Garrett turned to snap orders to his people. The man Bolan had guessed correctly as the local doctor went to check on the deputy Jatko’s men had worked over.
“Sheriff, where is your general store? The one that has the post office?” Bolan asked.
“This side of the street, at the far end. Post office? You expecting mail?”
Bolan nodded.
“Special delivery. It’s why these people are here. Something they want to get their hands on pretty badly. Enough to kill for.”
Bolan eased the door open and slipped through before Garrett could ask him any more questions.
“THIS COULD HAVE A BAD domino effect, Lee,” Granger said.
“How so?” Marker asked.
“If it comes out I was involved, the whole organization will be under a microscope. Every damn deal, every contract will be viewed as tainted. I have enemies. They’ll use the revelations as an excuse to go for me. They’ll also use it to go for the people I do business with. You know what Washington is like. A bunch of sharks just circling, waiting for a whiff of blood so they can go in for the kill. See a chance and make your play. If someone starts digging and uncovers the deals we make off the books, I may not be able to protect those people.”
“The kickback brigade?” Marker smiled. “They were willing enough to take your money. What’s the current tally? One naval commander and a couple of senior Army personnel. We still dealing with that congressman? The one who keeps reminding you he’ll be available for a board post when his political career runs its course?”
“They all want something, Lee. Money. Power. The job handouts with the cars and all-expenses paid.”
“So why worry about them? Every damn one has a deal to hide.”
“The minute the warning signs flash they’ll run for the hills, do everything to cover their backs, hide the offshore accounts. It’ll be total denial time. They’ll disassociate themselves from anything to do with me, or Granger Industries.”
“Time to find out who your real friends are.”
Granger forced a smile. “I won’t have any, Lee. I’m not naive enough to believe any of those bastards will stick by me. They’ll drop me so fast the thud will be heard the length of the Shenandoah Valley.”
“Know what I’d do if they screwed me like that? Send a file on every one of them to CNN. With pictures.”
“Lee, I never realized you had such a vivid imagination.”
“We all have to have a hobby.”
“Lee, have another chopper ready. Billingham screwed up with the first one. It’s time we made our presence felt in Maple Lake. Be there for the troops.”
16
The Executioner cleared the building, turning to make his way around to the rear. Stone chips peppered the air just ahead of the sound of autofire and Bolan knew he’d been tagged. He kept moving and started along the back lots of Maple Lake.
The snow hampered his movements. He used whatever cover was available. Store sheds, empty cases. The metal waste containers behind each store.
Slugs hammered at the Dumpster he was passing near the far end of the street. Bolan felt one snap past his head when it bounced off the thick metal. He turned suddenly, facing the oncoming shooters and caught them off guard.
Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger of the M-16, the assault rifle jacking out hard bursts of 5.56 mm slugs. He caught the lead shooter just above the waist, running the continuous volley up into the man’s chest, then arced the muzzle around and repeated the move with the second guy. This one made an effort to turn, his body twisting in a violent attempt at escape. But there was no avoiding the Executioner’s lethal fire. The slugs cored into his side and tore his ribs to splinters before driving metal and bone into his lungs, pitching him facedown in the blood-frothed snow.
Bolan moved on, along the back lots, the general store looming large as he reached the place. There was a small loading bay and steps leading to a door. He went up the steps, raised a booted foot and kicked the door open. It smashed back against the inner wall and he went in, heading for the access that would take him into the store proper.
He emerged behind the counter, confronted by the alarmed store owner, who took one look at the tall, dark clad figure and the cluster of weapons he carried.
Bolan’s eye had caught a figure leaving through the front door. The man looked over his shoulder at him, then stepped outside quickly.
“He come for a package sent from Washington?” Bolan asked.
“Yeah. How did you know?”
Bolan cut around the counter and made for the door, ejecting the M-16’s magazine and snapping in a fresh one.
As he reached the door he saw Lec Pavlic on the top step of the store, pausing as someone called out in Serbian.
“Pavlic. There is nowhere else to run.”
PAVLIC TURNED AS HE HEARD the voice of Maric Jatko.
The words had a chill finality to them. Pavlic sensed closure. An end to something that had started back in 1995 on a gray, rain-chilled day deep in the bleak forest beyond Sarajevo.
Jatko emerged from the swirling snow, flanked by a pair of shooters. Jatko himself carried a weapon. He would kill Pavlic and take the package. The evidence would be destroyed and nothing would change.
“The package, Pavlic. Give it to me.”
“So you can kill me too?”
“I will anyway. As easily as that idiot Tivik. And the Malivik girl. Pretty young thing before we dealt with her. Your niece, I believe? Now give the fucking thing to me.”
“No, Pavlic, give me the package.”
This time the voice came from behind Pavlic, a deep, commanding American voice. Pavlic threw a glance over his shoulder and saw the Executioner emerge from the store.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“U.S. Justice Department. Give me the package, and I’ll make sure it gets into the right hands.”
The exchange lasted no more than a few seconds. Enough time though for Jatko to become aware of Bolan’s presence. Time too for Pavlic to be plagued with doubt.
“Deal with him,” Jatko snapped at Milic and Anton. “I’ll go after Pavlic.”
Bolan spotted the move even as it began. He brought the M-16 in line and the weapon was jacking out hard shots even as the shooters faced off. Bolan stitched the pair left to right, then back again, forcing them to their knees in bloody supplication. As he stepped across the top step, Bolan put a final burst into each man—head shots that confirmed their fate.
THE APPEARANCE OF THE BIG American caught Maric Jatko off guard. The man had once again defied everything that stood against him. He seemed to possess an uncanny knack of turning up at the most inappropriate moments.
Jatko’s surprise evaporated as quickly as it formed. He had more important considerations to attend to—namely gaining possession of Pavlic’s package.
The rattle of autofire created a brassy background sound as Jatko moved in Pavlic’s direction. Pavlic had galvanized himself into movement the moment the shooting started. He was making his way to the four-by-four he had arrived in. Jatko could see the package clutched in his hands.
Jatko’s anger burned as he raised his M-16 and fired. He saw Pavlic stumble as the slugs tore through his left shoulder, tearing out a chunk of flesh. He stumbled, almost going down. He regained his balance as Jatko fired again. The slugs pounded against the four-by-four’s side, tearing jagged holes in the metal, spitting across the hood and cracking the windshield. Then Jatko steadied his aim and triggered an even longer burst that hit Pavlic between the shoulders, slamming him facedown in the bloody snow, his body writhing. Still firing, Jatko moved in the direction of the downed figure.
He sensed movement off to his right, turning to see Bolan a fraction of a second before the Executioner’s M-16 crackled, the line of 5.56 mm slugs burning into Jatko’s chest. The impact took his breath, shock spreading rapidly, and Jatko was down, thrashing in agony. His own weapon had dropped from his hands and there was nothing he could
do to regain it. He saw the tall American as Bolan stood over him. Jatko tasted blood in his mouth. He wanted to speak but there were no words.
“THERE,” MILOS RADIN SAID, pointing through the windshield.
The driver of the Humvee nodded, putting his foot down as they rolled along the main street. As they passed the sheriff’s office they saw the burned wreck of a vehicle and saw armed officers moving out from the building.
“What do we do?” the driver asked.
Billingham, in the rear of the vehicle, leaned forward.
“Do? We keep going. Jatko called and said he had Pavlic. That’s what we’re here for. No change there.”
At the far end of the street they were witness to the brief exchange of fire between Bolan and Jatko’s group. In a clear moment, as the wind dispersed the falling snow, Billingham recognized Lec Pavlic in the moment he was shot down, and then Jatko himself was hit. Radin powered down his window and leaned out, using his pistol in an attempt to take out the American, but firing from a moving vehicle did little to enhance his aim and his shots were wild.
Bolan heard the roar of the Humvee and saw it speeding in his direction. He raised the M-16, slipping his finger behind the trigger of the M-203 launcher. His finger eased back and fired off the HEDP round. It arced across the distance, hitting the Humvee. The explosion lifted the vehicle and flipped it on its side, shattered debris flying from the stricken vehicle. Flames licked along the underside, igniting leaking fuel. Bolan saw a bloody shape emerge from one of the rear doors, climbing awkwardly out of the upturned vehicle. In the flickering glare of the burning fuel he made out the bloody features of Thorne Billingham. The man was clutching a pistol in one hand. Bolan closed in, raising the muzzle of the M-16, and laid a fast burst into the man’s upper body. Billingham stiffened, then fell back inside the wrecked Humvee, where Milos Radin lay dead, a chunk of metal buried deep inside his skull.
Bolan turned and walked back to where Pavlic lay. There was no need for a close inspection. Jatko’s fire had ripped into his back and as Pavlic went down the burst had taken away the back of his skull.
Reaching down, Bolan picked up the package, turning it over in his hand. It didn’t look as if it could blow the lid off a long-term conspiracy of silence. But Bolan had learned long ago that appearances were often deceptive.
Bolan looked up when he heard the rising sound of rotors.
The dark shape of a helicopter was moving in to hover at the end of the street. He recognized the profile. Another Sikorsky S-76. The chopper swung in and dropped to within a couple of feet, the wash fanning the flames from the burning Humvee, scattering smoke and snow into a frenzy.
Bolan raised his M-16 as he saw the side hatch slide open to reveal an armed man. A second gunner appeared. The Executioner knew the face. Ramsey Granger. A big man, hard faced. There was an expression of triumph, as if he had a prize worth showing.
Granger reached behind him and pulled someone from inside the compartment so Bolan could see.
Erika Dukas.
And then Granger raised his hand and pressed the muzzle of a pistol to her head.
17
Her crestfallen expression said it all. Dukas was slumped in the corner of the chopper’s cargo section, hands resting on her raised knees. Her natural resilience was gone.
Bolan sat on the opposite side. At the sound of her voice he drew his gaze from the armed men casually watching him. One of them had his assault rifle trained on Bolan.
“Granger has better equipment than I figured,” Bolan said. “He supplies the military, so he should be able to lay his hands on the best there is.”
“I thought I was well hidden.”
“Infrared. Ultrasonics. Heat source scanners. He indicated the electronic setup installed at the front of the aircraft. “It happens.” He lowered his voice. “We’re not through yet.”
Granger made his way to where the prisoners sat and stood over Bolan. He wore dark pants, all-weather boots and an expensive leather jacket over a crew-neck sweater. He looked every inch the successful business magnate. His rugged face, tanned and starting to show a dark stubble, was set. Cold eyes stared out on a world he saw as his personal domain.
“You’ve been busy,” he said. “You’ve caused me a great deal of time and money, not to mention placing me in a difficult position.”
Bolan remained silent.
“Tell me something. I don’t believe Cooper is your real name. What should I call you?”
“Irresistible?”
Granger’s cheeks showed a flush of anger at Bolan’s mocking response. The gibe was strengthened by a smothered laugh from Dukas.
Granger leaned forward and delivered a hard punch that crunched against Bolan’s left cheek. The blow was unrestrained, delivered with a savage intent and it snapped Bolan’s head back. Granger struck again, this time with his right fist, across Bolan’s jaw, tearing the flesh and drawing blood.
“You’re a big man when your opponent can’t fight back,” Dukas said, making her contempt plain. “Or woman.”
Granger turned to face her, breathing hard.
“Watch that mouth, Miss Dukas. Recall what happened to your late friend Tira Malivik.”
“The level you and your friends stoop to, Granger, I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
“Then you should know what to expect once we touch down.”
Bolan, recovering from Granger’s attack, spit blood from his mouth. “You have your package. What do you need with us?” he asked, challenging Granger.
“I need to know the information relating to Pavlic’s disk hasn’t gone further. If it has, I want to know where and to whom. It’s damage control. If I have details, I can attempt to suppress that knowledge. You’re a smart man. Figure it out. Containment. Information restriction. Call it what you like. I’m into self-preservation.”
“And to hell with how many innocent people get hurt in the process?” Bolan asked.
“Innocent? We live in the twenty-first century. The last innocent went out decades ago. This society thrives on deceit and corruption, and you damn well know it.”
“It only happens if we stand by and do nothing.”
“Jesus, I think he believes that, too,” Lee Marker said as he joined his employer.
“We have a true idealist among us, Lee,” Granger said.
“Pilot says we should clear the storm front in a few minutes. Once we drop down to the foothills the weather should ease off. After that a steady flight to the facility,” Marker whispered.
Bolan managed to pick up most of the conversation. He needed to get himself and Dukas off the helicopter before it reached the confines of Granger’s facility.
He saw Granger and Marker move toward the front of the cabin section. He made a final assessment of the opposition.
Two up front—pilot and copilot. Granger and Marker. Five armed men in combat gear taking up the seats at the fore end of the passenger compartment, with one of them facing Bolan and Dukas.
He glanced at Dukas. For the first time since he been forced aboard he clearly saw the fresh bruises on her face. A bloody lip. She forced a crooked smile at him.
He turned to look out the side port, seeing the clear day emerging as the Sikorsky swooped down the mountain slopes. The terrain below was wide and empty, tracts of timber and wild undergrowth. To their right he caught the flicker of water between the trees.
Bolan’s mind was working overtime. Whatever he did would be drastic, risky and with no guarantee of success. But the alternative was no better. Whatever the result of his intended interrogation, Granger would end it by killing Bolan and Dukas.
With that thought locked in his mind Bolan made his decision.
He spent the next few minutes watching, listening, storing tiny details away in case they gave him an advantage when he made the move he was anticipating. He had a plan of sorts.
Granger moved along the cabin, leaning against the fuselage side and studying the package, turning it
over in his hands. He took a pocketknife from his pocket and made to slit the packing tape that sealed it.
Dukas was watching Bolan closely. He inclined his head in the direction of the package. She nodded.
Every so often the chopper caught air pockets and currents that flowed back and forth between the mountains. Bolan had observed the armed man assigned to watch them. Each disturbance made him lose concentration for seconds as he braced himself against the unsettling movement of the aircraft. It wasn’t much but enough that the muzzle of his weapon would shift off target. Bolan waited, hoping for another bout of turbulence, his body tensed, muscles coiled to push him into instant action.
When it finally came Bolan nearly missed it. The Sikorsky seemed to pause in midair, then dropped a few feet, as the pilot worked the controls. Those few seconds became a moment frozen in time.
Bolan came up off the floor of the chopper and launched himself in the direction of the armed watcher. The guy saw Bolan’s move and swung his wavering M-16 back in line. Bolan weaved to the left as he closed on the man, heard the sudden crack of the weapon and felt something burn across his left hip. He slammed into the shooter as the man started up off his seat, his powerful hands closing over the weapon, forcing it upward. Bolan wrenched the assault rifle from the man’s grip, then slammed the butt across the side of his head, spinning him away. As the guard went to his knees, Bolan swept the M-16 around, flicking the selector to full-auto and fired off a couple of bursts that had Granger’s crew dropping to the floor of the cabin. He directed his fire at the flight cabin, the 5.56 mm slugs smashing into instruments and shattering the Plexiglas canopy.
Movement from the copilot drew Bolan’s attention as the man got out of his seat, hauling an automatic pistol from his holster. Bolan hit him with a burst that threw him back against the control console.
A shape moved past Bolan. Dukas reached Granger, who had hunched over to protect himself from the gunfire, and without breaking stride she snatched the package from his hand, turning and running back to where Bolan stood, the M-16 covering Granger’s crew.
Deadly Contact Page 13