The guy he was fighting would have to wait. Bolan shoved him aside, firing a quick kick to the side of the head, and scrambled upright. He darted for a recessed doorway at the corner of an alley as the Lambretta sped toward him. The rider carried a rifle — it was a Winchester, Bolan saw — slung across his back and there was a blued steel automatic pistol in the left hand resting on the handlebars.
Bolan unleathered his silenced Beretta. When the scooter was just within range, he loosed off two 3-round bursts. The shots were muffled burps in the narrow street.
Battered sideways by the impact of the 9 mm skull-busters, its tire ripped to ribbons, the Lambretta's front wheel folded under. The machine cartwheeled, catapulting the rider forward to crash against a cast-iron hitching post cemented into the sidewalk.
The first attacker was on his feet and running. Bolan left the Lambretta pilot stunned on the cobbles and gave chase.
The hit man raced through the archway and across the square beyond.
Somewhere above them, a window was thrown up. An angry voice called inarticulate obscenities at the predawn sky. Bolan paid it no mind. Something he had seen on the far side of the arch had triggered an alarm inside his head.
In the light from the street lamp, he had caught sight of a three-letter monogram tattooed on his assailant's wrist. The letters A, F and L.
Action for Liberty.
The neofascist guerrilla group claiming responsibility for the train wreck in the Tagliamento valley.
So although she had not been on the train, it seemed as if Suzanne Bozuffi had been abducted by the same terrorist group who sabotaged it.
As the girl's father had suggested, something smelled.
And if the kidnapping was a terrorist deal, Bolan was in for the duration. Damn straight.
For the suppression of international terrorism, the fight to allow ordinary, decent men and women to live the lives they chose outside the shadow of fear, that was the number-one priority in Mack Bolan's book. Right now it was the only entry; he was dedicated to that fight.
The bomb in the supermarket, the hijacked airplane, machine-gunned restaurants, departure lounges and places of worship — these were the escalating threats that weighed more heavily on civilized society every year, every month, every week now.
And for the animals who planned and carried out such crimes against humanity, the Executioner offered no quarter.
Bolan had long ago decided that the governments of the world were too soft on such carrion.
Yeah, a hell of a sight too soft. The Soviets were soft on all terrorists because it suited them to have the West destabilized. The governments of the West were soft on Arab terrorists because they were scared of losing their oil; they were soft on terrorist acts committed by the Irish, the Israelis or the Germans because they were scared of losing votes. Why they were soft on Turkish and Armenian and Cypriot terrorists, Bolan didn't know.
Whatever, the scum of humanity who cold-bloodedly gunned down women and children, who callously «executed» hostages, could rely on money, a safe passage to a «friendly» country or a prison sentence that was only nominal — until the next hijack made their release a condition of the hostages' safety.
Unless they happened to run up against the Executioner.
Mack Bolan did what governments and international organizations were too timid — or too corrupt — to do.
He hit back.
Hard.
It was no use obeying the rules when you were fighting people who denied the existence of rules.
Bolan did not need to know if the killer he was chasing had been a deprived child with an unhappy home life; he did not need a psychiatrist to analyze the guy's political beliefs: the Executioner had his own method of making the bastard talk. After that he would most likely kill the scum. It depended on the answers.
The man raced past the university for foreigners, looked over his shoulder and then — seeing that Bolan was closing in — dived through an open doorway in a wall behind the building.
Bolan followed him across a yard and in through another open door to a furnace room. The killer was already on the stairs beyond. Bolan took them three at a time, arrived in a marble and mosaic entrance hall, saw there was no elevator and continued on up a wider stairway that led to the upper floors.
His quarry's footsteps clattered on, two flights above him. A door slammed. Bolan arrived on the top floor.
He was in a deserted hallway. Glass-paneled doors blocking off empty lecture theaters. A single wooden door with a notice advising it was an emergency exit to the roof.
Bolan tried the handle. The door was locked.
He fisted the Beretta again and shot off the lock. Beyond the door a narrow wooden stairway spiraled upward. At the top of the stairs was a trapdoor. He shoved it open and emerged onto the roof behind the row of statues. There was no sign of his quarry.
And by this time the third killer, the rider of the Lambretta, had regained consciousness and taken his rifle to the top of the tower that flanked the Etruscan arch…
Chapter Three
After the gunfight at the university building, Bolan drove slowly out of town, northward toward Citta di Castello and Arezzo along the Corso Garibaldi, through the old fortified gateway and then across the plain below.
Perugia had been founded on a rocky highland with flatlands all around; it stood now as an ancient enclave rising above a sprawl of modern railroad yards, warehouses and factories.
From a vantage point such as the tower above the Etruscan arch, a watcher could follow a car clear through the suburban housing that ringed those yards and see which road he took across the plain. Especially if the watcher had field glasses or a telescopic sight.
Bolan drove slowly because he wanted the rifleman on that tower to see which road he took. He wanted to be followed.
He chose the Arezzo road because it was relatively straight, with no main intersections for many miles, an easy road for a tail anxious to pick him up. The rented Fiat was a bright red, easy to spot between the poplars lining the route.
As far as the hotel was concerned, the management was welcome to keep the few things he had left in his room: their loss was nothing to the headache he would have explaining to the local police the presence of a dead man on his blood-soaked bed.
The tail picked him up before he had driven five miles. The car was neither silver nor gray: it was a putty-colored Volkswagen station wagon. There was just the one guy behind the wheel, Bolan saw with relief.
But there could be no doubt this was the killer. The VW stormed into view in Bolan's rearview mirror, trailing a cloud of dust above the sunny roadway… and then slowed at once and maintained its distance when the driver identified the red Fiat.
He wasn't bad. He never closed up too much, Bolan saw, and where possible he left at least one other vehicle between him and his quarry. But there was very little traffic; he would have needed a city street to prove whether he was really expert. In any case it didn't matter a damn: so long as the Executioner didn't let on that he knew he was being followed, the plan might work.
Bolan stopped in Citta di Castello's central square and got out of the car. The VW wagon drove sedately past and pulled into a space one hundred yards down the street. The driver appeared to be making some minor adjustment beneath the hood — something that kept the engine of the VW running.
Bolan entered a grocery store and bought a couple of bread rolls, cheese, a carton of milk and a bunch of grapes. He returned to the Fiat and continued his journey. The driver of the VW, evidently satisfied with his tinkering, climbed back behind the wheel and followed at a discreet distance.
Two miles farther on, Bolan turned right onto a minor road and drove through a stretch of undulating country surrounded by wooded hills. He soon found what he was looking for: a long, straight grade that slanted down to a bridge over a stream and then rose up the far side of the valley. At the top of the hill trees grew on either side of the road, and there was a g
rassy space beside the bridge where a car could pull off and park by the waterside.
Bolan coasted the Fiat to a halt and got out. He sat on the grass with the food around him, the picture of a driver with a long way to go stopping to take in a breath of fresh air and eat a wayside breakfast.
He was gambling, but he had calculated the odds very carefully. The success of his plan depended on three things: that the tail was unaware Bolan knew he was being followed, that there was only one place beneath the trees at the top of the hill where a car could be conveniently parked off the roadway, and that it was once again a hot day.
From the corner of his eye, the Executioner saw the VW slow down, then bump across the grass shoulder to stop in the shade of overhanging branches. The driver got out and opened the tailgate. He would, Bolan knew, be taking out the Winchester repeater. A moment later, light flashed briefly from the lenses of a pair of field glasses. The killer was checking that Bolan was alone and defenseless.
Resting his elbows on the station wagon's hood, the rifleman took a preliminary sighting through his sniperscope. The distance was about four hundred yards.
Since the killer's sightline traversed the road surface, the mirage effect of the haze produced by the half-melted pavement should make Bolan's image in the Winchester's sight appear higher than it actually was, as if he floated a foot above the ground.
It was a hell of a risk, because the guy was a good shot.
Bolan accepted the risk. But the hairs prickled on the nape of his neck as he glanced sideways up the hill while he ate and drank.
Every muscle in his body was wound tight, the arms ready to thrust, the legs, tucked beneath him, prepared to straighten. He sensed rather than saw the rifleman taking final aim. At that moment the valley was deserted; road and fields extended empty in all directions. But farm laborers, a tractor, another car could appear at any time. The efficient murderer must act decisively and fast.
Bolan saw the twinkle of fire at the Winchester's muzzle and launched himself forward and down. He had been waiting like a sprinter for the starter's gun, but even with the illusory effect of the heat haze he would have been hit if he had not anticipated the shot. The bullet parted the hairs of his head as he crashed facedown among the remnants of his meal, scattering bread, fruit and milk over the grass. It seemed a long time afterward that he heard the crack of the rifle.
Bolan lay motionless. Everything now depended on the killer's faith in his own skill. If he thought it prudent to loose off a second shot, the Executioner was a dead man. But Bolan was betting on the belief that he would play safe, not wishing to attract attention with a second shot.
Bolan released his breath in a long sigh when he saw that the gamble had paid off. The killer was striding quickly down the hill toward him. There would be a pistol in his pocket, but he had left the Winchester in his car. Bolan assumed the pose of the newly dead — no problem, since he had seen enough corpses — one leg doubled beneath him, his head at a strained angle, an elbow bent awkwardly. But beneath the bend of the elbow the muzzle of his Beretta, held against his chest, pointed menacingly up the grade.
When the terrorist was ten yards away he looked cautiously right and left and then drew an automatic from his pocket. It was the same one he had carried on the Lambretta. Squinting through half-closed eyes, Bolan figured it for a SIG-Sauer Model P-226 — a tough gun to argue with at short range.
As the man raised the pistol Bolan fired without altering his position. He wanted the guy out of action but alive.
From beneath the crook of Bolan's elbow, the Beretta choked out one… two… three… triple bursts that smashed across the terrorist's knees and thighs like iron whips.
He fell screaming, clawing at his bloody legs, collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The pistol dropped into the long grass.
The Executioner was on his feet. He leaped in and grabbed the killer by the lapels, hauling him upright. The guy was still yelling, mouth gaping, face a mask of agony.
Bolan kicked the gun out of reach. "All right," he growled, savagely shaking the injured man. "Suzanne Bozuffi — where is she?"
The killer's lips snarled back from his teeth. "Drop dead," he gasped. "Never heard… of… the bitch."
Bolan drew back a fist and smashed it into the swarthy face. The head snapped back. Blood streamed from the hood's broken nose.
"Where is she?"
"Go fuck yourself."
Bolan seized the hood's collar and dragged him toward the river — the useless legs jerking and twitching, the guy yelling again as shards of splintered bone grated together.
Bolan dumped him facedown on the bank. He pulled the guy's head and shoulders forward until they projected over the stream, and then he leaned down and dunked the terrorist's head in the water.
The yells turned to gurgles. Pink-tinted bubbles broke surface and skeins of scarlet from the broken nose swept away on the current. Above the hips the body writhed and threshed.
Bolan grabbed a fistful of hair. He yanked the head back until the face was clear of the water. "Suzanne Bozuffi?" he rasped.
The hood coughed, spluttered, spit blood and water.
"Okay, okay," he choked. "I'll talk, but I don't know where the hell she is."
"You worked the snatch, right?"
The hood sicked up water, spit again, nodded. His breath rattled in his throat.
Bolan dragged him away from the edge and propped him in a sitting position against the stonework of the bridge. "Okay," he said grimly. "Now talk."
"Damn all to say." Hate-filled eyes stared venomously out from beneath the sodden thatch of hair. "Me and Ugo and Marcello — we were told to snatch the girl. We did. End of story."
"Not quite," Bolan said. "How did you snatch her?"
"You know damn well how. You've been snooping around long enough. We gave her the stuff, shoved her in the heap and away."
"You gave her what stuff?"
"Shit, the antimugger spray. The aerosol. You know. Stuff that puts them out for a coupla minutes. After that it was the hypo."
"So where is she now?"
"I already told you…" The gory face contorted with pain, and a long shudder shook the hood's body. "Jesus, my legs! Look, mister, for pity's sake, I'm losing a lot of blood."
"Me, too," Bolan said. "My heart bleeds… for you. Where is she now?"
The killer screamed as Bolan rose menacingly over him with a raised fist. "I don't know. Don't hit me… Honest, I swear, I don't know where they took her."
"Where did you take her?"
"We took her to Cortona. To the strip. The way we were told."
"The strip?"
"There's a flying club there, a private field. We delivered her to a plane where some other guys took care of her, some black guys."
"Black guys? And they were flying her out? Where was that plane going?"
Painfully, the terrorist shook his head. His breath snorted through the blood in his nose. "Search me. We had to board our own crate. We took off before they did."
"And where did you and the other two go?"
"To Udine, for the train."
"So the three of you bombed the train?"
"And three other brothers from the cell. A rush job."
Bolan frowned. "What was the hurry?"
The thug groaned and eased his shoulders against the stonework. Bolan repeated the question.
"It had to be that train, didn't it? I mean she was supposed to be on it. And we had to cover up the snatch, for God's sake. It wasn't an ordinary ransom routine."
A terrible suspicion was forming in Bolan's mind.
"It takes time to fix those things," the hardman went on. His voice became stronger, tinged with pride. "It was delicate work. It had to be just right. She had to blow between the locomotive and the baggage car, to make the biggest mess possible of those first three sleepers, see. Turned out a real neat job, especially after we fired them. And I'm telling you, that needs real skill when they're
traveling at high speed. I mean, to be that accurate."
He turned his head aside to spit blood. "With luck they'd have written the kid off as if she'd been there. Except…" he glared at the Executioner"…you had to poke your goddamn nose in, you son of a bitch."
Bolan suppressed a surge of rage before he spoke. "Are you saying that the only reason you wrecked that train, killing more than sixty people, was to cover up the kidnapping of the Bozuffi girl?"
The terrorist stared at him incredulously. After all, who could make up a story like that?
"Okay," Bolan seethed, still trying to restrain his temper. "I have another question. Why did you choose that particular valley. Even vermin like you, I guess, have some reasons for their actions."
"You follow orders, that's all."
"Why that valley?"
"It seems there was a good cover story, something to take their attention away from the girl. Something to do with Massimo's old man."
"Massimo who? Is that the punk who gives the orders?"
The thug clamped his mouth shut. "I ain't saying any more."
Bolan hit him again. He had no pity. The man was a murderer many times over. "Massimo who?"
"I shouldn'ta said that. They'll kill me."
"They won't need to."
Suddenly the man's body was convulsed with sobs. Tears streamed from his eyes. "They'll kill me, they'll kill me," he repeated. "Look, mister, you gotta get me to a doctor. An ambulance."
"Think about all those people you killed, the kids burned alive. And the women who'll stay crippled for life."
"Fuck them. They belong to the old order, don't they? They gotta make way for the new. They gotta die sometime so we can clean up this shithouse world."
Bolan sighed. Like most bullies, the terrorist was a coward; like all fanatics he was narrow, insensitive and stupid as well as cruel.
"You gotta get me to a doctor," he pleaded again.
Bolan looked at the crimsoned grass around the guy's dead legs, at the earth that was already turning brown as the blood pumping from ruptured vessels sank in. "You wouldn't last long enough," he said. "By the time a doctor got here you'd be dead. I'll make it easy for you… and quick."
Dead Easy Page 3