Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  "Does it matter?"

  Knowing that his brother had a point, Johnny turned to watch the bikers eat their dust. A couple of the Harleys surged forward, drivers squeezing off a round or two before they fell back, lost to sight, and others took their place. He couldn't tell if they had shaken any of the enemy, but four — at least — were permanently out of action. That would cut the odds a bit when it came time for them to make their stand.

  And that moment, he knew, couldn't be too far off.

  The Jimmy could outrun their opposition in the rough, but driving overland was a diversionary method, and the bikers would be waiting when, inevitably, they were forced back to the highway. Likewise, the addition of a squad car to the chase meant reinforcements would be on the way, and their itinerary didn't make allowances for killing time in jail.

  So they'd have to stand and fight. Soon. Case closed.

  "Check this out."

  Johnny tore himself away from their backtrack, following his brother's gaze though the windshield. They were closing on a makeshift refuse dump. Piles of garbage, broken furniture and rusting auto bodies had been roughly heaped to form a cul-de-sac. The access road veered left to skirt a central pit that had been excavated by erosion, with a helping hand from man.

  "Looks good to me," the younger Bolan said as the warrior applied the brakes and swung the Jimmy's wheel around.

  "It's all we've got."

  The Jimmy shuddered through a rough one-eighty, throwing up a cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the track, the pit and the surrounding dunes of trash. Aguire popped up from the floor in back, fear draining the color from his face.

  "Why are we stopping?" he demanded.

  "We've got nowhere else to go."

  A pair of outlaw bikers hurtled through the dust cloud, saw the pit too late and soared off into space. The next one through was quicker, laying down his hog and sacrificing skin in time to save himself, his backup closing in and circling like Apache raiders as the dust began to settle.

  "Ready?"

  John flashed a smile. "Why not?"

  The Executioner hauled the CAR-15 from underneath his seat and drew back the cocking lever. It was the last that Johnny saw of his brother before he threw his own door open, leaping clear.

  And somewhere in the middle of it all, obscured by engine sounds and gunfire, masked by settling dust, a siren had begun to wail.

  * * *

  "Officer needs assistance!" Chaney shouted into the radio microphone, spinning the wheel with his free hand and hanging on for dear life. "Highway 84, north of Justiceburg. Shots fired. I'm in pursuit of twelve to fifteen Mongols, plus a dark blue van. Three bikers down… no, make that four. They're firing on another vehicle. Looks like a Blazer or a Jimmy. Get some backup out here, now!"

  He dropped the microphone and tuned his mind out to the nasal tones of the dispatcher's voice. No matter how the troops responded to his call, the nearest cars were probably in Lubbock, maybe down in Roscoe, and he'd be lucky if he saw their flashing lights within half an hour. In the meantime, he was on his own, and that meant trouble.

  Chaney had nearly lost it after flattening the biker in a head-on crash, and he knew how fortunate he was that hog and rider hadn't wound up in his lap. Collision with a full-sized Harley-Davidson meant damage to the cruiser, and a better hit would certainly have cracked his radiator. As it was, the left-hand fender looked like rumpled tin foil, and he felt a tremor that betrayed a problem with the black-and-white's alignment.

  Chaney shrugged it off and concentrated on his driving. He had no idea why fifteen Mongols and the driver of a van had suddenly decided to pursue another vehicle, guns blazing, but the chase had cost four punks their hides already, and he meant to see the rest of them locked up or planted for their trouble. They'd have to be disarmed, of course, before he got around to asking any questions, and the odds were looking grim from where Frank Chaney sat. In fact, it looked like suicide, but he'd taken on the risks when he began to draw his paycheck from the state.

  He drew his Smith & Wesson, shifted hands, and held it in his left, extended from his open window. A couple of bikes at the end of the line were weaving back and forth to cut him off, as if running interference, but he had no patience left for fun and games. If they were looking for a new career as road-kill, Chaney would be happy to oblige.

  As if on cue, the bikers veered apart, accelerating, and a squat three-wheeler drifted into Chaney's path. The passenger had twisted half around to face the cruiser, and he aimed a shotgun at Chaney. He just had time to duck before a charge of buckshot took out his windshield, the pebbled safety glass cascading over him like marbles. Driving blind, Chaney floored the pedal, holding steady on the wheel. He heard a warning shout before the three-wheel's driver goosed it, staying just a shade ahead.

  A second shotgun blast ripped through the headrest on his seat. Then trooper sat up quickly, sighting through the open windshield with his Magnum, and squeezed off two rounds in rapid-fire. One missed, but he was right on target with the second, which drilled through the shotgun rider's chest to score a secondary hit between the driver's shoulder blades.

  He saw the bike begin to swerve, and steered his cruiser in the opposite direction, passing close enough to graze the bike's rear end and flip it over like a capsized tortoise on the shoulder of the highway. Up ahead a boiling dust cloud told him that the lead car was attempting to elude pursuit by taking off across the desert, maybe falling back on four-wheel drive.

  He wished them luck.

  The Mongols weren't riding dirt bikes, but they weren't about to let their quarry slip away because the ground got rocky, either. As for Chaney, he'd hang in to the bitter end, unless his vehicle gave up the ghost.

  He saw the last two bikers in the lineup disappear, their figures swallowed in a wall of swirling dust. Chaney followed, choking as the grit billowed at him through the open windshield. Nearly blind now, praying he could hold his breath until it cleared, the trooper kept his foot on the accelerator.

  If the Mongols thought that they could shake him off that easy, they could damned well think again.

  * * *

  A bullet rattled off the Jimmy's open door as Bolan hit a combat crouch, the carbine set for automatic fire. He loosed a 3-round burst in the direction of the milling bikers. One tumbled from the saddle, and the rest scattered with a roar of engines, churning more dust with their tires as they wheeled off in all directions, seeking cover.

  On the far side of the car, he heard the Uzi's rattle of defiance. The bikers were returning fire, still rolling, hot rounds spurting dust around the vehicle or spanging off its armored body. Bolan caught a quick glimpse of Aguire, scrambling for the driver's door. Then the guy was kneeling in the dirt beside the Jimmy, looking for a place to hide.

  He broke in the direction of the trash pit, bullets snapping at his heels. Bolan was compelled to follow, after toppling another outlaw with a blitzing figure eight that left his colors spouting crimson through a layer of chalky dust. The punk was dead before he hit the ground, his chopper settling heavily across his legs and pelvis.

  Aguire reached the pit, appeared to stumble then disappeared beyond its rim. Hostile fire began to churn the air around the Executioner, forcing him to veer off course and slide across the rusting hood of a 67 Chevrolet. Outlaw bullets drilled its bodywork as if the hulk were made of tin.

  The soldier cursed Aguire as he crawled forward and tried to find himself a field of fire. It was a trade-off: meager sanctuary might of saved his life, but it had also pinned him down, while giving Carlos time to slip away.

  If he was still alive.

  It played the same in either case — a missing witness or a dead one. Vos would walk.

  Fat chance.

  The game was blown unless he brought Aguire in alive, and there was no way he could do that while he lay there eating dust. Disgusted, Bolan poked his head around the Chevy's tarnished bumper, ducking back again with some idea of how the opposition was
arrayed against him. He could see four of them, and two were closing in a pincers movement, while two more served as anchors in the middle, laying down sporadic cover fire.

  The others would be going after Johnny, but the kid would have to look out for himself. The Executioner was all tied up at the moment.

  It would be timing all the way, he would either pull it off or he wouldn't. Whatever, he was dead already if he didn't make the effort.

  Bolan crept backward, shifting from the place where he'd last been seen, already counting down the doomsday numbers in his mind. He came up firing, hitting back with everything he had. And praying it would be enough.

  14

  All things considered, Aguire thought that running from the Jimmy was a bad idea. It seemed essential at the time, with bullets hammering against the body of the vehicle and cracking off the windows, but he found it even worse outside. The Mongols had a clear shot at him, and there was nothing he could do but run for cover, praying that a well-placed bullet didn't find him first.

  He'd been huddled in back on the Jimmy's floor when the vehicle had stopped, and rolling clouds of dust had blocked the view before Aguire made his break. He thought the rising mounds of rubbish ought to offer some protection, but he hadn't seen the pit in time to save himself.

  Or maybe it was fate.

  Whatever, he was sprinting for what seemed to be the closest cover — and not nearly close enough — when suddenly the earth gave way beneath his feet. He felt the ground begin to shift at first, then crumble in an avalanche of cardboard, cans and bottles. When he tried to put the brakes on, things got worse and momentum pitched him forward onto his face.

  In retrospect it hadn't been a fall as much as it had been a slide. The near side of the garbage pit was canted at nearly a forty-five degree angle, with refuse heaping outward toward the bottom. After plunging six or seven feet in freefall, Carlos landed on his belly, hands outstretched to catch himself, and slithered downhill like some kind of lizard in a mud slide. He was nicked and gouged along the way, his clothing ripped and fouled, but he'd live.

  Perhaps.

  Two Mongols had already found the pit before him. Twisted, smoking motorcycles lay within a few yards of each other, mangled in their plunge from the heights. One of the drivers had died with his machine, spine snapped on impact, but the other was up and moving, after a fashion, studying the boundaries of his prison through a veil of blood.

  The biker saw Aguire coming, and he responded with a quickness that belied his seemingly dazed state. The Mongol searched desperately for weapons, lost when he'd made the plunge, but there was nothing to be found. Recovering, the nightmare figure drew a sheath knife from his belt and moved to the attack.

  Aguire had perhaps ten seconds to prepare himself, and he couldn't afford to quibble in his choice of weapons. Scooping up a rusty shower rod, he gripped it like a fighting staff, two-handed. The far side of the pit was seemingly reserved for odds and ends of lumber, and Aguire thought if he could make it that far, he might find himself a decent club.

  The biker read his mind and moved to intercept him, closing swiftly. Carlos batted at him with the rod, and it was slapped aside contemptuously, offering no hindrance to his enemy. The Cuban's rage boiled over, then, erupting in a stream of curses as he charged the startled outlaw, flailing with his makeshift staff and landing several solid blows across the man's back and shoulders.

  Fleeting exultation vanished as the shower rod was captured, twisted from his grasp and tossed aside. Aguire stood defenseless as the blood-smeared savage rushed him, feinting with the blade down low and hacking toward his face.

  No one was more startled than Aguire when he caught the biker's wrist and held it fast. The other man's momentum drove him backward and swept him off his feet, but the Cuban somehow kept his grip despite the fall. A false move now was death.

  A knee slammed into Aguire's groin, retreated, and came back strong. Carlos felt his stomach knotting and opened his lips in time for the remains of lunch to spatter his opponent's face. The biker cursed and tried to wrench himself away, but he couldn't escape Aguire's grip. Lashing out with combat boots, he bruised Aguire's ribs and thighs, but still the Cuban clung to him like death.

  Until his fingers slipped.

  Aguire stumbled to his knees, the outlaw backing off a pace before he realized that he was free. Recovering from the surprise, he moved in for the kill, and Carlos raised his eyes in time to see the blade descending toward his face.

  * * *

  Four gunners opened fire in unison as Bolan came up shooting, rusty bits and pieces flying from the junked car that provided him with cover. One guy was blasting with a shotgun while the other three fired pistols. He took out the scattergunner first as a precaution, knowing that the outlaw's weapon made him the most lethal close-range adversary.

  Bolan had his targets pegged before he made his move, and while the flankers were in motion, circling to close the trap, Mr. 12-gauge and a sidekick held their ground at center stage. They both saw Bolan as he rose from cover, but their weapons had been trained on the wrong end of the vehicle, and it took them nearly a heartbeat to correct the error.

  Too long by half.

  The shotgunner took four rounds across the upper chest as Bolan's CAR-15 tracked from left to right. The biker triggered a last, reflexive blast in the direction of the clouds. His sidekick bolted for the only cover close at hand — the Jimmy — firing as he ran. A short burst churned the ground behind him, but the flankers weighed in their automatics then, and Bolan had to let the runner go.

  He concentrated on the two remaining gunmen, knowing they'd be on him soon. If they were capable of a concerted rush, attaching simultaneously, he'd have to choose between them, offering his back to one man or the other in a suicidal game that he could never hope to win.

  The rusty Chevy had no doors on Bolan's side, and its rear seat had been removed. With seconds left to spare, he saw the golden opportunity and seized it, edging forward, careful not to show himself or tip the car as he crept silently inside.

  A spider scuttled over Bolan's hand, but he ignored it, huddled in the oven, concentrating on the predators outside. A burst of automatic fire erupted from the general vicinity of the Jimmy, but he put it out of mind, refusing to divide his concentration now.

  When the bikers made their move, it was a marvel of precision timing, both men popping into view at once, their weapons primed and ready. Neither came expecting empty air, and they were squeezing off before they recognized each other, stopping lead with flesh before they realized their fatal error.

  Bolan burst from cover as the guns fell silent, triggering a burst to starboard. He finished his man on that side, twisting in midair to bring the other under fire. His opposition had collapsed on hands and knees, blood pumping from a shoulder wound. Bolan ended all his earthly worries with a single head shot.

  He thought of Johnny first but went to find Aguire, moving in a crouch as he approached the garbage pit. Below him, the Cuban and a wounded biker grappled for a knife, the outlaw kicking at Aguire, finally breaking free of his restraining grasp. Aguire stumbled to his knees, and Bolan set the carbine's fire selector switch on semiautomatic as the biker moved to finish it, the long knife poised to strike.

  One shot at thirty yards was all it took. The 5.56 mm round caught his target just below the jawline, nearly taking off that shaggy head before the biker fell. Aguire took a moment to discover he was still alive, and then he picked out Bolan's figure on the west rim of the pit.

  The soldier left him there, secure for the moment if he had the sense to hide. There was still a war in progress, and the growl of engines, coupled with the wailing of a siren, told him reinforcements had arrived.

  * * *

  Skag couldn't see a goddamned thing with all the dust, but he could hear just fine. The cop was still behind them, eating landscape all the way but hanging in there, with his siren whooping like some kind of frigging jungle bird on speed. His flashing
lights were visible from time to time — when he got close enough. Every time that happened Skag poured on the gas, determined to hold their narrow lead.

  "We need to shake that bastard, man."

  The Wolfman grinned. "It's covered, bro'."

  He left his seat and jostled Skag before he cleared the space between them, rocking with the motion of the van. It was a miracle they hadn't cracked an axle yet, and he was sure they couldn't take much more. The van was solid, but a Jeep hadn't been requested when they sent him out to bag civilian wheels. All this off-road shit was getting hairy.

  Still, he thought, it could be worse. The brothers on two wheels were getting pounded, sucking sand like there was no tomorrow, and it took some kind of balls to push the chase in those conditions. Payback would be that much sweeter when they caught the assholes they were chasing. In the meantime…

  "Jesus, will you slow this fucker down?" The Wolfman was on hands and knees, his shotgun slithering across the floor. "I can't do a damned thing in a fucking roller coaster."

  "Yeah, all right. Hang on a second."

  "That's all I can fucking do. Hang on to this, bro'."

  Skag was shifting to the brake halfheartedly, afraid of being left behind or getting corn-holed by the cruiser on his tail, when suddenly the dust cleared in front of him and he beheld the promised land. The Jimmy they were chasing stood in front of him, nose pointed back in the direction they had come from, and packed with bullet marks. Choppers were mobbed in the foreground, brothers taking off on foot and pegging shots at targets Skag couldn't make out from where he sat.

  "We've got 'em bro'!"

  "Hold on a sec…"

  Skag mashed the brake and held it to the floor as they began to fishtail in the dirt. Wolfman triggered off a shotgun blast before deceleration pitched him backward — that is, forward — toward the driver's seat. The impact drove Skag's face against the steering wheel, a jolting blow that…cracked his nose and left him drooling blood across his naked chest.