were no cultists left alive.
"Good God, Cooper," Rieck said. Bolan changed the magazines in his pistols, then holstered the Beretta. With the Desert Eagle in his fist, he looked down the corridor ahead.
"There's another door," he said, "and at least one more level above. Likely there will be more of them up there. Ready to do this again?"
"No," Rieck said, shaking his head and reloading the MP-5 K, "but I don't think we have a choice."
"None at all."
"Then let's do it."
They took a step toward the door. Bolan reached into his war bag for another charge.
The building rumbled beneath them.
Bolan, realizing what was happening, grabbed Rieck and threw both of them into the nearest open doorway. The explosion that filled the corridor again shook the building. Outside, some mighty force was hammering the structure. The smoke, debris and brick dust in the hallway was test
ament to its power.
"What was that?" Rieck asked.
"Rocket-propelled grenade, I think," Bolan said. He risked a peek out the doorway.
"They're shooting at us from upstairs?" Rieck asked.
"Not upstairs," Bolan said. "Out there."
Rieck couldn't help himself; he took a look around the corner of the doorway. The hole in the side of the building was still smoking, and the carnage in the corridor was unspeakable. Rubble and mangled bodies were everywhere. Through the gaping wound in the brick shell, Bolan and Rieck could see well-dressed men running around a group of dark sedans parked below.
More gunfire sounded, but this time it was directed outside. The cultists on the next level were firing at the men there.
"The Consortium's security operatives," Rieck stated. "It has to be."
"Probably," Bolan agreed. "We're caught in the middle."
"Well, that's not the only problem," Rieck said. "While they're fighting each other we have no one to root for."
Bolan didn't comment. He checked his weapons. "New plan," he said. "Get to the rear of this apartment. We're going back out the way we came."
"We're going to meet our new friends on the way out?"
"Better than waiting for them to find us here and close us in." Bolan nodded. "Come on."
They ran for it.
13
The men working their way up the stairwell were heavily armed with assault rifles, grenade launchers and the RPG. Bolan met the first of them charging up, and the last thing they expected was the juggernaut that came at them from above. As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairwell, he planted one combat boot in the chest of the lead man, knocking the group sprawling. He began pumping 3-round bursts from the Beretta 93-R into the cluster of shooters, emptying the 20-round magazine.
It was a rout.
Bolan, with Rieck and his MP-5 K backing him up, pushed the enemy back down the stairs, the shooters tumbling over one another. Rieck shot the man with the RPG launcher, and Bolan jumped over the body as he continued blitzing his way downward.
"Grab that!" he shouted to Rieck, pointing to the launcher.
They hit ground level and the exit doors. Rieck threw open the door... and immediately backed up.
"Look out!" he shouted.
The armored vehicle was a large, four-wheeled armored personnel carrier of the type used by SWAT and other special tactics units. This one bore no markings, but if these were indeed Consortium security personnel, it probably was among the resources on which they could call. There was no weapon mounted on the APC, but it was blocking the doorway. A gun port faced down the hall. As Bolan and Rieck backed toward the corner of the stairwell leading up, that port slid open and the muzzle of a machine gun poked out.
"Go, go, go," Bolan urged.
Bullets from the heavy machine gun tore through the hallway, sending debris flying. The soldier and his Interpol ally raced back up the stairs. If they couldn't go down, their only option was up... and out.
Gunfire continued from the upper level as the Iron Thunder cultists shot down at the gunners in the street. Bolan hoped this would provide sufficient distraction while he and Rieck made their way into Iron Thunder's midst.
Bolan palmed his last grenade from his war bag as they ran. They hit the next level and then the facing stairwell. The soldier motioned for Rieck to cover the hall behind them, then he popped the pin on the grenade, counted down the numbers and threw the explosive metal egg up the stairs.
The explosion rattled the building and drew dust from the ceiling panels overhead. Bolan filled his hands with hardware, the Desert Eagle in his right and the Beretta 93-R in his left. He sprayed the charred doorway space with bullets. It was a risky play, but it was also the only option.
The Executioner burst through the doorway, kicking the steel security door aside on its mangled hinges. The floor plan of this level was open, a recreation room of sorts; he noted in an eyeblink the layout of tables, sofas and a kitchenette area. A shattered large-screen television was mounted to one bullet-pocked wall, which bore the Iron Thunder logo in spray paint.
A cultist with a revolver drew down on him from the cover of an overturned couch. Bolan put a .44 Magnum slug through the gunman's temple.
Gunfire converged from three separate points. Bolan threw himself forward, rolling on one shoulder, as bullets ripped the floor behind him. Then he was on his feet again, turning and engaging the enemy, the Beretta 93-R spitting 3-round bursts and the Desert Eagle booming. First one, then a second, then a third cultist fell and died. Bolan hit the bloodied floor again, his chin in a pile of hot shell casings. Several shots came from outside, angled high through the shattered windows.
Then it was quiet.
"Rieck!" Bolan called. "It's clear! Get up here!"
The Interpol agent hustled up the stairwell. He ducked into the recreation level and surveyed the scene; then he pushed the metal door back in place and dragged a heavy, battle-scarred lounge chair into position to block it.
"Over there." Bolan motioned with his left arm, crabbing his way toward the nearest set of broken windows. He pointed to the kitchenette, from which Rieck would have a good line of fire to the door, while taking advantage of the natural cover of the angle. "Watch that entry. They'll send men back up the stairs when they realize what's happened."
"Got it," Rieck said. He looked around at the bodies on the floor. Bolan nodded grimly. They were surrounded by corpses, some shot from below by the professionals in the street, and some killed under Bolan's guns.
"Why aren't they shooting?" Rieck asked as he took his position.
"They're not stupid," Bolan said. "They're fully aware there's no one left inside shooting at them. Right now they're trying to figure out what happened to the team sent to take the stairs. When they figure it out, they'll mount another assault."
"So what do we do?" Rieck asked. "We can't just wait here to get shot."
"I don't intend to," Bolan said. He found what he'd come for. One of the dead cultists by the wall had met his final bliss clutching a Steyr Scout rifle. Bolan pried the weapon from the dead man's hands, worked the bolt and found the 5-round box magazine empty. He found three spares on the body and rammed one home, working the bolt again to chamber the round.
The Leupold M-8 scope was only two and a half power, but it would be sufficient for the short range. For Bolan, a trained and experienced sniper, the rifle was a surgeon's scalpel. He brought the weapon to his shoulder, positioned himself in a corner of the window and surveyed the scene outside as he took aim.
The APC was parked directly below, blocking the doors into the building. Some distance from that, a line of Mercedes sedans formed a barrier, behind which the shooters were arrayed. A few of them were looking up at the building, but Bolan's silhouette was minimal enough that they didn't notice him immediately.
Bolan lined up a shot through the window of one of the sedans. The shooters below were sloppy or complacent; they were crouched behind the cars but not behind the engine blocks, which were the only portion of the vehicles that afforded real protection from serious small arms. One of the men was leaning over the roof of the car, bracing a handgun pointed up toward the building.
Bolan put a .308 Winchester round through his heart. The 7.62 mm NATO round drilled the man and spun him. He collapsed to the ground without a sound.
The crack of the rifle alerted the others. They began to shoot at the building blindly, unsure of the sniper's exact location. Bolan worked the bolt, tracked left and took a second man through the head when the target poked out from behind the trunk of one of the cars. The Executioner followed that up with two rapid shots. The shooters below panicked and emptied their guns into the building. When the bullets came close to his location, Bolan ducked back and rode it out. The thick exterior walls stopped any rounds that might otherwise have been a danger to him.
"We've got movement on the stairwell!"
Bolan turned and pressed his back to
the wall. He put the Steyr on the floor and pulled the Beretta 93-R, making sure it was set to 3-round burst. The noise beyond the door was picking up; there were shouts and the sound of shoes on the stairs beyond.
"Down!" Bolan ordered. He covered his head with one arm and Rieck ducked behind the kitchenette counter.
Predictably, the explosive charge detonated. It was what Bolan would have done, and he was ready for it. When the door blew inward, pushing the lounge chair aside, he thrust the Beretta forward and started to fire into the cloud of smoke and flame. An instant later, the chatter of Rieck's deadly submachine gun joined the barks of the suppressed Beretta.
The killers were torn apart as they charged the door, wrongly thinking that they held the initiative in their direct assault. Bolan mowed them down and Rieck mopped them up, their guns playing a deadly 9 mm duet. When the Beretta coughed and went silent, its 20-round magazine expended, Bolan switched to the Desert Eagle. His .44 Magnum rounds were like lightning bolts thrown by an avenging god, striking down the last of the invading gunners.
There was a pause. Bolan took the opportunity to reload his weapons, wielding both guns as he moved from his position and advanced on the bullet-riddled doorway. Rieck did the same.
"It's clear!" Rieck shouted loudly. His ears were probably ringing very badly. Bolan's own had suffered under the onslaught, but he was more accustomed to it. It was actually nothing short of a miracle that the veteran soldier didn't suffer from permanent hearing loss, but Mack Bolan had long ago written that off to luck, good genes, or both.
A smoke detector was wailing somewhere in the building. That was ironic, to Bolan's thinking. A group of people whose twisted religion was devoted to the glorification of death still had a smoke detector in place where they lived. He ignored the noise. Rieck started checking bodies, nudging them with his toe as he covered them with the H&K.
Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and, with the Beretta in his right hand, began doing the same. The building was a charnel house. Countless bullet holes peppered the walls. Bodies were everywhere, in some places two and three deep. The carpets were soaked in blood. Several small fires burned. Bolan went to the devastated kitchenette, where the worst of the fires was beginning to blaze, and ripped a small fire extinguisher from its bracket on the wall. By sheer luck it hadn't been pierced by a bullet. He sprayed out the flames, found another one across the recreation level and emptied the extinguisher. He tossed the empty canister aside, again thinking of the irony that such a precaution was in place here.
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