Rachel and Tommy, on their knees, hands clasped behind their heads. He felt a moment of anger at the way they were being treated—like captives. The anger subsided with the same heartbeat. The men who had them under their guns looked on the woman and boy as just that.
Captives.
Prisoners.
Hostages to whatever sick scheme they had in mind. He knew what that was, too. Rachel and Tommy were bait to draw him in. They might have captured their prize, but they wanted Bolan out of their hair, as well. He had already raised the body count, so they would not rest easy until he was eliminated.
The pair of Kendal’s men had moved fast, obviously circling around in a sweep that took them ahead of their quarry before allowing them to close in.
Down low Bolan edged closer and heard one of the men on his comset. Bolan couldn’t make out any of the words, but he guessed the guy was likely calling in that they had captured Rachel and Tommy. And probably asking for additional backup and a way out of the forest since their chopper was down.
How close was backup?
Minutes away?
Longer?
Bolan realized he had no choice. He had to make his move this second. While there were only the two of them.
He observed the setup. One guy was speaking into his comset. He had shoulder-hung his SMG. As long as he was speaking, his attention would be drawn away from the prisoners, leaving his partner to watch over them. The second guy had his SMG loosely trained on the back of Rachel’s head. Thinking it through, Bolan surmised that even if something went down, Rachel and Tommy would not be summarily executed. The main purpose of them being caught was to keep them alive. Bolan didn’t eliminate the risk of injury to the pair. In a confrontational situation things could change with dramatic swiftness. It was hard to figure out how any individual might react to a sudden change in the situation. People reacted differently. For whatever reason, the finger on a trigger might still be pulled without thought.
Bolan took it all in, his mind snapping through the permutations, and he chose his way instinctively. Combat decisions more often than not were made quickly.
See.
Think.
Act.
Do it before the moment was snatched away.
Before the other guy had time to make his choice.
The window was always that thin, and when a life hung in the balance choices were thin enough to be transparent.
Bolan’s finger eased the SMG’s selector to single shot. He didn’t want a burst of fire that might send a slug off trajectory. He needed accuracy. He was well inside the SMG’s range. Close enough for dependable velocity.
Once his choice was made Bolan went ahead.
He pushed to his feet so he was in the clear. No low branches, or undergrowth to snag his clothing.
He shouldered the SMG and took aim.
The distant target caught the movement. His gaze drew from Rachel and settled on Bolan.
Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger. He felt the recoil as the weapon nudged his shoulder.
The 9 mm slug struck just above the left eye and impacted against the guy’s skull. It deformed on impact, twisting violently as it passed through the brain and took out a sizable chunk of the back of the guy’s head. The man arched back, dropping hard.
The casing was still falling as Bolan altered his aim, tracking in on the second guy. The SMG cracked twice. Both slugs coring in through the back of the man’s head and pitching him facedown on the forest floor, his body jerking violently for a few seconds. His forward fall concealed the ragged end result of the 9 mm slugs bursting out through his face.
Bolan was on the move by this time, urging Rachel and the boy away from the scene. He didn’t allow them time to dwell on what had happened. And he knew that numbers were falling fast, their advantage lessening with the passing seconds.
They paralleled the edge of a steep drop, water glinting at the bottom. To their other side the ground rose in a tree-dotted slope. Light glanced through the dense mass of vegetation, making a crisscross pattern of dark and light.
Bolan didn’t spot the figure barreling down the slope, on a trajectory that would bring him directly into their path. When the soldier did see the man it was a millisecond before the hurtling figure slammed into him, driving the breath from Bolan’s body. Bolan remembered the drop-off. If his adversary had spotted it he hadn’t allowed for it being so close. The pair of them went over the edge in a wild tumble, each man trying to gain the upper hand while attempting to maintain control of their fall.
They failed on both counts.
The loose surface off the drop cushioned Bolan as he landed. He felt his momentum increase as he slid farther down the slope. He let his body go slack, loosening his muscles so the impact was not too severe. He tried a couple of times to delay his downward fall by grabbing at anything he could. Nothing helped. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the guy who had slammed into him. It was a blurred view of the man, but he looked to be as helpless as Bolan, bouncing and twisting as he slithered down the drop. Bolan twisted himself round and saw the bottom of the slope coming up fast. He spat out dirt that had gotten into his mouth. Bolan attempted to bring his body under control before he struck bottom…it came faster than he had anticipated. Bolan slammed into the base of the slope, his entire body jarred from the impact, and he was still rolling forward, unable to stop and found himself half submerged in the water he had seen at the bottom of the drop. The water was waist-deep and chill.
Bolan got his feet under him, pushing up out of the water. He sensed movement close by, swiveling at the waist in time to see his adversary lunging at him, big hands splayed wide apart. If the guy had been carrying, he’d lost his weapon during the fall. He slammed into Bolan, fingers clawing at the Executioner’s throat. Bolan dropped his chin to his chest, denying the man a solid grip. He drove his right fist into the guy’s ribs, drawing a grunt from the man. They grappled briefly, each going for a superior hold. The guy was large and solid with plenty of muscle power. He tried to slam a knee into Bolan, but the drag of the water reduced the force of his blow. Even so, Bolan felt the impact of a hard knee against his hip. Bolan planted his left hand against his opponent’s broad chest and pushed him away, far enough for him to swing his bunched right fist into the guy’s face. The blow landed hard, mashing lips and driving them back against the man’s teeth. Blood began to dribble from the guy’s mouth. He shook his head, blood spraying. He launched himself at Bolan again, the impact solid when their bodies clashed. There was no time for fancy moves. There was no telling if there were more of Kendal’s people closing in and Bolan’s priority was keeping Rachel and Tommy with him. Bolan drew his head back and then forward, butting the big man’s nose hard. He felt it collapse and the guy roared in pain. Blood flowed copiously, streaking his lower face. The crushed nose made his opponent pause, allowing Bolan time to step back, then reach for the Tanto sheathed on his thigh. Bolan drew the blade, driving it forward. The cold steel sank to the handle in the big man’s torso. He gave a trembling cry, coming to a complete standstill, staring at Bolan with shock in his eyes. He seemed about to say something, but the words never came. Bolan had already withdrawn the blade in the still of the moment. He brought it up and pulled it across the guy’s throat. The cut was deep, slicing apart everything in its path. The big man clutched at the gaping wound, blood sputtering and spurting between his fingers.
Bolan stepped out of the water, putting away the Tanto. He checked his Beretta—still in its holster—then eased the strap-hung MP-5 into place. He turned back to the slope he’d just come down and started to climb. Behind him there was a heavy splash as the big man toppled over, his blood staining the water. The slope was soft underfoot so Bolan had little difficulty negotiating it. He caught sight of Rachel and Tommy standing at the top. The boy had his face pressed agains
t his mother and Rachel had her pistol in her right hand. The expression on her face was a mix of anxiety and some shock.
She stared at Bolan, seeing the grazes and bruises he hadn’t even begun to register. “You okay?”
Bolan brushed his fingers through his hair, shaking loose the debris. “That wouldn’t have been my choice of getting down that slope,” he said.
“Matt, you could have been badly injured,” she said. “Or worse. Are you sure you’re okay? No broken ribs? Concussion?”
“Rachel, I’m fine. How’s Tommy?”
The boy glanced round and stared at Bolan. “That was some fall,” he said. “Did you deal with the other guy?”
“Let’s just be grateful Mr. Cooper isn’t hurt, Tommy.”
“I think it’s time we moved on,” Bolan said. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Tommy.”
“Will we get out of here before dark? Mom always told me it’s not a good idea to go wandering around the forest then.”
“If we keep moving we should reach the store just after the sun goes down,” Rachel said.
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Bolan said.
They moved off again, Rachel leading them through the trees with a confident stride, Tommy behind her and Bolan, ever watchful, bringing up the rear.
He didn’t discount the possibility of further action. Bolan never did rely on laxity. It was when a man’s guard was down that problems arose.
So Bolan walked on with caution, his attention at full stretch. And he didn’t let his guard down even when they reached the store just after dark started to fall across the forest.
Chapter 17
Light shone from the store windows. Smoke curled from the chimney. The place gave out an atmosphere of calm. As they moved toward the store Rachel gave a sigh of relief, drawing Tommy close.
“We did it,” she said. “Matt, we made it. You got us…”
Bolan didn’t reply. He put out a warning arm to hold them back.
Because something wasn’t right.
He couldn’t have explained it in words. It was a feeling. A sense of unease. Something telling him the situation was off-kilter.
Rachel turned to stare at him, eyes wide with a perceived sense of danger. “What is it, Matt?”
Beside her Tommy looked across at Bolan’s shadowed profile and stayed silent himself.
Bolan brought the MP-5 into play, making no sudden moves as he scanned the store and the surrounding terrain. With darkness starting to fall, shadows had already deepened so his sight was restricted. If there was anyone watching them they would be hidden in the gloom. None of the other cabins showed any light. No sign of movement, and Bolan recalled Sarah telling him there were no other occupants in residence at this time.
Keeping her voice low Rachel asked, “What do we do?”
“We need to back up. Into the trees so we have cover.”
“No. That is not what you should do.”
The voice behind Bolan came with an unmistakably Russian accent, the words delivered slowly because the speaker still hadn’t fully mastered English.
The hard muzzle of a weapon was jammed into Bolan’s spine. There was no need for any translation there—the meaning was clear. Bolan took his hands from the SMG, letting it dangle from the sling. He held them out from his sides. Heroic gestures were one thing. Reckless ones were something else. As much as he wanted to take on this Russian, even the Executioner couldn’t dodge a bullet at such close range.
The Russian took Bolan’s weapons. One by one—MP-5, Beretta, the Tanto knife.
Out of the corner of his eye Bolan made visual contact with Tommy. The boy stared back at him, a silent message going between them. He nodded briefly.
“Inside the cabin,” the Russian said, pushing the muzzle against Bolan to emphasize his command.
“We have to do as he says, Rachel,” Bolan said. He took a step forward, saw Rachel do the same. Then Bolan simply said, “Tommy, go. Hide.”
The boy didn’t hesitate. He turned about and with the agility of a ten-year-old he ran, fast, back to the trees, his slim form vanishing in the darkness. He disappeared in seconds, losing himself in the undergrowth.
“Hey,” the Russian yelled. He gave a frustrated growl and Bolan felt the uncompromising slam of the weapon the man held as he drove it against his spine. The blow hurt. Bolan sucked in his breath, stumbling briefly.
“Matt,” he heard Rachel cry.
“Woman, you shut your mouth. Now get inside cabin before I kill you both.”
There was nothing else either of them could do. With the armed man at their backs Bolan and Rachel were marched up to the store.
As they reached the door the Russian behind Bolan yelled out an order, and Bolan realized he was giving orders to others on the far side of the cabin. The Executioner’s Russian allowed him a sketchy translation. It increased the odds against Bolan if these others came into the store.
As he and Rachel were forced inside, the scene that unfolded was far from promising. Arthur and Sarah Kenner were seated by the counter. They looked tired and scared. There were three more Russians nearby, SMGs hanging from their shoulders. The guy Bolan had overpowered and tied up, had apparently been freed and was also there. One of the Russian heavies came forward and took the confiscated weapons he was handed. He dropped them on the store counter.
Kendal’s man, a pleased smirk on his face, walked across to Bolan and Rachel. The smirk vanished when he realized Rachel was on her own.
“Where’s the brat?” he asked.
The Russian behind Bolan said, “He ran off. Back into the forest. I could not stop him.”
“What the hell. He’s just a fuckin’ kid.” He laughed at something. “Hey, maybe the bears will get him. Park Rangers will find his bones.”
The Russian gave a hoarse chuckle. “Da. That would be good.” He stepped around Bolan and stood beside Kendal’s man. “This the one who tie you up, Lohman?”
Lohman fingered his marked face, recalling what Bolan had done. “I owe you,” he said to Bolan.
“My one mistake,” Bolan said. “I didn’t hit you hard enough.”
Lohman gave an angry yell and launched himself forward, swinging wildly with a .357 mm SIG Sauer pistol clutched in his hand. His attack was fuelled by rage, losing him any form of control, and Bolan neatly sidestepped, reaching up to grab Lohman’s right arm. He used his grip to drag Lohman closer, sweeping up his own right arm in a forearm smash that contacted Lohman’s cheek. The blow reopened the gash in Lohman’s cheek, blood spurting down his face. Bolan hauled the dazed man in close, neatly stepping behind him, snatching the SIG from Lohman’s loose grip.
The Russian who had brought Bolan and Rachel into the cabin was lifting the SMG in his hands when Bolan shot him, the SIG making a loud sound within the confines of the store. The slug hammered into the Russian’s chest, making him step back, his face registering surprise, then pain. Bolan triggered three more shots into the guy, dropping him where he stood.
Rachel had thrown herself clear, letting her body drop to the floor, giving Bolan a clear field of fire.
He felt Lohman shudder as one of the Russians opened fire from across the store. His shots hit Lohman and the man started to sag in Bolan’s grip. As Lohman dropped, Bolan swung the SIG low, angling the muzzle beneath Lohman’s arm, triggering as fast as he was able. The Russian shooter grunted under the impact of the .357 mm slugs. He staggered backward, bloody shreds blowing out between his shoulders.
A second Russian hauled his SMG up from hip level, stepping forward to track Bolan’s prone body.
Sarah Kenner thrust out a booted foot that tripped the shooter. He almost went down on his knees but recovered his balance. With a harsh curse on his lips he sw
ung around and triggered the SMG, laying down a burst of auto fire that blew the helpless woman off her chair. The Russian held his finger against the trigger, his anger making him forget Bolan as he fired into Arthur Kenner.
Bolan was already pushing up off the floor, his right hand aiming the SIG at the Russian. He placed two .357 slugs into the back of the man’s broad skull, the powerful bullets taking the Russian’s head apart in a burst of bloody bone and brain matter.
Bolan felt the slide of the SIG lock back and realized the weapon had not been holding a full magazine. He tossed the gun aside, starting to rise to his feet as the third Russian, his SMG out of reach on the counter, snatched a wooden ax-handle out of a barrel at his side and headed for Bolan at a full run, ready to strike. On one knee Bolan let him come, then reached out to grab the guy’s flapping coat the moment the Russian made a wild swing with the wooden club. Bolan dragged the Russian with him, falling to the floor and bringing up his right foot. He planted the sole of his boot in the man’s stomach, thrusting up and back. He went hurtling over Bolan, letting go a startled scream as he was projected through the air, hitting one of the store’s windows full on. Glass shattered, wood splintered and the Russian flew out of sight. Bolan rolled to his right, gaining his feet and snatched up one of the dropped SMGs. He handed it to Rachel as she stood.
“Get over by the far wall,” he said.
Bolan spotted the Kenners’ Winchester on the counter and grabbed it as he heard bootsteps on the porch outside the door. The voices calling out were Russian.
The door was kicked in, dark shapes filling the opening. Bolan saw a grim-faced Russian storming in his direction. The guy wielded an SMG and he jerked on the trigger as Bolan ducked low. The stream of slugs chewed raw slivers of wood from the door frame. Staying low, Bolan triggered a 12-gauge shell into the guy. At close range the effect was devastating, ripping open the Russian’s torso and taking out a section of his ribs. The power of the shot threw him off the porch and he slammed to the ground, blood and insides streaming in his wake. A second guy, yelling in a wild, guttural voice, was too late to stop his forward movement. He tried to jerk away from the open door but was too slow for the Executioner’s adrenaline-powered reaction. The Winchester tracked a few inches to the left, Bolan tripping the trigger even as he caught a glimpse of the shooter’s SMG. The full charge of the 12-gauge blast took him in the left shoulder, tearing at muscle, bone and flesh. The guy’s arm was ripped free, hand still clutching at his SMG, as blood began to fountain from the severed shoulder. Bolan, harboring no kind of forgiveness, hit the guy with a second shot, blowing him off the porch with half his skull missing.
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