Then Bolan saw a knotted length of rope lying on the cracked pavement. A slingshot, or maybe a petard. Just tie a simple piece of rope to the grenade, whirl it overhead to build momentum, let fly and duck fast.
In spite of everything, Bolan’s respect for the pirate grudgingly increased. If nothing else, Narmada was no coward. But that only made him more dangerous, and Bolan redoubled his resolve to kill the fat bastard as soon as possible. The big question was, of course, how to find him?
Bolan scowled. The wreck of the Jump Jet was burning out of control, a dark plume of oily smoke rising high before bending to the wind. Now, there were now two patches of smoke covering the unfinished amusement park, and Narmada could be using either one, or both, to make his escape. There was a highway to the south and a river to the west. Both would serve well as passageways to freedom.
But was freedom what Narmada wanted? Or was the plan now to kill Bolan first?
The debate only took a few seconds, and Bolan circled to the south, far away from the roiling smoke clouds and into the woods. Pulling out his GPS, he checked his position and started for the highway. Narmada would want to leave the area fast. That mean hijacking a vehicle, not swimming up an icy cold river.
After a mile or so he reached a steep embankment. Bolan crawled through a muddy culvert and came out the other side streaked with filth. The berm was too steep to climb, so he was forced to waste precious minutes looking for a pair of short sticks to use as climbing pitons.
Holding them tight, he attacked the slope headlong, jumping as high as he could and then using his forward momentum to keep going, digging in his boots. Finally, he reached the top of the hill.
Bolan looked fast in both directions for any sign of Narmada, but the coast was clear. Squeezing through the safety railing, he reached the highway, checked his weapons, then consulted the GPS again. A tunnel through the nearby Dinaric Alps, less than five klicks away, led directly into the neighboring country of Montenegro. Or would Narmada remain in Albania, find someplace to hide, ride out the manhunt.... No, he had kidnapped one of the members of the Fifteen Families. If they even got a hint that Narmada was in their country, they would unleash an army of street soldiers, police officers, the military and paid mercenaries to track him down and haul him in alive for some serious revenge. Narmada was no coward, nor was he a fool.
The decision made, Bolan started sprinting toward the Montenegro tunnel.
Bolan maintained an easy pace, conserving his strength for the coming fight. Narmada would not be taken down easily, or fast, and under no circumstances must he allow the giant to get a hold of him.
A trained professional, Bolan was a strict realist and had no foolish illusion that he could somehow overpower the colossal pirate in hand-to-hand combat. Narmada would kill him. End of discussion.
A small, dark shape shot across the blue sky, leaving behind a fluffy white contrail. It would seem that NATO was still on the job. Just then he heard a truck shifting gears.
Quickly hopping over the safety railing, Bolan held on tight with his left hand and drew the Desert Eagle with his right. A few seconds later, an old flatbed BMW rumbled into view. Bolan did not know the language on the side, but through the wooden slats he could see it was packed with live pigs. The driver was alone in the cab, smoking a crooked cigar and listening to glam rock at full volume.
Narmada had absolutely no place to hide his massive bulk in such a ramshackle vehicle, so Bolan let the truck go past but made a mental note of the Montenegro license plate. He could probably shoot out the tires safely, but if Narmada found the disabled truck on the side of the road, that would reveal everything, and the pirate would immediately leave the highway, hiking through the dense woods and into the wild mountains. That would be a deadly manhunt where Narmada would have all of the advantages. No, the wise course was to let the truck go.
As it disappeared down the road, Bolan climbed over the railing once more, then broke into a full run. A long, slow curve seemed to take forever to straighten out, but suddenly the tunnel was dead ahead.
Coming to a halt, Bolan drew both guns and studied the bushes on either side of the opening. Nothing seemed to have been recently disturbed, and he noticed a small bird feeding its young in its nest. So there had been no recent visitors except the truck. The birds had probably learned to ignore the roaring monsters as something that came and went but never attacked. Good enough.
Bolan got as close as he could to the dark mouth of the tunnel, then slipped on his night vision goggles and dialed for infrared. The blackness inside was stygian, nearly absolute aside from a brief swirling pattern in the air caused by the hot exhaust of the pig truck.
Curious. Despite the magnification effect in the goggles, Bolan could not see the other end of the tunnel—which meant that it must curve slightly. Yet there were no reflective disks set into the pavement or electric lights in the ceiling to help prevent collisions.
Acting on instinct, Bolan threw himself to the ground just as something hummed past his head. It had sounded like an angry bee, but he knew the subtle difference in tone and understood that a large-caliber round from a silenced weapon had just missed blowing off his head by less than an inch.
Rolling to the curved wall, Bolan cycled through every setting on the goggles but saw nothing. Damn! The shooter had to be standing behind something. Which meant that when he fired again, Bolan would only have a split second to respond.
Easing the Desert Eagle back into the holster, Bolan switched the Beretta from single shot to full auto.
Another angry bee hummed down the tunnel, but Bolan did nothing. Then a slight whirlwind of color appeared in the air from the opposite wall and he fired, emptying the entire clip.
A strangled cry told of a hit, but Bolan reloaded and did not move. This was a sniper’s dance now, and the first wrong move would be his last.
The checkered grip of the Beretta slowly grew warm in his hands, and the silence was thick, almost oppressive. The impulse was strong to shoot again—wildly, erratically pitting his machine pistol against the other person’s equally silent weapon. But this was a war of nerves. Did the other shooter know that?
“Stupid turnip,” Bolan growled in his deepest voice.
There came a small, amused snort, and Bolan emptied the Beretta again in a classic sideways figure-eight pattern.
This time, the cry of pain was not muffled or strangled, but a gurgling scream, and he heard the telltale clatter of a metallic weapon skittering across the pavement.
Surging forward, Bolan zigzagged up the tunnel, his eyes sweeping for the wounded sniper. He found the man, clutching a bloody throat with both hands.
He had questions to ask, a lot of them, but when Narmada arrived Bolan would be far too busy just staying alive to deal with a prisoner. Even a badly wounded one.
“Sorry,” Bolan whispered and fired twice more.
The head of the sniper jerked back at the hammering arrival of the copper-jacketed 9 mm Parabellum rounds, the insulated hood of a winter parka ripping loose. Reeling, the sniper toppled over sideways, sighed and went still forever.
After pumping two more rounds into the lifeless body just to be sure, Bolan recovered the dead man’s missing weapon. It was a rifle, a brand-new Heckler & Koch G11 caseless rifle. One of the 4.73 mm stripper clips on top was gone, but the other two remained intact and fully useable. The balance was excellent, and there was even what seemed to be a homemade sound suppressor screwed into the end of the barrel.
Bolan tried not to scowl as he double-checked the weapon for any remote detonation triggers or biometric locks. The sniper had been smart and brave but clearly not a professional, merely a highly talented amateur.
Going back to the corpse, Bolan rolled the body over to check for anything else useful and was only mildly surprised to discover that the sniper was actually a woman. Not t
hat gender made a damn bit of difference in death.
She had a knife sheathed behind her back, an Australian bush master commando model. Bolan took the knife, then rummaged through the still-warm corpse for any form of electronic communication. But the woman was clean. This was just a backup guard on station. An emergency route guardian. That was good news. Narmada would not know if the guard was still here and would have no way of contacting her first. He’d be forced to pause and identify himself, giving Bolan a single clean shot at ending his reign of murder.
Rolling the lifeless corpse into the gutter set at the base of the curved brick wall, Bolan assumed the sniper’s earlier position and started doing a dry run, firing the G11. Each stripper clip contained 33 caseless rounds, and although he could easily do a reload with light, he would be severely hampered in total darkness. Okay, the rifle would be a one-shot, empty the weapon, then switch to his own guns. He could shoot, reload and then again shoot both the Beretta and the Desert Eagle while upside down, if necessary.
He heard the low growl of an approaching truck from the far end of the tunnel.
Leveling the rifle, Bolan waited. A minute passed, and he started to think the noise had been a distant peal of thunder when brilliant headlights exploded into operation, temporarily blinding him.
Bolan was forced to withhold fire, unsure of the target. Then the BMW flatbed from earlier coasted by with the engine turned off. Bolan saw duct tape patches on the side of the driver’s door, the rear cargo of pigs strangely silent. Then he glimpsed the driver. Male, huge, soup-bowl haircut ...Narmada.
Bolan cut loose with the G-11.
The driver’s side window loudly shattered, but there was no grunt or cry of pain from Narmada. The son of a bitch must be using the driver’s corpse as a shield!
When the G-11 was empty, Bolan tossed it aside and drew his own weapons as Narmada banked the wheel sharply and slammed on the brakes. The truck fishtailed, and the dead pigs in the back went flying. Caught by surprise with this bizarre tactic, Bolan tried to avoid the avalanche of raw meat but got clipped on the side of the head by a hoof. The pain rocked him hard.
Bolan almost fell, his sight filled with bright lights and a reddish haze. He fired the Beretta blindly but only heard the rounds ricochet off the pavement and brick walls.
Staggering backward, Bolan blinked rapidly, trying to clear his sight. He heard a door open and triggered several blasts from the Desert Eagle. Again, there was only the sound of a ricochet off the wall and of a wooden slat splintering.
Dropping the partially spent magazine from the Beretta, Bolan pretended to fumble for another when he heard Narmada snort in disdain. Promptly, he fired the last round inside the chamber. This time he was rewarded by a dull grunt, the sound of ripping cloth and the smack of the copper-jacketed round flattening on some sort of body armor.
“Fool!” laughed Narmada, knocking away the Desert Eagle. “Time to die at last.”
Unarmed, Bolan dodged to the left, bobbed to the right, then went down on a knee and drove both fists into what he hoped was the exposed groin of the giant. Sailors rarely wore full body armor. They’d drown if they fell overboard. But Bolan’s fists only hit cushioned armor, doing no damage whatsoever.
Hands the size of bear paws grabbed his throat and brutally hauled Bolan off the ground until his boots were dangling free.
This close to the giant, Bolan dimly saw tattoos under his torn shirt, one of them on the left arm oddly resembling the claws of a bear. It was a tattoo he knew all too well. Son of a bitch—this explained everything!
Ignoring the startling revelation for the moment, Bolan grabbed the pinkie on each of Narmada’s hands and yanked backward with all of his strength. Very few men in the world had little fingers stronger than an entire fist.
Unfortunately, Narmada seemed to be the exception. There was no cry of pain, and the fingers did not break.
Narmada started to squeeze, his monstrous thumbs buried deep in exactly the correct location, the nails drawing blood.
Kicking his boots together, Bolan felt a jerk as the climbing spurs activated, and he ruthlessly raked the steel spikes down the other man’s legs, trying for the big artery near the groin.
Screaming at the unexpected pain, Narmada threw Bolan away. The soldier landed hard, but the sickening explosion of pain galvanized Bolan with a surge of adrenaline. He had only seconds now. Time to move fast or die.
“My legs!” Narmada bellowed. “I’ll kill you slowly now!”
Staying in constant motion, Bolan gave no reply, concentrating on gasping for air. But every breath was agony for his damaged throat. Goddamn, the man was strong. His sight was starting to clear a little, but without a proper weapon this fight could only end with Bolan dead on the ground.
Chapter 16
Panting for breath, Narmada came at Bolan again, hands outstretched. Ducking out of the way, Bolan stabbed two fingers at his left eye.
Narmada moved his head aside just in time to keep from losing the eye, then savagely kicked Bolan in the groin. Prepared for that, Bolan locked his legs together and threw himself sideways. Thrown off balance, Narmada fell, loudly cracking his head on the ground.
Grunting in pain, the giant crawled away, struggling to get back on his feet.
Taking advantage of the moment, Bolan yanked off his belt and flailed it around like a whip, opening large gashes across the pirate’s back. Narmada kept moving away, then turned suddenly, heaving an entire pig at Bolan. The man tried to dodge, but the corpse hit him full in the chest, and he went backward into the tunnel wall. Pain exploded across the back of his head, and Bolan blacked out.
As his mind cleared, Bolan dropped flat and rolled to the side to avoid the next assault. He listened intently for any movement from Narmada, but there was only the slow clicking of the truck engine as it cooled. Bizarrely, Bolan began to smell the stink of unwashed feet, and he sluggishly realized that Narmada had slipped off his shoes and was somewhere quietly slipping away on bare feet. Bolan fumbled his way to the truck and turned on the headlights. Bright lights filled the tunnel, but there was no sign of Narmada, only a few patches of wet blood leading toward Montenegro.
Checking inside the cab, Bolan found nothing useful, aside from a flashlight, a roll of duct tape and an empty thermos.
Bolan turned on the flashlight, recovered his dropped weapons and reclaimed the G-11 assault rifle. Inserting the last stripper clip, Bolan set the selector for single shot, and awkwardly climbed into the cab again. The key was in the ignition, but Bolan was not overly surprised when the engine did not start. A brief check under the dashboard showed that most of the fuses were gone.
Turning off the headlights, Bolan climbed back down again and started lumbering forward. Albania was still enemy territory for Narmada. His goal must be Montenegro.
His head and throat were in a great deal of pain. But this was a fight to the death, and he could not let anything get in the way of that goal.
Staying close to the curving wall, Bolan strained to hear any movement from the other man. But there was only a low whistling wind cutting through the tunnel, along with the sound of his own boots.
Long minutes passed before Bolan saw a large sign proudly announcing that drivers were about to enter the sovereign nation of Montenegro. Please have your papers ready.
Hoping that his fake Interpol badge would be enough, Bolan kept going, and soon the floor of the tunnel changed from pavement to a pale concrete. Discovering a small puddle, Bolan noted a trail of bare footprints on the concrete for a couple of yards.
Hearing voices, Bolan slowed to a stop. There was urgency in the tone and words, but nobody seemed angry. Curious.
Putting his back to the tunnel wall, Bolan eased forward until the mouth of the tunnel came into view. The smooth road continued onward, pine trees rising on either side. A bri
ck kiosk with large windows stood on an island in the middle of the road, a pair of wooden arms extended to block traffic on both sides. A flagpole carried the red and yellow banner of Montenegro.
Two guards stood inside the kiosk. One of them was talking on a hand microphone, and the other was snapping handcuffs onto Narmada. Bolan knew it was a con job. The giant had wrists the size of most men’s legs. Standard handcuffs wouldn’t have fit. Those had to have been specially made.
As the border guard politely escorted a grinning Narmada into a police car parked behind the kiosk, Bolan started to aim the G11, but the second guard stood between them, drew his sidearm and shouted a warning.
With no choice, Bolan quickly backed away. The G11 had more than enough firepower to eliminate both of the guards and Narmada. But Bolan had to honor his oath to never shoot at a cop, even a crooked one. It was obvious that Narmada owned these men. But that didn’t change the fact that Bolan did not shoot law enforcement agents. However, he could, and often did, blow the living hell out of kiosks.
Aiming high, Bolan cut loose with the assault rifle, the 4.73 mm rounds ripping through the air. The tinted glass windows of the kiosk exploded under the hammering barrage, and Bolan managed to get a few rounds into the police car, taking out a tire and a side window before the stripper clip cycled empty.
Turning about, Bolan cast away the useless weapon and re-entered the tunnel. He’d have to sneak into Montenegro another way. He barely got out of sight before the two guards returned fire, their Glocks banging away in loose harmony.
Fumbling for the flash-bang, Bolan pulled the pin on the stun grenade, flipped it over his shoulder and closed his eyes tight.
A few seconds later, the grenade ignited. Searing light and a deafening boom filled the air, the harmless blast magnified by the confinement of the tunnel walls.
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