He finished setting the charge and double-timed it back to his position. Once he reached a good vantage point, he said, “I’m in position. Ready when you are. Ninety seconds.”
“Copy that,” Remy answered.
Bolan watched the seconds count down and the C-4 went off with a thunderous boom. From where he was positioned, he could see the rock wall shatter and smoke fill the air. The blast set off the alarm system as well, a high warbling siren that would make it difficult for Costello’s crew to communicate with one another. Men were running toward the explosion from every direction.
Bolan swung the line and tossed the grapple, the pitons catching the lip of the wall. He tugged, then climbed quickly, reaching the top and scanned the gate area for any remaining guards. His eyes found one holdout, but before he could draw and fire, a red wound opened on the man’s chest, and he fell over dead.
“God is still watching,” Remy said.
Bolan tossed the line over the other side and descended into the main courtyard. With no time to waste, he headed for the house. As two more of the guards near the explosion site went down, some of Costello’s men began firing randomly into the swamp, while several others tried to bring order to the chaos.
The erupting of the second charge, ten feet farther along the wall, caught them by surprise. Six men went down in the blast, either from the concussion or the pieces of rock flying through the air. Bolan gained the courtyard between the main house and the bunkhouse.
“Hey, you!”
Bolan turned as a sentry appeared from the trees along the front of the house, only a few yards away. Hoping to keep his presence inside the compound unnoticed, the Executioner turned toward the man, the combat knife a blur in his hand as he threw it.
The blade buried itself in the sentry’s throat. Bolan kept moving toward him, catching the guy as he fell. The soldier pulled the knife free of the corpse, wiped the blade on the guy’s shirt and replaced it in its scabbard. Then he dragged the body back into the trees.
Bolan moved to the bunkhouse. He ran along the wall in a crouch, keeping out of sight of the windows. As he began to round a corner, a shot splintered the wood above his head. He ducked back. More shots started coming from the windows as yelling people gave away his position. Bolan pulled a grenade from the pouch at his waist, armed it and tossed the bomb on the roof of the bunkhouse. The explosion rocked the ground and tore the roof as if it were tissue paper, sending roofing materials and wood tumbling to the ground. Bolan tried the corner only to be stymied by shots again. Someone had him pegged.
“I got it,” Remy said over the com-link.
Although he couldn’t hear the shot, a second later Bolan picked up a faint thud as a body dropped to the ground. He got on the move again, running to the back side of the main house. Three men stood guard at the door. The soldier drew the Desert Eagle and fired, hitting the first two. The third man turned to run, causing him to miss, but by then, the Executioner was almost on top of him. Bolan reholstered on the run, caught the man and snapped his neck.
He reached the door, opened it and saw that the room was a kitchen. He stepped inside, and almost immediately two shots rang out, forcing him to duck. Bolan reached out and opened the refrigerator door, glad for its stainless-steel protection.
“You’re a pain in the ass, Cooper,” Salerno called. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“You’d be surprised how often I’ve heard that,” Bolan replied. “Usually right before I kill someone.”
Bolan fired two quick shots around the refrigerator door. The sound was immense in the small, tiled space of the kitchen. Salerno didn’t reply, but dropped beneath the bullets, slamming into the refrigerator door with his feet. Bolan skidded backward, lost his balance, fell and rolled, losing the Desert Eagle in the process. He came up on his feet and followed through with a spinning roundhouse kick to Salerno’s head.
The thug took the kick on the shoulder and bulled ahead, trying for the head-butt. Bolan stepped back, then lunged forward again with two stiff jabs to Salerno’s face.
A look of disbelief passed across his features as the blood started to run, and Salerno realized he was seriously over-matched. The man backed away and turned to take off, then stopped and grabbed a chair with his good arm, swinging it wildly.
Bolan dodged low, dropped his shoulders and charged, knocking the big Italian to the ground. He went to move in, but one of Salerno’s men pulled him off, spun him and swung for his face. The soldier blocked, head butted the man and kneed him in the gut, then followed with a knife-hand blow to the back of the neck. The man went down, unconscious.
The Executioner turned back to just in time to see the knife that Salerno was going to stab into his back. He captured Salerno’s wrist, pulled him in and brought the heel of his hand across his elbow. The joint snapped like a heavy branch, and Salerno howled in pain as he dropped the knife.
“Where’s Rio?” Bolan asked, applying pressure to the break.
“Upstairs,” Salerno said through gritted teeth, “but you’ll never get to him in time. Costello’s been up there already this morning. He’ll have had a little more fun and then killed him.”
Bolan balled up his meaty fist and planted in the center of Salerno’s face. Blood spurted from the broken nose. He went down, and the soldier started to walk away, stopping when he saw Salerno drag a gun free of a holster with his already damaged arm.
The mafioso tried to lift it, but his shoulder wouldn’t cooperate and the shot went wild. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he shouted.
“You’re dead already,” Bolan said. “You just don’t know it yet. You’re not worth the bullet.”
Salerno fired again, shattering a window. “You’re the dead man, Cooper,” he grated.
“Salerno,” Bolan said, “the man you’re working for isn’t even Italian. He’s a Russian named Nikolai Agron. You think the real Mob is going to allow any of you to live after this?”
Salerno raised the gun a final time, but before he could pull the trigger, a shot rang out from the doorway, knocking him back to the floor, dead at last.
Bolan looked and saw Remy standing there. “You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun, did you?”
“I suppose not,” he said.
“Besides, God couldn’t see into the house,” Remy said. “I’ve got your back, so let’s go.”
DESPITE TAKING every precaution, it was over. From the balcony on the second floor, Nick—Nikolai—watched as the perimeter came apart, a sniper somewhere in the trees taking out his guards one by one, as someone else blew up the bunkhouse. A few minutes later, shots rang out on the lower level of the building. All this chaos, plus he had failed to get what he needed from the U.S. marshal. It was time to go.
He went back inside, grabbed his emergency bag, opened a panel and took a set of hidden stairs down to the first floor, then a passageway that led to the front of the house. As more shots came from the kitchen, Nick slipped through the front door and across the porch to where his truck was waiting for him. All hell might have broken loose, but if he—Nikolai—was an expert in anything, disappearing was at the top of the list.
The few remaining guards were already running away—or in most cases, he thought, slinking away like cowards. Nick spotted one trying to take cover near the rear of his truck. He pulled out his 9 mm pistol and shot the man. Several others stopped in their tracks.
“Get your asses in there,” he said, gesturing with the gun, “and take care of this problem.” He pointed the weapon at them. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”
The men looked at the gun that was trained on them and started to head back toward the house. He had no hope that it would do more than delay Cooper and Remy, but that was all he needed. Time to get away.
Nick climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and took off for the docks.
19
Bolan picked up the Tavor assault rifle dropped by Salerno’s man along with a
couple of extra magazines, then he and Remy ran into the main part of the house, crossing into the living room. They immediately began taking fire from men stationed in the foyer. They ducked behind a thick sofa that offered some cover as bullets drilled into the room.
“How many?” Remy asked.
“Four, I think,” Bolan said, signaling left for himself. “Maybe a couple more.”
A brief lull in the firing came and both men jumped up, using the back of the couch like a row of sandbags. Bolan cut loose with the Tavor in sharp 3-round bursts, and was rewarded with a high, warbling screech as one of the attackers took a round in the leg. He stumbled from behind the pillar he was using as cover, and Remy finished him off with his .45.
“Noisy bastard,” he muttered.
When their magazines cycled dry, they took shelter behind the couch again, and another hail of gunfire poured into the room. Both men reloaded. “Let’s finish it,” Bolan said as they went topside again.
He quickly took out two more men on the left, the Tavor spitting rounds with smooth, precise action. Remy fired several times, forcing a man on the stairs to run for better cover, then shot him when he hit the bottom step.
One final man popped out of a coat closet and tried making a run for it, but went down as both Bolan and Remy opened fire. Quiet descended once more, and the pair reloaded as they moved into the foyer, keeping their eyes open for trouble.
They saw a few more of Costello’s men, but all of them were trying to escape, not fight, which told Bolan that Costello had already fled the scene. With Salerno dead, and the moneyman disappearing, most of these men would be far better at running than fighting.
Remy and Bolan mounted the stairs to the second floor, and after a short fight with two men who were ransacking an office, Bolan burst through a door to see Rio bound to a chair and gagged with a sock of some kind.
His eyes were bulging wide and he was desperately trying to say something, but the warning came too late. One of Costello’s last remaining holdouts stepped from behind a curtain covering the balcony, firing a 9 mm pistol as fast as he could pull the trigger. Remy took a round in the left shoulder that would have probably knocked down a smaller man. As it was, he spun sideways, his own return shot going wide.
The Executioner fired the Tavor from hip level, squeezing off several quick rounds that punched into the man’s chest and forced him back through the curtain and outside onto the balcony. Bolan stepped forward and fired twice more and the guy went over the rail, dead before he hit the ground.
“You all right?” Bolan asked, turning back to Remy.
“I’ll live,” he said, heading for the bathroom. “Check Rio.”
Bolan moved to Rio and used his knife to cut the ropes that held him to the chair. Badly bruised and beaten, Rio sagged forward into Bolan’s arms. Blood seeped from wounds on his legs. Bolan reached up to check the man’s pulse. It was rapid and thready, which meant the marshal was already dehydrated. Guessing from the amount of blood on him, Rio would need a transfusion.
“Hey, you must be the cavalry,” he whispered, “but what took you so long?”
Bolan lowered him to the floor and said softly, “Well, the next time you get kidnapped, try to pick a situation that’s a little less complicated. The name’s Cooper—sent on behalf of your brother.” He pulled two heavy trauma bandages out of the bag at his waist and applied one to Rio’s knee and the other around his thigh. Tying them off with quick knots caused the marshal to grimace in renewed pain.
The soldier reached into the small medic kit and grabbed a shot of morphine, holding it up for Rio to see. “No time to argue with me. We need to get you out of here and the less pain you’re in, the easier it’ll be to move you. A lot of men are running, but there are still a few holdouts firing in our direction.”
Rio laughed weakly. “No arguments, Cooper. After days of fun in the game room, I’ll take whatever you can give me.”
Bolan shot the needle into Rio’s thigh. “That should kick in pretty fast,” he said. “Just rest for a minute, then we’ll go.” He turned his attention to Remy.
From the bathroom, the big man had grabbed a heavy cotton towel and was holding it to his shoulder, but it had already soaked through in a couple of places. “I need to look at that wound,” Bolan said, pulling the towel away. It wasn’t too bad, but it was bleeding pretty freely, and there wasn’t an exit wound.
“Looks like it’s buried somewhere behind your collarbone,” Bolan said. “We need to get the bleeding stopped, but it’s going to have to wait.” He pulled the last trauma bandage out of his kit and applied it to the wound, tying it off as tightly as he could. “You okay?”
Though he could tell that Remy had paled a bit, the big man nodded gamely. “I’ll grab another towel while you get Rio on his feet.” He went back into the bathroom and Bolan returned to where Rio was stretched out on the floor.
“Time to go,” he said, slipping an arm underneath the man’s shoulders. “Ready?”
Rio nodded, his pupils dilated with the effect of the morphine.
Bolan got him upright just as Remy returned with another towel, this one torn into strips. “Let’s go,” he said.
They went out the door and down the hall to the stairs and started down when more gunshots rang out below them and outside. Pulling back, Bolan muttered, “I thought they were all dead or gone.”
“Me, too,” Remy said.
Bolan peered down the stairs and into the foyer, while Remy helped keep Rio on his feet. “Hang on,” he said, moving into position by a large potted plant.
The front doors were open and several men were milling around just inside, reloading. Bolan checked the last clip he had in the Tavor and decided it would have to do. Switching it to full-auto, he launched himself down the stairs, firing as he went.
Three men went down before the magazine was emptied, and he drew the Desert Eagle as he got to the bottom. Bullets filled the air, but they were panic shots, while Bolan’s were expertly placed. He took two more men down, then ducked behind a pillar.
Outside, the sound of helicopter blades announced the arrival of backup, and the last of Costello’s men raced outside, trying to get away. Bolan reloaded, then ran back up the stairs to where Remy and Rio were still waiting. “Let’s move out,” he said.
They made it down the steps and out onto the porch as a pair of choppers landed in the courtyard and two teams clad in black fatigues and bristling with weapons jumped out to secure the immediate area. Bolan recognized one of the pilots as Charlie Mott. “These are the teams my friend sent,” he said to Remy.
“Good,” he replied.
Bolan waved at Mott, then stepped out into the courtyard as the rotors on the choppers slowly came to a stop. Several men moved forward to lend a hand to Remy and Rio. “Get them to a hospital,” he said.
“Wait,” both Remy and Rio said at the same time.
“I’ve got to move,” he said. “Costello will be long gone if I don’t get going.”
“I know,” Rio said. “I just wanted to thank you for coming for me.”
“Anytime,” Bolan said, then turned to Remy. “And thank you. When you’re on the mend, I’ll make sure that you know how to get in touch with a friend of mine. Maybe you can decide to be in the world again. You’re a good soldier.”
“Thanks, Cooper,” Remy said. “Now go get that bastard.”
“I’m on my way,” he said, then turned and ran for his truck.
BOLAN GOT BACK to his SUV, jumped in and gunned the engine. By his best estimate, Costello probably had about a half-hour start, and maybe even a bit longer than that. By this point, he’d be almost back in the city and headed for the docks. It was the most logical place for him to go, especially if he wanted to salvage anything or get out of the country and into international waters. With a fast yacht or speedboat, he could be out of U.S. jurisdiction within an hour, perhaps less.
Not that jurisdiction would stop the Executioner, but it would complic
ate things if Costello got out to sea, even just making it difficult to find him. That thought was enough for Bolan to increase his speed even more. He hit the highway that led back into the city at seventy miles an hour, and began weaving through traffic. His eyes were focused on the vehicles in front of him, so the sudden wrenching as he was rammed from behind was startling. His back window shattered, spraying safety glass into the passenger compartment and out onto the road.
He yanked on the wheel, tires screeching, and checked his review mirror. Behind him, two heavy duty pickup trucks with police decals were closing in on him once more. Bolan floored the accelerator and the big SUV engine growled as he shot forward, dodging into the left lane and getting in front of the two trucks before they could cut him off.
Other drivers laid on their horns in irritation as he raced down the highway, several times brushing up against another vehicle or the concrete divider as he switched lanes to try to keep the two trucks behind him. Fortune appeared to be against him, however, when up ahead he saw several semis taking up both lanes. He’d hoped to find a good place to get off the highway and onto a side road, but it looked like his time was up.
Rather than slow, he actually forced the gas pedal to the floor, trying to gain a little more room. He couldn’t go to the left—the divider was easily four or five feet high, and the lanes weren’t wide enough for any kind of maneuver between the semis, especially the large tanker hauling tandem, so he steered to the right. The shoulder was rough and slowed him somewhat, but he knew it would have an effect on his pursuers as well.
The two pickups closed in behind him and were blocking him in, one behind him and one in the left lane. Bolan narrowed the gap between himself and the semi in the right-hand lane, coming up almost to his bumper. As the closer pickup tried to ram his back end, Bolan yanked the wheel hard to the left, smashing into the pickup in that lane, while letting the other one get beside him on the right.
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