Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  "Okay," Bolan said, "we'll pass on Lubbock. Try to find a pit stop closer to the border, off the road."

  "It works for me."

  "Objections?"

  In the back, Aguire shrugged and shook his head. "It does not matter. If they find us, it is all the same."

  "I wish you'd try to tone down that optimism a little," Johnny said. "I hate to get my hopes up."

  "Are we halfway there?" Aguire asked.

  "More like two-thirds," Bolan answered.

  Satisfied, the Cuban turned back to his window, lost in thought. Johnny wondered what it must be like to throw your life away by accident, and find yourself caught up inside a living nightmare, trapped, with no place to turn.

  His brother's case was different. Mack had made a conscious choice, electing sacrifice as an alternative to standing back and doing nothing while the cannibals devoured his world. Aguire had been grabbing for the tarnished ring and missed it, plunging headlong into circumstances he couldn't control.

  It was no better than the guy deserved, all things considered, but the younger Bolan felt a trace of sympathy, regardless. He shrugged it off and concentrated on the highway, heat waves rising from the asphalt to.create a shimmering illusion that the lanes were flooded up ahead, the nonexistent tide receding as they chased it over flatlands bleached of promise, void of hope.

  * * *

  From his position at the spearhead of the pack, Chill knew that he'd be the first to spot the target. He was looking forward to it, psyched up for the kill, intent on showing off the guts and other qualities of leadership that marked him as a special member of the Mongols motorcycle gang.

  Chill pushed the Harley at a steady sixty-five, its thunder blown away behind him by the desert wind that scorched his cheeks above a ratty beard. Grime and motor oil had smudged the several patches on his vest: the one-percenter badge that signified an outlaw biker; swastikas and SS lightning bolts; a skull and crossbones; the initials FTW — short for Fuck The World.

  Chill's favorite patch, worn just above his heart, was red on white and bore a single word: Deguello. Lifted from the title of a song that General Santa Ana played before he massacred defenders at the Alamo, it sent a message of no quarter asked or given in a combat situation, worn by bikers who have violently resisted arrest. The pointman's face and knuckles bore the scars of those encounters with the law: his rap sheet testified to forty-three arrests on charges ranging from possession of narcotics to attempted murder. The successful murders — eight in all — had not been prosecuted, but he was a standout in the gang, regardless. None of his associates could boast of more than twenty-eight arrests.

  A dozen other Harleys filled the southbound lane behind Chill. Two of the bikes were big three-wheelers, packing shotgun riders on their buddy seats, and all fifteen of the selected Mongols traveled armed. Chill wore a compact walkie-talkie on his belt, an earplug keeping him in touch with Skag and Wolfman, who were somewhere up ahead. They should be making contact soon, and then it would be show time.

  Fucking ay.

  There had been nothing from the scouts since they identified their target forty minutes earlier. No news was good news on a deal like that, and in a few more minutes they should have the bastard spotted, heading north. It would be simple, falling in behind him, running up his track to set his ass on fire.

  Chill relished the occasions when he was required to mete out punishment for some transgression of the Mongol bylaws. It was even better with civilians, when he wasn't forced to pull his punches, and the damage he inflicted could be permanent. When he was called upon to kill, he could take care of business with the best.

  It pleased him that the Mongols had been tapped to make a score for the Colombian. It showed that years of faithful service really did pay off, and once the syndicate was satisfied, the heat relieved, there'd be bigger, sweeter deals in store. Instead of cooking crank all day and pushing it to speed freaks in the barrio, the Mongols could begin to trade in finer merchandise, developing an upscale clientele. Hell's Angels had already cracked the denim barrier in California, moving on to suits and ties like normal businessmen, giving the old-line Italians a run for their money, and Chill envisioned a day when the Mongols would follow the same route, reserving their bikes for ceremonial runs on Labor Day and the Fourth of July.

  Moving up in the world, bet your ass.

  But first there was a job to do. It lay somewhere out in front of him, along the two-lane blacktop. Chill could feel it coming. He could smell it in the wind.

  It smelled like death, and it was damned near sweet enough to get him high.

  * * *

  There were days when Frank Chaney thought he was getting old. The Sam Browne fit a little tighter than it used to — tighter than it had last month, in fact — and when he hoisted his two hundred and fifty pounds out of the cruiser to write a citation, there was an occasional twinge in his lower back, a faint precursor of advancing age.

  Chaney wasn't overly concerned. He had his twenty years in, and he knew that he could pull the plug at any time. But the fact was, he had nothing else to do, without the job life would have been an endless armchair snooze with beer in hand, the boob tube blaring mindless crap all day.

  Chaney had been working western Texas in a one-man car since he completed his probationary period in 1967. He believed that he'd seen it all, from hit-and-runs to foxy ladies cruising in their birthday suits to truckers wired so tight on bennies that they couldn't even see the double-nickel signs. In twenty years, he was responsible for more than seven hundred and fifty righteous collars, and he'd been forced to use his blue-steel Smith & Wesson twice.

  That afternoon, Frank Chaney had parked his cruiser north of Justiceburg, in Garza County. He was screened on one side by an eight-foot sand dune and by a stand of Joshua trees on the other. He liked to sit and watch the road for speeders sometimes, rather than patroling where his black-and-white was visible a mile away. You couldn't write citations if the jerk-offs saw you coming and had time to brake before you got a solid reading on the radar gun.

  Frank heard the choppers coming from a mile away, their engines growling on the flats. He watched them pass and counted heads, unhappy with the odds but knowing he should tag along regardless, just in case the scumbags were up to something. Chaney knew that they were always up to something, but the trick was finding evidence, and tackling fifteen bikers was a risky proposition for a SWAT team, let alone one officer.

  Deciding he could always call for backup, he gave the Mongols ninety seconds before falling in behind them at a distance. He could close the gap in no time, if he had to, but Chaney wanted ample room between them in case the bikers spotted him and doubled back to have some fun. Before they closed the intervening mile, he could release the 12-gauge pump gun from its dashboard mount or choose his target for a head-on jousting match. But there was no way Chaney meant to let the bastards take him by surprise. No way at all.

  * * *

  The weathered highway sign announced that Gas-Food was available in twenty-seven miles.

  "What's gas-food?" Johnny asked.

  "Never tried it," Bolan answered, "but I think it's long on refried beans."

  "Makes sense."

  Behind them, glinting in the rearview mirror like a bright, metallic insect was another vehicle. Bolan couldn't make out details yet, and he wasn't prepared to bolt in case it might turn out to be a lawman on his normal rounds. Thus far, they hadn't broken any laws in Texas, and he meant to keep it that way — if he could.

  Johnny tracked his brother's gaze and caught the other vehicle's reflection in his own wing mirror. "Company?"

  "I wouldn't think so. People must drive through here all the time."

  In fact, they hadn't passed a dozen cars within the past two hours. Even snakes and armadillos had retreated from the midday heat, the absence of life increasing Bolan's sense of isolation as he pushed the Jimmy north. If they were being tailed, against all odds, the enemy had found a decent place
to make his move.

  Ahead of them, as if on cue, another flash of sunlight glinted painfully off polished steel, the haze of heat and distance blurred Bolan's vision, but the new arrival seemed disjointed somehow, oversized and awkward, like a semi with its trailers out of line.

  They closed to half a mile before he recognized the fleet of motorcycles roaring south with one man on the point, the others riding two abreast behind him. One glance told the Executioner they were outlaws, their machines stripped clean of fenders, windshields, saddlebags and running lights.

  The bearded leader made a point of glancing over at them as he passed, a cool grin etched across his face. Bolan counted thirteen motorcycles — fifteen riders — as the grim parade rolled by.

  "Those friends of yours?" Johnny asked Aguire.

  The Cuban offered no reply. His face was grim, and Bolan caught a faint, reflected gleam of apprehension in his eyes.

  Behind them, the outlaw pointman made a graceful U-turn, doubling back to follow. His companions emulated the maneuver like a sleek precision drill team in a holiday parade.

  "Not friends," the Executioner said quietly. "Let's try acquaintances."

  "I was afraid of that."

  Johnny popped the glove compartment open and removed the mini-Uzi from beneath a pile of road maps. With an easy, practiced move he snapped in a magazine and drew the bolt back.

  "I'm getting tired of asking this," John said, "but how the hell?…"

  "We'll ask them if we get the chance."

  But Bolan knew there would be no opportunity for conversation. If he couldn't outrun the Harley hogs — and that was little more than wishful thinking — they'd have to let their weapons do their talking.

  Bolan clenched his teeth and pressed the pedal to the floor.

  13

  "That's it." Skag grinned. "They made us."

  "So get moving," Wolfman countered. "Don't want Chill and those guys having all the fun."

  Skag got it moving, stepping hard on the accelerator as the van dug in for traction. He was too far back to give the Harleys any major competition, but with any luck it ought to take Chill's men a mile or two to run their pigeon off the road. From that point on, Skag thought, things might get interesting.

  "Step on it, bro'," the Wolfman urged.

  "I've got the fucking pedal on the floor, man."

  The bikes had finished cranking through their turn and were homing in on the target now, breaking formation as they filled both lanes, sticking close to the Jimmy. It reminded Skag of a Disney cartoon, where Donald Duck goes looking for some honey in the woods and winds up with a swarm of angry bees chasing his little duck ass into a lake. The image made him smile, and he reflected that the poor dumb shits inside the Jimmy were about to get stung for real.

  "Party time," the Wolfman gloated, easing up a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun from its hiding place beneath his seat. He broke the stubby weapon open, checked its load and snapped it shut again.

  Skag hoped he wouldn't blow the windshield out, but it was no big deal. The van had been stolen in Lubbock, and the plates went back a month or so to Dallas, where a member of the club had ripped off half a dozen sets as spares. Their fingerprints inside the vehicle could be a problem, but Skag meant to wipe the van — maybe torch it — after they were finished with their little party.

  In the meantime, he would be a kind of Welcome Wagon in reverse. Unwelcome Wagon? Yea. He liked the sound of that.

  Ahead, the bikes were swarming now, moving up on both sides and crowding their rabbit toward the center stripe. The bastard cut his wheel hard right as they began to crowd him, clipping one hog, spinning it away in an explosive cloud of dust and gravel. As he raced past, Skag thought he recognized a brother called Magoo, dumped on the roadside with his legs twisted under him at awkward angles.

  "I want those bastards," Wolfman snarled.

  "You'll have to stand in line, bro'."

  "I don't mind. There ought to be enough to go around."

  Skag hoped so. He'd never been a great fan of Magoo's, but no one took a brother out and lived to tell the tale. It was a law of nature, just like gravity.

  Whoever went up in a Mongol's line of fire was surely going down.

  * * *

  Bolan could see in the mirror that some of the bikers were holding weapons. The extra riders on the back of the three-wheelers were packing what looked like a shotgun and Mini-14 assault rifle, respectively. The first few shots were wild, aim spoiled by Bolan's weaving, but he knew their luck could never hold.

  "These guys are serious," Johnny said.

  As if in answer to his comment, several shotgun pellets rattled off the tailgate window, leaving milky scars on the bulletproof glass. Pistol rounds began to pock the Jimmy's flanks, gouging divots in the paint before they were deflected by the armor plating underneath. Where bullets struck the glass, they left dark streaks or smudges that resembled fingerprints.

  The soldier thought of slamming on his brakes and letting two or three of the attackers taste his bumper, but a slowdown would allow the bikers to surround them in an instant. Bolan knew the limitations of armor plating and «bulletproof» glass under point-blank fire, and he meant to avoid being in the center of a concentrated barrage if possible. The engine would be vulnerable to head-on fire, and there were still the tires to keep in mind.

  "I wish this rig had gun ports," Johnny said. He held the mini-Uzi in his hand, but he'd have to roll a window down to use it, thus exposing everyone inside to hostile fire.

  "We need to get off-road," the Executioner replied. "Their bikes aren't built for plowing up the landscape."

  In the rearview mirror, Bolan saw a dark van gaining on the bikers, running up behind them. He wasn't expecting help, and any fleeting hopes were dashed when one of the outlaws fell back, out of formation, pacing the van for a quick word with the driver.

  "Reinforcements," Bolan told his brother.

  John checked it out and scowled. "How many do you figure?"

  "Hard to say. We'll have to take them out, whatever."

  "Right." If there was any skepticism in the younger Bolan's tone, it didn't show.

  The squad car seemed to come out of nowhere, as they topped a rise with bikes strung out behind them like the long tail of a kite. The Executioner had time to recognize a highway patrol insignia on the door, glimpsing a startled face behind the windshield as the officer found himself cruising into a mobile war zone.

  One more player in the game of death. Bolan hoped there would be cards enough to go around.

  Chill pulled level with the van. "We need you up in front," he shouted, struggling to make his voice heard over wind and engines.

  "Where? Up there?"

  "We have to ram the bastard."

  "Ram?" Skag seemed confused, as if the desert furnace draft was blowing in one ear and out the other, sweeping all coherent thought away.

  "He's armor-plated, damn it! Get up there and run him off the road."

  The grin spread from ear to ear. "You got it, bro'."

  Skag started lying on the horn, and when a couple of Mongols craned their necks to find out what the hell was going on, Chill waved them over, clearing the southbound lane for Skag to pass. The van swung out and started to accelerate, its horn still blaring, but a heartbeat later it veered back across the line, the brake lights flashing like a pair of dragon eyes.

  Before Chill had an opportunity to grasp what was happening, the van clipped two brothers, slamming them together in a dead-end slide to nowhere, faces flayed on asphalt in the heartbeat left before their engines detonated, spewing fire and shrapnel.

  Chill rode wide around the lake of burning gasoline, and nearly took a header through the windshield of a squad car in the other lane. He saved it, with perhaps three inches breathing room to spare, and noted that a portion of the cruiser's inside fender had been peeled away on impact with some other obstacle.

  Chill didn't have to guess what that might be. An instant later
he was howling past the twisted hulk of yet another Harley-Davidson, its driver a mangled slab of raw meat on the center stripe.

  Behind him, with a squeal of rubber, the patrol car made a sharp U-turn and joined the fool's parade. Chill twisted his accelerator, working hard to put some space between himself and the policeman, thinking fast. He knew the cop would have to die — that was a given in the circumstances — but his crew had already been shaved by twenty-five percent. And they had yet to score a solid hit on their primary target.

  Chill decided contracts sucked, but it was too damned late to pull out now. They had a mess to clean up first, and witnesses to silence. After that, there would be fallen brothers to secure.

  But first the kill.

  And if they did it right, that just might make the game worthwhile.

  * * *

  The cruiser streaked past in a blur, already braking by the time Johnny swiveled in his seat to chart its progress. The collision was inevitable. Two bikes swung back across the line in time, but a third was too slow to make it and the squad car struck it squarely. Folding in upon itself, the Harley spun and wobbled, fell over with the rag-doll driver trapped beneath its twisted bulk.

  "That's two," Johnny said. He'd barely uttered the words when the van veered back from the passing lanes, colliding with another pair of choppers in the process. "Make that four. We ought to sit this out and let them waste each other."

  "No such luck. Hang on!"

  Bolan took the Jimmy off-road in a cloud of dust and gravel, jolting over ruts and stones before they reached an unpaved access road that seemed to run forever toward the far horizon.

  "Where the hell does this go?"