Lerekhov had become confused and had taken the wrong door.
Toward the end of the hall the congestion of milling people suddenly, dramatically cleared and Bolan could move in an unrestricted fashion. He lengthened his stride, ignoring the angry shouts in Vietnamese coming from behind him. He didn't display his weapon or attempt to give them any overt reason to open fire.
Despite his restraint a line of slugs chewed into the wall just over Bolan's shoulder and the acoustic chamber of the hallway carried the gunfire reports painfully to his ears like claps of thunder.
He raced forward and hit the fire door with his shoulder, knocking it open. Looking up, he saw Lerekhov running up the staircase in front of him. He lunged forward, throwing the door closed behind him to slow pursuit.
"Get out at the next floor, get out at the next floor!" Bolan shouted in Russian.
Lerekhov didn't acknowledge him in his chemically augmented frenzy. Bolan couldn't be sure the man had actually even heard him. As he put on a fresh burst of speed to overtake the older man, Bolan marveled at the potency of the shot he'd given the Russian. The sickly seventy-something was moving like a man thirty years younger.
Bolan finally caught up with the scrambling Lerekhov. He jerked the running man to a stop by his shirt and leaned in close.
"Didn't you hear me calling you?" he demanded.
"You told me not to stop when I heard people yelling at me!" Lerekhov protested.
Bolan cursed. "You're supposed to be a genius? Go through this door onto the floor, get into the service elevator room like I told you!"
Lerekhov bobbed his head enthusiastically and reached for the handle of the fire door. Bolan saw the handle turning at the last moment and realized someone was coming through from the other side.
Bolan leaped forward, knocking the code breaker to the side, and jerked the door open, seizing the initiative. The door opened and Bolan found himself face-to-face with a Myanmar security guard in the ridiculously formal uniform of hotel security. The man had a pistol in a holster on his web belt and a long black nightstick was clutched in one fist. A second security guard shuffled forward behind the first man.
Bolan reached out with his right hand and grabbed hold of the nightstick. He crushed down hard on the baton, locking it into place. His left hand fired out in a brawler's roundhouse, clipping the Myanmar guard in the ear.
The man sagged against the doorjamb, dazed but still conscious. Bolan rotated his shoulder back and brought his next punch downstairs while the man attempted to cover his head from the second blow.
Bolan's punch drove into the man's side, bruising past his lower rib cage and muscle pack to pummel his liver. The man gasped in sudden, electric pain and crumpled to the floor. As the guy sagged, Bolan snapped up his knee and caught the falling man on the point of his chin, putting his lights out.
Bolan twirled the nightstick in smooth, tight revolution and brought it down like a hand ax into the unprotected neck of the second resort guard, dropping him, as well. The man fell in a stupor across the crumpled heap of his partner.
Bolan tossed the baton aside and reached out to grab the nearly hyperventilating Lerekhov and pushed him past the unconscious security guards.
"Move!" he snapped.
The ex-Soviet code breaker hopped over the splayed limbs of the unconscious guards, darting into the guest-room area of the resort. From below them on the staircase Bolan heard fire doors slam as someone charged through them into the stairwell.
He risked a look as Lerekhov went through the door. He saw the ugly angry faces of part of the code breaker's security detail, Shipkas in hand. One, perhaps an officer, looked up and the two men locked gazes. The Vietnamese screamed something in outrage and Bolan ducked back.
He knew he didn't have time to remove the trail of bread-crumbs left by the unconscious heaps of the security guards. He hopped over the downed men and pushed open the door, stepping out into a hotel hallway identical from the one he had just fled. He saw the door to the service area just off at a right angle and plunged through it.
He saw a long narrow room filled with extra room service trays, unattended vacuum cleaners and an old mop in a bucket.
He was pulling a skeleton fire key out of a small pocket on the knapsack even as Lerekhov anticipated his need and pushed the old freight elevator's up button. While they waited for the elevator car to arrive, Bolan pulled his Beretta free and covered the door.
He spared a glance for the heavily breathing code breaker. The man was sucking in great lungfuls of air and his face was no longer pale, but flushed. Still, his gaze was sharp and he seemed more focused now. His foot tapped and Bolan thought the old man might just make it through the last, long yards of the run.
The elevator arrived with an anachronistic ding and the scratched and dented doors slid apart. Bolan had his machine pistol up and ready as the doors slid open to reveal an empty car.
Lerekhov jumped inside and his finger, knuckles gnarled, pushed the last button to the uppermost floor reached by the elevator. Bolan slid in beside him and shoved the counterfeit fire service key into the access lock set into the control panel. He snapped the key counterclockwise and bypassed the default settings, taking control of the elevator.
The door to the service area burst open, and a frantic-faced Vietnamese ducked his head inside, panting and casting wildly about. He saw the elevators doors sliding closed and lunged forward, bringing up the Shipka.
There was a slight cough from the sound suppressor as Bolan put a 9 mm round into the man's throat at three yards before the doors shut. The elevator started up with a lurch. Bolan turned toward Lerekhov, who had pressed himself up against the wall.
"It's almost over," he told the man. "The team will leave someone to wait to see what floor the elevator stops on while they send others up the staircase. We don't have time to try to fool them—this is a race."
Lerekhov nodded once, indicating his understanding.
"When we come to a stop," Bolan continued, "I go through first. Stay close. We'll be one staircase below the roof door. Once we're through that we just need to make it across to the river side of the property, then we'll go down and head for the water."
"The riots, the guerrilla attacks on the police positions, that was..."
"Me, yes," Bolan acknowledged. "The more that's going on street-side the less people we'll have between us and my ride on the water. All you have to do is bust your ass getting across the roof. If you do that, I'll get you out of here."
"I feel like I could run all day!" Lerekhov said.
"That's only going to last a couple of more minutes," Bolan warned. "It's the most we could do and not put your heart in too great a peril. I have intelligence there is a hit team after you. Do you know anything about that?"
"Could be Chinese intelligence, could be the Cambodians." Lerekhov didn't seem surprised by the news. "I've done damage to both of those countries' espionage programs against Vietnam. It could be someone else, but I was briefed last month that about those two."
"In the end I suppose it doesn't matter—just look alive when we move."
The service elevator jerked to a halt and the doors slid open. Bolan shuffled through, his weapon up, and cleared the area before Lerekhov followed him. Immediately Bolan crossed the service area to the door.
"Come on, they know where we are now. They'll be coming," he said.
"Go, lead. I follow," Lerekhov huffed.
Bolan jerked open the door and saw a startled maid in a burgundy dress with a gold name tag. She was plump, pretty and in her forties. She squealed in terror and hurried away down the hall. Bolan ignored her.
The Executioner raced through the door leading to the staircase, the code breaker close behind him. He looked downward and saw nothing, but the sound of feet hammering on the metal staircase was undeniable. He saw a door, this marked with a metal plaque covered in red writing. He tried the door handle just to double-check and found it locked.
He l
ooked over his shoulder back down the staircase—Lerekhov was hovering nearby—then reached into a side pouch of his knapsack and removed his lock-pick gun. He slid the prongs into the lock housing set into the door handle and squeezed the lever.
There was a mechanical jolt and a satisfying click as the mechanism rotated under the pressure, unlocking the door. He turned the knob and pulled the roof access door open, his finger going to his earpiece. He broke radio silence.
"We are making entry to the roof now."
Sparks, having obviously been waiting for this signal, answered immediately. "Copy. Transport is ready."
"Copy, out."
Bolan signaled Lerekhov and rushed him through the door. He heard footsteps coming up the stairwell on the floor below them and he slammed his door shut. He turned the lock set into handle, relocking the access door.
He heard Lerekhov pounding up the stairs and turned. A single-run stair led up to scaffolding. A final metal fire door was set at the end of the scaffolding.
Bolan followed the code breaker up the final steps to the door. The ex-Soviet waited for Bolan, and when he tried the handle the heavy door swung open easily enough. Just below them the roof access door rattled violently as bodies thumped into it. Gunfire rang out, and several bullets burst through the handle housing on the door.
"Let's go!" Bolan shouted.
The two men stumbled out onto the roof.
It was a strange industrial landscape filled with conduit housing, exposed pipes, maintenance shacks and HVAC units. The space was so cluttered that it formed a obstacle course, and running across the roof would be like a sprinter racing hurtles.
"Come on, we've got to make the other side," Bolan commanded. "Just run to the far edge."
He pushed the older man forward, letting him get a head start while he covered their rear. Lerekhov put two hands on a waist-high length of pipe, shiny with insulation and as thick as his leg. He cleared the obstacle, darted between two giant climate-control units and darted out of sight for a moment.
The door to the access stairs burst open. Bolan was waiting. He triggered his pistol and put two 3-round bursts into the structure. The metal scarred with divots under the 9 mm impacts and sparks flew. The door swung shut again.
Bolan turned and ran.
He twisted and leaped, darting over and around obstacles. He caught up to Lerekhov at the point where the roof they were on suddenly dropped two stories. The Russian was navigating an enclosed maintenance ladder.
Bolan dropped to one knee beside the lip of the roof and turned to face the way he had come, bringing up his pistol. Periodically he peeked over the edge to gauge LerekhoVs progress. He could hear the sound of rocket and machine-gun fire clearly now. Dark columns of smoke twisted up into the air from nearby.
A Vietnamese darted around an industrial blower housing the size of an automobile, Shipka up and ready in his hands.
Bolan fired. His burst caught the man in the stomach and folded him over. His second burst tore off the top of his head and cast brain matter across the roof. The downed soldier's comrades appeared behind them and opened fire with their Shipka submachine guns.
Bolan rolled across his shoulder as rounds tore up the asphalt roof around him. He slid over the edge of the roof and dropped his pistol, letting it fall. He caught the outside cage of the maintenance ladder and scrambled down, using only his hands.
He let go about twelve feet above the second, lower roof and dropped. He struck the roof and rolled. He gained his feet and lunged for the pistol he'd been forced to drop, shouting for the gasping Lerekhov to run. The deadly Italian pistol was unharmed by the fall.
Bolan scooped up the Beretta and began scrambling backward. He saw forms at the building edge, now commanding the high ground. He shot across the distance in a feat of exceptional marksmanship, and the man tumbled over the lip, falling to collapse in a motionless heap below.
The final two members of the squad rushed to the lip of the building and went to one knee, raising their submachine guns.
Bolan sprinted for cover.
22
Bolan darted around an obstruction, skipping over some electrical conduits set only a few inches above the roof as he did. The Vietnamese behind him opened fire and bullets sang off the roof around him, igniting sparks and spraying a hail of pebbles. He knew the range was extreme for accurate submachine gun or pistol fire, but the sheer volume of rounds allowed for the possibility of lucky shots.
He found Lerekhov bent over, his hands on his knees and gasping for breath. Bolan ran up and put a strong hand under the older man's arm. Lerekhov looked at him, and his eyes were starting to become glassy from the fatigue. The man let loose with a cough and something rattled low in his chest.
"We're almost there, Andrei," Bolan said. "We're almost there."
Lerekhov nodded once and began to rise. Bolan set off in a jog, still keeping his hand on the Russian's arm for stability and to increase the man's speed.
They ducked through the obstacle course on the roof, then came to an open area. Bolan led the run across the danger zone. On the far side of the danger area the hotel roof rose like the prow of a ship, and there was a maintenance ladder identical to the one they had scrambled down. This one led upward.
LerekhoVs breathing was ragged as they ran. He cried out in pain and his hand flew to his side. Bolan realized the man had a runner's cramp, then just as quickly realized there was nothing to be done. He began to drag the Russian along behind him, bearing his weight, forcing each step out of him. The old man's cough now sounded wet, and Bolan was starting to breathe hard himself.
They reached the enclosed ladder and Bolan pushed Lerekhov forward.
"Go, climb," he ordered.
Dutifully the old man moved forward and began to climb. His movements were tortured and excruciatingly slow. Rung by rung he began to ascend the ladder. Bolan gritted his teeth in frustration and turned to cover the man's climb.
He realized that if he waited to hold off the remaining Vietnamese, he'd be caught on the ladder himself. There was no good option. Cursing, he turned and entered the safety cage of the ladder. He tucked his pistol into his shoulder holster and started to climb.
He scrambled up quickly behind Lerekhov, his hands going to the outside of the ladder. He put a shoulder under the man's butt and pushed upward, taking some of his weight and making it easier for him to move his arms and legs.
Something low in his back spasmed in protest at the awkward angle of the weight bearing, but Bolan gritted his teeth like a power lifter and he drove upward, shoving Lerekhov up the ladder.
The cacophony of explosions and gunfire from beyond the roof was suddenly punctuated by the sharper reports of weapons firing close by. Without looking, Bolan realized the Vietnamese had arrived.
Bullets chattered into the wall below him and rattled off the metal safety cage. Bolan dug his foot onto the next rung, flexed the big muscles of his quadriceps, took up slack with his arms and heaved Lerekhov upward.
The slightly built older man shot upward, his own hands now fairly flying up the rungs. The Russian reached the top and tumbled over the edge of the building. Bullets walked up the wall in hot pursuit as Bolan came over the top and rolled to safety behind the roof's edge.
Automatically Bolan's hand found the butt of his pistol as he rolled over. He heard the sharp words of an Asian language he didn't recognize coming from scant yards away. The voice was authoritarian and angry, and Bolan triangulated the approximate position of the speaker while still not seeing the man.
Lerekhov bellowed a warning. Bolan finished his roll, flipping his legs toward the new threat as his pistol cleared holster leather.
He had the impression of a figure in dark clothing, saw the Kalashnikov in the man's hands and pulled his trigger. Two of his rounds struck the bolt housing on the assault rifle and the third made the distinctive slapping sound of a bullet striking Kevlar.
Bolan lifted the muzzle of the Beretta, following th
e recoil, and blew off the man's face from less than two yards away. He saw an Asian in black, SWAT-style fatigues tumble away, the AK-104 Kalashnikov carbine falling away. Something else struck the asphalt of the roof. A black box.
Bolan blinked, focused. He saw that the black box was a Chinese model of a Detonics laser range finder. The effective range on an AK-104 precluded the need for the range finder. The range finder was for distance shooting.
Spotter, Bolan realized.
The man was part of a sniper team deployed to the roof. Bolan sat up, then hunched over as submachine-gun rounds from the Vietnamese poured over the lip of the building. Lerekhov screamed once and blood geysered from his shoulder as he was knocked to the ground.
As the Russian fell, Bolan saw behind him. Another Asian soldier in reflective sunglasses and black fatigues was scrambling off a shooter's pad beside the edge of the building facing the street. A Soviet SVD sniper rifle was in his hands, and the man was trying desperately to bring the unwieldy long gun to bear. Bolan had a heartbeat to act. To act or to die.
He shot the man, putting two rounds into his head. The man sagged, blood gushing from the exit wound in his skull. Bolan's slide locked open and he dropped his empty magazine, reaching to his shoulder holster to pull another free.
He slapped it home, dropped the catch on the bolt and chambered a round. Lerekhov moaned in agony as he lay on the roof. Blood was all over him, soaking his shirt.
Bolan slammed his Beretta back into its shoulder and snatched up the AK-104 from the first man in the sniper team he had killed. He quickly checked it, then rolled back across his stomach and came up against the lip of the building.
Without looking, he shoved the muzzle of the carbine over the edge and fired off a long burst of harassing fire. Keeping the trigger down, he did a crunch movement and sneaked a peek over the lip.
He saw the Vietnamese soldiers scrambling for cover after crossing two-thirds of the roof. Bolan showed them no mercy. He rose to one knee and used his superior firepower to finish the battle. The men spun and stumbled as the rounds slammed into them. They were driven flat on the roof, and Bolan raked them with his carbine.
Collision Course Page 13