Steiner figured the logic.
If he and Soze got into close combat and failed, even their corpses would provide volumes of information to a determined and skilled specialist. Diet. Dust. Residue. They’d be flaming arrows pointing back across the countryside to Rhodin and the others.
Steiner was willing to die to fight off the barbarian hordes laying siege to his nation, but he wasn’t so stupid as to die and leave himself as decomposing evidence to betray his brothers.
No. If this ambush failed, there were other ways to insure that Geren and her friends would end up going to their just reward. Throwing themselves after a failed assault would be pointless.
Soze mopped his brow, fist clenched around the pistol grip of the RPK. “We should just hose down those two and let our pals drop grenades down the stairwell.”
“That might work,” Steiner answered. He settled the crosshairs of his rifle on the face of a tall, young American with a goatee, standing near a smaller, native looking man. Both were dressed in jumpsuits and battle vests. The American looked in his midtwenties, and he most definitely wasn’t the stranger who set off the alarm bells in his head the night before. If anything, he recognized the youngster as one of the so-called faceless soldiers who had been assigned to the town. He imagined the young man’s face exploding as 195 grains of supersonic lead punched through bone and brain matter, smashing it apart like a rotted melon.
However, Steiner kept his finger off the trigger.
He wanted all four out in the open, burdened with packages, flat-footed and off guard.
“Tighten up on that right flank,” he ordered.
The militiamen were not soldiers. They weren’t used to dealing with enemies unless they outgunned and outnumbered them. Against the concentrated force of the American military, they evaporated like gasoline spilled on a street. From hiding and ambush, using the tactics of craven cowards, they were hot shit using car bombs and bullets sprayed wildly out the doors of speeding automobiles.
Their kind was almost enough to break the resolution of the servicemen standing watch against the barbarians.
Almost.
There was movement now, from the stairwell. Tera Geren was up, and she had two duffel bags, her hands and exposed forearms corded with the strain of holding their weight. The young American ran to her side, trying to take one of the bags, talking softly with her. She spoke harshly, nodding toward his slung rifle.
The man paused, then stepped away from the burdened Tera Geren, both hands on his rifle, eyes sweeping around.
A small, canlike object sailed out of the stairwell, trailing a tail of smoke like a spool of gray cotton.
As if on cue, as the smoke grenade bounced off the ground, the three people suddenly dropped to the ground.
A heartbeat later, the rattle of automatic rifles filled the air.
That’s when the tall stranger emerged from the basement, a weapon in each fist, muzzle-flashes flickering like lightning from the hands of a wrathful god.
MACK BOLAN WAS LAST OUT of the cache, weighed down with three war bags, his muscles coiled like steel serpents around his arms against the weight of his gear.
There was a curt whistling noise, and Bolan stopped halfway up the steps. Geren and Wesley were discussing the Green Beret’s task. He was their guard, and he had to keep his eyes sharp and weapons tight in hand, ready for pitched battle.
The whistle, however, was a low trilling sound, like wind slicing through the mountain passes. The Executioner’s spine tingled as the note cut off, replaced by Laith’s voice.
“Come on guys,” he said. Bolan couldn’t see him, but the sound of Laith’s voice traveled from off to one side to closer to the others. “Let’s quit bitching. I’m dying for a smoke here.”
Bolan set his bags down and reached for a canister grenade. The young Afghan lion was trying to say something, but not be blatantly obvious so that anyone watching, within ambush range, could hear them.
Wesley chuckled. “What brand you smoke? Camels?”
“Not funny,” Laith answered. “In fact, I’m deadly serious.”
There was no mistaking it now. Laith was asking Geren and Wesley to get moving, asking for smoke cover and saying the situation was deadly serious…but not asking what was keeping Bolan so long.
The Executioner popped the pin on the smoker and tossed it sailing over his allies. Bodies struck the ground and gunfire ripped the air. Bolan plunged his hands into one war bag, hauling out an item that he slung over his neck on its nylon strap.
The Executioner had sprung the trap early. He filled his fists with the Desert Eagle and the Uzi and stormed up the steps. He spotted a trio of Taliban militiamen fanning the smoke with rifle fire from the cover of a shattered storefront, and swung both guns toward them. Parabellum and .44 Magnum slugs flew in a swarm of deadly leaden hornets at his targets, bodies jerking and spinning, tumbling lifelessly to hard, heartless concrete. Blood poured from crater-sized impact wounds on one of the gunmen, while another who had taken a burst of fire from the Uzi was still twitching, trying to reach his fallen weapon. A mercy burst finished him.
“Laith! Wesley! Get the gear! Tera, make for the Rover!” Bolan ordered. He was seeking fresh targets.
Wesley and Laith retreated, their rifles raking a Toyota pickup that served as cover for a fire team. Their movement and fire drew enemy reaction, muzzle-flashes grabbing the Executioner’s attention as he swung the twin Israeli pistols against his foes. More thunder crackled and burst from his hands, one by one enemy weapons going silent under his onslaught before the Desert Eagle and Uzi each ran dry.
There was a pause as, even through the smoke, Bolan saw surprised faces registering the sudden silence coming from the tall wraith in combat black. They saw him lower his handguns to his side, dropping them softly to the ground. Bolan’s ice-cold eyes glared back at them, keeping them enthralled at the suddenly disarmed angel of death, dropping his tools.
That’s when one noticed the M-4 slung around his neck, spare magazines clipped to the central magazine tripling the firepower of the rifle. He started to yell, but the Executioner’s hand was on the pistol grip, pivoting the carbine on its sling and pulling the trigger. A sweep of 5.56 mm slugs shredded its brutal path. Four close-packed Taliban militiamen were torn open at the rib cage by transsonic slugs plowing through flesh and pulversizing against bone.
Bodies tumbled in soggy heaps. Wild, frantic gunfire now ignored Laith and Wesley as they hastily scrambled to drag the supplies to the Land Rover. Tera Geren turned over the engine, its roar lost to all but the Executioner in the fusillade of response to him. The Taliban veterans were showing their true colors, emptying their rifles without any effort to control the violent, bucking recoil of their weapons. All they achieved was to pepper empty air and loose chunks of broken wall that Bolan weaved around.
The Executioner tapped off 2- and 3-shot bursts, taking the time to make dead certain there was a body behind the front sight post of the M-4. Every pull of the trigger, ejected only a couple of shots, and ended with an enemy gunman screaming, pieces of his head or torso evaporating.
Amateur predators fell like deer in the headlights before a trained, veteran hunter.
Even so, a lucky shot, deflected off a hunk of stone, struck Bolan, glancing off his shoulder. He winced at the hammer force of the blow, his mind instantly registering that it struck where the armored, load-bearing vest covered his torso. The shoulder strap kept the bullet from penetrating, but it hurt like hell. The Executioner took that as a hint to duck behind a foot-thick slab of wall and snap the magazine around to a fresh one.
Once reloaded, Bolan swung around the side, spotting the Land Rover on the roll. He plucked a grenade from his pocket, spotting a group of riflemen racing around the column of choking smoke. They probably sought to come up on the vehicle’s blind side, but popping the pin, Bolan whipped the grenade, hardball style at the group.
The egg-shaped minibomb struck the chest of the lead gunman
hard enough to make him stumble, rifle clattering from shocked fingers. It was only in the next heartbeat that the militiaman realized what had struck him and he tried backing away from it. It was too late. His comrades slammed into him from behind, trying to continue their rush toward their enemies’ vehicle. Bolan shouldered his rifle, seeking more targets as the grenade’s fuse burned to zero and detonated.
The Executioner was bringing hell to the ambush party, ripping off more short bursts of precision fire toward a pair of gunmen had hunkered down, trying to pin in the Land Rover. However, this time, the enemy was wedged in too tight behind hard cover. They turned and opened fire on Bolan. They kept themselves low and out of the way. Hailstorms of COMBLOC lead chopped away the stones that he was using for protection. With the bad guys suddenly developing a clue, it was time to bug out, but Bolan was too pinned down, and he’d used his last fragger already.
Wesley and Laith suddenly poked out of the window of the Land Rover, swinging their rifles at the two men firing on Bolan. It took more than a short precision burst apiece. Each of Bolan’s allies burned an entire magazine to take out the pair of holed up killers. Geren turned the Rover, rear wheels producing rooster tails of dirt as she fishtailed to a violent halt.
“Get in, Colonel! We’re steppin’ out!” she roared.
Bolan threw his rifle to Geren and ran low, scooping up the Uzi and the Desert Eagle on the run. With a dive, he was in the back seat next to Laith.
The Rover lurched, and with the odd plunk of a bullet striking the hardened skin of the big offroad vehicle, they were charging away from the battle scene.
But Bolan knew the worrisome truth.
The enemy knew that they were on the case and had set up an ambush. It had taken alertness, luck, shooting skill and bald audacity to break the back of the ambush. And once more, Bolan had proved his willingness to take a bullet for an ally.
But not before putting a few dozen into his enemies first.
The Land Rover charged over the broken road, escaping to let its occupants fight another day.
7
The knock at Mikela Bronson’s door made her heart leap, and her hand slid into the desk drawer for the little pistol she kept there. It wasn’t much, but at least she wouldn’t go down without a fight, unlike Sofia.
The knock repeated itself, and Mikela stepped from behind her desk. “Come in.”
Her office was small, but she had a filing cabinet that she could use for cover if the newcomers were hostile. She didn’t know what to think, especially with someone coming to visit her at midnight while she was on duty.
She didn’t think that the terrorists would be polite enough to knock before entering the office of someone they were coming to kill, but maybe they were making sure someone was there to shoot in the first place. She tensed as the door opened.
“Don’t be alarmed Dr. Bronson,” said a warm, gentle voice. It was deep and strong, yet held no hostility. It reminded her of her favorite instructor back at Johns Hopkins, the voice of a man who could break bad news to you and yet comfort you in the same sentence.
What stepped in, however, was no kindly man in a white lab coat.
He was a tall black-clad commando, face smeared with grime, bedecked in what looked like the latest U.S. Cavalry catalog gear. She was taken aback by his appearance, but he smiled at her.
“Forgive my appearance, Doctor,” he said. “My name is Colonel Brandon Stone, and I’m here to ask if you’d please accompany me into protective custody for a few days.”
Mikela was speechless, and she looked down at the popgun in her hand. “I can fend for myself,” she said.
“Not with that,” the man told her.
“I’m a pretty good shot.” Mikela swallowed hard, then noticed there were others out in the hall. All of them were dressed for a fight. “You don’t look like you’re going to stay away from any danger,” she said.
“We’re not. But we’re going to keep you out of the sights of the bad guys,” the only woman in the group told her. Mikela was surprised that such a small-statured woman could carry the full pockets on her vest and the huge rifle in her delicate little hands.
As if reading the doubt on her face, the big man spoke again. “Dr. Bronson—Mikela—there are some very dangerous men after you. They’re not merely ex-Taliban militiamen. There are six former members of a covert Israeli black-ops unit who have stepped over the line. The Mossad and the U.S. Justice Department are working together to bring them to justice, but we have to make sure you’re in safe hands first.”
He held up a vest. “It’s ballistic nylon with trauma plates. It weighs a ton, and I don’t promise it will become comfortable any time soon, but it’s better than a sucking chest wound.”
Mikela reached out and took the vest, almost dropping it. The weight of the Kevlar pulled her arm down, and she stumbled forward.
That’s when the window shattered. A hand flashed out and grabbed her upper arm, yanking her toward the door while a massive shape lunged past her. The compression waves of bullets leaving the barrel of a powerful weapon hammered in the tight quarters of the office, the sound of each gunshot penetrating deep in her gut. Another pair of hands grabbed her and pulled her and through the doorway, carrying her like a rag doll.
“Go, Rob! Go!” the redheaded woman called out.
Fear cut like a knife through the doctor’s stomach, but she remembered what Colonel Stone had said and squirmed into the battle vest. It was tight and weighed heavily on her shoulders.
But it was more comfortable than a sucking chest wound.
LUCK HAD BEEN on the Executioner’s side. Had Dr. Mikela Bronson not been thrown off balance by the weight of the protective body armor he’d handed her, she’d have ended up dead, a bullet caving in her rib cage. As it was, they weren’t out of danger simply because Wesley was taking her away from the sniper’s arc of fire.
Instead, Bolan shouldered his M-4, using the barrel to smash away the remaining glass in the window frame. The scope atop his rifle brought the far side of the street and its rooftops into sharp relief despite the starlit night. It had only taken a moment for Bolan to line up the point of impact and the hole in the window to give him a bearing on where the shooter was. Hammering out half a magazine, he peppered a window on the top floor of the building across the road. There was no glass to shatter, and 5.56 mm rounds kicked out clouds of concrete dust and stone chips in a savage display of his rifle’s power.
It wasn’t the most outstanding display of ammunition conservation, but it was suppressive fire, and it was only half of one magazine. Bolan held his fire and took cover, waving down Geren. The Israeli ducked behind the desk.
With the cessation of hostilities from the Executioner, there was movement. Bolan made a decision to test his opponent. He presented only the barest fraction of himself. The rifle he carried protected what bit of his face poked around the window frame to look across the street. He kept his arm low, the wall and the weapon likewise protecting his hand and forearm.
The enemy sniper didn’t expose himself, but a muzzle-flash exploded across the street, a powerful blast that was accompanied by Bolan flying back into the filing cabinet as what felt like a freight train smashed into his chest. Thrown to the floor, he dropped low, taking a deep breath to replace the one that was squeezed out of him by the god-fist that had hit him. No sparks of agony flared to inform him of a fresh new batch of broken ribs from this close call with death. He felt where the bullet struck and saw a crushed magazine in his pocket, the aluminum caved in as if it were a soda pop can. He pulled the magazine from its place. Bullets spilled across the floor.
Damaged shells spilled gunpowder, and Bolan swept them toward the wall, in case he had to run. He looked at the slug imbedded in the magazine’s wall.
“What the hell? Are you okay?” Geren asked.
“I’ll live. Keep your head down, though,” Bolan told her. He touched his throat mike. “Wesley, you have the doctor?”
�
�Yeah,” the young sergeant’s voice came back over the earplug.
“She in her armor yet?” Bolan asked.
“She’s dressed not to be killed,” Wesley answered.
“That vest won’t stop a head shot, and it might not even stop whatever the sniper’s using. He’s got an 8 mm Mauser,” Bolan explained.
Geren lifted her hand. “Is that bad, teacher?”
“It’s more powerful than most of the rounds these vests are designed to protect against,” Bolan told her. “Not by much, but it is pretty powerful.”
Bolan shifted position. “Laith, any movement outside?”
“I’ve got a couple of bad guys heading for the front door. Want me to—”
“No,” Bolan cut off the young Afghan. “I don’t want to tip your presence just yet. Hang tight until the bad guys throw more reinforcements at us, or we come to pick you up.”
“Ace in the sleeve, over and out!” Laith answered, no disappointment in his words.
Bolan was relieved at that much. He wasn’t thrilled to hear about the pair of shooters who were coming through the front of the hospital. At this time of night, most of the patients were in their rooms, but there was still staff about. The last time Abraham’s Dagger had sent a Taliban squad into a hospital, it was a scorched-earth policy, and he wasn’t sure that policy would change if there was a sniper at work.
“Wesley, you heard that?” Bolan asked.
“Did indeed, Colonel. What should we do?”
“Take Dr. Bronson and slip out the back. Don’t attract any attention from the bad guys, and tell any on-call staff to get under cover,” Bolan told him.
“And you two?” Wesley asked.
Bolan remembered a term his Able Team friend Hermann Schwarz used a lot.
“We’ve got to take care of a pest problem.”
TERA GEREN SLIPPED OUT of the office first. She slung her rifle, realizing that its length would only snag and trip her up in the halls and doorways of the hospital. Instead, she pulled her micro-Uzi machine pistol from its harness and gave Bolan a nod. A 33-round magazine was in place, and she was confident in her ability to cut through any opposition with the 9 mm chatterbox.
Suicide Highway Page 7