Rebel Force

by Don Pendleton

  The Executioner lifted Kubrick up and then began rocking blows toward the big man’s head. Kubrick swept his good arm back, driving the elbow into his adversary’s head. Bolan rocked back, staggered. Kubrick twisted sideways and used the space he had created to lash out with a side kick.

  The foot strike hit Bolan on his thigh and pushed him farther back. Bolan spun, absorbing the force of the blow and reset himself. Kubrick turned back toward the safe, plunging his good hand inside the container, scrambling for the pistol.

  Even as he moved Bolan knew he was too late.

  Kubrick whirled, gun in hand. Loose papers, documents and money spilled out of the safe. Snarling, the big man brought up his pistol. His right arm useless, Kubrick had grabbed the weapon with his left hand. The pistol exploded as Bolan dived forward.

  Bolan felt the impact like a hammer blow low in his gut, just high enough that his vest still took the bullet and stopped the round. Two more rounds spun out, missing as recoil carried Kubrick’s pistol muzzle off target.

  The soldier changed tactics instinctively, throwing himself backward and leaping for the protection of Kubrick’s desk. Shooting with his off hand, Kubrick fired another burst of triple shots at the diving blur his opponent had become. Bolan hit the big desk and slid across it to the other side. Kubrick’s bullets slapped into his study wall.

  Bolan pulled the mini-Uzi machine pistol free. Unsure of Kubrick’s tactics, he fired up at an angle in case Kubrick had followed him over the top of the desk. Still firing, Bolan reached up over the edge of the desk and angled the Uzi, triggering a longer blast. Finally he stood up behind the firing weapon and sprayed the room.

  The door to the hall hung open and 9 mm rounds from Bolan’s weapon punched into the wall outside of the office door. Bolan squinted through gun smoke toward the door. Kubrick’s beefy hand came around the edge and he triggered his pistol. The Executioner ducked behind the desk again and then answered with a burst that chewed up the handcrafted door frame.

  Bolan rolled out from behind the desk, coming to his feet and bringing up the mini-Uzi. In the hallway Bolan heard an empty magazine strike the floor followed by the metallic click of a round being chambered. Then he heard nothing else.

  Bolan’s ears still rang from the deafening gunfire in such an enclosed space. He rolled over one shoulder behind the desk and came up against the wall on the same side of the room where the door opened. This angle gave him a drop of seconds should Kubrick choose to rush the room.

  Weapon up, Bolan crept to the door. He heard nothing. It was not the time for half measures. The time for covert action and subtle maneuvers was past. This was a firefight.

  Bolan burst into action. He thrust the mini-Uzi around the corner and opened fire. Still firing, Bolan pivoted around the fulcrum of his weapon and threw his back up against the wall on the opposite side of the door, giving himself a narrow view of the hallway.

  He saw a corner of the kitchen down the short hall and could make out a piece of the marble-topped island in the center of that room. He ducked back from the opening and dropped the spent magazine from his mini-Uzi. He slammed home a fresh one and released the bolt on the Uzi, priming the weapon for use. A haze of gun smoke hung in the air.

  Bolan swept the barrel up and stepped into the hallway, keeping to a tight crouch. His finger was taut on the trigger as he moved down the hall. Three steps down from the office door more of the kitchen revealed itself. Tensed, Bolan pushed forward.

  Kubrick popped up from behind the kitchen island, triggering a triburst from his H&K pistol. Bolan threw himself backward. A ragged fusillade of rounds tore down the kill zone of the residential hallway. Bolan went to a knee and triggered the mini-Uzi, answering Kubrick vicious burst for burst. The little stuttergun unleashed a torrent of rounds into the kitchen.

  Sparks flew off pots and pans hanging from a rack suspended above the island, and the utensils rang like church bells. Glass shattered in the windows behind Kubrick, reducing his cabinetwork to splinters. Skid marks streaked across the marble top of the counter and bullets ricocheted wildly.

  “Cooper, I know it’s you, you son of a bitch!” Kubrick shouted.

  He came around the side of the counter island, popping out like some oversized, malignant Jack-in-the-box and triggering double 3-round bursts under Bolan’s arc of fire. The Executioner threw himself against the inner wall of the hallway to avoid the furious spray of bullets. A third burst cut the air through the hall, pinning Bolan back.

  “This won’t save you Kubrick!” Bolan shouted.

  He slid to one knee, still intimate with the wall. He dived forward, firing a burst, taking the force of his landing on his elbows and recentering his aim as he absorbed the shock of impact.

  Bolan heard the reverberation of the slam as Kubrick’s door struck the wall next to it. Instantly he realized what the agent had done. Bolan crawled forward and peered quickly around the corner. He saw the side door he had used to breach Kubrick’s house standing open and knew the man was making for his vehicle, or an area he could defend while attempting to contact backup.

  Bolan hopped up, machine pistol at the ready. He rushed forward, chasing Kubrick. As he came into the kitchen proper, he caught a dark flash as Kubrick threw himself through the single access door into his three-car garage. Firing through a shattered window, Bolan fired a burst after the fleeing agent. More glass shattered, but his rounds were late and the garage wall absorbed the bullets.

  Bolan shifted directions, sliding over the bullet-scarred top of the kitchen island. He raced into the entrance hall leading to the front door and the formal reception area of the house.

  Bolan held his weapon one-handed as he snapped back the dead bolt on the front entrance and then tore the door open. He went through the doorway fast, his Uzi up, held one-handed in close by his hip so that wherever he turned, the muzzle was perfectly aligned. He sprinted across the layered patio and thundered down the steps, securing the weapon in a two-handed grip.

  Bolan heard the unmistakable rattle and hum of an electric garage door rolling up and open. Over that he heard the sound of an engine roar, revving hard as Kubrick shoved it into gear. There was the scream of peeling rubber as the agent gunned his black Mercedes into Reverse.

  The Executioner crossed the garden area in the front of Kubrick’s house at a dead run. He could see the street through the bars of Kubrick’s pedestrian entrance. He heard the tires of the Mercedes bite into pavement and the dip in the engine’s rumble as the agent transitioned from Reverse to Drive.

  Again there was a screech as Kubrick pushed the accelerator to the floor and gunned the vehicle. Bolan threw himself hard into the locked gate, thrusting the mini-Uzi through the decorative, wrought-iron bars of the gate. As sleek as a spaceship, the Mercedes with its tinted windows darted past.

  Bolan didn’t hesitate as he opened up with the mini-Uzi. He knew from driving the vehicle earlier that it had bullet-resistant glass and reinforced bodywork, but he refused to make even one second of Kubrick’s escape easy. The stuttergun erupted in his hand as the car shot forward, spent shell casings flying from the bucking machine pistol.

  Dimples appeared on the side of the vehicle and ricocheting bullets shot sparks in the air. Bolan walked his line of fire along Kubrick’s car, which continued to gain speed as it raced past Bolan. He stubbornly held down his trigger.

  His rounds hammered mercilessly into Kubrick’s Mercedes, knocking the hubcap on the rear wheel spinning into the street of the quiet residential neighborhood. The agent sped away and then cut the big car into a power slide as he turned hard at the first corner.

  Bolan felt the vibration of his weapon cease and the sound of gunfire died as the bolt snapped back into the locked position. The soldier looped the empty Uzi from a strap around his shoulder and pulled his Glock out from behind his back. He pulled the trigger twice and shattered the lock on the gate, then lifted a big foot and slammed the gate open. Pistol up, Bolan sprinted into the street. He
saw the red brake lights on the black Mercedes flash as Kubrick made the corner at the end of the street, and then Bolan heard only the sound of the powerful engine as Kubrick raced to safety.

  Kubrick was on the run and knew Bolan knew he was rogue, but this revelation still hadn’t saved Sanders. After almost two decades in the region, Kubrick could disappear if he chose, and Bolan knew that. That still left an American agent unaccounted for and a dangerous freelance operative on the loose.

  Bolan had a single lead left after the debacle that had just occurred, and he was afraid it was a lead Kubrick might already be on to. If Kubrick caught up with the man running the Caucasus Data Institute before Bolan did, then he could ensure that his investment in Sable, whatever that might be, was safe.

  In the distance Bolan heard the all too familiar sound of Grozny police unit sirens as he reached his car. He jerked open the door and threw both weapons onto the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel. He started the vehicle and left a stretch of rubber to rival Kubrick’s as he shot out of his parking spot and into the street.

  Bolan whipped around a battered black Russian sport wagon stopped dead in the middle of the street. The young man behind the wheel had both his hands raised in horror to his mouth, and his eyes were big as tea saucers as Bolan gunned his vehicle past him after the fleeing Kubrick.

  Every second counted. Bolan knew where Vesler was, but Kubrick knew Grozny like the back of his hand after all this time. It was his town. Grimly, Bolan shifted up from first gear until he had the vehicle moving flat out. He had no intention of making things easy for Kubrick, and Bolan promised himself the rogue agent was going to have to earn whatever he wanted, inch by bloody inch.

  14

  Bolan raced his automobile, driving it hard as he chased Kubrick through the streets. He was thrown against the restraints of his seat belt as he took his corners sharp and floored the gas through the straight stretches. He darted in and out of slower traffic as if the other vehicles were traffic cones on an engineering track. Horns blared in his wake, and his tires wailed in protest as he leapfrogged through the growing traffic.

  Keeping his gaze glued to the road, Bolan reached down and rooted briefly in the open top of the knapsack he had carried into Kubrick’s residence. He secured his extra magazines for the mini-Uzi and tossed them onto the passenger seat. He maneuvered around a construction truck and then squeezed in between two passenger vehicles and a bus. Bolan picked up the mini-Uzi and hit the clip release, ejecting the spent magazine.

  He tucked the still warm barrel of the weapon between his legs and inserted a fresh 30-round magazine into the well of the buttstock. He picked up the weapon and jammed the bolt handle up against the underside of the dash and shoved sharply, cocking the weapon one-handed.

  Bolan jerked his car back into line, saw Kubrick ahead of him and gunned his car forward. He knew Kubrick had to be on his phone by now, alerting Lich to the situation, perhaps calling in reinforcements. If Bolan was going to get to Sable first, then he had to beat Kubrick to Vesler.

  The time it took for reinforcements to arrive was time Kubrick could use to get to the head of the Caucasus Data Institute and find Sable. Like a bloodhound on the scent, Bolan had followed the trail of clues and blood across the length of the city.

  As was always the case, the closer he got to the lair of the monster, the more dangerous the quest became. The trail Bolan had picked up in Grozny would go as cold as Sable’s corpse if Kubrick wasn’t stopped.

  Bolan gained on the fleeing Kubrick by increments of feet at every turn and at every ebb and flow of traffic that forced the racing vehicles to alter their speeds. Each time the quickness of response that Bolan’s standard transmission held over Kubrick’s automatic was enough for him to methodically close the distance with the rogue agent.

  Bolan was racing not only against Kubrick, but also against the arrival of Russian authorities. So far there were only angry drivers and panicked pedestrians to witness their reckless cat-and-mouse chase, but the stakes had grown serious enough that, when he pulled close enough, a gun battle might open up.

  They hit a red light and Kubrick ran it without hesitation. Bolan sped around the intervening vehicles and shot into the street. He laid on his horn and burst out into traffic. Cars racing from either side locked up their brakes and slid sideways as Bolan shot the eye of the needle. A battered old pickup swerved around a stalled sedan and tried to apply its brakes too late when the driver realized Bolan was speeding past in front of him.

  The nose of the braking truck struck Bolan’s car in the rear fender. The concussion jarred the solider hard, and his rear end swerved out of control. The vehicle’s fender crumpled from the abrupt impact, causing the trunk to warp.

  Bolan turned his wheel away from the skid his rear end was taking, trying to prevent the vehicle from spinning completely under the impact. The front-wheel drive caught, and the powerful engine churned as Bolan shifted into a lower gear. The tires gripped the pavement, and Bolan felt the vehicle surge forward. He snapped the wheel to the side, avoiding a head-on collision with the line of traffic piled up on the other side of the light.

  Behind him Bolan heard another automobile lock up its brakes and their immediate protesting screech as the attempt failed. There was a loud, flat bang and the sound of metal crumpling as a driver slammed into the back of the pickup truck. Bolan glanced in his mirror and caught a brief image of an air bag deploying through a cracked windshield.

  The steering wheel was rock steady under his grip, and Bolan figured the rear suspension and axle had been undamaged by the glancing blow. He shifted up out of third gear and laid the car open. Setting the mini-Uzi in his lap, Bolan used his left hand to power down the windows on both the driver and passenger sides of his vehicle.

  Driving smoothly with one hand, Bolan grasped the mini-Uzi tightly and lifted the weapon. He straight-armed the machine pistol out the driver’s window and swerved out from behind a vehicle, putting himself directly behind Kubrick. Bolan triggered a 3-round burst, striking the back window of the agent’s car. The rounds slapped onto target, scratching the glass. He triggered another tight burst. The 9 mm rounds struck the window inches from the first burst, scarring the reinforced glass again.

  Kubrick twisted hard on his steering wheel, leaping his vehicle into the next lane of traffic. Bolan swerved around another slower moving car and locked on to Kubrick like the rear jet in a dogfight. He rested his forearm against the door frame, steadying his aim. Bolan lined up the muzzle of his machine pistol and triggered a third burst from the weapon.

  His rounds struck the rear window of Kubrick’s vehicle in the same tight pattern as the first two bursts. The safety glass spiderwebbed in protest under the repeated assaults. Kubrick turned his car sideways at a street corner, using his emergency brake to freeze his rear wheels as he attempted the maneuver. Bolan’s foot cut to his brakes and he cranked his wheel at the last moment in order to avoid losing Kubrick as the man initiated a ninety-degree turn on smoking, screaming tires.

  A line of civilians on mopeds threw themselves from their little bikes as Kubrick slid around the corner. They scrambled up onto the hoods of parked cars, shouting and screaming, leaving their motorbikes overturned on the street, the wheels still spinning. Kubrick rolled over one, flattening the frame and spinning it curbside.

  Bolan revved his engine and his vehicle raced forward, ramming Kubrick’s car. Rebounding sharply from the impact, Bolan gritted his teeth and brought his vehicle back on line. Kubrick swerved sharply, fighting to keep his own car under control. Bolan thrust his weapon out of his open window and tore loose with another burst at close range.

  The rounds hammered into Kubrick’s trunk, which absorbed the damage. The agent swerved his car again, forcing Bolan to follow him. Sweat soaked Bolan despite the temperate weather, and he squinted in concentration. He was bruised and raw from the battle.

  Bolan brought his vehicle in behind Kubrick’s again. He lowered his weapon a
nd took aim at the other vehicle. He stiffened his arm to hold the machine pistol steady, bracing his grip and wrist against the recoil. With cool deliberation Bolan squeezed the trigger. The gun erupted in his hand.

  This time the rounds struck the weakened glass and punched through, leaving fist-sized holes in the rear window. Through the opening Bolan saw Kubrick frantically twisting his steering wheel with one hand while shouting into a cell phone. Bolan triggered another burst but this hit Kubrick’s vehicle low, ricocheting off the reinforced materials of the vehicle’s trunk.

  Kubrick jerked his wheel to the side and Bolan shot forward into the gap, the nose of his vehicle just past Kubrick’s passenger-side door. Kubrick saw him in his side view mirror and swerved, slamming hard into the front of Bolan’s BMW. Bolan had anticipated the maneuver and cut his own wheel sharply toward Kubrick’s car.

  The two vehicles clashed hard, rocking the drivers. Bolan jerked his wheel around, turning his tires into Kubrick’s vehicle. The agent slammed on his brakes and spun his vehicle away from Bolan’s press.

  The front of Kubrick’s fender tagged another car in the back tire and sent the smaller vehicle spinning. It struck a motorcycle just ahead of it, and the rider was tossed over the handle bars and onto the back of a parked car. The motorcycle went spinning end over end into the plate-glass window of a storefront, sending shoppers scattering for cover.

  Strung out perpendicular to the flow of traffic, Kubrick panicked, killing his engine. Leaving his own car running, Bolan popped his engine out of gear and engaged his emergency brake. He heard Kubrick try to turn his ignition over, heard the attempt fail.

  Bolan came out of his car in a flash. He leaped into the air and slid over Kubrick’s trunk where his own left front fender was locked in tight with the car. As he came down, Bolan heard the other man’s engine catch and roar back to life.

  The soldier landed on his feet directly behind Kubrick’s vehicle. He raised his mini-Uzi and triggered a blast through the blown-out back window as Kubrick kicked his vehicle into Reverse.