“I’m cold. Tired. Hungry,” she said. “If that makes me a whimpering amateur I don’t care. I’m still cold and tired and hungry.”
He moved beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. She was shivering.
“Is this the magic touch to make me feel better?” she asked.
“Is it working?”
“No, frankly, it isn’t.”
“Well, I’m cold and tired and hungry too.”
“Really?” she asked, and when he nodded said, “That doesn’t help either, but thanks for the solidarity.”
He hugged her close, feeling her rest her head against him. He felt for her condition and wished he could do something to make it better. But until they removed Granger’s lingering threat Dukas was going to have to deal with the situation as best she could. Her initial call for help had escalated beyond even Bolan’s expectations. The events that had brought them to this isolated corner of Colorado had allowed little time for much else than pure survival. They had been up against a determined enemy and the capricious weather conditions. Bolan figured they were lucky to have reached this far. He drew her closer, his arms enfolding her, using his own body warmth to comfort her as best he could.
Dukas would have stayed exactly where she was, and protested mildly when Bolan told her it was time for them to move on. He helped her to her feet, gently stroking her hair back from her cold face as she stood looking up at him.
“Hey, why don’t I wait here? You go on and get help then come back and get me,” she said with a weak smile.
“It doesn’t work like that. We get out of this together. Okay?” He picked up his weapons and took her arm, guiding her along the ledge. “See where the trees and foliage have overgrown the ravine? We can probably find a spot where we can climb to level ground again.”
“Won’t Granger have figured that out too? He’s probably sitting up there waiting while his men spread out.”
Bolan nodded.
“So we shouldn’t disappoint him.”
THEY MADE THEIR WAY CLOSE to the spot where ravine and vegetation merged, then located themselves behind an outcropping where Bolan was able to observe without being seen. The ravine side had been worn away by constant erosion and water. Behind the outcrop the wall curved in a hollow that formed a semicave. It would at least provide them with some shelter as well as protection. He made Dukas move to the inside corner and made it clear he didn’t want her to move until he gave her the word.
He handed her the Beretta and a couple of extra magazines.
Bolan eased to his chosen spot. He was able to see well into the passage. He set the M-16 for single-shot, then settled in to wait. He knew Granger’s men would show. They would assess the location and send some of their number into the ravine to scout him out.
After twenty minutes he saw the foliage ripple, the leaves shivering as someone eased into the ravine. A second man followed, three feet to the left of the first man. Bolan leaned forward, focusing on the disturbance. He watched as the descending figures became visible. He maintained his quiet observance as they climbed farther down the ravine.
They were within ten feet of the base of the ravine wall, where a shallow ledge would afford them footholds. The Executioner wasn’t about to let them get that far. As the foliage thinned, the men were fully exposed, and Bolan saw his window of opportunity.
He leaned against the outcropping, the M-16 snug against his shoulder. His finger rested lightly on the trigger as he settled on his first target, the most distant man.
The shot cracked, echoing within the confines of the rock walls. The slug caught the man between the shoulders, pitching him face forward against the rock. He gave a startled cry as he bounced off the rock, desperately scrabbling for a handhold. There was a moment when he seemed to have gained a grip, then he fell back, twisting and hit the swirling water. He was swept out of sight in an instant.
Bolan’s second shot came even as the first man was falling. He settled on his target as the man turned, wide-eyed, his mouth opening in a protest against what he knew was going to happen. Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger, the rifle made its brittle sound and the target arched back off the ravine wall and followed the first man into the water. All that remained was a blood splash on the pale rock.
A shell casing rang sharply as it hit the rock at Bolan’s feet. It spun, rolled and came to rest close to where Dukas crouched. She stared at the bright metal, clutching the Beretta tight against her chest, but said nothing.
Near the top of the ravine Bolan saw more movement. He thought it was yet another incursion but realized it was someone climbing back up the wall. A third man, seeing the fate of his companions, was retreating. Bolan raised the M-16 and viewed the area. The foliage was denser, so it took him a few seconds to identify his target. The man’s too eager movements were exposing him. Bolan tracked his target and placed three shots into the area. Cool and precise. He saw foliage shred, picked out the dark-clad shape as the man fell back, hung for a moment, then fell, turning over a couple of times before he struck the ledge at the base of the ravine wall, his body set at odd angles, one leg trapped under his body. Blood seeped from beneath the body and from the back of his skull where it had impacted with the unyielding rock.
Bolan focused on the head of the ravine where the men had started their climb. He laid a half dozen shots into the area to establish his presence, then pulled back from his firing position and slid to a crouch across from Dukas.
“I’m glad I didn’t see that,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “Will they come again?”
“Depends how much Granger is paying them. They’ll need to ask themselves if it’s enough to lay themselves on the line any longer. Granger will tell them it’s important. In their minds they’ll be wondering if important is enough to put themselves on the firing line. Three more dead in less than a minute. It’s a hell of a price for a wad of cash.”
“Where do these men come from?” Dukas asked.
“Ex-military mostly. Men who spent years being trained for just this kind of thing. Then they find the country doesn’t need them any longer, so they leave the service with skills no one wants. Some adjust. Others don’t. But there’s always someone, somewhere, who needs these men. So they sign on. Money’s good. Better than they got in the service. Risk is something they were trained to accept. So they take the money and do the time. Men like Granger use these people to do their dirty work.”
A cascade of small stones rattled on the rock face above where they were crouched. Overhead Bolan heard a man curse softly. The rattle of autofire shattered the silence. Slugs hammered at the rock around them, the curve of the ravine wall protecting them. The slugs struck feet away. Shell casings showered down from the shooter’s weapon.
“Stay back,” Bolan said. He moved along the base of the rock wall, then stepped out and scanned the ravine above him.
Two of them were coming down on ropes, firing wildly now that their presence had been exposed. One of them saw Bolan as he stepped into view. He yelled a warning to his partner and raised his weapon.
The M-16, now set on automatic, crackled harshly, jacking out its shots. The first guy jerked and squirmed on the end of his rope as Bolan’s slugs hammered into his body, blowing bloody exit holes. He slumped loosely, then fell.
Swinging the muzzle, Bolan picked up on the second man. The gunner’s weapon had already settled on Bolan’s position. They fired together. Slugs screamed off the rock face around the man, then cored in as Bolan’s aim was adjusted. The man spun on his rope, his throat and head torn open by M-16’s repeated bursts.
Bolan was down on one knee, nursing a bloody left side. One of the 9 mm slugs had lodged just under his ribs, above the earlier gash he’d received. He clamped a hand over the wound, feeling blood seeping through his fingers. A wave of nausea rolled over him, and he was forced to stay down until it passed.
Firm hands reached around his shoulders, helping him upright, drawing
him back under cover, then eased him down.
“Give me that rifle,” Dukas said.
He realized he was still gripping the M-16. She took it and he watched as she removed the spent magazine, took a fresh one from his harness and clicked it into place. She cocked the weapon then propped it against the rock close by. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”
“Some days you wish you didn’t bother to get out of bed,” he replied.
“If this was a Western, I’d be tearing strips off my petticoat now to make bandages. See how practical they were in those days?”
“I don’t even have a knife to heat so you can dig the bullet out,” he replied.
“No whisky?” she asked.
“To sterilize the wound?”
“For me to drink myself into a stupor and forget this nightmare,” Dukas said.
Their position was no laughing matter, but her solemn proclamation hit the spot. Her mouth formed into a smile, and Bolan knew she was a survivor.
Dukas insisted on looking at the wound. The flesh just behind the entry point bulged slightly, and when she gently probed it she could feel the hard outline of the bullet. The wound was bleeding but not profusely.
“It doesn’t seem to have gone in too deep. Hasn’t severed any blood vessels or it would be bleeding more than it is,” Bolan said.
“Is that the good news?”
He shook his head. “No bullet wound has any good news. It needs dealing with, but right now we don’t have any way of doing that.”
She turned to look away for a moment. Before Bolan could say anything she had made her way to where the fallen man lay. She searched his body, then unclipped the small backpack he wore before scrambling back to Bolan.
“Yes, I know, it was stupid and risky and I should have known better,” she muttered.
She opened the backpack and tipped out the contents.
“What have we got?”
She glanced at the contents.
“Folding knife. Throwaway lighter, pack of cigarettes. Hey, small first-aid kit. Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reached behind her and produced a water canteen. “It was clipped to his belt.”
She opened the canteen and took a swallow. She bared her teeth and sucked in a sharp breath. “That is cold.”
She passed the canteen to Bolan. He drank a little.
“I need you to do something for me,” he said, picking up the knife and the lighter.
Dukas watched as he opened the knife and examined the cold steel blade. Then he flicked the lighter and held the flame steady, passing the blade of the knife back and forth. When he was satisfied he poured some of the water over the blade to cool it. By this time Dukas was staring at him, eyes wide as she realized what his request was going to be.
“Open that kit and see what’s inside,” Bolan requested.
“My God, you’re serious. You want me to perform one of those Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman operations. Cut you open and take out that bullet?”
“Either that or you might have to carry me out of here on your back.”
“You said yourself it isn’t a bad wound.”
“No,” Bolan replied. “I said the bullet hadn’t gone in deep. Any bullet wound is potentially bad. The bullet might not kill but infection can. From the bullet itself. Contamination sucked into the wound. Shreds of cloth. Dirt. If infection sets in it spreads. Poisons the body.”
“I’m no doctor—”
“Small incision along the length of the bullet. Expose it and get it out.” Bolan indicated the first-aid kit. “Let’s take a look.”
She unzipped the square pack and laid it open.
“Pressure pads, roll of bandage, tape, sealed sterile pads.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Couple of pairs of disposable latex gloves.”
“Put a pair on now before you touch anything,” Bolan said.
Dukas followed his instructions. Despite the queasiness settling in her stomach she realized his argument was sound. There was no alternative. She held up her gloved hands. Bolan handed her the knife.
“When you take the bullet out use the sterile pads to clean the incision. There’s going to be blood, so it should help lubricate the wound.”
“Matt, this is going to hurt. If my hand shakes—”
“It won’t. I trust you,” he said.
He lay back, turning slightly so the wound was exposed. Dukas focused on the spot, seeing the discoloration that followed the outline of the bullet. She reached and took a couple of the sterile pads and placed them close by.
“Make the cut just beyond the wound, go the length of the bullet and beyond,” he instructed.
“How will I get the bullet out?” she asked.
“Use the blade to probe it. You ready?” he asked.
“No, but I’ll do it.”
“If I make any noise ignore it. Just keep going once you start.”
Kneeling beside him, Dukas used her left hand to stretch the flesh on either side of the discolored bruise. She brought the tip of the knife down, almost touching his flesh, then stopped. She could feel her heart racing. She took a deep breath, steadied her nerves and cut. The knife was incredibly sharp. It sliced through the flesh with ease. She tried to ignore the blood, as she did the involuntary reaction he made. She heard the breath he sucked in. She drew the knife along the hard outline of the bullet. She was surprised at her sudden calm. She felt the tip of the blade slip as it reached the end of the bullet and remembered what Bolan had instructed about extending beyond. Blood was running freely, welling up from the incision and streaming down Bolan’s side.
She kept her nerve. The incision lay open as she stretched it with her left hand, fingers warm from the blood. Leaning in closer, she saw the dull gleam of the bullet embedded in the raw flesh. She heard Bolan’s harsh breathing. There was no other indication of what he was going through. He was in pain, she knew that, but he was fighting against it.
“I can see the bullet. I’m going to try to get it out,” she whispered.
She used the tip of the blade to ease the bullet from the bloody cavity. She went to the tip, where the taper of the metal slug would allow her to ease the knife beneath it. She used her fingers to probe the edges of the incision and force them apart. As she exerted pressure, she heard Bolan give a low groan and for the first time his body arched in protest. She kept probing, felt the flesh give a little and slipped the knife tip beneath the blood-slick bullet. She felt it give and slid the blade a little farther along the underside of the bullet, forcing it up out of the wound until she was able to drop the knife and ease the bullet out with her thumb and finger.
She cast the bullet aside, reaching for one of the sterile packs and tore open the foil covering. Bending over once again, she used the sterile pad to wipe inside the incision, ignoring the fact she was still hurting Bolan. When the pad was sodden with blood she opened a second one and repeated the action, examining the inside of the wound each time she wiped away the fresh blood that still welled up. The wound looked clean—as clean as she was going to be able to judge under the conditions they were in.
Leaning back, she peeled off the gloves and pulled on a fresh pair. Using more of the sterile pads she did her best to stop the bleeding. It took some time before the blood stopped flowing so readily, and she had run out of sterile pads except for one. She wanted to use that beneath the pressure pad when she bandaged it in place.
“You awake?” He had gone very still and quiet. “I need you to sit up in a minute.”
He turned his head to look at her. Sweat beaded his pale face.
“You finished?”
“I’m going to put the pressure pad in place and wind the bandage round you. I’ll need you to sit up for that. Just take it slow. No way we can sew that incision up, so you’ll probably have a scar. On the plus side it isn’t too much of an incision so it won’t spoil your chances in next year’s bikini contest. Well, no more than all your other scars.”
“That’s taken a weight off my mind,�
� Bolan said.
Dukas dressed the wound. “You’re going to need to rest for a while,” she said.
Bolan buttoned his shirt and zipped up his thick coat. The clothes felt cold against his body. Like it or not they were going to have to stay put for the moment.
The downside was that Granger’s men knew where they were. He had succeeded in taking out a percentage of Granger’s crew but at the cost of revealing their position. The unknown was the size of Granger’s crew. How many more were waiting above the ravine? And how long would they wait before Granger sent them in?
Bolan pulled the M-16 close, surveying the upper section of the ravine. He could see no movement.
Bolan realized he hadn’t given the package much thought since he and Dukas had bailed out of the Sikorsky. He leaned forward and unzipped his pocket, withdrawing the sealed parcel. He sat looking at it.
“Here,” Dukas said, passing him the folding knife. “It’s time we had a look at that damn thing.”
Bolan slit the tape holding the package together. He peeled back the outer layer and exposed a layer of bubble wrap, then beneath that a leather disk holder. He opened the zipper and exposed three shiny disks, each its own plastic sleeve. Bolan read the labels and saw they all referred to business files.
“Which is the disk?” Dukas asked.
“I doubt Pavlic would have labeled it,” the soldier stated.
“I guess not. He probably placed it as a hidden file. Maybe even encrypted so it wouldn’t show even if someone loaded it. Aaron’s the one to access it. He’ll know what to do.”
“Don’t worry about that, honey,” someone said. “Our own expert will dig it out.”
Three armed figures confronted them, weapons on track. The one who appeared to be in charge stepped forward. He was lean, with pale eyes as cold as the icy water running through the ravine. He was tall, over six feet, and had to bend forward to take the case from Bolan’s hand.
His name was Lee Marker.
Dukas glanced at Bolan and saw his slight shake of the head. She could imagine he was thinking the same thing she was. That they had been caught off guard by the stealthy approach of these men, probably during the time she had been removing the bullet from Bolan’s side. It was a mistake that had cost them dearly.
Deadly Contact Page 15