Firing as he dodged, the Executioner sent three of the titanic .50-caliber rounds through the dense greenery, but there was no answering cry of pain to announce a hit.
Popping into view, Cosentini leveled the M134 to rake the other man with .223 rounds. Bright sparks fell from the small-caliber bullets ricocheting off the spinning barrels of the minigun. Then Dooley shot back. The 20 mm rounds disappeared into the soft grass, and then the ground erupted from multiple explosions and Cosentini went flying. The M134 was still shooting wildly as he landed on a marble bench with a sickening crunch.
Down to his last cartridge, Bolan crept to a flowering bush, aimed and fired. The huge bullet slammed deep into a rear tire of the response van. As the vehicle sharply tilted, Dooley lost control of the minigun. It spun freely, the stream of 20 mm bullets raking across the front of the factory.
Dropping the empty rifle, Bolan stood, drew the Desert Eagle and stroked the trigger. The handgun boomed and Dooley rocked back as red blood gushed from his shoulder.
Cursing vehemently, the man struggled with the controls of the minigun. Charging out of the billowing clouds of smoke, Weinberg and Glenn appeared, their AK-101 assault rifles chattering nonstop. Hit from different directions, Dooley jerked around for several seconds, then collapsed to the floor of the van, his lifeless body moving across the thick layer of spent brass casings.
“Keep your masks on!” Bolan said into his throat mike, checking a chemical sensor clipped to his belt. “The air is still registering toxic.”
By now the factory was a raging inferno, a thick column of roiling black smoke rising high into the morning sky.
“Well, that was expensive,” Weinberg said, looking at the still form of Cosentini splayed across the bench. “How did you know they’d come up the drive and not cut through the bushes like we first did?”
“Castle would want to maintain the illusion that they were the police until the last possible moment,” Bolan replied.
Somewhere far away, a fire alarm began to howl, quickly followed by several more.
“The DEA environmental sensors have been tripped,” Bolan announced, heading for the river. “Let’s move with a purpose, people.”
“What’s next?” Weinberg asked, falling into step.
“Nobody would send this big a force without observers to watch safely from a distance and report back on the results, good or bad.”
“Spies?” Gonzales said, as if it was the filthiest word ever created.
“Want me to send some of the guards to flush him out of hiding?” Glenn asked. “Drive the son of a bitch down here like a quail so that we can end him?”
“Christ, you’re dumb. Holden and most of his men are dead,” Weinberg growled, turning to Bolan. “What’s the call? You want him dead or alive?”
Bring up his monocular, Bolan dialed for infrared function and scanned the horizon. Sure enough, he found a small hot spot, lumpy and irregular on the elevated beltway, almost as if a man was sitting on the edge of the highway alongside an idling car.
Very far away, a helicopter rose into the clouds, but it was too far away for Bolan to even guess at the make.
“Sir?” Weinberg asked.
“Alive,” Bolan replied, lowering the monocular and turning off the device. The computer cycled down with a soft hum. “Definitely alive and unharmed.”
Chapter 13
Briefly glancing over the assemblage of wrecked police cars, the vivisected response van, the bullet-riddled cars of the guards and the burning limousines, Bolan saw that everything with wheels had taken serious damage during the chaotic firefight. There was a Bell & Howell helicopter parked on the roof, but the factory was a raging inferno filled with poisonous fumes, so that was as unreachable as the dark side of the moon.
“River?” Gonzales asked, removing his earbud and throat mike.
“River,” Bolan agreed, tossing the monocular.
Sprinting into the bedraggled remains of the hedge maze, the group got rid of as many superfluous items as they could, especially any incriminating weapons and holsters. There was nothing that could be traced back to them by the police, and speed was at a premium. The city fire trucks were dangerously close now, and everybody knew that the police, the real police this time, would be close behind.
Charging out of the hedges, Bolan and the others quickly yanked off their body armor before wading into the murky river. The water was surprisingly cold. Splashing their way across, the group was forced to hold on to one another as they fought the strong currents. The water rose to their chests and footing was tricky. But they finally reached the opposite shore. Chilled to the bone and soaked to the skin, they lumbered through the tall weeds, wringing the excess water from their soaked clothing.
Behind them, the hellish illumination of the burning factory continued to steadily increase. Then flashing lights announced the arrival of fire trucks and a lot of police cars.
“Even when they realize those are stolen squad cars,” Weinberg said, brushing a strand of wet hair off her face, “the local cops are going to go absolutely ape-shit.”
Looking up at the smoky sky, Glenn said, “If they start sweeping the area with police helicopters, we’re well and truly screwed.”
“There’s too much smoke for them to find us visually,” Bolan said curtly, “and the thermals from the fire will muck up infrared scanners for more than a mile.”
“And after that?” Gonzales asked, dodging around an abandoned bathtub overgrown with weeds.
“Stay low, act casual,” Bolan replied, “and get your asses back to the Hercules!”
With the rugged landscape highlighted by the growing fire, Bolan easily located an old gas station and used the Beretta to blow open the padlock on the door. Proceeding directly to the garage, he yanked away a sheet of canvas to expose six BMW motorcycles. One had been for Cosentini, the spare for Grimaldi.
“Oh, man, I am so happy that we stashed these over here in case of trouble,” Weinberg said, yanking off her dripping clothing.
“Readiness is all,” Bolan replied, grabbing a reserve monocular from a cushioned holster.
“Amen to that,” Gonzales agreed, stepping out of his sodden pants.
While the others got dry clothing out of the rear compartments of the motorcycles, Bolan sloshed back outside and scanned the nearby elevated highway. It took him a minute to find the observer again, but the man had not moved.
Dialing for computer enhancement, Bolan switched to Starlight, and the monocular zoomed in to show the green-tinted image of a young man, clean-shaven, long hair tied into a ponytail, black windbreaker and a Knicks T-shirt. There was also an Uzi machine pistol slung under the windbreaker, the stubby barrel tipped with an illegal sound suppressor. Target acquired.
Talking on a cell phone, the young man was intently watching the distant fire, occasionally snapping pictures with the phone. Lost in the moving shadows, Bolan could dimly see some sort of a car behind the man and struggled to get the make or read the license plate. Unfortunately the youth was blocking his sight.
Just then the flames of the fertilizer factory surged upward and Bolan got a distorted view of a dark Volvo with a roof rack and a trailer hitch. The plates looked like New York State, but it was impossible to tell from the all-too-brief glimpse.
Getting a spare Beretta 93R machine pistol from the rear compartment of a bike, Bolan screwed on a sound suppressor, slipped on a new shoulder holster and tucked the gun into place. Rummaging through the small assortment of loaded magazines, he stuffed several into his damp pockets and then yanked on a helmet.
Climbing onto the BMW motorcycle, Bolan kicked the engine alive. “Everybody back to the Herc,” he commanded over the gentle purr. “This is a one-man job.”
“Bust his ass, chief,” Gonzales said, zipping closed a leather jacket.
Leaving by the same door they had just entered, Bolan angled away from the gas station and streaked off into the night. The 465 beltway was relatively close to the factory, about a mile, maybe less. If he doubled that distance with access ramps and city streets, it meant that Bolan had to cover two miles before he could reach the Volvo. Time was against him now, the numbers were falling, so the soldier cleared his mind of everything else but driving the BMW. Speed was all that mattered right now.
Peeling away, Bolan cut across an empty field to try to save a few seconds. Eventually he erupted onto a main boulevard at full speed. Loud car horns blared at his unexpected arrival, but Bolan ignored them and dangerously zigzagged through the irregular line of vehicles.
As the engine grew warm, the exhaust actually lowered in volume. Bolan twisted the controls, trying for even greater speed. The access ramp to the beltway was only a few blocks away when Bolan saw the flashing warning lights of construction.
Struggling to recall the layout of the neighborhood, Bolan headed west until he found a dry creek running parallel to the street. Cutting across the lawn of a house, he banked sharply, and the BMW dropped down onto the cracked mud. Recovering from the impact, Bolan started upriver, pushing the engine hard. The dried mud spread out behind the big speeding motorcycle in a dusty contrail. During the day, that would have been a dead giveaway, but this late at night it merely vanished in the shadows. Besides, almost everybody was heading for the burning factory, talking on cell phones and taking nonstop pictures.
Reaching a culvert, Bolan briefly slowed, then gunned the engine to charge up the sloping concrete bank. Going almost vertical, he thought the bike was going to flip over, and threw his full weight forward. As the front tire found purchase, the motorcycle savagely jerked and he was suddenly on pavement again.
Braking hard while he throttled down the engine, Bolan threw out a leg and banked to swing around fast. He stopped on the opposite side of the road, the rear wheel resting on the edge. That had been close.
Ahead was the exit ramp. There were no cars coming down, so he seized the opportunity and recklessly charged up the downward slope. He cursed as a bus came lumbering into view dead ahead. Popping a wheelie, Bolan hopped onto the grassy median and hastily regained the northbound traffic.
“Crazy nut!” a passing driver bellowed, brandishing a clenched fist.
Nodding silent agreement, Bolan kept in the passing lane until a glow on the horizon said the factory was close. Braking to a full stop, the soldier dug out the monocular and swept the berm for any sign of the observer. There was nobody parked in the berm for as far as the monocular could focus, and he realized that they had already departed.
Bolan climbed back down and streaked away at his best speed. Apparently this would have to be done the old-fashioned way, purely by eyeballing the target.
Trying not to attract attention, Bolan stayed with the flow of traffic, passing every time he could but never letting himself get ahead of the other cars. Leaving the riverfront behind, the night air was cool. Combined with the wind, it sent a chill through Bolan all the way down to his bones. The engine grew warm between his legs, and that helped, but not much.
There were not many cars on the beltway at this hour of the night, and Bolan ignored everything that was not a Volvo. The first one he saw was full of nuns. The second Volvo was driven by a young woman, her headphones visibly jumping from the volume of whatever she was listening to. The third contained an Asian family, the parents in the front seat studying a map, while the kids in the back watched a cartoon on a swing-down TV monitor.
Then he noticed another Volvo half a mile down the road. Allowing the other vehicles to pass by, it was strictly maintaining the speed limit.
Driving with one hand, Bolan awkwardly pulled out the monocular and gave the vehicle a fast look. It was a brown Volvo with New York plates and a roof rack and trailer hitch. Gotcha!
Judiciously dropping back in the flow of traffic, Bolan allowed the Volvo to almost get out of visual range. He had trailed more than his fair share of cars over the years, and this part of the mission was easy. However, he was bitterly cold, sore all over and his stomach was starting to loudly announce the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything for quite a while. There were some MRE food packs in the rear compartments, along with bottled water and several candy bars for quick energy. But to reach any of that would required him to stop the motorcycle.
Forcing his mind away from that thought, Bolan concentrated on following the Volvo. Even if it had a full tank of gas, so did he, and the BMW got much better mileage. Wherever the people in the car went, he could follow.
Maintaining a safe distance, Bolan changed lanes every now and then, and even drove for a few miles with his headlight off. Until somebody specifically noticed you, little variances could make all the difference in staying covert.
Slowly, the long miles passed. Soon, Bolan and the Volvo were the only vehicles in sight as the sun rose and a new day began.
Suddenly, Bolan could no longer see the Volvo, and he quickly slowed. Sure enough, an exit ramp appeared ahead. Slowing even farther, he yanked out the monocular.
A sign read Welcome to Gehenna, which puzzled him as he knew that was the ancient Jewish word for hell. Or rather what passed for hell in that religion. Judaism had no lakes of fire for the wicked, just a terrible wasteland where the evil would languish forever without the glory of knowing God.
Neat rows of two-story houses with attached garages stretched out far and wide, all of them amazingly similar in design. Every backyard had a pool; every roof had a satellite dish. Obviously, Gehenna was a planned neighborhood. True suburbia in all of its glory.
Switching to infrared, Bolan instantly found the hot engine of the Volvo. The brown sedan was turning off the main drag and onto a dirt road that led into the trees.
Marking the location in his mind, Bolan killed the headlight and took off in pursuit. Reaching the dirt road, he could find no trace of the Volvo and proceeded warily, unzipping his windbreaker for faster access to the Beretta. He had no idea where the young man in the Volvo was going, but eventually he’d stop, and Bolan would take him alive for questioning.
There were a lot of loose leaves blowing across the ground, and Bolan throttled down the purring engine. Those would not cause any slippage with the military tires on the BMW, but something inside the man warned him away from the fluttering leaves. However, there were simply too many, and Bolan was forced to go through a small pile.
Instantly he realized something was wrong. The dried leaves did not crunch under his tires...they shattered. Then the front tire blew, the shredded pieces flying off the rim.
Desperately, Bolan threw himself off the machine. At this speed it was probably suicide to try, but it was certain death to stay on the crippled machine.
As the fork dug into the dirt, the BMW flipped over to loudly slam on the ground. The headlight and windshield shattered and the riderless bike tumbled away, gushing gasoline.
Tucking his head, Bolan hit the ground hard, the air exploding out of his lungs. Rolling into a tight ball, he slammed along completely out of control. His head rocked inside the cushioned helmet and the Beretta stabbed into his ribs so hard he thought they might break.
Trying to regain control of his passage, Bolan locked his ankles together and hugged his chest with both arms. It was an old paratrooper move for just such an occurrence. Inertia was in control now, and all the man could do was stay strong and hope that he did not go off a cliff or end up wrapped around a large rock.
Tumbling along the pavement, Bolan was in a whirlwind of chaos and had no idea when he left the dirt road and went down the berm and into the trees. But suddenly there was grass; the jarring was noticeably softer and things began crunch around him.
Finally coming to a stop, Bolan breathed deeply and checked himself for any broken b
ones. Everything seemed intact, but now he really was sore everywhere. If he hadn’t been wearing a helmet and boots, the soldier knew that he would be dead by now.
Struggling onto his hands and knees, Bolan looked around. In the growing light of the dawn, he could see that he was in a marsh. Tufts of cattails rose in clumps from pools of murky water and the air smelled rich with peat. There was a fat bullfrog sitting on a nearby tree stump. The creature was watching him with an unreadable expression.
Crawling in that direction, Bolan saw the frog hop away to land in the reeds, and then he heard a splash.
Using the tree stump to lever himself off the damp ground, Bolan wearily sat and opened a small NATO medical kit when he heard a twig snap in the trees.
Biting back a curse, he yanked out a syringe and injected himself in the leg. The NATO Hot Shot was a devil’s brew of painkillers, antibiotics and stimulants. It was designed to help a badly wounded soldier get himself off the battlefield and to an aid station. The aftereffects were unpleasant, but in Bolan’s opinion anything was better than dying helpless in the mud. Almost immediately, the Executioner began to feel better.
As his mind started to clear, there appeared a pair of halogen flashlights moving through the trees. The blue-white beams swept back and forth in a search pattern.
Drawing the Beretta, Bolan quickly checked his pockets. The grenades were gone, as were his buck knife and all his spare magazines. He had fifteen rounds. More than enough. That was when he noticed the sound suppressor was askew. If he fired the Beretta now, it could possibly back-blast and remove his hand.
Quickly, Bolan removed it from the barrel. The Beretta would have more stopping power, but would now reveal his location.
Breakout Page 15