April parked the battlewagon on a country lane outside of town and left the engine idling.
"I need a once-around before you drop me off," Bolan said. "Nice and easy, just to scope the neighborhood."
"That's a roger. I can spot a vantage point and cover you, in case there's trouble."
"Negative," he answered. "You're my lifeline. I want you out of sight and out of danger if it falls apart."
April's hurt and anger hung just beneath the surface.
"I thought we settled that," she said.
"We did."
"And I lost out?"
"We're not competing, April." Bolan let his voice soften. "If it sours, you're the ball game."
"Sure."
"Believe it."
Bolan saw the anger fade behind her eyes, replaced by sadness. The voice that answered him was distant.
"It isn't what I had in mind."
"Paradine is after me," he said. "I wouldn't want to disappoint him."
"I can help," she told him.
"And you have," he said. "You will again. But Paradine belongs to me."
He silenced April's protest with a gentle finger pressed against her lips. The lady met his gaze, saw his determination and slowly turned her eyes away. Without another word, she put the battlewagon into gear and took her soldier to a dinner date with Death.
URI NOSENKO CHECKED HIS WATCH and found he had another fifteen minutes to wait. Below his window, the street around the Café Vittorio was filled with people going home from work.
He was a patient man, used to waiting. He had learned that if he took the time to do a job right, he would be rewarded. It was true whether hunting animals or men. Besides, he enjoyed the hunt—the planning—even more than the kill.
Nosenko was a natural hunter. Circumstance had introduced him at an early age to the excitement of hunting game larger than fox or rabbit. As a teenager, he had crouched for twenty hours in the snow at Stalingrad waiting for a Nazi general to emerge from hiscommand post. The episode had cost him several toes but earned him the Order of Lenin. His accomplishment was also noticed by an officer of some political ambition, and Nosenko's star began to rise.
There was work for patient killers in the post-war Soviet Republic, and Nosenko had risen through the ranks a pace or two behind his benefactor. When the Stalin purges came and dispatched his mentor to the Gulag and an early death, Uri showed patience and adaptability, shifting sides and moving onward, upward.
He had served Mother Russia for a generation, stalking enemies of the Republic in a dozen countries. Faces changed around the Kremlin, agencies discarded acronyms at will—the KGB and NKVD, SMERSH and GRU—but through it all the hunter persevered, practicing his craft with skill and equanimity. The identity of targets mattered little.
But targets mattered, obviously, to his masters. Illyanovich, for instance, had been excited when he called Nosenko in about the present job. He had tried to hide his nerves behind a casual facade, but Uri was adept at reading men. He knew before he took it that the mission was special. If he succeeded, there would be moments of reflected glory, with,perhaps, some more substantial benefits. If he should fail...
Nosenko shrugged the thought away and concentrated on his meager knowledge of the target. Phoenix. Probably American, an extraordinary soldier even by Ivan's subdued account. Uri had not heard of him before, but that was no surprise. Agents often altered names and faces.
Nosenko was uneasy on Italian soil. The damned Bulgarians were ruining the area for everyone—their foolishness with Pope John Paul a prime example—but the hunter took it as a challenge. Urgency demanded public execution; there was little hope of secrecy, but with speed, efficiency, the friendly border close at hand, Uri felt assured of success.
And he had turned the Cafe Vittorio into a death trap. Located in the middle of the block between a baker's shop and a tobacconist's, the restaurant possessed a single entrance, which he had covered thoroughly. His men were on the rooftops opposite, waiting in cars across the street, and mingled in with the flow of sidewalk window-shoppers. Two of them were dining in the restaurant, dawdling over plates of pasta, waiting for the guest of honor to arrive.
Phoenix was a dead man if he kept his date. Others probably would die as well, but ordersfrom Illyanovich were long on urgency and short on caution. Elimination of the target had priority, and bystanders were expendable.
He checked the time again—five minutes left—and scanned the street to either side. There was nothing new or out of place, except—
A long, sleek motor home turned into traffic from a side street three blocks down. Nosenko watched it pass beneath him, slow and stately, a classy wagon complete with gold stripe and mysterious insignia. The insignia on its side was almost a provocation, almost a challenge—wings rising above flames . . . The vehicle turned off again another two blocks east. Nosenko waited, but the pass was not repeated.
Alarms were sounding in the back of his mind.
He lifted the walkie-talkie, keyed the transmission button.
"Everyone alert," Nosenko snapped. "The target is approaching."
BOLAN LEFT APRIL, the diamonds and the Laser Wagon on a side street and approached his final checkpoint on foot from the west. His reconnaissance had not yet revealed a trap, but the warrior was vitally alert to danger as he moved along the streets.
Bolan again scanned the immediate area that housed the Cafe Vittorio. He registered at least a dozen high-potential sniper roosts before he gave up counting. If the enemy was waiting for him, he would know soon enough.
Outside the cafe, a dozen tables were arranged beneath a brightly colored awning. It was early for the dinner crowd; only two of the sidewalk tables were occupied. An aging couple was seated near the entrance, and at the far end of the patio a solitary man sipped wine and waited for his order. Bolan recognized his contact. He had seen the face before, in Monte Carlo.
Bolan took a seat and refused the guy's offer of a drink. A waiter appeared, hovering beside them, but was sent away.
"Is the package safe?"
"And ready for delivery," Bolan answered. "The hostages?"
"Are waiting for you, rather anxiously, I should imagine." The gunner looked him over carefully. "You've done well, Phoenix. My employer sends his compliments. The obstacles you met were . . . unexpected."
"Sloppy planning," Bolan said. "Somebody's got a security problem."
"We're looking into it. There should be no further interruptions."
"I'll need a time and place," Bolan said.
The terrorist watched him closely, searching for something behind his eyes. Instead of answering, the guy raised his glass and drained it in a single swallow.
Before Bolan heard the shot, he saw the wineglass explode in the contact's face, jagged splinters gouging cheeks and lips. The face collapsed into scarlet ruin. Teeth, bone, cartilage and a punctured eye were explosively released from their confinement as the victim's skull disintegrated.
Bolan was behind the table when the second bullet sliced the air above his head.
All around him, the scene had erupted in chaotic sound. Other weapons joined the hell-fire chorus, pouring lead into the Cafe Vittorio, ignoring innocent pedestrians caught in the cross fire.
Screams from the wounded and dying mingled with the roar of guns.
14
BOLAN BRACED HIMSELF, legs bunched beneath him like steel springs. Then he flung himself headlong across the killground. A line of tumblers blazed inches from his face.
Bolan, mini-Uzi blazing, was prepared to risk it all and break on through the gunner lines when a pair of hardmen exploded from behind him.
The warrior turned and took them out with his one-handed submachine gun, ripping off a waist-high figure eight that disemboweled the guncocks where they stood. A single bullet, triggered by the nearest gunman as he died, hit the wall over Bolan's head and punched on through.
Tracking on, the Executioner triggered short, selective bursts in
the direction of his scattering street-level targets. Only a few failed to reach cover, and they fell. It gave Bolan some breathing room.
A black sedan was rolling in along the curb, creeping at a snail's pace, weaponsbristling from the window, joining in the fusillade. Bolan fired a random burst and heard bullets striking metal. He hid around a corner. Digging in a pocket of his coat, he pulled out a thermite grenade and jerked the pin. With a side-arm toss, the deadly metal sphere rolled across an open stretch of sidewalk. It dropped off the curb and disappeared beneath the enemy sedan.
The three-second fuse died, and with a hollow roar the vehicle became a rolling crematorium. A starboard door sprang open and a panicked figure leaped clear, spinning like a dervish on the curb before a rifle bullet dropped him into oblivion.
Moving under cover of the smoke and fire, Bolan, wormed his way across this latest savage pasture, searching for an open field of fire. The enemy was closing on his flank. April and the Laser Wagon were a long run away. The Executioner would have to cut the odds, and quickly, if he hoped to leave the killing ground alive.
Survival took priority. Later he could worry about his severed link to Paradine and the rendezvous at an unknown place and time.
FROM HIS PERCH ABOVE the kill zone, Nosenko watched the ebb and flow of battle in amazement. Bodies littered both sides of the narrowstreet. Automatic fire riddled the picturesque facade of the Café Vittorio. Crouched behind a table near the open door, their solitary target was returning fire with deadly accuracy, sniping gunners as they showed themselves.
And a relatively simple execution had degenerated into total chaos while the Russian watched it happen. What he viewed from the window was enraging, almost paralyzing.
The target had surprised him, certainly, with both the speed and grim ferocity of his reaction. They were dealing with a soldier here, obviously an extraordinary one.
But Uri had the guns and numbers on his side. Defeat remained unthinkable. Defeat was beyond the realm of possibility.
Nosenko made a swift decision to commit the backup gunners. The clock was running, and authorities would be responding to the sounds of battle momentarily. His force had lost a quarter of its strength already, and the Russian could not risk a battle with police.
He raised the walkie-talkie, barked a curt command into the microphone. Below him, barely audible above the roar of gunfire, an engine growled to life, accelerating through the lower gears. Peripherally, he saw the black sedan as it moved from an alley into striking range, its complement of gunners craning for a clear view of their target.
Overhead, his rooftop snipers must have seen the backup car, for the volume of their enfilading fire redoubled, pinning down the soldier where he lay. The Russian smiled his pleasure, gratified that they were working as a team despite the lack of real rehearsal time. It was the mark of true professionals.
A sudden movement on the firing line, and Uri hesitated, grim smile faltering, the field glasses up and scanning for a better view. The courier was moving, dammit, snaking out from cover now, as if deliberately deciding to expose himself. Another heartbeat, and the carload of gunners would have him in their sights.
Nosenko saw the movement coming, watched the American soldier's arm swing up and out, releasing the grenade—and he could not believe his eyes. He fumbled with the radio, about to shout a warning, but the lethal egg had disappeared beneath the backup vehicle, and by then it was too late.
The dark sedan erupted into boiling flame, the hood and trunk springing open like an alligator's jaws. Nosenko half imagined he could hear his soldiers screaming inside there, knew it had to be impossible; he closed his mind to it. A dancing, burning figure staggered from the car and travelled half a dozen steps before a rifle bullet knocked him sprawling.
Uri felt his stomach turning over; he had to swallow hard to keep its contents down. He saw his plan disintegrating right before his eyes, and for the first time in his life he was uncertain how he should respond.
There was a chance, if he could reach the killing ground in time. A chance that he could organize a final rush and overrun the soldier, bury him beneath a final blitz. Retrieval of the ransom was a secondary problem now, impossible before the enemy was vanquished.
Uri made his move, already turning from the window as he finished ticking off alternatives.
His reputation, no, life itself was riding on the outcome of this fire fight. He could not afford defeat. Illyanovich would never accept excuses from a trained professional. Failure would be punished. Illyanovich was accustomed only to success.
Nosenko decided that he would keep his record clean if it cost the life of every soldier in his troop.
He reached the narrow stairs and took them in a rush. The Mauser automatic was in his hand and ready. A dozen strides along a dingy corridor, and he was on the street, surrounded by the sounds and smell of combat.
It was worse than he had dared imagine.
Fully half his force was down and out ofaction, killed or wounded by the courier's precision bursts. Along the sidewalk, huddled bodies lay like so much rubbish, streams and pools of blood imparting color to the pavement. Uri started counting; he stopped, disgusted, when he got to nine.
Moving out of cover, he was tracking onto target with the Mauser as the quarry showed himself, already squeezing off a rapid double-punch. The empty casings arced across his line of vision, rattled on the sidewalk at his feet.
And suddenly, the human target was no longer there. Nosenko recognized the error within a heartbeat. A dozen paces to his left, the enemy was rising, coming up and out of a well-practiced shoulder roll, his small sub-machine gun leveled, winking flame.
The stunning impact was like a giant fist smashing through his rib cage. Pain seared. Nosenko felt his knees give way. The ground raced up to meet him. There was no pain with that final impact, only numbness and a deep, pervasive chill.
Dying, he marvelled at the ease with which it happened, felt the power ebbing from him, dribbling out to join the other pools and rivulets that marked the sidewalk. A memory of Stalingrad, and snow, arrived unbidden. . . the frigging Nazis were everywhere,but Uri had the patience to outlast them all. Hard reality unravelled like a skein of yarn in his failing mind, leaving a black space much blacker even than the darkest moments of the last great war.
APRIL ROSE CHECKED THE WEAPON in her lap.The American 180 automatic carbine was special. Deceptively light, the rifle held 177 rounds of .22 hollowpoint ammunition in a drum mounted flat atop the slim receiver. In full-automatic mode, the gun could generate a cyclic rate of 1,800 rounds per minute, shredding human targets with grisly efficiency. A Laser Lok sight, mounted horizontally beneath the barrel, eliminated the need to sight or aim, making any miss a virtual impossibility at ranges of 200 yards and more.
And she would need the firepower, every ounce of it.
At the first sound of shooting she was EVA, flicking off her weapon's safety and activating the laser sight.
As she reached the corner, April found a battle raging in the street around the Cafe Vittorio. Perhaps a dozen snipers had the restaurant besieged, pouring fire from automatic rifles through the shattered windows. A car blazed at the curb.
She saw Bolan crawling, squeezing offshort, selective bursts from his machine pistol. Gunners on the street were seeking cover, dodging into doorways of adjacent shops or crouching behind parked cars. One of them, positioned on the roof above a tailor's shop, was coming dangerously close with rounds from his assault rifle.
April snapped the autocarbine to her shoulder and let the laser beam reach out and find the target. At 100 yards, the red spot was two inches wide and centered under the sniper's outstretched arm.
She stroked the trigger, ripping off a dozen rounds in half a second. There was no recoil—merely a sensation of the rifle's power—and the hollowpoint manglers were on target, shredding flesh and vital organs into bloody pulp. The sniper dropped his rifle, did an awkward pirouette as he tumbled backward off
the roof.
April dropped her sights. She scanned for another target. She picked out a rifleman emerging from the doorway of a clothing store. The laser death-beam settled on his upper lip. She held the trigger down for a full second and watched face and skull disintegrate into a crimson spray. The headless body staggered, finally sprawled across the side-walk.
A handgunner had spotted her and wasswinging into target acquisition when she hit him with a burst that tore his arm off at the shoulder.
A screech of brakes alerted her to danger at her back. April spun around to find a dark sedan approaching, doors springing open, releasing troops. Half a dozen hard-men were closing on her, pistols cocked and ready.
She swung the 180 around and into action, bringing the blinding laser beam into the nearest gunner's eyes. Before he could react, the bullets followed, drilling through his face . and forehead, the impact lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the car.
April held the trigger down, raking across the car from left to right, watching tiny holes appear in doors and windshields. Startled troops were ducking, scrambling for cover; one of them, a shade too slow, was blown away and out of the laser's view.
Pistols were cracking, bullets whining past her.
She felt a blow at her side, followed instantly by searing pain.
She was losing her balance, falling.
The autocarbine spun from her grasp.
Another blinding flash exploded in her skull. It gave way to darkness, bottomless and cold.
BOLAN DROPPED A CARELESS SNIPER with the Uzi's final burst. He reloaded on the run, still ducking scattered incoming rounds. He had cut the odds against him by about a third.
Executioner 055 - Paradine's Gauntlet Page 8