Uncut Terror

by Don Pendleton

  “What are you gonna do?” Framer asked.

  “Slow them down a tad,” Bolan said. “I’ll catch up with you on the other side.”

  “But—” Framer started to say.

  “No buts,” Grimaldi said, grabbing Kropotkan’s collar. “Let’s move.”

  “Don’t you manhandle him,” Burns said as Framer hustled him toward the door.

  What a mess, Bolan thought as he reached inside his jacket and fitted the sound suppressor onto the end of his Beretta 93R. The less noise, the better for this initial encounter. He watched the progress of the four men and saw that one of the interceptors on this side of the room had noticed the departing duos. The man slapped the shoulder of his compatriot and the other man’s head swiveled toward Framer and Burns. It made sense that they would be on the lookout for Framer’s red hair. He should have given the Agency man a hat. Bolan grabbed a pair of hats from the rack and tossed several rubles to the clerk. As he walked he slipped one of the hats on and picked up a can that appeared to be an assortment of mixed nuts. It was light but would have to do.

  * * *

  STIEGLITZ FELT THE nervousness encroaching on his intestines once again. The Black Wolf was talking on his mobile and gesturing for his lackey to drive faster through the afternoon traffic.

  Rovalev turned to him.

  “My men have located them,” he said. “It was as I predicted. They are in Leningradsky Station. We should have them all in a matter of minutes.”

  Stieglitz felt a wave of relief, but then the bile rose in his throat. He would not feel safe until he was sure, until he personally watched Rovalev extract every bit of divulged information from the traitor.

  “What are you waiting for?” he yelled. “Proceed there at once. I want to see them in custody.”

  The Black Wolf directed his driver to hurry and Stieglitz was thrown backward into the seat as the vehicle accelerated.

  “We will be there soon,” Rovalev said, assuming a relaxed posture, even as the car continued to swerve and speed through the busy traffic.

  Not soon enough, Stieglitz thought. Not soon enough.

  6

  Leningradsky Station

  Moscow, Russia

  AS THE EXECUTIONER was stepping to the edge of the store the clerk called out to him. Bolan ignored him and as the clerk yelled again, the head of the first assailant turned in their direction. Bolan threw the can of nuts like he was gunning down a runner trying to steal a base. The can struck the man directly in the nose and he reeled backward, his arms flying, a Tokarev pistol suddenly visible in his hand. The pistol discharged into the air and customers recoiled from the explosion. The second man whirled toward Bolan, his hand reaching under his jacket and emerging with a Tokarev, as well. A woman in the crowd screamed and all at once people were scattering in all directions.

  Bolan was approximately twelve feet away from the two men, but he closed the distance quickly. These guys had no compunction about pulling and using their weapons in a crowded, public place, which most likely meant they were either mercenaries or thugs, rather than cops. It also meant they were fair game.

  Bolan whipped the extended barrel of the Beretta across the face of the second assailant. He fell to the ground, his Tokarev clattering on the hard concrete. Adjusting his stance, Bolan smashed his left fist into the temple of the other assailant, whose nose was already cut and bleeding from the tossed can of nuts. This man collapsed, as well. Bolan stooped to pick up their pistols and dropped them in a trash can. A round zinged by him. He looked up and saw the man on the second-story walkway in a shooter’s stance, using both hands to control his big pistol.

  Crouching, Bolan targeted the gunman and squeezed off two shots with the Beretta. The suppressor whispered, accompanied by the metallic clinking of the slide cycling with each round, ejecting the shell casings.

  The man on the upper walkway grabbed his chest, the pistol falling from his grasp. He tried to straighten up, then sagged downward, his limp arm jutting out under the barrier and hanging over the edge.

  More people screamed and shouted. Bolan heard a pair of shots. The men directly across from him were firing. A woman standing to his left jerked, screamed and fell, the back of her coat showing a crimson hole.

  Another shot. Bolan felt the round zipping by his head.

  The Executioner brought the Beretta up using a point-shooting technique he’d mastered. This method had been born out of necessity because the sights were obscured by the elevated rim of the sound suppressor.

  Bolan squeezed the trigger twice and the first of the two assailants across the way fell. The second grabbed a young man and held him as a human shield. Then the assailant brought his right arm over the squirming youth’s shoulder and began firing. The jostling of his hostage threw off his aim and Bolan was able to drop him with a quick head shot.

  Five down, at least three more to go, he thought.

  He glanced toward the doors leading to the train tracks. There was no sign of Grimaldi and the others. Assuming they’d got through the doors, Bolan made his break. Shots echoed from behind him. Two more people running beside him dropped. Bolan slipped the selector switch to full auto and angled toward his right. Above, he caught a glimpse of a man running along the upper walkway, a big semi-automatic pistol in his right hand. The man’s eyes locked on Bolan and he brought the weapon to the ready position.

  The Executioner sent a 3-round burst upward and the man danced away from the edge of the walkway. Another round whizzed by and Bolan saw two more assailants approaching from the doors. One of them was firing a pistol and the other was talking on a cell phone.

  Looks like their reinforcements are coming, Bolan thought as he continued his zigzagging run toward the doors leading to the tracks. It was too risky to send another 3-round burst at the shooters on this level. Too many innocent civilians around.

  Bolan burst through the doors, pushing as many people down as he could. Their best chance would be to stay on the ground until the shooting stopped. Several of them shouted in Russian, got back up and continued their scattered running.

  Bolan scanned the departure area. It was a long open-ended enclosure with dozens of train engines butting up to the platforms. Overhead sodium vapor lights illuminated the cavernous interior, and the smell of diesel oil hung in the air.

  Someone waved off to his right.

  Grimaldi.

  Bolan ran toward him.

  Grimaldi motioned for Bolan to keep coming as he ducked behind a large, motorized luggage truck. As Bolan got there he saw the other three men, Framer, Burns and Kropotkan, crouching behind the metal shell. Burns and Kropotkan looked sick. Framer held a small Walther PPK6 in his right hand.

  “How many playmates we up against?” Grimaldi asked, his SIG Sauer P226 leveled across the seat of the luggage cart. He hadn’t bothered with a sound suppressor.

  “Three left in there,” Bolan said, gesturing toward the doors he’d just come through. “But one of them looked to be calling in reinforcements.”

  “This is all my fault,” Framer said.

  “It is,” Burns shouted. “You promised you’d keep us safe. You lied to us.”

  “Lawrence, what are we going to do?” Kropotkan sobbed.

  “Calm down,” Bolan said. He glanced around and then tapped Grimaldi on the shoulder. “Think you can hotwire that cart behind us?”

  “Of course,” Grimaldi said, as he moved toward the adjacent cart.

  “What are we going to do?” Framer asked.

  “Get ready to jump on that cart once Jack gets it going,” Bolan said.

  Suddenly five men burst through the doors. One of them held a Skorpion machine-pistol. He began firing indiscriminately in all directions. People were screaming, and the man with the Skorpion smiled when a woman pointed toward the luggage cart Bolan a
nd the others were behind.

  Milliseconds later, rounds from the machine-pistol peppered the metallic framework of the cart like a blast of hailstones. Another burst from the Skorpion sent more rounds skidding along the concrete platform underneath the wheels of the cart. Framer grunted and grabbed at his calf.

  Bolan shot the man twice. The slide on his Beretta was not yet locked back, but he knew he would soon be close to an empty magazine. He had two more full mags in the pouch on his belt, but he couldn’t afford to waste any rounds.

  More bullets sank into the metal skin of the cart.

  Burns had the look of pure panic on his face as he started to get up.

  “Stay down,” Bolan said, seeing the man’s movement peripherally, while still trying to engage the other assailants.

  But Burns stood and began running. Kropotkan did the same. Framer tried grabbing at one of them but missed.

  A new volley of exploding rounds sounded and Kropotkan’s legs suddenly seemed to slow to a deliberate stutter step. He gripped his belly and rolled forward, twisting and squirming on the ground.

  “Got it,” Grimaldi yelled and he waved them over.

  Burns turned and yelled at Kropotkan, then seeing him on the ground, stopped and stood there. Several rounds ripped into his chest. Bolan motioned for Framer to go to Grimaldi. The Agency man’s mouth was tugged into a thin, tight line, but he nodded and began half-running, half-crawling toward the second cart.

  Bolan edged over the cart’s seat and began firing to give them cover. The Beretta continued its metallic chinking sound until the slide locked back, signaling the magazine was empty. One of the attackers had fallen and the other two had ducked out of sight. Doing a combat reload, Bolan ran to Burns as Grimaldi provided cover. The man’s breath was ragged and flecks of blood were aspirating with every gasp. Frothy patches of red bubbles were emanating from the holes in his torso with each breath.

  Sucking chest wounds, Bolan thought, looking for something to seal the wounds. He reached into his left pants pocket and took out the train tickets. As he tore open the front of the man’s bloody shirt, Burns reached up and encircled Bolan’s neck with both of his hands.

  Burns attempted to pull the Executioner downward but instead lifted his own body upward, his mouth next to Bolan’s left ear.

  “Arkadi?” he managed to say.

  Bolan pushed Burns away, and then looked at the man’s lover. Kropotkan stared back with unblinking eyes canted slightly downward. Blood streamed from both his nose and mouth. It didn’t look good.

  “I’ll check him in a second,” Bolan said. “Let me take care of you first.”

  Burns coughed, spraying Bolan’s face with blood. The Executioner recoiled as he was once again grabbed by the dying man.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Burns said.

  Bolan didn’t answer. He brought his palm up to push the dying man away as gently as he could.

  “And so am I,” Burns said, his voice a hollow whisper. “Listen, Grodovich... Diamonds... Hot rocks... Rad—”

  Burns sagged toward the concrete floor, his eyes fixed in a blank stare.

  Bolan checked for a pulse and any other signs of life. Nothing.

  He moved to Kropotkan and repeated the action. The man was dead.

  Bolan flattened as a fresh burst of rounds bounced off the concrete a few yards away. He brought the Beretta around and perused the field of fire. He saw two sets of feet crouching behind a luggage cart by the door and another man leaning a bit too far out from behind a train engine. Bolan shot that man first and then lowered his Beretta to almost floor level and fired a quick burst at the exposed sets of feet.

  As the trio of assailants fell, Bolan was up and moving. Grimaldi was helping Framer onto the idling luggage cart. The lower portion of Framer’s right pant leg was sodden with blood.

  “Are they dead?” he asked.

  Bolan nodded.

  “Man, I really messed up, didn’t I?” Framer said. His face was twisted with pain.

  Bolan hopped on the cart and told Grimaldi to head for the end of the platform.

  “I hope they aren’t flanking us,” Grimaldi said.

  “We’ll know shortly,” Bolan replied, scanning the rear and then the area in front of them. The cart whisked along, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough to suit Bolan. He figured an all-out sprint would have been faster, but not while carrying a wounded man.

  “You guys leave me here,” Framer said through gritted teeth. “I can try to hold them off.”

  “No one gets left behind,” Bolan said.

  The end of the platform was thirty feet away. They had covered the distance expeditiously, but Bolan caught sight of five new assailants running toward them from the doors.

  “More company,” Bolan said as he brought the Beretta up and sent two 3-round bursts toward the approaching foes. They all dodged to the side and about five seconds later began returning fire.

  Grimaldi twisted the wheel, causing the cart to lurch into a sudden skid. The vehicle slid sideways for several feet, then came to a stop about three feet from the barrier at the end of the platform.

  “Where to, boss?” Grimaldi asked.

  Bolan did a quick assessment. The large wall separating the tracks from the outside streets was perhaps one hundred yards long. If they could get to the end, their chances of getting up onto the street would be pretty good.

  Another round zipped by them and Bolan told Grimaldi and Framer to make a break for the end of the wall.

  “I’ll catch up to you,” Bolan said, crouching behind the cart and aiming his Beretta toward the advancing assailants.

  “I should do that,” Framer said.

  “Worry about being a hero later,” Grimaldi said. “Come on.”

  Framer shook his head. “I don’t think I can make it. My leg hurts too bad.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Grimaldi asked as he grabbed Framer and helped him to the edge of the platform. Grimaldi jumped down and then dragged Framer off the platform, shouldering the man in piggyback fashion. “See you at the other end,” he called to Bolan.

  The Executioner waited.

  * * *

  STIEGLITZ GRIPPED THE back of the driver’s seat with both hands, so violent were the vehicle’s jerking movements as Rovalev’s idiot driver wound through the streets toward Komsomolskaya Square.

  “Are we almost there?” Stieglitz yelled.

  Seconds later the question was answered for him as Leningradsky Station became visible.

  Rovalev, who was busy talking on his cell phone, glanced back at him and lifted his hand. He listened and then shouted some instructions to the driver. The man swerved away from the curb.

  “The Americans are heading for the street,” Rovalev said, taking out a huge pistol.

  “The American defector and the Russian traitor must not escape,” Stieglitz said. “They must not. Do you understand?”

  The Black Wolf merely glanced back at him with one of his feral smiles.

  7

  Outside Leningradsky Station

  BOLAN FOLLOWED GRIMALDI, who was making pretty good progress toward the end of the long concrete wall that provided shelter for the parked trains. Beyond it the blue sky was a pastel background for a smattering of leafless trees.

  The row of trees was set next to a smaller concrete wall perhaps thirty feet high. Dry, dead grass hung over the uppermost edge and beyond that was the concrete and asphalt of Komsomolskaya Square. Getting up the face of that sheer, thirty-foot wall presented a new problem. The tracks gradually rose to street level, but the incremental elevation added an additional three hundred yards to the distance they had to cover. Grimaldi was visibly slowing. If they were going to make it, they’d have to speed things up.

  Bolan scanned the
station platform. Still no sign of any bad guys. He turned and sprinted up to Grimaldi and touched his arm.

  “I’ll spell you,” Bolan said and waited while Grimaldi came to a stop and lowered Framer to the ground.

  “Okay by me,” Grimaldi said, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he fumbled for his gun.

  Bolan handed him the Beretta 93R. “Here. Use mine.”

  Grimaldi’s eyes widened and a grin stretched across his face. “Hot damn. You mean you’re letting me hold the baby?”

  “And shoot it, too,” Bolan said, shifting Framer onto his back. He set off at as fast a pace as he could manage carrying the additional one hundred-ninety pounds. The ground was uneven, full of ruts and dips and loose gravel. Bolan heard the sharp, metallic sound of the Beretta firing and knew Grimaldi must have acquired some targets.

  Bolan began to run with a renewed sense of urgency. Suddenly, off to his left he saw something that looked like a life preserver on a stormy sea: metal rungs in the side of the concrete wall, forming a ladder leading to the street.

  “Jack,” Bolan called. “Look.”

  Grimaldi fired off two more rounds and glanced over his right shoulder. His grin seemed to get larger.

  Bolan got to the ladder and pulled on the first rung, testing its sturdiness. It seemed tight. He backed into the wall, taking some of Framer’s weight off his legs. Grimaldi was at his side now. Bolan noticed the Beretta’s slide was locked back. He grabbed the weapon, dropped the magazine and inserted a new one. Turning his head slightly he addressed Framer.

  “Our only chance is to get up this ladder to the street. Think you can make it?”

  Framer’s breathing was almost as heavy as Grimaldi’s. He shook his head. “Leave me here. I’m too weak.”

  The man’s face was grayish. They had to get him medical attention soon, very soon. Bolan motioned for Grimaldi to go up first.

  “I’ll bring him up while you do cover fire,” Bolan said. “Be ready to help me lift him when we get near the top.”

  Without another word Grimaldi quickly began scaling the iron rungs.