Bolan made his way back to the SUV. He opened the rear door and unzipped his weapons bag. He shed his civilian clothing and geared up in camo suit and boots, Beretta and MP-5, filling the pouches of his combat harness with extra magazines. He also slid his Cold Steel Tanto into its belt sheath. He was satisfied that the ordnance he carried would serve for what he had to do. Time was short on this phase, so he didn’t want to burden himself with too much equipment.
He circled the trading post and pushed into the dense forest, following the directions he had been given.
Silence surrounded him, save for the natural sounds of birds and wildlife in the deep undergrowth. The forest engulfed him. Trees and bush grew in thick abundance. Bolan held his MP-5 close to his chest as he moved along a barely visible trail. He kept the distant ridge directly ahead, aware that the terrain was rising gradually. Not a harsh climb. A natural swell in the ground underfoot. Bolan felt, if not entirely at home, at least comfortable in this environment. In times past he had undergone similar treks, often in surroundings that were totally hostile. Not just in regard to wildlife, but with vegetation that could scratch and tear at flesh. This forest, dense as it was, held no discernable threats except for the men he was tracking.
Bolan never found himself at odds with the environment, but man was a different element. He could be violent and untrustworthy. Exhibiting traits that even so-called wild animals would never show. Animals responded to threats against their lives and territory, whereas man had the capacity to be both duplicitous and cruel. Bolan could understand the need to defend and protect. That was the forte of animals in their natural world. Man brought his own brand of viciousness with him—the need to dominate, to inflict suffering and terror on his fellow man. Greed and selfishness were man’s domain.
Those characteristics, and more, were part of the reason why the Executioner existed. His fight against the evil in man, something that had always manifested itself, continued and would remain as long as the conditions demanded. At this time in his life Bolan saw little chance of that changing. So he moved on, facing the challenge, and accepted it without complaint.
Bolan moved at a steady, distance-eating pace. He understood the urgency of the moment, but chose to hold himself back from any headlong rush. Exhausting himself before reaching any confrontation was foolish. He needed both stamina and containment, so that when he did confront his enemy, his physical and mental limits were at their best.
Before he reached the crest of the ridge, tracking toward the west, the way became denser, the timber and foliage closing in so that he had to physically force his way through. If this was how his quarry was finding travel, he could understand why it would be difficult for a land-based vehicle to penetrate.
He broke free of the undergrowth and saw the distant peaks ahead of him. An endless spread of forest layered the slopes. Bolan moved off again. He covered the mile distance with ease, noticing he was moving upward again, and the sun glinting on the lake ahead brought him to a cautious stop, crouching as he surveyed the terrain in front of him. Following the edge of the lake, scanning the area, Bolan made out the shape of the cabin. He fixed the position of the structure before pushing on, checking back in the direction the approaching team would be coming from.
The men searching for Ray Logan’s wife and son would have no charitable thoughts where they were concerned. Bolan had seen the results of their attitude in the beaten store owner. He recalled Logan’s description of Keegan’s death.
Okay, they had already drawn the parameters.
So the Executioner would base his delivery along those lines.
Chapter 12
The trio Vigo Stone had sent to bring in Logan’s family were already out of their comfort zone. The first setback had been losing the SUV. They were still some distance from the cabin when the dense forest became almost impossible to drive through. And then Madden, taking the wheel after they left Lohman at the store, had gotten the vehicle wedged between a pair of massive trees. The more he sat on the gas, the tighter the SUV had gotten stuck.
“Jake, switch the fuckin’ motor off,” Rubin said. “We ain’t going any farther in this thing. They’ll have to cut the damn trees down to get it free.”
Madden cut the power and slammed his fists against the steering wheel in frustration. “Crap piece of garbage,” he said.
Behind him Burdett laughed. “Crap driving more like,” he said. “And quit pounding the wheel. You want to set off the airbag?”
“Why didn’t that son of a bitch back at the store tell us we couldn’t ride all the way up?” Madden said.
“We aren’t exactly on his friendly list, that’s why,” Burdett said. “You did walk all over his face.”
Rubin pulled the sat phone from his pocket and keyed in a number. “Yeah, it’s me. You got that cabin on your GPS? So get that chopper the hell up here. We’re having to go the rest of the way on foot. The freakin’ car can’t get any farther. It’s stuck.... What do you expect me to do? Go at the friggin’ trees with a machete?… No, it isn’t possible… Stone ain’t going to like it? Well, tough shit. Send him along and let’s see if he can do any better. Just hang back until I give you the word. I don’t want that woman hearing the helicopter until we got her contained.” He threw the phone down and snatched up his SMG. “Let’s go. Time to hit the fuckin’ nature trail.”
As they exited the vehicle and pushed forward on foot, Madden said, “We get back down to that freakin’ store I’m going to skin that storekeeper.” He struggled through the heavy foliage. “I hate the forest.”
They pushed on as fast as they were able.
“You know what I’m thinking,” Burdett said.
“What?”
“We should just shoot the bitch and her brat and be done with it.”
Rubin shook his head. “Want to know what I think?”
“What?”
“You should shut the fuck up. Now let’s spread out so we can cover more of the cabin in case the Logan woman has company. You guys left and right. I’ll keep the middle path. Stay in touch through the comsets.”
BOLAN’S PATH OF TRAVEL brought him in line with the incoming team. He moved with consummate ease through the foliage, using the light and shadow for cover, and he saw them long before they knew he was around.
He also heard them. The sound of their passing. The inane chatter over the comsets they wore for communication, though with the nonstop jawing the last thing they needed were electronic devices to transmit.
He gave them credit for getting close, but it was not good enough. The sound they created transmitted itself to the concealed soldier. Bolan had honed his craft in countless missions in all parts of the world. He recognized natural sounds and picked out those made by invaders to the forested terrain—small fragments of sound that did not belong. And it was the intrusion of those sound bites that provided him with the markers that betrayed the newcomers.
These men were far from their natural habitat. The woman at the store had judged them correctly. They belonged in the urban streets, not in a forested world that closed around them and amplified every move they made. And they talked incessantly over the digital comsets they wore. That chatter, slight as it was, still reached Bolan’s ears. He even heard Logan and Rachel. These men talked too much. It pinpointed them as targets clearer than a flashing beacon. Bolan established the relative positions of the three men and let them pass before he eased out of concealment, closing on the nearest guy, getting his first physical view of the opposition.
Their participation in the hunt for Rachel Logan tied them into the death of Marty Keegan. They, or someone within their group, had tortured him to death for information. Logan’s loyal friend had suffered at the hands of these people simply because he knew the runaway cop and would not give up on him. They were guns for hire. Eager to prove their ski
lls to the man who paid them. At this moment they were looking for Rachel Logan and her son, and Bolan had no doubts as to the kind of treatment they would mete out if they got their hands on the woman and the boy.
Bolan slung the MP-5 from his shoulder and unholstered his handgun. He raised the Beretta and tracked in on his first target.
The guy never knew what hit him. The 93-R coughed three times. The subsonic 9 mm Parabellum slugs took his skull apart and briefly misted the air with bloody debris as bone and flesh and brain fragments parted from the shattered head. The man went down with nothing more than a muffled grunt, his body slack and heavy. He struck the forest floor facedown, dying nerves making him shudder for a few seconds before all movement ceased.
His partners must have heard the man’s dying grunt through their comsets. As one, they came to a stop, weapons circling the area. They realized something had happened.
Bolan was already angling in through the undergrowth, his auto pistol held forward as he closed the gap. He moved a few yards to his left, having identified a dark-clad figure clutching a squat SMG directly ahead.
The guy made eye contact, face taut with the reality of being confronted by a figure who seemed to have magically emerged from the greenery. As Bolan’s form took shape the man brought his SMG round, the muzzle traversing to align on this newcomer.
The 93-R spat out a second triburst and the guy’s body jerked under the impact of the 9 mm slugs coring through his chest. They shattered bone and cleaved their way into his pumping heart. He stumbled back, arms flailing as he tried, without success, to stay upright. He slammed to the ground on his back, the impact causing a spraying gout of blood to erupt from his open mouth. His weapon flew from his slack fingers. The man convulsed, coughing up more blood as his punctured heart gave out.
RUBIN DROPPED TO A CROUCH. He was close enough to have seen his buddy go down. He drew himself tight, peering through the tangle of green, and tried to pick out the shooter. He quickly became aware he was out of his depth. This place was alien to him—a mass of tangled greenery, tall trees with a canopy of intertwining branches and leaves that almost shut out the sky. The silence all around him was unnerving. The only sound was his own ragged breathing. Back in the city he might have been a tough guy, but here he was a total novice.
Something crackled close by, to his right. Rubin loosed off a short burst from his SMG. The sound was loud in the forest. He jerked as birds erupted from the shrubbery. They flew about in erratic motion. One swooped down and swerved violently in front of his face. He slapped at it with his left hand, involuntarily half-rising from his crouch.
And that was when he saw the shooter. Only yards away, standing in front of him. The guy had a grim expression on his face and he fixed him with eyes as cold as a bleak winter sky.
There was a big handgun in the man’s large fist. Rubin didn’t recognize the weapon’s configuration—not that it mattered. It was the last thing he saw before the Beretta fired and three 9 mm slugs took his face apart in a blinding flash. He dropped to the ground, numb from the impact, so he didn’t see Bolan move the 93-R’s selector to single shot, stand over him and trigger a final shot that seared into his brain and brought on the final darkness.
BOLAN CROSSED TO WHERE the second guy lay, taking short, labored breaths. His single tap shut the guy down.
None of the three carried any ID. No personal items. Only one carried a phone. A sat phone. Bolan tucked it in a side pocket for later inspection. Each man had a holstered auto pistol and they had all carried SMGs. Bolan took all the arms and stowed them inside a long-fallen, rotting log, scooping leaves over the open end. Then he moved on, the Beretta back in its holster, the MP-5 taken from his shoulder and brought into play.
Bolan didn’t expect any further distractions at this moment in time. It would have been expected that three armed men would be sufficient to track through the forest to deal with a single woman and a young boy. They hadn’t counted Bolan into the equation, but then a trio of experienced shooters should have been a large enough force to handle him.
One against three.
The odds in their favor.
Their mistake.
They didn’t understand a man like Bolan. A seasoned soldier who had operated in every combat situation ever conceived. Who walked the hellgrounds with the ease that any other man might walk his city streets. The ultimate soldier. A man who had learned his craft in military conflicts, then moved on to initiate his own war. Bolan’s personal war was directed toward the eradication of Evil in all its forms. It had taken on a life of its own. Bolan against Animal Man. Dedicated to removing the defilers of decency, and those who perpetrated insane horrors against their own. Bolan sought them out and delivered the just verdict that was sufficient to end their crimes.
Their execution? Final payment for what they had done, were still doing. And for as long as he was able, Bolan would continue his war.
As he would on this day.
As always.
As it had to be.
Chapter 13
Bolan came up on the cabin minutes later, pausing to assess the layout before he moved in quickly and silently. He flattened against the front wall, back pressed to the rough timber. He heard nothing from inside. When he moved it was swiftly, his approach direct, because he had a feeling there might be others ready to back up the three he had taken down. He hadn’t seen or heard any other intruders, but Bolan never took anything for granted. Letting his guard down was an invitation for disaster.
He stepped up onto the porch, reached the door, and pushed against the handle. The door swung inward on creaking hinges and Bolan went in fast and low, his raised MP-5 sweeping the interior, picking up the two figures just off center from the door.
Bolan came face-to-face with Rachel Logan.
Even in her disheveled state she was a strikingly beautiful woman. Her creased shirt and faded jeans did nothing to take away from her looks. Thick, tawny-blond hair, in need of a good brushing, framed her face, and the hard stare she gave Bolan was emphasized by the steely expression in her green-flecked eyes. The ten-year-old boy at her side, a miniature Ray Logan, held his own defiant look.
“You take one more step I’ll shoot,” she said. The Colt Commander in her right hand was aimed at Bolan’s chest and the barrel was rock-steady. “Believe it.”
“Ray told me you mean what you say.” Bolan lowered the MP-5, held his hands clear from his body and kept his voice neutral, his expression benign.
Rachel backed off, her eyes searching his face for any signs of deceit. “Is this where you convince me Ray sent you? That I should trust you? Do I look that stupid?”
“I’m not going to say that with a gun pointed at me. Rachel, I know the trouble Ray is in. We met while he was on the run from two cops on Senator Kendal’s payroll. I managed to get him clear and into cover. Since then I’ve been chased by Kendal’s hired guns and Russian shooters and managed to keep one step ahead. Right now I have Ray in a safe house so he can start to recover…”
“Recover? From what?”
“He took a couple of bullets the night we ran into each other. The bullets have been removed and he’s resting. He’s weak but he’ll be fine. My concern is you and the boy.”
“My name is Tommy, not boy,” the youngster said.
Bolan smiled. “I know, Tommy.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Rachel said. “This could all be a trick.”
“It could, but it isn’t.”
Bolan let the MP-5 hang from its sling, took his sat phone from a pocket and hit the speed dial for Logan’s burn phone. He waited until the call was answered.
“Ray, I have someone who wants to talk to you,” Bolan said and handed the phone to Rachel.
She took it and listened, her face crumpling after a few sec
onds, tears pooling in her eyes.
“Yes. We’re okay. In a mess, but okay. This man just showed up, he says he knows you… Ray, he said you got shot.” She listened as Logan spoke. “All right, love. Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.” She handed the phone back to Bolan. “He needs to speak to you.”
“Cooper, what do I say? You found them.”
“I had to go through three of Kendal’s hit squad to get to them. They were already close to reaching them. Too close. And I’m guessing there may be others around.”
“You have to get them clear, Cooper. Before Kendal’s shooters show up.”
“I’ll handle it, Ray. Now I need to get Rachel and your son away from here. I’ll let you know where when we talk next time.”
“I’ll trash this phone when we’re done. I have another with me. I’ll use it when I make contact next time, so you won’t know the number until I do.”
“Good idea. You need to talk to Rachel again?”
Bolan handed the phone back to Rachel, then crossed to look out the window, studying the lay of the land. The thick stands of timber and the tangled undergrowth made spotting movement difficult. Bolan’s knowledge of any more intruders was practically nil at that moment. If any more of Kendal’s hired guns were close to the cabin they had the advantage for the time being. So the sooner he and Logan’s family moved out, the better their chances.
Rachel handed him the phone. Bolan stowed it in his pocket. She sent Tommy to pack their gear, giving her a moment with Bolan.
“Ray said I should trust you. He told me how you stepped in and helped. Thank you, Mr. Cooper.”
“It’s Matt. Your husband is a brave man to stand up to these people.”
“I know that,” Rachel said. “And stubborn. Matt, I heard you had to come through Kendal’s people. Do I take that to mean what I think it does?”
Blind Justice Page 6