Rebel Force

by Don Pendleton

  Forced to take the turn in the road wide, just as Bolan had expected, the helicopter swung into view again. Lich and Bolan triggered simultaneous blasts. Bolan, with a sniper’s skill, blew out the floodlight on the helicopter undercarriage. Lich’s blast raked the side of the Land Rover from front to back just above the wheel wells.

  The civilian vehicle was jostled by the impact from the high-caliber slugs, but Sable kept the Land Rover steady. Bolan realized the freelance operative had to have had her vehicle outfitted with at least some armor upgrade in order for the rounds not to have penetrated into the passenger areas of the vehicle.

  Despite that, Bolan knew the Land Rover could not long take such damage unanswered. Sooner, rather than later, the vehicle would falter under the assault. Bolan sighted on Lich. Bullets traveled in an arc but fell below the circling helicopter. He twisted again and fired another burst, throwing his rounds wide as Sable powered through yet another turn. The landscape they raced past was a blur to Bolan, and his face and arms were numb from the cold air buffeting him.

  Lich had the RPK wide open, making no attempt to control his bursts. Rounds fell around the swerving Land Rover in a deadly hail of lead. Two stray rounds struck the hood of the Land Rover and punched through. One skipped off the radiator and white plumes of steam began spilling out.

  Bolan traced a line of 5.45 mm slugs off the Cayuse’s passenger-side skid and across the belly of the aircraft. The chopper’s undercarriage was perforated by half a dozen bullets, but the helicopter seemed to easily soak up the damage as it leapfrogged over the Land Rover. Bolan twisted, following the helicopter with his weapon blazing. His weapon went empty, and he punched the magazine release button and slid back into the SUV.

  “We’re almost off the mountain,” Sable said.

  Now that Bolan was back inside she steered with both hands on the wheel. Bolan felt a detached, floating sensation as the tires of the Land Rover lost grip on the pavement as Sable cornered too sharply. She managed to keep the vehicle from flipping, however.

  “Give me a magazine!” Bolan shouted into the back seat.

  “From where?” Sanders screamed back.

  “Just give me your weapon before they swing back,” Bolan snarled.

  Laying half sprawled over the still comatose Grimaldi, Sanders watched as Bolan unslung the Bizon-19 Sable had given him from around his chest. He reached into a side pocket and pulled out a spare magazine. Bolan used his thumb to drop the Bizon’s empty mag and then injected the fresh clip into the magazine well.

  Bolan looked at the submachine gun in disgust. It was a pitiful defense against even such a light helicopter, and it was no match whatsoever for Lich’s RPK machine gun. The capability of Lich to stand off beyond the 9 mm weapon’s range and return fire with his heavier caliber was obvious. The only modicum of hope Bolan held out was that Lich would need to draw closer to compensate for Sable’s erratic driving.

  “You think that’s going to do any good?” Sable asked.

  “I’m thinking I might just try when they get closer.”

  “Well, you’re going to get your chance,” Sanders said, thrusting his head up between the seats. “Here they come!”

  The Land Rover was out of the twisting decline of the mountain road and entered the valley straight away. The Cayuse spun, put its nose down and came flying directly toward them.

  “What does he want?” Sanders screamed in frustration. “He knows he’s done!”

  “He wants to make sure no good deed goes unpunished,” Sable replied.

  Bolan thrust the Bizon-19 out the passenger window and opened fire. The Cayuse swooped toward them like a metallic bird of prey. Sable swerved the Land Rover like a drunk as she handled the racing vehicle, but she was trapped within the confines of the road. Nothing but dark the forest, thick with trees, waited on either side of the road.

  The helicopter pilot’s hand was cold and steady as he guided the bird straight down on them. Lich was merciless. He hung half out of the helicopter pod, foot on the skid, and fired the RPK in a long burst.

  Bolan aimed his weapon straight at the glass bubble front of the speeding helicopter. He triggered the submachine gun and fought to keep the jumping, twisting chatter gun on target. Bullets from the RPK ate up fist-sized chunks of the road.

  Sable jerked the Land Rover from one side and then snapped it back to the other. She was screaming an unending stream of Russian curses as she drove. In the back, Sanders just screamed.

  More bullets ripped through the engine hood of the Land Rover. They clawed their way up and blew out the windshield. Propelled by the wind shear of Sable’s speed, glass blew into the cab, forcing Bolan to throw up his arm as a shield.

  The Cayuse roared by overhead. Bolan twisted as it passed, still stubbornly returning fire.

  Sable shrieked as a 7.62 mm round hit her leg. The new wound was barely an inch below the prior one, and blood spouted hot and sticky across Bolan. The emergency brake set between the passenger’s and driver’s seat exploded, sending fragments of the hand brake into Bolan’s thigh and side.

  Hanging outside the window, Bolan kept the Bizon roaring. He poured 9 mm rounds into the low flying helicopter as it passed directly overhead. He saw sparks fly as rounds struck metal, and he noted with grim satisfaction when glass shattered under the impact of the soft-nosed slugs. Bolan grunted in pain at the sudden force of bullet fragments striking his leg. He emptied his magazine as the Cayuse swung out and around.

  As he slid back into the Land Rover, The Executioner realized a burst of Lich’s fire had penetrated the passenger areas of the vehicle behind him. He felt his throat constrict in the grim realization of what he would find.

  Grimaldi was soaked with blood. Bolan twisted and saw Sanders.

  The CIA agent had taken multiple rounds in the torso. Lich’s machine gun blast had torn him apart, shredding the muscles and bones of his upper rib cage. The man’s eyes stared back at Bolan, wide and sightless. His mouth hung slack in death, and his chest looked like ground hamburger. A small sigh escaped his open mouth as his lungs collapsed and he pitched forward.

  Bolan shoved the dead man to the side and thrust his fingers onto the side of Grimaldi’s neck. He sagged with relief as his fingertips found a pulse, weak and fluttering, but still present.

  “Come on, Jack, you tough bastard,” Bolan whispered.

  Blood leaked from a new wound in the pilot’s arm, and Bolan pulled the shredded collar of his flight suit to one side to get a better look. The soldier’s adrenaline was pumping so hard he almost laughed out loud in relief when he saw the flesh gouged out of Grimaldi’s upper arm. The bullet had grazed his friend but not lodged.

  Bolan stuck his finger into the bleeding hole to stem the tide.

  “They’re coming back!” Sable screamed.

  “Drive!” Bolan shouted. “Just drive!”

  He ducked and looked out the window. He saw the Cayuse pacing them. The helicopter swung into a parallel course with the speeding Land Rover, flying fast at treetop level. Lich was raising the RPK.

  As Lich fired, Sable slammed on the brakes. Unprepared for the maneuver, Bolan was thrown forward, arms flying. He struck the top of the cab and bounced down to hit the dash hard with his ribs. The wind was knocked from him and he turned, sliding down into his seat.

  Out to the side of them the Cayuse shot past, and Lich’s blast missed them by a wide mark. The helicopter began to sweep back toward their position.

  Sable threw open her door and turned to Bolan. “We’ve got to get into the trees!”

  “Go!” Bolan shouted.

  Without looking back, the woman jumped from the driver’s seat of the Land Rover. Bolan opened his door and jumped out of the vehicle. He winced as pain lanced up from the wound in his thigh, but he did not falter.

  Limping badly, Sable made her way toward the dark line of trees beside the highway. Beyond the limits of the Land Rover’s headlights Bolan heard the change in pitch as the Cayuse came arou
nd and began its approach. He heard the RPK open up again.

  Bolan jerked open the rear passenger door, reached in and grabbed Sanders’s body by the shirt. He pulled the corpse through the open door, dumping him on the ground.

  The roar of the rushing helicopter was deafening as it bore down on Bolan. The sound of bullets eating into the asphalt rang in his ears. Bolan grabbed the unconscious Jack Grimaldi and heaved with all his might. The pilot slid into his arms. Bolan tried to pull him farther out, to get a better grip and drag him toward the safety of the roadside. But Grimaldi’s body wouldn’t budge, caught somehow half in and half out of the vehicle.

  Sable suddenly appeared out of the night at Bolan’s side, helping him take Grimaldi’s weight despite her own wounds.

  Bolan heard the Cayuse coming for them. He threw a look over his shoulder and gauged the distance to the dubious safety of the tree line. He looked toward the helicopter and knew they would never make it. He knew Lich could see them, unarmed and helpless, knew the traitor was loving it.

  “Just run,” Bolan told the dark-haired woman. “There’s no point in you dying, just run.”

  “What? Miss all the fun? Shut up and pull, Cowboy,” Sable replied.

  Bolan heaved Grimaldi with all his strength, rushing toward the edge of the road as the Cayuse came down on them for a final run. He backpedaled until his heels crunched on the gravel of the roadside and he knew he’d crossed the road. The helicopter was on them.

  Bolan twisted and heaved Grimaldi into the ditch at the road’s edge. He shoved Sable down with the wounded Grimaldi, then collapsed on top of them both in the ditch, shielding them with his body. Above him, Lich triggered the RPK.

  The bullets stopped suddenly, Bolan heard the roar of massive engines. He heard the powerful burp of miniguns going off and felt rotor wash beating down on him like typhoon winds.

  Looking up he saw the gigantic hulk of a CH-47F hovering over the area, rear cargo ramp lowering. Bolan craned his neck but couldn’t see Lich’s Cayuse. The big cargo helicopter touched down and men in OD green flight suits ran out holding M-4 carbines. Behind them came two men bearing a stretcher and medic bags.

  23

  Bolan crouched in the darkness with Sable at his side. They watched the little house on the edge of Tirana in the former republic of Yugoslavia. Inside was Arso Branislava, Claus Lich’s middleman.

  Bolan and Sable moved out gingerly from behind the shed, leapfrogging and covering each other as they approached the quiet house. Bolan caught up with the woman at the back door. Both had their weapons out and held at the ready.

  “Branislava is a key operator in the distribution network for Afghanistan heroin,” Sable told Bolan. “After a big deal like the one he just pulled off for Lich, he’s going to want to celebrate.”

  “Will he be too incoherent to interrogate?” Bolan asked.

  “Should make it easier. If he’s too drunk, we’ll just use the adrenaline on him.”

  “Let’s do it,” Bolan replied.

  The Executioner reflected on what he’d learned in the past twenty-four hours. According to Brognola, Jack Grimaldi was in rough shape but was expected to make a full recovery. Claus Lich had disappeared and was believed to have taken the Gustav prototype with him.

  Sable had informed Bolan that the prototype was the technological lynchpin in the equipment used to enrich uranium into nuclear material.

  ARSO BRANISLAVA WAS JARRED from his stupor to find his well-paid bodyguards were bloody corpses. Working together, Bolan and Sable had little trouble making the mercenary-fixer talk. There was absolutely zero percentage in dying for Lich, prized client or not.

  “Claus is gone!” Branislava cried. “The Gustav prototype is in the city, it is here,” he sputtered. “But Lich left last night. For Argentina.”

  24

  The Executioner got out of the car.

  He left it running, and the low powerful rumbling of its engine was the only noise he heard. He looked up and down the residential street set among the bluffs overlooking the city proper. It was quiet. No dogs barked, no cars drove on the street.

  Bolan pulled on a pair of snug, dark gloves.

  He walked around to the back of his car and opened the trunk. The Kevlar vest Bolan wore under his leather jacket accented his size. He wore a black knit watch cap pulled down low.

  Reaching into the trunk, he removed the false bottom where the tire jack was kept and pulled out a cut-down assault rifle. It was stubby with a shortened front grip and compact muzzle. A sound suppressor had been screwed into the modified barrel.

  Bolan looked around. Again, he saw no one and he held the carbine down by his side. He closed his trunk and pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. He keyed the walkie-talkie mode and spoke a brief word into the microphone.

  “Arlington.”

  There was a pause. It went on for too long.

  “Arlington,” he repeated.

  “Sable,” came the reply.

  Bolan changed functions on his phone. He hit a number on his speed dial and put the phone back in his pocket before the connection was made. He started up the sidewalk toward the house.

  The cell phone signal connected. Its twin, a half-mile away, rang once. The explosion at the utility substation was small, about equal in sound to that of an automobile backfiring. Bolan didn’t believe in being gratuitous.

  The transformer governing power grid for the street below. Streetlights cut out. Porch lights and the blue glow of televisions seen through windows went dark as well. As did night lights, clocks, computers and home alarm systems.

  Bolan snapped the bolt back on the receiver of his carbine and let it slide forward, locking and loading the weapon. Reaching up, he pulled the balaclava hood over his face.

  The soldier broke into an easy, loping jog. Speed, surprise and aggression were the foundational points of the operation. He turned up the driveway and headed down the east side of the house. He noted the red SUV he’d been told about. Beside it was a white Volvo he hadn’t been informed of. He held the assault rifle up by its pistol grip and reached out with one hand as he came up to the low gate set in the concrete block wall fencing in the backyard.

  The Executioner cleared the wall in an easy hop, landed in a crouch on the other side and brought the muzzle of his weapon up immediately. He scanned the area, looking for signs of movement from the house or in the yard itself. He counted down to the third window he’d been told was the master bedroom.

  He sidled up next to the window and pulled out his clip knife. He used the thumb post to slide the well oiled blade open with one hand.

  Moving carefully, Bolan inserted the tip of the knife under the lip of the window screen. With an easy motion he popped out the screen. His eyes never left the master bedroom window.

  The Executioner rose from his crouch and took the assault rifle in both hands.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  EMIL AIRAPETIAN PUT his head down and pressed his right nostril shut. With his other hand he took a customized gold straw and moved it into the opposite nostril. He lowered his head and sniffed long and hard, running his face down the short, thick line of cocaine he’d spread out on the etched glass of the mirror. Coming to the end of the white powder, The man snorted the last of it, then threw his head back as if trying to stop a nose bleed.

  He sagged into the support of his seat as blood rushed to his brain. Clear mucus ran from his nostril immediately, and with his head tilted back it carried the coke out of his sinus cavity and trickled it down his throat, numbing it pleasantly. Euphoria hit him a heartbeat later and he opened his eyes wide.

  Airapetian let his head roll back against the top of the chair in his master bedroom. Suddenly everything plunged into darkness.

  Airapetian was a narcoterrorist and weapons trafficker by trade. He’d stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago in the streets of Tirana’s poorest neighborhoods. When he realized his electricity had gone out, his fear was i
mmediate.

  Springing forward, he yanked open the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out his pistol. The Ruger P-95 loaded with a round chambered and the safety off.

  He caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye and saw the screen to his window pulled away.

  Outside a shadow moved and Airapetian started firing.

  ABOVE BOLAN A SUDDEN FUSILLADE of pistol shots exploded and bullets punched out through the master bedroom window, shattering glass into glittering shrapnel. Operating on pure reflex, Bolan spun around and dropped to one knee. He held the assault rifle sideways above his head and sprayed the interior of the room with one long, ragged burst.

  Bolan poured the 5.56 mm rounds into the room, using the spray to suppress the pistol marksman. He had to assume it was his primary target. Arso Branislava had specified no bodyguards, only a near certain likelihood that Airapetian was heavily armed. Bolan cut of his burst after about twelve rounds and stood, flipping around so his back was pressed to the wall beside the window.

  No return fire came through the window. With the element of surprise gone it would be suicide to backlight his silhouette. Bolan knew time was running out. His ears still rang from the gunshots that had rendered his sound suppressor laughably useless.

  He had to assume the police were on their way. Bolan knew what would happen to him if he was caught by the Serbian police. He’d disappear into a Belgrade prison and that would be the end of him.

  Even as those thoughts raced through his mind, Bolan gave no consideration to running.

  Swinging the weapon around, Bolan thrust the muzzle through the broken window, eyes tracking for the slightest sense of movement. He saw none. His eyes took in the scene.

  His suppressive fire had torn ragged holes in the wall across from the window. The bed had been ripped apart and pillows shredded. A heavy nightstand lay blown apart in one corner.