“What are you doing?” Mott asked.
“Repetition after observation,” she answered. “It’s how I learned to be a fencer, it’s how I learned to drive like a demon. It’ll be how I learn how to shoot one of these video-game chain guns.”
“Gatling gun. Electric-motor powered,” Grimaldi corrected. “No chain function involved. If we get through this, I’ll show you a real chain gun.”
“I guess this is your answer to rocket science,” Burton replied.
“Strap into your harness!” Mott called to her.
The woman spotted the harness attachments in the ceiling. Heavy bolts, thick nylon webbing and strong steel links formed a suspension system that was quick to get into. She grabbed the pistol grip of the XM-134 and her other hand found a side-mounted handle that she gripped tightly. She glanced back to see if Mott was doing the same. In that instant, the helicopter swung around and momentum swung her out the side door.
Sheer panic hit her, and she immediately regretted being stuck out on a suddenly flimsy-looking network of straps and buckles as O’Hare airport spun crazily beneath her.
“Sable!” Grimaldi shouted. “Are you okay?”
Gunfire thundered on the other side as Charlie Mott opened up with his own weapon. He was hanging out in the wind, too, and he wasn’t looking much more comfortable than she was.
“Sable! She’s coming around your side!” Mott called.
The woman looked out at the world sweeping past her and saw the ugly black shape of the Bell JetRanger in the distance. “I see her!”
Muzzle-flashes flickered on the side of Harpy’s craft and Burton let out a scream as heavy slugs smashed into the side armor of the whirlybird. She pulled the trigger, letting off a tongue of flame three feet long, bullets arcing out. It was an unaimed burst, but the enemy helicopter banked and ducked.
“Use your sights!” Grimaldi recommended.
“No shit,” Burton hissed as Dragon Slayer was still soaring, racing in a tight circle. She brought the JetRanger into the middle of the huge 3-inch-diameter crosshairs of her gun and held down the trigger. Sparks of fire danced along the skin of Harpy’s warbird and the Bell aircraft swerved and ducked around the corner of the terminal.
“G-Force, this is Blacksuit 10,” the voice of Charles Rochenoire called. “Enemy helicopter is now strafing Chicago police positions along the concourse!”
“Who was that?” Burton asked.
“The sniper we have atop the Hilton!” Mott answered.
“Chuck! You have a shot?” Grimaldi asked.
“I’m taking it!” the sniper answered.
Dragon Slayer zoomed around, hot on Harpy’s tail, and watched as the JetRanger jerked in reaction to a heavy impact. From below, beleagured lawmen were firing their weapons into the sky, National Guardsmen pouring out of one terminal and emptying their M-16s into the air. Burton, hanging out the side of the Stony Man warcraft, watched all of this with breathless amazement.
Squad cars detonated as .50-caliber slugs smashed into them. Wounded police officers were being dragged aside by anyone who could still move, including civilians who were rushing out the doors to grab the brave Chicago lawmen. Harpy’s helicopter spun around and was flying backward, spitting more hellfire toward the scattering National Guard troops. A couple fell, others diving behind parked vehicles that shook under the devil’s storm that swept down onto them.
Burton pulled the trigger on her Gatling gun, feeling it shake violently against her. On the other side, Charlie Mott was shooting, too, but the combined fire once more proved only to be a nuisance to the armored Bell. That’s when Dragon Slayer truly shook.
Grimaldi had a straight bead on her, and there was nothing but road behind Harpy. The GECAL .50 opened up, and now, being almost on top of the machine gun, Burton could truly feel the air vibrate, her own heart feeling the shock waves off the muzzle of the thundering cannon. The JetRanger banked, swerved and dodged as asphalt behind her was chewed up, chunks of stone turning to clouds of dust under Grimaldi’s merciless jackhammer assault.
“Why won’t she die?” Burton shouted.
Dragon Slayer slashed around the corner, hot on Harpy’s tail. The black helicopter was making a break for it, racing toward the expressway.
Burton triggered her gun, watching her rounds miss and create puffs of smoke on the ground just past the hurtling craft. She growled angrily when the GECAL exploded again.
This time, there was a hit. The tail boom, sticking out like the tail of some muscular shark, suddenly disintegrated under a hail of .50-caliber slugs. The JetRanger, crippled, began to spin out of control. A slash of gunfire from both Mott and Burton joined in with Grimaldi’s .50, but it was just icing on the cake. The professor was getting in her licks, emptying out a belt of 7.62 mm shells into the tumbling enemy aircraft. It burst into flames as it continued its wild, out-of-control drop from the sky.
All that was left when it hit the ground was a brittle eggshell that smashed apart, vomiting red-gold flames in blossoms of ejecta.
Doomsday had finally come for Harpy as Jack Grimaldi whipped his aircraft over the churning remains of the downed mercenary.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Spinning around one corner, Bolan saw Dark hurtling up a ladder. Bolan’s Beretta chugged out a quick 3-round burst, the slugs sparking on steel and rebounding off the stone ceiling of the tunnel. A hissed curse reached his ears, and Bolan poured on the speed, in time with another dropping object.
Dark wasn’t out of grenades yet, and he was throwing another hellbomb into the Executioner’s path. Bolan launched himself in a desperate leap around the corner he’d come from just as a shock wave flashed past him. His head rang, but thanks to a loud yell that equalized the pressure inside and outside of his eardrums, he still retained the ability to hear, and possibly saved himself from even brain trauma. Bolan turned to head back for the ladder when a second object dropped down and he slipped back behind the corner again.
This time, the flash-blast swept by harmlessly, Bolan still pressurized against the shock wave.
Two grenades in five seconds, Bolan figured. Dark was heading for the surface and looking to keep his adversary at bay, not wanting to end his career shot in the back and dropping lifelessly down a tall ladder. The soldier counted a few more moments, then risked heading down the tunnel, racing full-speed for it. He skidded to a halt under the opening, aiming his Beretta up into the shaft, just catching sight of Dark’s legs and the tails of his coat. A 3-round burst zipped up at 1200 feet per second, but there was no distant cry.
Bolan holstered the Beretta and grabbed the rungs, climbing for all he was worth. His arms and legs rippled as he pushed them, but he ignored their protests. He was bordering on exhaustion. He remembered the past twenty-four hours, and the catalog of conflict he’d torn through in that time was a frantic sweep of terror and mayhem that made his fatigued body yearn for the comfort of a bed for about a week.
Finally popping up through the opening, Bolan saw that it was a level of a parking garage. A blast of 9 mm Calico fire slashed at him and he ducked.
The Executioner went over his knowledge of the area and didn’t come up with good news. The parking garage was a six-story structure in the V formed by Terminal Three, the bus and shuttle center, and Terminal One. There were too many variables for Dark to take now. If he got to the center of the structure, and Bolan wasn’t even sure where they were in relation to it, he could drop back down and into the Airport Transit System. Operating as a free train system, it connected the three domestic and one international terminals, as well as the parking lot and, most importantly, the Metra train station.
Dark escaping by train would be another nightmare, especially since he’d have access to a whole new group of hostages, or could disappear into a crowd at almost any stop along the line.
Bolan climbed out of the hole and scanned the area for his enemy. He caught the shadow of a racing figure pounding up a ramp and took off in hot pursuit.
Rounding to the entrance of the road, he was rewarded by a wild slash of autofire that he charged past, plunging forward and keeping ahead of Dark’s ability to adjust his aim.
“Sarge? Is that you huffing and puffing?” Grimaldi asked over the tac radio.
“Yeah. I’m in pursuit of Dark. He’s heading up the floors in the main parking garage. What kind of presence do I have in here with me?”
“Blacksuit Prime here. We’ve got Chicago P.D. at the entrances, but the structure was evacuated while the Filipinos were coming up from I-294,” Greene’s voice cut in. “In case we had a Botox escape.”
Bolan turned another corner and spotted Dark at the top of the ramp, aiming both Calicos at him. With a leap, the Executioner took to the air, twisting his body in midflight as 9 mm slugs ripped below him. The soldier got off several shots; .44 Magnum rounds drilled toward the RING killer. Dark jerked under one impact, and he spun away, letting out a loud curse. Bolan came down, skidding on the hard concrete, but still maintaining his grip on the big cannon in his fist.
“Give it up! You’re surrounded!” Bolan ordered.
Dark slithered out of sight, but there was no more sound of running. Only painful panting.
“You’re offering to take me alive?” Dark asked.
The Executioner lifted himself from the ground, aiming at the concrete wall of the ramp, the corner of stone that Dark was hiding behind. He advanced slowly. “I’m offering you more mercy than you’ve ever given in your career.”
“A bullet in the head instead of rotting in a hole?”
“Your call,” Bolan answered, stepping closer. Fatigue weighed on him like a hundred pounds of wet blanket, but he still walked toward the turn.
“But you’d so rather prefer I tell you everything I know about the RING, wouldn’t you?” Dark asked.
A lazy burst of 9 mm autofire came around the corner, but it was nowhere close to Bolan. The far wall was pocked with fresh bullet scars.
“Just drop the gun, Dark.”
It clattered to the ground.
“Is there any reason why you have to be a right bastard?” Dark asked.
Bolan paused as he neared the corner. “Only because you’re always wrong.”
Turning the corner, he caught sight of Dark’s boots and trench coat poking out around the corner. Something was wrong, though. He took a giant step back and spotted the coatless and barefoot Dark hanging from the lip of the road above the way.
The Executioner snapped up his Desert Eagle, but he knew in his heart he was too late. Naked soles crashed painfully down into his chest as a 240-grain hollowpoint only glanced off Dark’s chest armor. The two bodies plowed into the railing and Bolan winced as his back barked against the sharp corner of concrete. Dark’s legs snaked around Bolan’s arm and the barefoot killer dropped back to his shoulders, gripping the Executioner’s gun hand.
Incredible pain flared through the soldier’s body as his joint was stressed. A heel pressed hard up against the corner of his jaw, and Dark’s other leg was over the top of Bolan’s bicep and across Dark’s own shin. The Executioner knew he had only a few moments before his bones shattered and his enemy ripped his arm right out of the socket. His left hand flashed down to a pocket in his battle harness and pulled out an L-shaped piece of fiberglass with a ring-style wrench head at one end.
It was an Impact Kerambit, developed by Kelly Worden. Based on the hook-bladed knife of the same name, it was a replacement for the Executioner’s brass knuckles. As soon as his left finger hooked through the wrench head at the top of the L, his fingers wrapped around the handle, leaving a jutting hook of fiberglass, able to amplify punching force dozens of times.
His first punch struck the muscle of Dark’s thigh, eliciting a screech of pain as the striker plunged into vulnerable flesh. A muscle spasm shot up the murderer’s leg and suddenly the agonizing pressure on Bolan’s shoulder was halved. The Executioner threw himself bodily against the upended Dark, driving him harder into the ground and cutting the distance between his fist and the barefoot terrorist’s more vital areas. A second fist pumped with jackhammer force into Dark’s gut, and despite the heavy Kevlar protecting the man’s vitals, there was a sickening, almost wretching noise.
Dark pulled his foot from Bolan’s jaw, then stomped out hard, the kick holding enough force to daze the tall wraith in black. The Executioner didn’t drop his Kerambit, though, punching his enemy in his other thigh, this time hitting right over the bone. The pressure on his joint disappeared suddenly, both legs falling from around his right arm.
There was still the deathgrip on Bolan’s wrist, however, and with a savage twist, the Executioner felt his tendons overextending. The soldier hammered a merciless fist down into Dark’s chest, trauma plate cracking under the savage impact of Bolan’s desperate punch. Bolan pulled back, free of Dark, wrist and shoulder throbbing until they were insensate.
With a frantic lunge, Dark was away from the Executioner. Bolan let the Kerambit drop off his hand and was reaching for his holstered Beretta 93-R when one of Dark’s boots hurtled at him. The move took the soldier off guard as the thrown size 12 combat boot mashed hard into his nose and cheek. Flesh tore on Bolan’s cheek and his draw was interrupted enough for the barefoot battler to move and take the offensive.
Fists pumped into the Executioner’s sides and kidneys, only his Kevlar armor blunting the force of the blows enough to keep him on his feet. Bolan popped his left palm into Dark’s jaw, his heel slipping over his enemy’s chin and smashing up and into the pointed nose of the black-maned terrorist. Blood gushed into his hand and the murderer spun away from his assault, dazed by the sudden impact.
Bolan pressed his advantage, hammering the base of Dark’s skull with a solid hit that made his hand sting. The Executioner stomped down hard on one bare foot, feeling bones crunch even through the sole of his boot. The double impact was answered with a piston-quick elbow that felt as though it cracked a rib, even through his body armor. Lungs on fire from exertion and the sudden spike of pain searing through his torso, Bolan snaked his right arm around Dark’s throat and pulled back with all his weight.
The tall terrorist in black didn’t bother trying to break the noose of Bolan’s arm, instead hooking his fingers under the Stony Man warrior’s forearm and wrenching him completely off the ground, flipping his back down mercilessly onto the concrete. The Executioner hit with a stunning impact, but snapped off a kick that cracked hard against Dark’s shoulder. There was the sound of crunching bone, and the RING assassin recoiled.
Bolan rolled to his hands and knees, his right elbow giving out as he tried to keep himself somewhat upright. He looked up in time to see his barefoot foe leapfrog over him and scramble away, loping with impressive speed despite favoring one foot. The Executioner whirled to see his enemy race out of sight up the ramp.
Pulling his Beretta with his still throbbing left hand, he scrambled up the ramp.
An engine growled throatily to life.
Dark had stored a car on the third level of the main parking garage. He probably had his whole route mapped out, Bolan figured. He didn’t doubt that the professional killer had scouted this path months before, and had an escape clause only he would know about. Something to get him away from both the law and possibly even his RING allies in case of a failure.
Bolan watched a pair of headlights turn the corner, blazing as they aimed at him. The Executioner stabbed the Beretta ahead of him, ripping off 3-round bursts as he frantically dived out of the way of the speeding car. It was coming around so suddenly that he didn’t even have time to see the make of the car, just that it was big and fast and bearing down hard on him. He felt the rush of air as the four-wheeled missile continued on its suicidal charge.
Stone exploded and the front end of the car smashed inward, but sheer momentum plowed the vehicle out over the outdoor parking lots. Bolan whirled, watching in shock as Dark’s car tumbled in midair, knifing through the sky as it sailed toward parked automobiles below.
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The shock wave released on impact with the parking lot bowled the Executioner over even on the third level of the garage. Policemen below screamed in terror and awe as Dark’s getaway car detonated with the force of a bomb.
Knowing Dark, it probably was a bomb.
Bolan dragged himself toward the ragged exit hole, swallowing hard as he slumped against what was left of the railing, looking at the funeral pyre, boiling smoke billowing from a white-hot field of melting metal and rubber. The crater formed by the impact was big enough to have taken out at least ten cars, several more being splashed with flames, hoods and roofs burning in a circle of devastation.
“Sarge!” Grimaldi called loud enough to be heard, even though the earpiece was dangling and bouncing on Bolan’s shoulder.
He plucked up the bean-size speaker and tucked it back into place, gulping down fresh air, regaining his strength.
“I’m fine,” he said through his throat mike.
“What the hell was that?” Grimaldi asked.
“That was Dark’s getaway plan,” the Executioner answered.
“Are you okay?”
“No way in hell,” Bolan answered. “But nothing serious. I’ll be fine.”
The Executioner watched the circle of burning cars, his intellect telling him that no living human being could have survived that blast. In the ensuing investigation, it would be confirmed that the car had twenty kilograms of plastic explosives loaded into various compartments, presumably to erase all evidence of Dark’s presence inside the vehicle. There were leftovers of a body found within, fragments of bone and teeth that somehow had survived an inferno that didn’t even leave a piece of the original automobile larger than a corn flake. DNA testing was impossible, even with the swabs of blood from the site of Bolan’s fight with him, and dental records were a joke. Even if they had records on the original madman, the fire was so hot it cracked teeth and the explosion splintered the jaw into a thousand shards.
The facts told him one thing.
Season of Slaughter Page 28