Death Metal

by Don Pendleton

  “What the—ah, hell,” the soldier muttered as his question was bitten off, answered by what he could see before him.

  Directly in front of them was a partially constructed office building. The first four stories were up, with some girder structure already erected for the remaining two stories. Those floors that had been built had window spaces but no frames, and on the ground there was a large bay where the glass front of the reception area would eventually have been completed.

  Right now this was being used as a garage for two vehicles that were parked at right angles within the airy interior of the building’s base. One was a 4x4 with smoked-glass windows that were starred by gunfire. The side of the vehicle was also pitted in the same way.

  The other vehicle was the one that really took their attention. It was another truck much like the one they sat in, and it had the rear doors flung open, with some cylinders, of the same type as they were carrying, lying on the dusty concrete floor. The lower story itself seemed to be empty; the upper floors were filled with smoke that drifted out on the breeze. Further there were signs both of combat within the building and also without. Bolan studied the ongoing engagement with a scattered number of non-uniformed Russians in positions of cover among the construction equipment and materials around the half-built block.

  “Two problems here,” Bolan summarized as they watched the activity unfold. “First thing is to get the outside cleared, and the second is to neutralize the threat within.”

  “That simple, eh?” the Russian said with a wry smile. “I doubt I can pull the same trick as last time.”

  Bolan looked at the locations of the Russian military detachment, scattered along the front of the building.

  “I don’t think you’ll have to...they aren’t interested in going in, only in containment.”

  “There are more on the way then. We have little time.”

  “Exactly. We need to clear them out, and then go in hard and fast. There’s no one on the ground, so if we can keep them up top, then we can snatch the hardware from under their nose.”

  Dostoyevsky’s grin broadened. “I like your thinking. What do you want me to do?”

  * * *

  VELIO PULLED HIS MEN back so that they were in the corner of the second story. He directed one of them to keep a containing fire trained on the men who were scattered on the ground below. At all costs he had to stop them from getting into the building while the truck stood unprotected. In the meantime he sent another of his men up the bare concrete stairwell to flush out the enemy above. They had been driven up a story by the sheer intensity of fire poured at them by the Freedom Right fighters, but Velio was aware that the ammunition supplies carried by his men had to now be running low, and Velio must kill off this threat before they found themselves outgunned.

  It had seemed a simple task when they had arrived on site. The blast area from the devices would take out an area larger than the MIBC itself, so planting their truck in the midst of the already functional area would have been an unnecessary risk. Better by far to take it to an area where there was less chance of being disturbed. Velio knew from their research that there was a section of the center that had not yet been completed, and finding a building with an open front where they could just drive in was, it seemed, perfect. They could conceal the vehicle, set the timers and then just melt away.

  The last thing they had expected was for the orange 4x4 that followed them into the MIBC to keep on their tail all the way to the building site at the rear of the park.

  “That orange thing is tailing us,” the truck driver stated, but Velio was dismissive.

  “It cannot be. We would have seen something that stupid before. Who the hell would tail us in something so conspicuous? Keep going.”

  The driver took the truck into the empty frontage and came to a halt. Velio had him convinced, though it nagged at him, the manner in which the orange vehicle had suddenly appeared in their wake and had stuck so close as they entered the MIBC. What if it had been waiting to pick them up, using intel to track them until they were closing in on their target?

  He dismissed that as paranoia and joined the rest of the men in helping Velio to unload the cylinders from the rear of the truck.

  “Why don’t we just leave them here?” one of his compatriots grumbled.

  “It’ll be easier to set them up if we have some space,” Velio replied. “Besides, who’s going to interrupt us?”

  The words died on his lips as the orange 4x4 gunned its engine and roared across the building site, weaving past deserted construction equipment as it came from behind a row of temporary construction huts, headed straight for the opening.

  With a yell to his men, Velio left the cylinders and grabbed a weapon, opening fire on the 4x4 as it roared into the gap, slewing sideways. The gunfire was returned from the vehicle, driving the Freedom Right men backward to seek cover as it raked the empty floor space around the truck, pitting the side of it and ricocheting around the interior.

  The hail of fire and the need to seek cover or get mowed down did the one thing that Velio would not have wished for: it drove his men away from the truck and its hardware, and back toward the rear of the building to avoid getting shot. He knew that this would allow the intruders to snatch the weapons from under his nose. That was the last thing he wanted, but until he could at least attain some kind of cover, his men were dead before they could fight back.

  The 4x4 might have been a hide-in-plain-sight obtrusive color, but beneath the garish paint job, it was bulletproofed, as was the smoked glass. The Freedom Right men had poured heavy SMG fire at it, but all they had done was star the glass and take chunks of orange from the paintwork. Otherwise the vehicle was unharmed, and the opposition terrorists were able to fire from the slits made at the top of their windows with some kind of impunity.

  The Freedom Right fighters were forced back to the concrete emergency stairs that had already been put in place, with the far side doors of the 4x4 opening to let out two men who tried to edge around to the deserted truck, when they were given a glimmer of hope—but not one without its own severe conditions.

  From outside the building, another rain of fire slashed into the enclosed space, sparking and ricocheting from the truck, the 4x4, the floor and walls. It drove the two men who had left the orange 4x4 back toward where the Freedom Right men had been trying to shelter. The sheer weight of firepower pouring into the building had forced them up, and they were now rushing toward the front of the building to return fire.

  Velio directed his three men to take up positions at the window spaces, identifying and attempting to take down whoever was outside. Meantime he opted to cover the stairwell, figuring that under such a barrage, the terrorists who had tried to rob them would find themselves in the same position. If they had to come up, they would be forced into his line of fire. If they stayed here, they would be cut down.

  When the first canister landed on the floor, its choking smoke spreading quickly and driving his men back from the windows, Velio realized things would not be as simple as he had hoped. As the smoke blew across the floor toward him, he was forced to retreat. Unable to see through tear-filled eyes, he was nothing more than a sitting target himself.

  Through the smoke, the four men from the 4x4 had blasted their way up the stairwell, laying down a suppressing fire, and had fought their way past the choking cloud, opting to go upward to escape the blind fire that the Freedom Right men had poured at them.

  And after the smoke had cleared enough for Velio to regroup his men, they were on another level. The task set him now was to neutralize the men in the orange 4x4 while knocking out the men on the grounds outside.

  Only by doing that could he set up the hardware below and then at least try to get the hell out.

  When he had set this in motion, something happened to confuse him even more than events so far....r />
  * * *

  THE RUSSIAN COMMANDER was content. He had already heard of Colonel Rostov’s mistake and was looking forward to gloating when Rostov arrived with the remains of his detachment. The commander had received word that not only was the colonel on his way but another detachment of military had also been dispatched, under the personal direction of the president. He was looking forward to proving himself in front of the man and humiliating an old foe.

  Maybe that was why—with his men seemingly secure and the terrorists pinned inside the construction—he was a little too relaxed. His men formed an arc around the front of the building. To the rear, there was an earth mound and a deep ditch that had been dug for pipes and cables. The only way in and out was by the open front, and he had that covered.

  He wasn’t expecting an attack from the rear.

  The first grenade detonated in the middle of the arc, causing more confusion than damage. One man was injured, but more were forced from cover. That was exactly what the mystery attacker had wanted, as chattering SMG fire from two directions took down the men who had broken cover.

  The Russian commander yelled into his comm unit for his men to keep in cover, and turn to identify and return fire. His words were drowned by the second and third grenades, which went off at each end of the arc, causing more confusion, forcing them toward a middle ground.

  Just as Bolan had hoped, the break from cover had been all the invitation that the two groups of terrorists trapped in the building had needed. They opened fire on the Russians as they rushed into the open, and the Russians themselves were torn between returning this fire and answering the blasts that Bolan and Dostoyevsky were hitting them with from behind.

  Caught in this cross fire, the ranks of the military were rapidly reduced, and even the gunfire they could return dropped to virtually nothing as the remaining men, including their commander, sought to regroup and take cover. If nothing else they needed to hold their ground until the expected reinforcements arrived to bolster their numbers. All thoughts of glory—so prominent just a few minutes before—were driven from the Russian commander’s head as he sought grimly to draw his men together and hold on.

  Bolan left Dostoyevsky to keep the remaining Russians pinned down from the rear while he ran across open space—keeping low and using the smoke and confusion as cover—to where a front-end loader stood idle. Hot-wiring the earth-moving vehicle was straightforward, and the cab gave him some shelter as he fired it up and turned toward the open front of the building.

  Flipping the giant shovel so that it came down and formed a barrier between the cab and any incoming fire, he powered over the open ground between his starting point and the half-finished building. Gunfire from the Russians sparked from the frame of the cab, but Bolan ignored it. The chances of him being hit were low, and he trusted Dostoyevsky to keep him covered.

  Which was exactly what the Russian did. He had taken note of the angles of fire from the upper stories of the building and had adjusted his own fire so that it channeled the Russians into a space that was narrow enough for him to lob one of his last grenades into. The blast took out the remaining Russians. Not all were fatalities, but those who escaped the worst were too badly injured or shocked to be an immediate threat.

  Satisfied that he had done all he could, Dostoyevsky drew back, hurrying to where he had left the truck. He could hear the terrorists in the building switch their full force onto the front-end loader but trusted that his partner had gotten his angles right and could deflect the fire until he was inside the building. Meanwhile Dostoyevsky had a task of his own to fulfill.

  There was no sign of any life on the mall as he reached the black truck. Neither was there any sound that would indicate a large number of military personnel approaching. Good. They might just have the time. He clambered into the cab and hit the ignition, piloting the vehicle past the remains of the Russians and toward the half-finished building. There was no fire directed at him. The terrorists inside had a more immediate problem.

  * * *

  BOLAN RAMMED THE front-end loader into the side of the orange 4x4, tilting it so that it almost rolled onto its side, the vehicle jamming under the hydraulic lifts of the shovel arms. Bolan had made it with no collateral damage, the heavy metal shovel taking the brunt of any fire. He killed the diesel engine and jumped down. He could see that there was only one way to move up and down inside the building: the concrete stairwell that had been built at the rear of the building. The lift shafts for the elevators were nothing more than empty spaces in the wall. Knock out the stairs, and your enemy is contained. All they would be able to do is fire at Bolan and the Russian as they drove away.

  Those observations ran through the Executioner’s head even as he ran toward the stairwell, his HK in one hand and a grenade in the other. He sprayed a burst of suppressing fire into the stairwell to forestall anyone who may be venturing down, then lobbed the grenade halfway up, moving back quickly and taking cover as the blast ripped a chunk out of the back wall and caused the unfinished stairwell to partially collapse. The concrete dust added to the remains of the smoke canister made it hard for Bolan to breathe easily. He retrieved the nose plugs that he’d stashed in a slit pocket of his blacksuit and was relieved when he was able to breathe again with greater ease.

  He could hear the men moving on the levels above him, prowling as they searched for a way to get down. The damage to the stairwell made it impassable, but there was still a chance that they would try to use the window openings to make the drop to the ground. He’d keep an eye out for that possibility.

  As he unloaded the remainder of the gray cylinders and the timing devices, he heard some desultory gunfire from above, and allowed himself a slight smile. If any of them had tried this, they hadn’t banked on their own enemies within the building being as keen to stop them as he would have been.

  That train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Dostoyevsky, who brought the truck as far into the building as the front-end loader and the wrecked 4x4 would allow. Without comment he got out and opened the back of their vehicle, aiding the soldier as he began to load the hardware into the rear space.

  They worked fast and in silence, aware that time was at a premium. Right now they had only to worry about the terrorists above them. Before too long they would have Russian military detachments descending on them. Bolan and the Russian needed to be clear before more military arrived, yet had no idea how long that would be.

  Sweating with effort and anxiety, they finished loading the truck and slammed the doors, Bolan silently thankful that the Freedom Right terrorists had not had time to set the timers. At least he would be spared that task as they tried to make time to the last rendezvous.

  The Russian fired up the truck and rammed it into Reverse, spinning it so that the wheels bit into the loose earth, throwing up a shower of dirt that covered the windshield momentarily.

  From the upper floors of the building, both White Zion terrorists and Freedom Right fighters fired at them, trying to hit the tires to stop them. Velio directed his men’s fire, listening to the echo from above and knowing that this part of the battle was ultimately lost and that he had failed. Before long, there would be more Russians, and they would have to go down fighting. Capture, and what would inevitably follow, was unthinkable.

  It was a depressing thought to continue as the target truck weaved around the obstacles of the construction site and out of view.

  * * *

  “TELL ME WHERE, COOPER,” Dostoyevsky said through gritted teeth as he took the truck into what traffic was left in the otherwise deserted park.

  Bolan took out his smartphone. He cursed softly to himself. “I wonder which one of the other terrorist groups we’ve left battling it out with the Estonians?”

  The Russian shrugged. “Who cares? My president won’t when his men get their hands on them.”

  Bolan w
as not so sure. Both he and his partner were battle weary, and working against the clock. Even assuming they reached the last target and were able to recover the hardware, they would still have to find a way of getting it—and themselves—out of Moscow in one piece. Because of the circumstances, Bolan still had no clear plan for that, only a number of possible options spinning in his brain.

  The terrorist group he figured had the most experience and would present the greatest challenge was the Ukraine Democrats, their innocuous name hiding the most vicious and experienced fighters of their opponents. The last thing Bolan would have wanted was to go up against them as the last in line.

  Maybe the Russian was right. Who cared? They just had to keep fighting. But not before they got out of the business district.

  Dostoyevsky slowed the truck as they came to the exit, swearing to himself with relief at the lack of any roadblocks. He swung the truck onto Third Ring Road and hit the accelerator, the sound of distant sirens and the throb of a helicopter headed for the MIBC spurring him on.

  The military reinforcements were getting closer. He and the American still had some kind of head start, but they were fast running out of time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The battle was over. The Russian leader strode among the ruins of the half-constructed building, surveying the bodies of the dead terrorists that littered the second and third stories. He had arrived by helicopter, which had landed on the roof, and he had made his way, at the head of a phalanx of men, from the unfinished top, down the stairwell to the third and then second levels.

  Finding himself unable to progress to the bottom, he signaled his displeasure with a grunt and ran up to the top, ordering the chopper to take him to the remains of the military detachment and the reinforcements that had arrived just too late to be of any use.

  He was met by the security chief and by the unit commander—a man who wore the look of someone wishing he was anywhere else. The president fixed him with a glare that should have struck him down and, without a word, paced heavily into the deserted lower level, past the front-end loader and toward the empty truck. He sniffed heavily as he peered inside, then looked back at the earthmover, gave an ironic snort of a laugh and let fly with a stream of invectives that did not stop for thirty seconds.