5: DEATH TRAP
He rounded the corner and moved quickly along the street in a cautious withdrawal toward the warwagon—a very special vehicle he’d acquired in New Orleans an eternity or so ago. The unconscious girl was draped over his left shoulder—not much of a burden at a hundred pounds or so but a bit slippery. It was the dress that was causing the problem, a silky little chemise sort of thing that seemed to have no reference whatever to the body beneath it—a rather delectable body even under such strained circumstances.
It was that high-rise bottom, Bolan realized, that was the center of the problem. His carrying forearm was locked in just below the swelling buttocks as the most practical point of purchase—and the elusive dress, which barely covered the point, anyway, simply was not playing ball with the situation.
Fifty paces off the wharf he elected to sacrifice a bit of female modesty in the interests of the practical realities of the matter, pausing to readjust the load and get a better handle on it, moving the slippery material up and over the problem area and placing a hand where it did the most good.
No sooner had that problem been righted than another presented itself. A twin beam of automobile foglights was moving along the street toward him, close to the curb and cruising slowly with a spotlight probing the sidewalk along Bolan’s side of the street.
Cops, was Bolan’s first reading—primarily because he had been wondering about the apparent lack of response to the gunfire on the wharf.
He quickly slid the girl down into a frontal embrace, positioned flopping arms about his neck, and held her there with her back against the wall of a building.
It was not much of a play, and he knew it, but it seemed the only thing available at the moment. The fog was not all that thick up here off the water, either; if it was cops, the thing could be touch and go. Mack Bolan did not gunfight with the law.
The spot of light had not touched, them by the time the vehicle drew directly abreast, and Bolan was breathing easier as it moved on past into the mists. But there was something ominous about that car; from what Bolan could see, it did not have the appearance of an official police vehicle.
As if to substantiate that gut feeling, it halted one car length beyond Bolan’s position, a door opened and a cautious voice with a most decided East Coast inflection quietly commanded, “Run the spot back along that wall.”
Another door opened and Bolan heard heavy feet hit the pavement.
The spotlight danced rearward, momentarily catching and illuminating two figures on the sidewalk beside the vehicle.
And, no, it was not cops.
It was a hard force, and the two guys on the sidewalk were carrying Thompson subs without stocks—very ornery weapons, from any point of view.
Suckered!
He should have scouted the area better before committing himself to a fight on this turf!
Bolan did not—nor could he afford to—make many mistakes. In a game like his, every number was vitally important. But, yeah, he’d goofed on this one—miscalculated the enemy.
What hurt the most, in that realization, was the knowledge that this maneuver was a simple SOP for the mob. They frequently worked this way, in a “layered” operation. They’d used a front line force, “goats” for the actual work at the warehouse. Then a set crew just up off the scene, for direct support—Flora and Trinity. Finally a “saver” force cruising the backdrops, playing the rear—like a football defense with linebackers and safety backs playing a zone defense.
These dudes with the choppers were the saver force.
They’d heard the gunfire—and cruised, wondering, waiting, looking for a way to save the play in case it’d gone sour.
And these boys would be the cream of the defense.
All this flashed through Bolan’s peaking combat consciousness as he lowered the girl onto her back and moved catlike to the street in a single bound. He came lightly to rest on the balls of his feet, poised and ready to strike with Big Thunder up and ready.
Trick shot time again, sure, and with no room whatever for anything less than absolute precision targeting. Each round would have to unerringly find a “death spot”—leaving not even a dying twitch to the trigger fingers. A defenseless girl lay sprawled unconscious in the shadow of those guns.
And now the spotlight had found the girl, revealing also bulky human shapes at the fringe of illumination—one slightly bent forward over the unconscious figure, the other stationed in firing readiness, head swiveled uprange, tense and alert.
Then a surprised discovery: “Hey, Mario! It’s that broad!”
From the car: “What broad?”
“That Webb chick! You know, the——”
“Dead?”
“Naw. Out, though. Now how the hell …?”
“So it wasn’t cops! Get ’er in here and let’s go!”
Perhaps ten seconds had elapsed since Bolan left the girl’s side. He sighed into the hair trigger as the guy bent over to grab her, the big slug hurtling forth under tremendous energy to rip into the ear and topple its victim in a grotesque headfirst sprawl. The blazing muzzle of the AutoMag executed a small arc and bellowed again, the two reports coming together as a stuttering ba-boom! as the other machine gunner spun off into dark oblivion with 240 grains of instant dispatch thundering up his nose.
The third round came out of a whirling dance that put the attacker in the center of the street directly opposite the idling vehicle, and this one splattered through glass to find human flesh and bone, sending a shower of departing life forces spraying onto the man at the far side—one “Mario” who was then reflexing into probably the final “save” of a misspent career.
Round four overtook him at the doorpost as he was spilling groundward in hasty retreat, helping him along, punching him down in a tumbling descent that rolled him over and laid him face up on the cement.
The wheelman had lost the top of his head to round three.
End of saver force, and nothing saved.
Almost.
“Mario” was groaning and jerking around over there.
Bolan took the direct route—sliding over the roof of the car and coming down at the guy’s feet. He kicked a fallen pistol out of reach and knelt beside him.
Round four had removed a chunk of shoulder then gone on to whittle at the neck near the base of the ear. Blood was spurting from the neck wound. More was soaking the fancy silk suit through the shattered shoulder. The guy’s eyes were open and aware of his situation. Bolan guided the good hand to the pressure point on the carotid artery as he quietly advised, “Keep a pressure there. You may save something yet.”
The guy’s eyes thanked him, even while damning him.
“Mario who?” Bolan inquired.
The torpedo tried to say something but the machinery would not work.
Bolan showed him a bull’s-eye cross then dropped it to his chest. “If you make it, Mario, tell your bosses they’re not going to work it here. Not until they get past me.”
He left the guy lying there in his blood and went to the girl, who was lying in someone else’s blood. Lucky for her, she was still unconscious—it was quite a mess she was soaking up.
The distant wail of police sirens was now in the air. The girl was growing rapidly as a direct liability. She was going to slow him, perhaps fatally, but still he could not leave her there like that.
Bolan plucked her from the gore and returned her to his shoulder, examining her quickly with his hands to make sure that the blood glistening on her backsides was not her own. Then he quickly crossed the street and took off on a trot for his waiting vehicle.
From the sounds of those sirens, the whole area was becoming a death trap. He’d already overplayed his numbers—and he was very quickly, now, running out of them.
Bolan did not duel with cops. But that was a one-sided affair. The cops sure as hell would not hesitate to open fire on this most-wanted man in the country. For those brothers in blue, Mack Bolan was the object of a nationwide “mad
dog alert.” Every cop in the country was under orders to shoot on sight—and to kill. Bolan was well aware of that.
So okay, that was their job. More than that, it was an obligation to their badge. Bolan understood that. He’d never asked for or expected a license to kill. But he also understood his own obligation.
Mack Bolan the man had died back there in Pittsfield at the gravesite of Sam and Elsa and Cindy. What was left was the Executioner, the human war machine, the hellfire guy who remained alive only to kill—and who killed only to remain alive so that he could go on killing.
That was the obligation. Remain alive. Carry the war to the enemy, at every opportunity, until the enemy remained no more. It was a war of attrition, with all the odds riding on the other side.
But there was another obligation, and this one was to the soul. That soul must remain human, and it must remain worthy if the battle were to have any meaning other than a silly stride through hell.
Call it square or old-fashioned or just plain ridiculous—Bolan couldn’t care less what anyone called it—he called it basic reality, and he saw this war of his as a reenactment of the eternal struggle between good and evil.
Sometimes “good” had to carry a big stick and even masquerade as “evil”—to be the equival without becoming an equivalent of it.
So, no—Mack Bolan did not make war on They were soldiers of the same side—the “good” side, even if a few of them may personally be undeserving of the badge they wore.
And, right now, those soldiers of the same side were screaming along a disturbing pattern of containment that seemed to be bracketing the entire waterfront area.
Very possibly a death trap, sure—for a guy who refused to become the equivalent of evil.
6: SOFT TRAP
The warwagon was a twenty-seven foot GMC motor home away from home for the super-sportsman, a sleek front wheel drive vehicle with a special Toronado power plant and air-suspension tandem rear wheels. Bolan had picked it up in New Orleans and turned a couple of space age electronics genuises loose on her with an unlimited budget—then Bolan had added a few touches of his own. The result was what the moonlighting NASA scientist described as a “terran module”—a self-contained, fully instrumented “earth scout” ship.
Bolan called it a warwagon, and that it was. Not only could she scout, she could also fight—as had been ably demonstrated in New Orleans. But she was also war room, munitions lab, armory, and home for the warrior—a rolling base camp. Or a firebase.
He carried the girl to the rear and slid her onto a bunk, then covered her with a light blanket and returned amidships to the war room where he activated the police monitors and remoted them to the front panel. Next he skinned out of the combat suit and concealed it, replacing that attire with Levi’s and sweatshirt and bright orange hunter’s jacket. Heavy-framed yellow night glasses and a soiled hunting cap completed the transformation. Then he checked the girl and went forward to fire up, wondering idly about the longterm unconsciousness but more concerned about the grim exigencies of the moment.
The police frequencies were strangely quiet, as was the night itself; there were no more sounds of sirens. Which, from Bolan’s understanding, meant not a damn thing.
He sent the impressive vehicle in forward motion, moving slowly in concession to the atmospherics out there as well as in the interests of properiety for the sake of any watchful eyes.
Sure enough, he made contact at the first crossing.
A police car with beacon flashing had the intersection partially blocked. Two young cops with hands resting on gun butts were deployed to either side.
Bolan edged on to the bumper of the cruiser, then opened his window and beat the cops to the draw.
“Thank God!” he called out with a pretty good try at emotional relief. “Help me, I need help!”
One of the cops took a wary step closer and asked, “What’s the problem, sir?”
These guys were in riot tog—helmets and all.
“This damn fog! I’m lost, and I have an emergency. I hit a curb back there and knocked my wife off her feet. She bashed her head. Lead me to a hospital, will you!”
The cop stepped back, mouth settling into grim lines, but the voice was regretful as he replied, “Sorry sir, we have an emergency, too. Take a right at the next corner and keep going till you hit the freeway. You’ll find hospital markers there.”
Bolan yelled, “Thanks!” and wheeled on through the blockade. He smiled moments later as the speaker above his head crackled with an exchange on a secondary police channel.
“Four Alpha Three, what’s your situation?”
“On station, skipper. Nothing showing. Except a lost motorist in a camper, looking for a hospital—wife injured. Clean.”
“It’s plenty bloody down here. Stay alert.”
“Aye, sir.”
Bolan mentally tipped a hat to the men in blue. To respond so quickly with such organization in the doggy hours of morning—Bolan knew what it required. Contingency plays, crack discipline, an alert force—and it was certainly no reflection on their abilities that Bolan had managed to slip through. This was a simple response to a gunfight report, evidently. These people didn’t know, yet, who they were looking for.
Or, at least, they hadn’t.
Now they did.
“All units, this is Reaction Control. The subject is Mack Bolan, repeat, Mack Bolan. Refer to bulletin ten for full particulars and stand by for further instructions.”
Bolan deactivated the monitors. They’d found his death medals. And they were, at this moment, reconstructing the details of a hard hit. Apparently this was some sort of quick reaction team, these cops, and they seemed to know precisely what they were doing.
They would know, now, that the war had moved to Seattle.
And—if this first light contact with the Seattle cops was any sort of indication—Bolan was going to have his hands full with these “soldiers of the same side.”
It was food for thoughtful chewing. He chewed as he drove, not stopping until he’d cleared the top side of the city and reached the road to Richmond Beach. The night was turning gray and he was beginning to feel the effects of its activities when he pulled over and went back to again check on the girl.
The breathing was easy and regular and she stirred to his touch, but the eyes remained closed.
Perhaps, he hoped, the fainting spell had simply turned into natural sleep.
Twenty minutes later he rolled the warwagon into her berth in the little camping park at the edge of Puget Sound—and this time when he went back, the girl was awake.
She had not moved, but her eyes were open, alert, and frightened.
She did not exactly smell like a rose, either.
“What is this?” she asked in a whispery voice. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“I’m the man with the gun,” he replied gently. “This is my home. It has wheels. We’re near Richmond Beach. There are neighbors all around. You can leave whenever you wish. But you shouldn’t leave. Do you understand what has happened?”
It hit her like a flash flood, then—Bolan could see the memory of it washing across those terrified eyes. She shuddered and turned toward the wall.
He went to the shower and wet a towel with warm water, soaped it, and returned to the bunk.
“Put your legs out here,” he commanded, in a gentle but no-nonsense tone.
“Wh-what?”
“They’re caked with blood. Can’t you smell it? Don’t worry, it’s not yours. But the drier it gets, the harder it comes off. Come on, the legs, let’s have them.”
“I—I can do it.”
“Not if your stomach’s as weak as your head, you can’t. Just close your eyes and lie back. Look, doll, I carried you on my shoulder for half a mile. My hands already know every inch of you. Now give me the damn legs.”
She did so without further protest—and she did not close her eyes. They remained on him, searching without expression, watching without comment
as he removed the shoes and began the scrubdown. They were lovely eyes, blue with deep purple glints, perfect ovals, wide-spaced, intelligent, and growing very curious upon the man as he went on with his delicate labors.
Presently he showed her a gruff smile and told her, “I need more leg and less dress—unless you’d like to take over at this point.”
“You’re doing fine,” the girl replied in a very small voice. She sat up and slid to the edge of the bunk, lowered her eyes, removed the dress, then lay back down. “I haven’t been scrubbed like this since I was three,” she said, sighing.
The strip had caught Bolan a bit off guard, and now that glowing young body in nothing but skimpy bra and even skimpier panties was raising hell with his manly instincts. He’d only meant that she should raise the dress a bit, not whisk the damn thing off. But she’d done it so naturally—with a total lack of self-consciousness yet not brazenly, either—just natural, yeah, as though she were removing a glove.
Bolan shrugged the instincts away and growled, “Turn over.”
The dress had needed to come off, anyway. The machine gunner had obviously bled like hell. She looked as though she’d been lying in a pool of it.
He had to return twice to the shower to freshen the rub, and when he was finished the girl was glowing with more than cleanliness. The job had required some rather vigorous applications of the wet terry cloth—and that rosy flesh had sustained quite a bit of stimulation.
She rolled over then, unfastened the bra, and pointed out some splatters to the front.
When Bolan finally stood away from that task, there simply was no way to shrug away the masculine emotions chugging through him.
And the girl was not helping a damn bit.
She whispered, “This is the most erotic experience of my Life.”
“Some life,” he growled. “How long has it been? Eighteen years? Nineteen?”
“Twenty,” she replied in that same soft little whisper. “And there have been experiences to relate to. This isn’t 1940, you know.”
Firebase Seattle Page 4