Before the dead man collapsed to the ground, McCarter was already on the move, eyes sweeping his surroundings for more threats. The roar of the helicopter’s engines swelled from above. Rotor wash stirred up small bits of dirt and gravel. McCarter squinted to repel the pieces of debris pelting his face. He wished for a moment that he’d worn goggles as Grimaldi had suggested, realized he’d resisted as much to needle his old friend as for any other reason.
Before he could regret the decision too much, the war bird had slid forward without gaining additional altitude.
Another mechanical growl registered with the Briton. Wheeling toward the sound, he spotted the chrome front grill of a black sedan coming into view. The car surged out from behind a two-story building believed to house Chernkova’s offices. Flames spat from the muzzle of a pistol that was pointing out from the passenger-side window. McCarter swept the assault rifle in a short horizontal arc. Bullets struck the vehicle’s hood and sparked. Spiderwebs formed on the windshield, but didn’t pierce it. Another burst emptied the M-4, but left the oncoming sedan unscratched.
An armored car, McCarter thought. And aren’t I the lucky one?
The vehicle’s power plant growling, it bore down on McCarter. Though his mind screamed for him to move from its path, he stood fast for as long as possible. Finally, when the vehicle’s grill was a dozen or so feet from him, McCarter thrust himself to the side.
His performed a belly flop on the concrete. The impact stole his breath and might have broken a rib were it not for his ballistic vest. A curse exploded through clenched teeth. He maneuvered himself into a roll and grabbed some distance between himself and the vehicle, which roared past him.
The sedan’s brake lights flared and the car slammed to a halt. McCarter maneuvered himself onto his belly. He brought around the assault rifle and triggered the grenade launcher. The HE round hissed from the launcher and struck the cracked concrete that lay beneath the vehicle’s gas tank.
An explosion rent the air. Orange-yellow fire lashed out from beneath the vehicle. The force shoved the back end of the car several feet in the air before gravity yanked it crashing back to earth.
By that time, McCarter had reloaded the grenade launcher and was drawing a bead on the sedan.
Before he could trigger the weapon, though, an object hurtled down from the heavens and hammered into the vehicle’s trunk. An ear-shattering explosion tore through the air. The force twisted the sedan’s steel frame, and a fireball ripped through the car’s interior. The force of the explosion yanked the vehicle several feet in the air before it turned on its side in midair and crashed back to the ground.
A voice sounded in McCarter’s earpiece.
“Hellfire missile,” Grimaldi said, satisfaction obvious in his voice.
“Nice work, lad,” McCarter replied.
He grabbed a clip for the M-4 from his web gear and reloaded the weapon before hauling himself to his feet.
McCarter moved to the nearest building, one of those believed to be a barracks for Chernkova’s security force. According to Mauldin’s intelligence briefing, Chernkova kept all but a small cadre of security men at arm’s length, making them eat and sleep in buildings away from him. Apparently the moron was worried he was worth actually becoming the target of a palace coup.
Well, he was half right. He was a target. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean no one’s out to get you, McCarter thought.
The Briton edged along the building’s exterior, the M-4 raised to his shoulder.
His combat sense began ringing, prompting the soldier to shoot a glance skyward. Just as he did, he spotted a pair of hardmen creeping along the roof of another building to his right. The first man gripped a black handgun and he was pointing at something in the sky that was beyond McCarter’s field of vision.
The other man balanced a rocket-propelled grenade on his shoulder. He appeared to be aiming it skyward, also. A cold sensation raced down McCarter’s spine.
The bastard planned to shoot Grimaldi from the sky!
McCarter sighted down the M-4’s barrel and squeezed off a quick burst from the assault rifle. The initial volley of bullets sailed past the face of the man with the grenade launcher. McCarter bit off a curse and readjusted his aim. In the meantime, the man with the handgun wheeled in McCarter’s direction and punched off a couple of rounds from his handgun. The bullets whizzed pass McCarter’s left ear and pounded into the concrete-block wall at his six.
McCarter punched out a burst from his assault rifle. The man with the pistol caught the swarm of 5.56 mm slugs in the head, the onslaught driving him from view. At the same time, the man with the RPG swung his weapon in McCarter’s direction, the unfired projectile tracking in on the Phoenix Force commander.
Bloody hell, he thought.
Chapter 15
Bolan saw the grenade launcher’s muzzle locking in on him. Acting on instinct, the Executioner aimed the MP-7 at the window and triggered a sustained burst from the weapon. Rounds stabbed through the window and chewed into its frame. The launcher pitched through the glass, falling to the ground below.
Bolan ejected the empty magazine from the MP-7’s grip, tossed it aside and grabbed another from his web gear. Before he could slide the new magazine into the submachine gun, he caught the sound of footfalls pounding against the earth. In the same fluid motion, he reloaded the H&K and whirled toward the sound. He caught the vague impression of a man dressed from head to toe in blue bearing down on him, arms outstretched, a knife gleaming in one hand.
Before the soldier could react, his opponent slammed into his stomach. Air exploded from Bolan’s lungs and he staggered a couple of steps back. Before he could regain his footing, his assailant’s weight pushed him too far back and caused him to plummet to the ground. The hardman landed on top of Bolan, pinning the soldier between himself and the concrete. The pressure on Bolan’s chest and stomach forced him to belch out the contents of his lungs and restricted his ability to refill them.
The man drew back his fist and let it fly. Bolan whipped his head to the side to avoid the blow. The move saved him from the full impact of the punch, though the thug’s knuckles managed to brush off the Executioner’s cheek—painful but not the bone-crushing injury the man likely was capable of dealing out.
A wide grin spread over the other man’s lips. He rained down two more fast jabs at the soldier’s face. Bolan, able to again draw breath, batted aside an oncoming fist with a sweep of his arm. The impact of his forearm colliding with his assailant’s wrist caused a flash of sharp pain before the lower part of his arm went numb. Throwing his other arm up, Bolan deflected the second punch, which only seemed to frustrate the man. His pale skin was sweat-streaked and mottled with patches of red.
The soldier drove an open hand into the man’s solar plexus, driving the strike up at an angle. The stricken man gasped and threw another punch at the warrior. Bolan knocked aside the punch with his forearm. In the same motion, he drew up his right leg and his right hand stabbed down for the Beretta stowed in the thigh holster. Fingers wrapped around the pistol’s grip, Bolan yanked the weapon free and shoved it into his opponent’s midsection and squeezed the trigger. A burst of 9 mm rounds drilled into the man’s gut. Warm blood sprayed onto Bolan’s hand. The man’s body stiffened and his face went slack. He teetered for a heartbeat before Bolan shoved him aside and climbed to his feet.
In his other hand, Bolan grabbed the Desert Eagle that had been stowed away in the shoulder leather, thumbing back the hammer on the weapon.
Three more hardmen advanced on the soldier. Two of them brandished Kalashnikov rifles, while a third hung a few paces behind, clutching a pistol in one hand and a two-way radio in the other.
The Beretta and the Desert Eagle fired in unison, delivering a punishing hail of death. The triple-round bursts of 9 mm bullets lanced into the chest of the
guard to Bolan’s right. The rounds hit too high and to the left to strike the heart, but the sudden injury caused the man to drop his assault rifle and stumble forward. His now-empty hands flew to his chest and he covered the wound. A second burst from the Beretta drilled into the injured man’s forehead. The force stopped his advance, twisting him forty-five degrees before his knees turned rubbery and he plummeted to the ground.
In the same instant, the Desert Eagle thundered twice, punching rounds into the wide forehead of the second shooter wielding an AK-47, the slugs drilling into the bone just above the man’s thick eyebrow. The impact of the .44 rounds caused the top of his head to disintegrate, leaving him with only enough brains to realize he’d just lost a death match before his body went slack and crumpled to the ground. The third man was already reacting, his pistol’s muzzle tracking in on Bolan. The shooter’s gun barked out a couple of rounds that sizzled past Bolan’s cheek. The Desert Eagle responded with another peal of thunder, the slug drilling through the man’s sternum before ripping through the other side of his torso in a spray of blood and gore.
Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle, just as bullets slammed into the concrete several inches in front of his feet. The soldier darted to his right and looked for the source of the shots. He spotted two more hardmen crouched behind a midnight-blue pickup truck parked twenty yards or so away. The two men had taken cover behind the front end of the truck, apparently using the engine block sealed inside as additional cover. Even as Bolan moved, the Beretta was chugging through the rest of the clip, littering the ground with shell casings. Slugs pierced the truck’s steel hide, stitching a ragged line of bullet holes in the vehicle’s front fender.
The big American stowed the Beretta and scooped up one of the discarded AK rifles that lay on the ground. Curling his finger around the AK’s trigger, he started for the truck. One of the shooters popped up from behind the hood. Triggering the Russian assault rifle, Bolan swept the AK-47 in a tight horizontal arc as it spat a blistering barrage of bullets, littering the ground with spent shell casings. The onslaught flayed the flesh of the guard’s face and arms, killing him. The second hardman snapped into view, curling himself around the front end of the truck, his head and part of his upper torso exposed as he tried to draw a bead on Bolan with a Steyr AUG. The Stony Man warrior punched him down with burst from the AK-47.
Bolan’s assault rifle was nearly empty. His H&K was lost at least a dozen yards back. He tossed aside the AK and grabbed the fallen man’s Steyr. A glance at the translucent magazine told him the weapon was about half full. A pouch that hung from the fallen hardman’s shoulder held several more curled magazines for the weapon. Bolan freed the pouch’s strap from the dead man’s shoulder and slipped it on. The soldier didn’t like using a weapon when he hadn’t had a chance to at least field-strip and inspect it, but he had no time for that.
He needed to find Chernkova before the man tried to slip away. But first he needed to check in with McCarter.
* * *
I’LL NEVER MAKE IT! The thought careened through McCarter’s head as he maneuvered the assault rifle to take out the man wielding the rocket-propelled grenade. An explosion—too loud for a grenade—tore through the air. Light flashed from behind the building in front of McCarter, dull enough to indicate it was a couple dozen yards away easily. Several smaller explosions followed quickly after that.
The sudden noise caused McCarter’s opponent to hesitate in firing the RPG. McCarter used the time to his advantage. His M-4 churned through the contents of the clip. The 5.56 mm slugs drilled into the man wielding the rocket-propelled grenade, stitching a line from the man’s hip to his shoulder. McCarter assumed the explosion meant Grimaldi had succeeded in his mission, firing a Hellfire missile into one of the armories where Chernkova stored his merchandise.
Dead fingers released the RPG. The weapon and its owner tumbled from the roof to the ground.
Another hard rain of gunfire erupted from McCarter’s left. Bullets ripped into concrete several inches from his feet and spurred him into motion. He darted sideways to remove himself from the bull’s-eye. Reloading on the run, he sized up his latest adversaries—a pair of shooters moving several feet apart from each other, unloading AK assault rifles on him. McCarter fired a frag grenade at the shooters. The round exploded and the swarm of razor wire from the grenade ripped through flesh and brought their advance to a sudden, bloody halt.
McCarter thumbed another round into the launcher. Several shooters, fewer than half a dozen, broke from cover. One of them turned toward the Briton. The guard’s submachine gun was spitting flame and lead, but the fast burst flew harmlessly over McCarter’s head. He put the man down with a burst from his M-4. By then the others had disappeared from view, apparently headed toward the explosion site.
“McCarter?” Bolan’s voice sounded in his earpiece.
“Go.”
“Sitrep.”
“Upright and kicking tail. Yourself?” McCarter asked.
“Same.”
“Looks like Grimaldi came through for us.”
Grimaldi chimed in to the radio traffic. “You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised, lad. Just pleased. You saved my arse with that little stunt.”
“Life’s full of unintended consequences,” Grimaldi replied.
“You’re all heart.”
* * *
CHERNKOVA HEARD THE unending carnage unfolding outside the steel door of his panic room—the explosions, the gunfire, the cacophony of fire and security alarms. And he felt terror squeeze his gut, his heart.
What should he do? Chernkova thought, with panic starting to seep in. He’d taken every security step imaginable, yet they weren’t working. With each passing moment, his attackers moved closer. Heat radiated from his back, neck and chest like a bonfire and prompted him to remove his jacket and toss it aside. He moved to a pair of laptop computers that stood side by side on a folding table in the small sealed room. They’d been set up to provide footage from the various security cameras arrayed throughout the property. At least this way, he could see the bastards coming before they got here.
A glance at the screens caused his heart to skip a beat. The light blue background of his computer’s desktop screen, the various folders and program windows were all gone. Instead the screens had turned into barren black fields broken only by a single word in white, block capital letters: DEAD.
The letters would disintegrate, one after the other, before reforming again.
Chernkova swallowed hard and jumped up from his chair, knocking it over in the process. He wasn’t scared, he told himself as he stumbled across the small room to where a steel gun locker stood, door ajar. He’d prepared for this. He’d prepared himself. He had.
Reaching into the locker, he drew out an Uzi. As he fed a 20-round magazine into the gun’s pistol grip, more gunfire erupted right outside his door. His stomach plummeted and his hands moved jerkily while he worked the action on the submachine gun.
Screw this, he told himself. He wasn’t sure what these bastards wanted or why they’d come for him. But he wasn’t going down without a fight.
* * *
“DO YOU THINK THE WHOLE ‘DEAD’ thing was too much?” Kurtzman asked while staring into one of the computer monitors on his desk at Stony Man Farm.
Price, who was standing behind him, smirked. “That you only took it that far shows remarkable restraint,” she said.
“A virus is no good if you can’t add a personal touch,” he said, shrugging. “Of course, if they ever track it, they’re going to think it was sent by some little Jihad group in Indonesia, thanks to a little digital slight of hand.”
Price patted her old friend on the shoulder. “You are a wizard,” she said.
“If I was a wizard,” Kurtzman said, “I’d conjure up a bonus.”
“So you could afford
a pointy hat? Get ready. I think Striker will need us again in a couple of minutes.”
* * *
BOLAN DESCENDED THE stairs, the H&K held at the ready.
If Mauldin’s information turned out to be good, and so far it had, Chernkova had a secure room in the basement of this building. Judging by the resistance he’d encountered as he’d entered the structure, Bolan had to believe that was the case.
The warrior set his left foot on the final step and hesitated. He was operating under the assumption that Chernkova would keep some people close by. The man was too big a coward to fight for himself or to walk five feet without a wall of gunners between him and the outside world. Bolan had skimmed the psychological profile provided by Mauldin, a ten-page document penned by some psychologist in Virginia.
It had identified Chernkova as a narcissist with paranoid tendencies. Bolan didn’t need a doctor to tell him that. Most of the blood merchants he chased were narcissists, people willing to climb a hill of dead bodies to make a buck, but scared of their own shadows. That didn’t make them easy to take down. An animal always fights at its fiercest when cornered, Bolan knew.
So, yes, he had Chernkova within his grasp, but he didn’t have him.
Yet.
The soldier edged up to the corner and peered around it. A wide corridor stretched ahead of him. Steel mesh trays filled with thick bundles of cabling hung from the ceiling. Big round pipes hooked into the building’s plumbing and climate-control systems ran the length of the ceilings. Occasionally, a small motor would kick on, drowning out any conversation with an irritating mechanical whine.
Bolan counted four guards standing at the ready. Two guarded a smooth steel door at the end of the corridor, one on each side. Two others had positioned themselves at other points along the corridor, assault rifles held at the ready.
Bolan drew back from view immediately. Holding the H&K by its pistol grip, he used his free hand to grab a flash-bang grenade from his web gear. Pulling the pin with his teeth, he tossed the device around the corner. A white flare illuminated the corridor, accompanied by a loud, disorienting crack.
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