Deadly Contact

by Don Pendleton

  “Now what?” she whispered.

  “I hadn’t planned much beyond this,” Bolan said.

  The chopper swayed suddenly and threw them all to port, the pilot struggling with controls that were threatening to cease working altogether.

  “Bastard took out the controls,” he screamed. “I’m losing it.”

  “I don’t pay you to fucking lose it,” Granger yelled back.

  The Sikorsky nosed down, speed increasing with the deadweight of the unstable craft. It swung from side to side, the rugged terrain looming large as they began to lose height with increasing velocity.

  “Tell me about this plan again,” Dukas said, hanging on to Bolan.

  “Later.” He took the package from her and zipped it into a pocket of his pants.

  “Is there going to be a later?” she asked.

  “Hang on.”

  “Why do I need…”

  The helicopter had started to vibrate, the fuselage flexing as the heavy aircraft dropped again, then settled as the pilot managed to regain a degree of control, stabilizing the craft.

  Bolan and Dukas were forgotten briefly as Granger and his crew paid attention to what the pilot was doing, mortality seeming the more important consideration at that moment. Edging forward, Bolan positioned himself and Dukas close to the side hatch.

  “I see what you mean,” she said as the ground became clearer, trees and undergrowth looming larger outside the helicopter. “Aren’t we still going too fast?”

  “Timber will slow us if we hit,” Bolan said.

  “Don’t you mean when?”

  The Sikorsky skimmed the tops of trees, shredding the branches. The contact threw the aircraft in a half circle, tilting it. The main rotors sliced through branches, the tail rising suddenly. Throwing the passengers around like corks on the ocean. If Bolan had not been hanging on to a support rail and Dukas holding on to him, they might have been thrown across the cabin. The erratic flight of the chopper increased, the roar of sound as it plowed through the trees was deafening. View ports shattered, the aluminum fuselage ripping open in places. Cold air howled through the rents on the metal. Somewhere electrical cabling crackled as it fused. The front canopy imploded. The pilot was battered before he could vacate his seat, his bloodied body torn and punctured. There was a sudden increase in sound, cracking and splintering that overwhelmed everything else. The chopper seemed to stall in its forward flight then dropped, tearing a destructive path through the trees before it hit the sloping ground below. The impact was less than Bolan might have expected, though there was still force enough to split the fuselage open. Someone screamed as he was catapulted out through the wide gap, the sound shut off as the helicopter rolled over his broken body.

  Bolan, hanging on one-handed, yanked the lock bar and freed the side hatch. He was hoping the impact had not pushed the frame out of alignment. He slammed his shoulder against the hatch, freeing it, then worked it along the slides. The moment there was enough of a gap he caught hold of Dukas and launched them out. They hit the slope hard, sliding over the loose surface, ducking their heads to avoid being struck by the falling shale and shattered timber following the helicopter. Bolan raised his head long enough to spot the tangled roots of a tree torn from the earth. The tree itself was wedged against an outcrop. Bolan dug in his heels to slow their descent, then threw out his free hand and caught hold of a twisted root. The sudden wrench jarred his muscles but he refused to let go, and with a sudden jerk they were still. Bolan saw the Sikorsky still sliding down the long slope, trailing smoke and debris in its wake.

  The Executioner sat up, ignoring the bruising pain burning the length of his body. He felt something digging into his back and realized it was the M-16. Without conscious thought he had slung the carrying strap over his shoulder and it had stayed with him. He pulled the weapon off his shoulder and checked it out. Apart from being streaked with dirt it appeared undamaged. Bolan checked the magazine, replaced it and cocked the weapon.

  Dukas pushed herself to a sitting position, brushing hair back from her battered face. “I used to believe it when they said the great outdoors was good for your health.”

  Bolan saw the helicopter shudder to a stop some two hundred yards below them. Smoke issued thickly from the engine housing. “Let’s go, he said. “We need cover before they start shooting.”

  Dukas followed his line of sight and saw movement as figures scrambled out of the wrecked chopper. Then the crackle of autofire, slugs raking the slope around Bolan and Dukas. The shooters were firing uphill, and it would take them a few rounds to find their range. Bolan didn’t intend to present them with an easy target.

  They pushed away from their position, digging in with their feet to gain purchase on the loose slope. Bolan allowed Dukas to move ahead of him so he could check on Granger’s men. His close observance paid off when he saw a raised autorifle release a grenade from an M-16 M-203 combo. Bolan slammed into Dukas, driving them both down as the explosive detonated far to their left, sending a mushroom of dirt and snow into the air. Bolan felt the pressure of the blast and the impact of debris against his back.

  On his feet, Bolan urged Dukas upright and they angled across the slope, where thick foliage offered temporary cover. As they worked their way in toward the undergrowth, Bolan heard the soft rush of air as another grenade came their way. it struck too far away to do any harm.

  Sucking air into their starved lungs, they paused long enough for Bolan to check out the dispersment of Granger’s crew. Bolan saw one of them starting up the slope. He seemed to have located an area where the surface of the slope was less treacherous and was making good progress.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They traveled steadily, aware of the cold that managed to penetrate their weatherproof clothing. Bolan kept an eye on the prevailing conditions, noting that the snowfall showed no signs of stopping. It was made worse by the constant wind that gusted down from the higher slopes, picking up the fallen snow and swirling it about.

  The endless spread of the peaks surrounded them. It would have been easy to have given in and allowed defeat to slow them. The constant moving across the rugged terrain didn’t appear to be getting them anywhere, but as far as Bolan was concerned they were faced with two distinct and immovable options.

  Quit and let Granger take them.

  Or keep moving, offering resistance, and make Granger and his crew pay for every foot of ground.

  SOMETIME AFTER THEY HAD reached the head of the slope and were trekking through an undulating gully, Bolan reached out to touch Dukas. She turned, a question beginning to form, then saw his signal for silence. Bolan moved close, lowering his voice as he spoke.

  “That guy we spotted. I think he’s close.”

  “Are you going to…?”

  He nodded.

  “I want to keep it quiet in case there are others in the vicinity.” Bolan looked around and spotted what he wanted. He indicated a low depression choked with undergrowth. “Cover for you. Now.”

  Dukas made a wide detour, then angled around to the far side of the depression before dropping flat and sliding under cover. Bolan made a similar move, into some timber, then doubled back and hauled himself onto a jutting outcropping that overlooked the tracks they had made. He crouched on top, leaned over and dropped the M-16 into the snow a few feet away from the outcropping. He would have been the first to admit it was a crude deception and wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but his intention was to take advantage of even the briefest opportunity. He had no choice, or time, to do anything else.

  The man came around the outcropping, his M-16 raised, muzzle searching. He paused when he spotted Bolan’s discarded rifle, making a wide sweep of the area, then reached for the transceiver clipped to his belt.

  Bolan came down off the outcropping, slamming into the man’s shoulder. The impact took them both to the ground, the rifle spinning from the intruder’s hands as he landed. They rolled apart and Bolan recovered fast, gaining his feet. He
saw the other man pushing up off the ground, on his knees and reaching for the Beretta holstered on his hip. Closing in, Bolan launched a powerful kick that struck the man’s skull, knocking him back, throwing out a hand to steady himself. He raised his head and saw Bolan’s follow-up. He tried to avoid it, but Bolan’s boot crunched against his left cheek, shattering bone, twisting his head at a deadly angle and slamming him facedown on the ground. Bolan followed down, straddling the prone figure. His neck had been broken.

  Bolan rolled the body and helped himself to the combat rig that held extra magazines for the M-16 and the Beretta 92-F. He clipped the rig in place and took the firepower. He freed the transceiver and clipped it to his own belt. He paused to recover his own rifle before he crossed to where Dukas lay concealed.

  “We can get out of here now,” he said.

  She pushed to her feet and joined him, her glance taking in the dead man.

  “They’re not going to quit, are they?”

  “Neither will we,” the Executioner said.

  He led the way, their travel taking them on a continuing downward route. The snowfall had become a chill drizzle. Farther down the rugged slopes Bolan could see the misty drift of rain where the snow had dispersed completely.

  “I think I prefer the snow,” Dukas muttered.

  They maintained a steady pace, slowed by the treacherous surface of the slopes, where loosened earth and rock made the way difficult to negotiate.

  MOVING SHAPES AND SHADOWS warned Bolan that Granger’s crew was still on the move. He pulled Dukas into cover as they drew level with a stand of timber. Selecting single-shot Bolan shouldered the M-16, bracing himself against a sturdy trunk as he took aim at the lead figure pursuing them. He stroked the trigger, feeling the rifle buck against his shoulder, and saw the target go down hard. The sound was still drifting across the timbered slopes as return fire began. It was more of a conditioned reflex rather than a deliberate burst, and the slugs were well off Bolan’s position.

  He motioned for Dukas to move deeper into the timberline, letting the shadows fold around them. They crouched among the dripping foliage, chilled by the sodden clothing they were wearing.

  “I’d give anything to be a few days back,” Dukas said. “Going back to my nice warm apartment. Sitting with a cup of coffee. Relaxing and…” Her voice faltered. “Damn those people. All I can think of is Tira begging for her life while those bastards cut her to pieces. How could they destroy a young life that way? Another human being.”

  “They see it as survival. A threat to their safety because they see their lives as more important.”

  “That excuse isn’t good enough,” Dukas said bitterly.

  “I wasn’t excusing them. I was telling you how they see it.”

  Bolan raised a hand for silence, gesturing for Dukas to go deeper. He moved the M-16’s selector to full-auto, rising so he could check out the sound source that had alerted him. He focused, separating substance from shadow and detailed two armed figures. They were outfitted exactly the same as all the other Granger crew members. He watched them moving in his direction, judging distance, and opened fire, hitting the closest man in the chest. Switching targets, he caught the second guy in the chest and head.

  Bolan turned and hauled Dukas upright and took them deeper into the timber as he heard raised voices and the crash of bodies pushing through the foliage. They moved through the heavy growth that grabbed at their clothing and snagged their exposed hands. Underfoot the ground was sodden and spongy. It held them back, allowing their pursuers to stay close.

  From overhead, Bolan picked up the beat of a helicopter. It was moving in on their position, and he realized this was why Granger’s crew had easily been reinforced. The man and his money could buy however many gunners he needed to back his play and keep the battle in the wilderness where it was undetected.

  If Granger wanted a war, the Executioner thought, he could have one.

  18

  “Dead? All of them?”

  Granger absorbed the information. Billingham and Radin. Even Radin’s security man, Jatko.

  “You want to talk to Billingham’s guy?” Marker asked. “He’s staying out of sight. The local law is out in force scouring the town, so he has to keep low. Pavlic’s dead too, so at least that’s taken care of.”

  “You handle it.”

  Granger felt a surge of pain from his aching arm and reached up to grip it. He had come out of the downed Sikorsky with little more than the badly bruised arm, but with his pride hurt badly. As soon as Marker had sent the crew out to follow Cooper and the woman, he had used his radio to call in a replacement chopper, with an additional team of shooters. By the time the helicopter had reached them Granger’s mood had soured even more. His initial anger had been replaced by frustration and a growing bitterness as he accepted the fact that he had lost the package within a short time of getting his hands on it.

  Granger, seated at one of the helicopter’s view ports, glanced at his second in command. “At least we know where we stand, Lee. It comes down to this son of a bitch Cooper. I have to admire him. The way he’s come through all this and is still on the move.”

  “He has to be more than just a federal agent. The way he operates, I’d guess he’s got military training backing him, which makes it harder. He knows evasion tactics. Only thing slowing him down is the Dukas woman. If he was on his own, he’d be hitting us even harder,” Marker said.

  Granger smiled. “Lee, he isn’t doing too badly with the Dukas woman on his hands.”

  Marker touched the raw bruises on his face. They extended from his cheek to the hairline and hurt like hell. “I owe that bastard.”

  One of the chopper’s crew approached them.

  “I’ve received an update from the ground team,” he said. “They have Cooper and the woman spotted.” He showed them a map. “Right about here. Ground visibility is poor. Snow’s gone, but it’s raining pretty bad. Cooper is moving along this slope. Southwest. In a couple of miles they’ll hit a water course. It flows into a deep ravine. If they get in there, it isn’t going to be easy to flush them out.”

  “Can we get to them first?” Marker asked.

  “The pilot says yes. The ravine might be tricky for the chopper. Until we hit it we won’t know if we can fly through.”

  Marker nodded. “Tell the pilot to concentrate on getting us to Cooper first. See if we can block off the ravine. Stop them getting inside. Have the men close in and watch for them climbing out. And tell them to watch out for Cooper. He’s as slippery as snake oil.”

  Granger settled back in his seat, reaching for one of the flasks holding hot coffee. “Lee, if we come through this I won’t forget it.”

  “I’ll remind you about that,” Marker said.

  “THERE,” DUKAS SAID.

  Bolan turned and saw the dark shape of the Sikorsky as it rose above the ridge, driving sheets of rain across the bare rock slope. He felt the draft from the spinning rotors, heard the heavy roar of the turbine as the aircraft swept in at them. He made a grab for Dukas, pulling her off balance so she slid off the wet rock and out of sight.

  The barely audible crackle of autofire reached his ears as 5.56 mm slugs danced off the rock surface inches from Bolan. He crouched and angled his own weapon up at the chopper as it swept overhead, releasing a burst of full-auto fire that raked the chopper’s underside.

  From her position below him Bolan heard Dukas yell. “Damn it, Cooper, get down here. Please.”

  The Sikorsky curved away, making a wide turn, allowing Bolan an opportunity to reach better cover. He dropped over the lip and slid down the streaming rock to where Dukas crouched. She stared at him, silent for once, her face pale and wet, dark hair plastered against her skull.

  Below them the ravine wall fell away in a series of serrated ledges, widening its span. The rushing water foamed where it hit the rocky sides.

  “That chopper can’t get below the rim,” Bolan said. “Not enough clearance to make it safe.”


  He reminded himself that restriction wouldn’t apply to Granger’s armed crew.

  The helicopter made its return sweep at that moment, forced to remain above the ravine. It hovered over them like some dark, venomous insect. As Bolan and Dukas worked their way down the uneven wall, someone opened fire. With the slight overhang at the top of the ravine there was little chance of them being hit, but Bolan still registered the snap and whine of the slugs as they struck the rock above them.

  They kept moving down the side of the ravine until they were no more than three feet from the swollen mass of water, soaked by the spray that was hurled up at them, and colder than either of them would have ever chosen to be.

  The sound of the chopper faded into the background as they moved along the ravine, conscious of the chill water below and choosing hand- and footholds with extreme care. A slip would put them in the freezing water.

  The ravine narrowed ahead of them, becoming almost a tunnel formation as the upper walls closed in. Thick foliage and twisted trees formed a dense canopy, shutting out much of the daylight, leaving them in a shadowy near twilight.

  Bolan picked out a spot ahead where the lower face of the ravine extended out to form a level shelf above the rushing water. It offered a safe place for them to rest. Close to the ravine side the shelf escaped even the water spray and was dry. He called to Dukas that they could take a short break, and there was no objection from her. She squatted with her back to the ravine wall, head down.

  Bolan listened for the Sikorsky. It was either too far away for him to hear, or perhaps it had landed to put men on the ground. One way or another it was still around. He didn’t fool himself into believing Ramsey Granger had backed off.

  Down on his heels, Bolan checked his weapon first.

  “Matt.”

  He turned to Dukas. She pushed damp hair back from her face and stared at him.