The driver of the rig, having witnessed the fate of the tail car, stepped on the gas and the big vehicle surged away from Bolan. The straight, even desert road allowed for high speed with no obstructions. It also allowed no diversions. There was no way the rig could escape. But Bolan was aware that he wasn’t about to have everything his own way. Ahead of the big rig were two more escort vehicles, which he had not discounted. They made themselves noticed when they pulled ahead of the rig, and then one of them, another hefty 4x4, fell back to run alongside.
CADE CRENNA SNAPPED in a magazine and cocked the SMG.
“That fuckin’ idiot,” he said. “All Dane had to do was lock the bastard up. He couldn’t even manage that. Keep this thing steady and I’ll spread that mother all over this desert.”
His partner, Lou Bukowski, nodded. “Make sure you do. This was supposed to be an easy run. No hassle, now we got that fed shit on our tail.”
Crenna, working his way to the rear of the 4x4, said, “Watch me wipe him off our ass.”
He reached the tailgate and pressed the button that would power down the window. Dry wind fluttered inside the rear compartment. Crenna positioned himself and raised the SMG, pushing the barrel of his weapon outside. He felt the 4x4 sway as Bukowski worked to keep it steady. Too late, he pulled the trigger, knowing his first volley was going to be off target. He saw the Cherokee slow and fall back.
“Jesus, don’t you know what the fuck a straight line is?”
“Yeah, about as much as you know how to shoot.”
“Funny…Shit, he’s coming back…”
THE TAILGATE WINDOW of the 4x4 slid down and Bolan saw the muzzle of a weapon appear. The shooter opened up, spraying a burst of autofire that cleared Bolan’s vehicle by inches. It forced the soldier to drop back out of range, and he saw the big rig diminishing as it increased speed. The 4x4 remained in its side position. With that running interference, Bolan was forced to stay back. He wasn’t about to lose his quarry. The opposition had no idea what he was carrying.
He was about to show them.
The soldier pushed down on the gas pedal again, closing the gap, and pulled up close to the rear of the big rig, hiding himself briefly from the escorting 4x4. He even picked up the squeal of tires as the 4x4 braked, reducing its speed. Seconds later it came into view. Bolan was ready for its appearance. He had his driver’s window down, the muzzle of his Uzi resting there. The moment the vehicle appeared, the Executioner tracked in with the 9 mm SMG. He eased back on the trigger and sprayed the rear and side of the 4x4 with a full magazine. Glass shattered and slugs cored in through the metal body panels. The shooter in the rear twisted to one side as he caught a number of the slugs, his weapon slipping from his grasp, falling and bouncing as it hit the tarmac.
The driver of the 4x4 powered his vehicle away, out of range, but Bolan had no intention of backing off now. He pulled out from behind the rig, bringing his Cherokee up close behind the 4x4. He hauled the big Desert Eagle from its holster on his belt, transferring it to his left hand. The Desert Eagle held eight .44 rounds. They stored a lot of power and Bolan knew that. He thrust the pistol out of his side window and triggered his shots through the open tailgate. One of the big slugs hit the driver, tearing through his right shoulder, exiting and shattering the blood-spattered windshield. The 4x4 swerved toward the rig, bouncing off the solid bulk of the vehicle, then angled off across the tarmac and into the soft sand bordering the road. It fell behind Bolan quickly, a heavy cloud of dust trailing in its wake.
Bolan placed the Desert Eagle on the seat beside him, reaching for one of the M-72 A-6 LAWs lying on the floor. He had no idea how long he might have before the remaining escort vehicle showed. Right then his main concern was the big rig hauling the weapons. He stepped on the brake and brought the Cherokee to a slithering halt, freeing his seat harness and exiting the vehicle. He was activating the LAW even as he stepped out of the vehicle, watching the rig head away from him. Bolan stepped clear of the SUV, shouldering the LAW and sighting on the rig. Once he had target acquisition he eased back on the trigger and felt the LAW recoil on his shoulder. The missile left a thin trail in its wake as it sped toward its target, the rocket locking on and staying there until it slammed into the trailer’s rear doors. The rocket penetrated the metal and detonated inside the long container. The blast took the trailer and its contents apart in a roaring fireball, filling the air with shredded debris. The rig continued forward until the tractor swerved back and forth, twisting the burning skeleton that was all that remained of the rig. The road wheels were alight, chunks of blazing rubber flying everywhere. The moving pyre rolled on for another hundred yards before it came to a jerking halt at the side of the road.
As the drifting smoke that obscured the road ahead began to clear, Bolan spotted the remaining escort car as it slowly about-faced and started back in his direction. He leaned inside the Cherokee and picked up a second LAW, extending the tube. Stepping to the middle of the road, he raised the weapon and tracked in on the advancing vehicle. It slowed and came to a full stop as the driver recognized what Bolan was pointing at him. He turned and spoke to his partners. They were in a no-win situation. If they kept coming, Bolan would burn them before they got anywhere near. If they tried to reverse away and turn around, he could do the same. So they decided surrender was the safest option.
The driver eased open his door ready to step out. The other Brethren soldiers did the same.
They had no way of knowing this was a no-quarter situation.
Bolan triggered the LAW before one of their feet had touched the tarmac, blowing the car and its occupants into a blackened and blazing pyre. Dropping the empty casing, the Executioner gathered the remaining LAW and walked across the road until he could see the cab of the tractor that had pulled the now demolished trailer. There was a driver and his partner. One of the cab doors, the driver’s, swung open and an armed figure jumped out. He was yelling his defiance even as Bolan fired the LAW. The missile struck the cab unit and turned it into a bright, full ball of fire. Debris exploded in all directions. The armed driver was still making his jump to the ground when the force of the blast engulfed him. He was hurled, screaming across the road, engulfed in flames. His partner was hurled through the shattered windshield and dumped ten feet in front of the vehicle, his body smoking and charred.
Bolan was in the Cherokee and starting to turn while debris was still raining down on the devastation that had visited that quiet desert road in the middle of nowhere.
Before he moved on Bolan had a return visit to make to the facility and the warehouse where there was still a sizable cache of weapons and ammunition to dispose of.
Then this phase of his mission would be concluded.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chicago
Carl Lyons checked his watch. Time enough for him to launch his strike against the Chicago storage facility, which was located in a disused industrial site on the south side of the city. At one time the site had supported up to a dozen plants that manufactured steel goods, trailer construction and other allied industries. Now, with the downturn in the industry, this was a dead zone of dilapidated workshops and empty warehouses. Trash littered the broken concrete walkways and loading platforms. Every window in every building had been broken long ago, and graffiti colored many walls. Even the vandals had abandoned the area and left it to slowly deteriorate.
Lyons had located the industrial site, parking his 4x4 in the dark shadows beneath a mildewed arch that supported a rail track once used by the industrial site to deliver raw materials to the businesses. The rail spur line, like the industrial site, was devoid of traffic. After securing his vehicle, Lyons moved out. He wore a set of camou fatigues and carried a medium-size backpack that held a number of primed explosive compound blocks. His Colt Python rode in a shoulder rig, and he had a mini-Uzi in his hands. A webbing belt around his waist held speed loaders for the Python, extra mags for the SMG and a Cold Steel Tanto combat knife in a sheath.
An armed guard patrolled the area. Lyons watched his movements, checking the perimeter of the guy’s walk. It was the same distance each time. At the end of his patrol the guard paused, then turned and retraced his steps. Lyons studied the man for close to ten minutes. By the end of that time Lyons was becoming restless. He decided he had monitored the guard for long enough. He scanned the distance between his position and the building, waited his moment, then used the ample cover to work his way to the far corner of the workshop where he slipped around the corner, slung his Uzi over his shoulder and pulled the combat knife from its sheath.
The soft tread of the guard told Lyons he was coming his way. He waited until the guy stopped, prior to turning. The scrape of booted feet on the ground told Lyons the man had started to turn. He waited another couple of seconds, then made his move, coming up behind the guard. His left hand clamped over the guy’s mouth, pulling his head back to expose and stretch the neck. The combat knife made its silent, gleaming arc, cutting into the throat deeply and cleanly. Warm blood surged from the wound as it gaped wide, spilling down the front of the guard’s coat. Lyons hauled the struggling man around the corner of the building, his big hand still in place to stifle any cries.
With the Uzi back in his hands Lyons headed for the open doors of the workshop. He flattened against the outer wall, checking the shadowed interior. It was a maze of rusting metal, some on steel racks, more on the floor in untidy piles, the detritus of a dead era, corroding and gathering dust. On silent feet Lyons eased inside, staying close to the corrugated metal wall as he assessed the situation.
He picked up the distant sounds of voices deeper inside the building, the scrape and thump of heavy objects being moved around. Lyons probed the way ahead, picking on the talk as his guide. As he weaved his way through the abandoned clutter, the voices and the banging became more distinct. Lyons was drawn in that direction, still unable to see his quarry because of the increasingly larger stacks of rusting metal—until he reached a spot where a clear section opened out. He found himself watching a group of armed men working around a stack of boxes and crates with recognizable shapes and sizes. He had seen enough weapons’ containers to know what he was looking at.
As he registered the number of armed figures in front of him, the merest sound caught his attention. It came from his left side, slightly to his rear, and Lyons knew without doubt it was not a good sign.
Glancing to the left Lyons saw a big man—genuinely big—bearing down on him. In the guy’s hands was a long steel bar that he was swinging at Lyons with the clear intention of causing severe harm.
Lyons pushed the Uzi into the path of the bar, risking damage to the weapon rather than to himself, dropping to a crouch to reduce his bulk.
The guy came in fast, despite his large size, swinging the thick metal bar. Lyons heard the whoosh of disturbed air. The bar struck the Uzi and ripped it from Lyons’s hands. His finger jerked back on the trigger, and the Uzi released a short burst just before it left Lyons’s hands. The weapon hit the concrete floor and slid into the shadows beneath a rack of metal sheets. Lyons came up out of his semicrouch, launching himself at his attacker. His right shoulder pounded the guy’s stomach, drawing a pained grunt. Lyons followed up with a solid forearm smash that impacted against the underside of the guy’s jaw. It closed his mouth and he bit down on his tongue, cutting it badly. Blood began to bubble from between his lips, running down his bruised jaw and spattering his sweatshirt. As fast as the big ex-cop was, he failed to get clear enough away as his opponent let go of the metal bar to wrap powerful arms around Lyons’s upper body, hugging him close and threatening to crush his ribs and spine.
The pressure was intense. The Able Team leader felt himself confined in the man’s bear grip. He stared into his face, already flushed and taut with the effort he was expending. No time for lengthy deliberations. Just simple and direct action. Lyons swung his head back, then forward, with the utmost force he could sustain. His savage head butt crushed his adversary’s nose and drew a strangled cry of pain. The guy’s grip slackened as he focused on the pain from his nose. It was a mess, spouting blood.
Lyons broke free, slamming hard right and left fists to his opponent’s face. The big man lost his balance and slumped to his knees. The former L.A.P.D. detective moved in, reaching down to where the guy knelt. He misjudged the situation and saw too late the guy snatch something from the floor. Lyons saw the length of scrap metal in the guy’s right hand. The thug lashed out and the ragged edge of steel sliced through Lyons’s clothing, slamming hard against his left side. The blow was solid, pain flaring, and Lyons felt blood starting to soak his clothing. He stepped back as his opponent lurched to his feet, holding the metal like a primitive sword, cutting back and forth as he threatened Lyons.
If the guy had been at his optimum performance, he might have landed a telling blow. His injuries clouded his awareness so his arm’s-length slashes at Lyons passed by harmlessly, giving the Stony Man commando the chance to move in and make a grab for the guy’s arm. He gripped the arm, twisted and swung the man toward him, then angled the metal strip, pushing it toward its owner. It pierced flesh just below the guy’s ribs. He gave a high scream as the raw edge cut in deep, blood bubbling out around the wound. A final heave buried the metal in the guy’s torso and the stricken man fell away, curling up on the warehouse floor.
Lyons drew his Python, breathing slow and easy. The pain in his left side showed no sign of easing off. He pressed his hand over the wound and felt blood oozing between his fingers. He wasn’t sure whether ribs had been broken or simply badly bruised at this stage. He leaned against the metal frame, pushing the pain to the back of his mind, and concentrated on picking up the extraneous sounds that echoed around the building.
Where had the Brethren gone?
The burst from Lyons’s Uzi had scattered them to take cover.
Were they still around, watching and waiting for him to show himself so they could pick him off?
Making himself an easy target wasn’t in Carl Lyons’s playbook.
The Uzi had disappeared somewhere in the shadows. Lyons wasn’t sure where, and he had no time to go searching for the weapon. He still had the .357 Python in his hand and at least three speed loaders on his belt. Off to his right, where the shadows were too dense for him to see, he heard the rattle of movement. A sharp sound. Metal against metal. Maybe a gun barrel scraping over abandoned machinery. Lyons pulled back deeper into his own cover, letting the darkness hide him, as well.
He waited, letting the enemy come to him.
He had learned the technique from Bolan and had honed it during many Able Team missions—letting the enemy do the approach, staying out of sight until the last moment, until the enemy walked into his killing ground and into his sights.
Right now, even from a couple of feet away, he was invisible.
And silent.
The Python was at his side, the muzzle pointing at the concrete floor. Silence settled. Lyons calmed his breathing in case the sound carried.
Now he was able to pick up the opposition’s presence. From the spot he’d heard before. The hard soles of heavy boots scraping as the wearer tried to move in closer. Whoever the guy was he lacked patience, which could prove fatal.
This was a waiting game and Lyons was no novice. He turned his attention toward the shadowed spot the sound had come from, adjusting his vision, and was rewarded when he made out the denser bulk of the man’s body. Maintaining his stance, Lyons noted the dull gleam of light reflecting off a gun barrel. He studied his approaching target, judging the position of the weapon to the man’s outline. He pu
lled back as far as he could, raising the Python two-handed, and took aim. It was well within the revolver’s range. A fraction of a second before Lyons fired, the guy moved again, stepping to the point where light began to materialize his face and body. Lyons didn’t hesitate. He gently stroked the trigger, felt the Python push against his grip as it fired, sending its powerful .357 Magnum round at the target. The head shot knocked the target back a couple of steps, turning him as the slug cored in through his skull and shut down his brain functions. The guy collapsed, barely making a sound as he dropped, the back of his skull a gaping maw.
Lyons sank to a crouch, leaning out a fraction to increase his field of vision. He caught movement off to his left as a shadow detached from the darkness beyond a pile of stacked metal drums. The guy was faster than his dead companion and proved he had spotted Lyons by letting rip with a long burst from the subgun he was fielding. The stream of slugs ripped at the edge of the frame, creating sparks before they whined off into the beyond. Lyons had pulled back but still felt the heat of their passing.
It might have been wise to stay back under cover, but that was not Lyons’s way. He chose to do the exact opposite, banking on the shooter to be curious as to whether he had hit his target. A footfall suggested he was right. Lyons edged forward and saw a dark-clad figure moving out from cover, leaning forward from his shoulder, the subgun probing ahead of him.
It was the lack of patience again, so often the catalyst that brought about misfortune. Lyons let the guy clear cover and stand exposed, peering at the shadows ahead of him and not expecting what happened next.
Lyons rose to his full height, swung around the edge of the steel frame and put two .357 rounds in the guy before he even registered he was being confronted. It was a foolish move, the last the guy would make, and another advantage for Lyons.
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