“Not necessarily,” Bolan replied, casting his eyes around the room. He picked out a man huddled against the wall to his right. His eyes were bright and focused, and he was making himself conspicuous, ironically, by his very attempts to press himself back into the wall and appear invisible.
The Executioner turned and walked slowly the few yards between them. The man was of an indeterminate age, Bolan pinning it down to under forty. He was also frozen in fear as he watched Bolan approach.
So far, the three men had been speaking to one another in English. Bolan couldn’t tell if the man had understood, or was terrified simply because he couldn’t understand. Bolan was framing a simple question in French, smiling in a gesture of friendship that softened the derelict’s frozen rigidity, when Goldman exploded, changing everything.
8
It was the scream that first distracted Bolan. High-pitched, whining and with a note of complete terror. At almost the exact same moment, the man he had been about to question whimpered and turned his head away, as though he expected the same thing to happen to him.
Bolan turned and saw Goldman holding one of the derelicts up by the rags he was dressed in, hitting him in the gut.
“Don’t ignore me, just tell me if you saw him,” the redhead yelled in excruciatingly bad French. So bad that, in truth, Bolan was doubtful that the merc’s victim could understand him in his terror and his drunken state.
“Jimmy—” Ross said, moving toward Goldman, but Bolan was past him before he had a chance to take more than a couple of steps.
The soldier grabbed the redhead by the shoulder, spinning him and punching him in his jaw. The merc dropped his victim and dropped onto the filthy ground.
“Cooper, what the hell—” Ross began before Bolan whirled on him. The burning anger in the soldier’s eyes silenced Ross before he could say anything else.
“Listen,” Bolan snapped, turning his attention to Goldman, who was still prone, shaking his head slowly to try to clear it. “These are not the people we’re after, and beating on them is not going to get any answers.”
“Just trying to hurry things up,” Goldman grumbled.
“Think that’s going to do it?” Bolan said, casting an eye about. “All you’ve done is given us a lot of trouble.”
The paralysis of fear had dropped from the derelicts, and even those who had been in a stupor were now awakened and alert to what had been going on around them. There was a groundswell of muttering, and on the edges of the chamber, they were starting to group together. Bottles discarded in a drunken haze were now taken up as weapons, flaming timber taken from the bonfires. There was the dull glint of knives, not as razor sharp as the Tekna Bolan carried, but sharp enough to cut.
Bolan took the Tekna from where it was sheathed on the blacksuit’s harness. “Looks like we’ve got trouble,” he said shortly. “You’d better be ready to fight your way out of this, Goldman.”
“We can just blast our way through,” Ross said, pulling the Beretta half out of its holster. He stopped when he caught the grim expression on Bolan’s face.
“You draw that, and I’ll break your arm and then your neck,” Bolan whispered with a hard-edged tone that would brook no argument. “Our fight is not with these people.”
“Yeah, but theirs is with us,” Goldman snapped, scrambling to his feet.
“And if you start firing down here, then we lose all chance of trailing Signella,” Bolan continued, ignoring the redhead. “The sound is going to travel all through these tunnels. No, we do this by hand.”
While they had been arguing, the men and women in the chamber had banded into small groups, growing stronger and surer in their numbers. They began to advance toward the trio of agents. Bolan, Ross and Goldman stood back-to-back, forming a circle. They had moved toward the center of the chamber to give themselves a better view of the surrounding area. The torches and bonfires cast a flickering light on the stones, making the shadows in the corners of the chamber jump wildly. Anything or anyone could be in those. As long as they stayed central, then there would be enough light to see whoever came at them.
Bolan’s eyes flickered over the groups surrounding them. He estimated there were between twenty-five to thirty people in the chamber. Almost ten to one. Not good odds. Ross and Goldman were using their bare hands, while Bolan had the Tekna. Their opponents were mostly armed with knives, bottles and flaming wood. It was a far from fair fight. But, on the balancing side, these were street people, either derelict, drunk, drugged or just wasted through living rough. Armed as they were, they should be no match for three men who had trained for combat and had to live on the edge of violence every day. If they could avoid being caught by any of the weapons, then they had a better than fighting chance.
There was a tense pause, as the groupings around them waited for someone to make the first move. The trio held back, waiting to see from where the first attack would stem. Finally, the tension became too great for one of the derelicts, who screamed hysterically and ran forward, waving his blunt blade before him.
His target was Goldman, who parried the thrust with his forearm, the blade sliding off the sleeve of his leather jacket, and returned with a vicious chop to the throat that cut his opponent down immediately, the man falling to the floor, choking heavily as he writhed in the dirt.
The floodgates were opened. The outcasts streamed forward in groups. Ross, near one of the fires and seeing a glowing timber still in the remains, stooped with a lithe grace to pick it up with one hand, waving it like a baton on the upward sweep of his arm. The glowing charcoaled end of the wood caught three attackers across the face and arms, causing them to yell in agony and fall back, cannoning into those behind them in their panic, and causing them to tumble to the floor.
Bolan, for his part, was unwilling to use the Tekna unless necessary. He waited for the first of those tackling him to get near, then pivoted on his left heel, his right leg coming out and the heavy heel of his combat boot taking three of the on-coming across their chests as he arced. They fell back into their companions, taking out some of the more unsteady by default.
Both feet on the ground, his balance restored, he found that a vanguard was now upon him. They swarmed over him, waving bottles and pieces of wood that were no longer flaming, but were still red hot at their burned ends. There was also a carving knife with a chunk from the dulled side of the blade missing that he could see flashing in the air.
Breathing deeply and evenly, he saw the panic, fear and anger of those attacking him. The only real threat from them was if one of the bottles or the knives should strike a telling blow. They were weak and ineffectual as fighters, and all he had to do was immobilize them one by one. The knifeman, carving the air, was the first. A jab took the man in the chest, the power of Bolan’s forearm and biceps muscles driving his adversary backward. On the return, a whiplash movement to the right took out a woman with a broken wine bottle, her head lashing back under the impact and catching another assailant under the chin.
Shifting his balance, Bolan used the handle of the Tekna to send another opponent into oblivion. Those who were left were now beginning to have second thoughts about taking on the soldier, and some had already scattered into the darkness of the tunnels surrounding the chamber.
To his left and right, Ross and Goldman were also dealing with their assailants. Under the expensive, though now badly soiled and rumpled suit, Ross packed a formidable set of muscles. He had both speed and strength, which he demonstrated now as he swung the piece of red-hot wood as though it were a nunchaku, keeping those attacking him at a fearful distance until he had formed a plan of attack. He danced forward and kicked out at the nearest derelict. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he turned and threw the red-hot wood at the next attacker, making the man flinch. Ross took advantage of this distraction to jab at the guy’s jaw, hitting him on the point and making him drop to the dirt. Bolan watched as classic boxing moves handled another three attackers, before a fourth came at him from an
oblique angle. Ross saw the man move forward from the corner of his eye, and shot out a foot that took the man on the side of his knee. The iron-hard blow made him crumble to one side, and the merc brought his foot down hard on the man’s wrist, forcing him to loosen his grip on the broken bottle he was holding. A two-footed shuffle, and a swift kick under the chin shut out the lights in the man’s eyes.
Goldman was faring less well. The redhead’s temper had been a problem, and Bolan was right to surmise that this loose cannon would be a major problem. Screaming and yelling his frustration at the delay as he laid into the group converging on him, he was proving to be the consummate streetfighter, kicking, punching and gouging at those who got near enough, a whirling dervish ball of energy. He was also proving to be tough, taking blows from lumps of wood and the occasional thrown bottle without flinching, despite the blood that was streaming from a cut opened up above his hair-line.
But if he was a consummate streetfighter, he also suffered from the downside of this art. He was undisciplined, and concentrated solely on one or two opponents, allowing others to get under his guard. Where Bolan, and even Ross, could step back and look at the bigger picture while they tackled an opponent, Goldman was far too focused by his own anger. So he was slowly being overwhelmed by the numbers rather than the power of his opponents.
It was at this point that his temper, flaring redder than his hair or the blood streaming down his face could ever have been, came to the fore, and he forgot the words Bolan had spoken when they knew they would have to stand and fight. Taking a step back, roaring his fury, Goldman dipped his hand into his jacket and took out the Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Without pausing, he pointed it at the oncoming face of a young woman who held a flick knife.
“Fuck you. Fuck the lot of you,” he yelled angrily, squeezing the trigger.
The shot sounded like the toll of a giant bell within the enclosed chamber, stopping all action for a fraction of a second. The target of the attack never had a chance to register the shock on her face, as it was eradicated by the slug, which entered at the bridge of her nose, the bullet deflected by the septum so that it exited at the rear of her skull at an angle that sprayed bone, blood and brain in a fine shower over those behind her.
This turn of events was too much for those who were still upright. The crowd split and fled down the tunnels, shouting and screaming, falling over one another in their fear and their haste to get away from the next shot. The only ones left in the chamber were those who were either barely conscious and unable to move or those still unconscious from the fray.
“Oh, well done, Jimmy, you idiot,” Ross rasped in the ensuing silence.
Bolan turned angrily on the redhead, regardless of the fact that he was armed.
“What? What did I do?” Goldman asked in a frustrated voice before the soldier had a chance to speak. “She had a knife and she was gonna do me. What was I supposed to do, let her have me rather than make a noise?”
“You could have brought down the roof in here,” Bolan snapped, looking up dubiously at the precarious construction, “and you’ve sure as hell alerted anyone else down here that we’re around.”
Goldman shrugged and was about to speak when Bolan held up a hand—the one still clutching the Tekna—to stop him.
“Listen…Movement, and it’s coming this way.”
While the departing outcasts had made so little noise scurrying away to hide in the far-flung tunnels of the catacombs, there was no mistaking the sounds of running feet coming from the direction of the docks.
Bolan pulled out the AKSU, checking the magazine and snapping back the stock on the shortened but still powerful version of the AK-74. Cradling it in the crook of his arm, he also took out the Beretta.
“I’d advise you to do the same, gentlemen,” he said as he moved, “because I don’t reckon we’re going to have to find Signella. I think he’s coming to find us, and bringing some friends with him.”
While Goldman and Ross reloaded and checked their own weapons, aware that they had a limited supply of ammunition with no idea what they were facing, the Executioner had decided that it was time for him to take the offensive.
Five tunnels led off the chamber—two in the direction from which they had come, one seemingly leading off to nowhere at one side and two that took them toward the dockside areas that Bolan was sure were the reason these tunnels were still in use. The way he figured it, gangs of thieves and smugglers would use the tunnels, and the terrorists—no strangers themselves to robbery with violence—could use this activity as cover for their operations, perhaps taking part in it themselves as a trade-off. Which meant that he, Ross and Goldman would be up against not just the terrorists, but any other criminals who happened to be around, and who could be armed.
Time to do a recon, and maybe to cut off their options in order to give himself and the mercenaries as much of an advantage as they could hope for.
Swiftly and silently, the soldier moved across to the two tunnels that led to the dock area. The first he scouted ran for about a hundred yards before curving away sharply to the left. It was from this direction that the enemy appeared to be approaching, fast. Holstering the Beretta for a moment, he produced a grenade from its container strung on the blacksuit’s combat harness. He pulled the pin, holding down the spoon as he judged the distance between himself and the approaching horde.
He released the spoon and tossed the grenade at the angle of the curve. It hit the ground at the tightest angle of the wall and rolled around the corner. He saw this as he backed away rapidly, covering the empty corridor with the AKSU in the event of any enemy making it before the blast.
Bolan backed into the chamber. “Down the right. Move it!” he yelled, leading the way into the right-hand tunnel. Ross and Goldman followed without question, but both were taken by surprise when the grenade detonated. Their ears felt as though they were about to burst from the pressure. Although Bolan had taken the precaution of opening his mouth to equalize the pressure, he still felt the pain of the blast within the tight and confined space. The force of the explosion drove dust and brick segments out from the tunnel into the empty chamber, blowing out the flame torches. All three men were thrown to the dirt by the shake of the ground and the force of the blast.
Behind them, in the sudden silence that followed the aftershock, Bolan heard the rumble of the chamber ceiling begin to collapse. The ramshackle construction that was keeping the roof aloft could never have stood up to the blast.
Bolan got to his feet and shouted at Ross and Goldman. “Come on, time to move.”
“I thought you didn’t want to make any noise or risk bringing the ceiling down,” Goldman muttered as he got to his feet, shaking his head and still seeming dazed by what had happened.
“That was then,” Bolan snapped. “Your action has brought them running, so now we take the initiative. Some of them are dead, and the tunnel is blocked. This must link up farther back down the system, so they’ll have to use this, and we’ll be ready for them. So do you want to stop asking stupid questions?”
“Let’s get to it,” Ross said, cutting through his partner’s belligerence with a crisp efficiency. “You’re in charge. Tell us what to do.”
Bolan took a look at the tunnel. With his ears ringing, it was difficult to tell if any of the enemy was nearly on them.
“Wait here,” he snapped, taking the distance between their location and the angle of the tunnel in a few swift strides. He flattened himself against the wall of the curve and then risked a look around, the AKSU ready to fire. The tunnel stretched into the darkness, where a number of torches had been snuffed, so he was unable to get a really clear picture. But one thing was for sure—the enemy was approaching, as he could hear them over the ringing that was still in his ears.
He backed up.
“They’re on their way. Can’t see how many, but it sounds like more than half a dozen. Follow me and listen carefully…and you may need these,” he added, picking some 9 mm clips
from his combat harness and handing them to Ross as they ran. He then took the Desert Eagle from its holster and handed it to Goldman, along with some spare clips. “Backup for you. Look after it well,” he said.
The three men took up their positions, Bolan knocking out the two torches nearest the angle of the tunnel curve. In the darkness around that curve, the enemy had slowed, wary of running into traps. Bolan and Ross had weapons that could do a lot of damage. With his Smith & Wesson revolver alone, Goldman couldn’t contribute much to the fight, but the Desert Eagle gave him at least a kind of parity with firepower.
“They’re in sight,” Bolan whispered, risking a look around the curve and into the darkness. He trusted that the torches he had knocked out would provide enough cover for him not to be seen. The lack of fire suggested he was correct. But he could see them, coming into view.
“Okay, now, and remember to keep in sequence,” he whispered, pulling back long enough to give the command.
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Ross said grimly, taking a deep breath and springing into action.
The mercenary swung out into the corridor, blasting Beretta fire in an arc across the face of the oncoming opposition. The speed of his action was enough to insure that return fire was sluggish to begin with, and two men in the front of the enemy attack went down with lines stitched across chest and abdomen. Stray return fire whined off the brick-work around him, but he stood his ground, ignoring it.
While he did this, Goldman moved out, keeping low and fast. He settled against the opposite wall to his partner, to prevent cluster fire from the enemy, and began to blast with the Smith & Wesson. He was soon out of ammo and shoved the revolver into his jacket pocket as he leveled the Desert Eagle and began to fire. The .44 Magnum pistol was like a cannon compared to the .38 Special, and the initial impact almost unbalanced him. But he managed to keep the gun down, and adjusted his weight and balance to the kickback from the heavy, Israeli-made weapon. He knew that he would have to stick with this, as the constant reloading of the Smith & Wesson was almost an impossibility. Replacing the clips in the Desert Eagle was a much faster process.
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