Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  He sat there for several seconds, his hands tightly squeezing the steering wheel. After closing his eyes and taking a couple of deep breaths, he looked into the rearview mirror. The train had drawn well ahead; he could no longer see Blanski on its side. He lowered his gaze to the city. The cherry lights of several police cruisers were visible in the distance, but they would not catch up for a least a minute. He had to leave.

  The CIA agent took a final deep breath to steady his nerves, then put the pickup into gear. With any luck he would be able to keep pace with the train, even though the railroad tracks would lead into the desert. And hopefully he would be able to help Mike Blanski get off the train.

  That was if the man was still alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Executioner was very much alive.

  Bolan twisted after shooting the driver, quickly flicking on the safety and pushing the pistol into his waistband. The speeding train was a mere five feet away.

  Terrified faces stared back at him from the carriages, but Bolan ignored them. He focused for a split second on the handrail next to the open door. Bolan placed his foot on the rim of the Toyota’s bed and hurled himself forward. As he pushed away, the Toyota spun out of control, causing him to lose his balance. He grabbed desperately at the warm, corroded metal, feeling his hands slip. His body slammed into the wooden paneling, knocking the breath from his lungs. He kept his feet up, not wanting his boots to be ripped away as they dragged along the ground. He managed to get them onto the foot plate, levering himself up and into the swaying, rattling passenger car. He crouched, drawing the Beretta pistol. No gunshots greeted his arrival, no cries of anger or aggression. The soldier took a few deep breaths, then examined his surroundings.

  He stood slowly, rocking side to side with the train’s motion. The interior was wood—wooden floor, wooden seats, wooden paneling—every surface was scuffed, scratched and riddled with tiny woodworm holes. Names and other graffiti had been scratched or scribbled onto the interior walls.

  The car was also overcrowded.

  The passengers, terrified and pitiful, cowered from Bolan, pressing themselves against the seats and walls. Their eyes were wide with terror as they huddled against one another, tightly clutching howling children. Many of the adults were moaning with dread, having witnessed the execution of the pickup driver and the death-defying jump onto the train. They truly believed the white man was there to kill them all. The atmosphere was thick with dust, heat and fear. Bolan raised his left hand hoping to placate them. He kept the Beretta pistol hidden behind his right leg.

  He spoke in French, hoping that the people would understand him. “I am not going to harm you. I want to help the man who is being chased.”

  The only reaction was more moaning and wailing, making Bolan wonder if they spoke a dialect and didn’t understand what he’d said. He didn’t have time to explain again. He firmly but gently pushed his way to the front of the car, only then bringing the pistol to shoulder height, an action that produced more bawling from the passengers. Bolan ignored them and turned the handle of the connecting door.

  The dividing corridor separated two cars, its rubber walls bending and shuddering with the movement of the train. In many places the rubber had perished, sunlight shining straight through. Bolan stepped into the passageway, closing one door and slowly opening the next. He glanced through the gap, hoping to spot one of the killers.

  The passengers were all pressed against the right side of the car, which meant that something was happening on the left, just out of view. Throwing the door open, Bolan stepped into the car, Beretta pistol at the ready. He was greeted by the sight of a pair of legs standing on the frame of an open window. As he watched, both legs lifted away as the unknown person transferred his weight to his arms.

  The fight was going to be on the roof.

  The Executioner didn’t waste time wondering whose legs were disappearing from view. He stepped over to the window, grabbed hold of one of the man’s ankles with his left hand and pulled downward as hard as he could.

  There was a horrified yelp and a man appeared, hanging by his outstretched arms. His eyes were wide with shock as he looked at his assailant. Bolan recognized him as one of the thugs who had jumped from the pickup. The Beretta pistol barked once from point-blank range, a bright red hole instantly appearing in the thug’s T-shirt directly over his heart. The thug dropped away without making another sound. Bolan doubted that the killer was alive when he hit the ground. Only one opponent remained. At the sound of the gunshot, the passengers began howling in earnest. Bolan ignored them. He climbed onto the nearest seat, reaching out of the window frame, searching for a handhold. There wasn’t one to be found. With the knowledge that the gunman had been holding on to something, he stretched farther and found a fingertip-wide ledge where the body of the car met the roof.

  With the Beretta pistol once again stuffed into his waistband, the soldier leaned out even farther, turning his head away from the direction of the locomotive to protect his eyes from the blast of warm air and sand that had been stirred up. He grabbed the ledge with his other hand, placed both feet on the window frame and, with a powerful kick, heaved himself upward. Bolan was a lot taller than the gunman and easily found another purchase. He pulled, dragging his body until he was lying flat on his back, feet facing the rear of the train. The car shook and rolled, diesel fumes from the locomotive washed over him and the sun burned down, broiling him on the torn black felt-clad roof.

  Bolan rolled carefully onto his stomach. He estimated the train was now traveling at about fifty miles per hour. Djibouti City was far behind. He looked down the length of the train. The moped rider was standing on the locomotive itself, taking steps backward, his arms outstretched to balance himself. His assailant was slowly approaching, a machete in his hand.

  There was nowhere for the moped rider to go.

  Bolan pushed himself to his feet. There was no point in drawing his pistol. The rocking of the train made accuracy impossible, and there was a good chance that he would kill the man he had come to rescue. He had to get closer.

  The soldier began to run down the length of the car as fast as he dared. He jumped onto the next car, then the next, all the while fighting to keep his balance, all too aware that the machete-wielding killer was drawing closer to his prey. He needed to distract the enemy and quickly. He leaped onto the blue roof of the locomotive. It was still thirty feet to the thug, who was raising his machete, ready for a downward chop.

  “Get down!” Bolan yelled. “Lie on the roof! Get down now!”

  The moped rider’s eyes widened as he took in the impossible sight of the black-clad white man on the roof of the train. It took a second for the meaning of the words to register, then he threw himself flat, literally at the feet of his would be killer. Machete man spun, equally amazed to see somebody other than his fellow killer. The amazement passed quickly as he saw that the white man was empty-handed. A large grin split his pockmarked face. An easy kill. He made his move toward the stupid white man.

  Bolan let the thug come close, giving the illusion that he wanted some sort of fistfight. As his adversary got to within ten feet, Bolan drew the Beretta pistol, pointed it at the machete man’s chest and fired two shots. The thug’s look changed from aggression to shock in a split second. He staggered backward, swaying before gravity took over, the machete falling from nerveless fingers. It dropped over the side of the locomotive, quickly followed by the corpse.

  “‘Never bring a knife to a gunfight,’” Bolan muttered, quoting a line from a movie he’d once seen. He turned his attention to the moped rider. The man had raised his head and observed the death of the assassin. He stared at Bolan, terror etched into his face. The soldier stuck the Beretta into his waistband, then held out his hand.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he called out above the roar of the engine. “I just want to know about the Americans you took to the north. That’s all.”

  The rider didn’t react.
He continued to stare unblinkingly at the Executioner. Bolan shook his head in frustration.

  “Look, if I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it already. All I want is to talk to you. Nothing more.” Bolan slowly approached. They had to get off the train, otherwise they would end up somewhere in Ethiopia.

  “Why they kill Abdullah?” the man called out for the first time. “Why they kill my brother?”

  “I don’t know, but the only way to find out is to get off this train. Will you help me?”

  The man nodded and slowly rose. He was a foot shorter than Bolan, dressed in a tattered white soccer shirt and tan trousers. Close up, Bolan could see that he was in his midthirties.

  “We need to get off this train,” Bolan shouted.

  “Who are you?” the man shouted back.

  “Later. Come on.” Bolan lurched to the front of the locomotive. Once there he lay down on its roof, wincing from the heat of the metal.

  The soldier eased himself forward over the lip, holding on to the metal molding. Below, the tracks rushed under the locomotive at a terrifying speed. Bolan did his best to ignore the velocity. He spotted the engine driver, sitting at the controls behind the dusty, bug-splattered windshield. He rapped on the glass. The engineer’s head shot up, his mouth falling open. Bolan briefly eased one hand from its purchase. He waved at the controls, trying to indicate that the engine should slow. The Executioner then powered his way back up, helped onto the roof by the moped man.

  “Hold on to something! The train is about to stop!”

  The moped rider threw himself to the roof, clutching at a protruding metal pipe. There was a shudder as the train began to decelerate, a squeal as the brakes were applied. The loss of forward velocity wasn’t as bad as Bolan had imagined. Neither he nor the other man was in danger of being flung off the roof. Within a minute the train came to a shuddering halt.

  “Come on. This is our station,” Bolan said, climbing to his feet. He noticed the look of distrust in the other man’s eyes. “I told you, if I wanted to hurt you, I already would have. I just need information. Nothing more.”

  They climbed down a service ladder that was attached to the side of the locomotive. The driver was leaning out of his cab, saying something that Bolan couldn’t make out. The soldier smiled and waved. The passengers were equally unfriendly, now that the immediate danger had passed, shouting and gesturing from the safety of the passenger cars. With a roar and a cloud of black smoke, the train slowly accelerated away, resuming its long journey to Addis Ababa. Soon it was lost to sight, leaving Bolan and the moped rider standing in the broiling desert.

  “It is a long walk to city,” the man said. “Can you make it?”

  “Probably,” Bolan replied, “but I’m hoping a friend will pick us up before long. If he hasn’t gotten himself into too much trouble. Tell me something. Are you the guide who worked for a Frenchman named Saint-Verran?”

  “Yes, I sometime work for him. He dead, too. Bad men kill him. They kill my brother. They kill everyone.” The guide sounded bitter and angry. Bolan didn’t blame him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Abdourahman. I cannot go back to house now. Police there. Don’t trust police. Maybe uncle’s house. Don’t know. What I call you?”

  “Blanski.” They walked past the corpse of the man Bolan had shot. Abdourahman spit on the body.

  “He not even from Djibouti. Maybe from Eritrea or Somalia,” Abdourahman said vehemently. They quickly searched the body for some form of identification but found nothing. The machete was nowhere to be seen. Abandoning the body to the vultures flying overhead, they resumed their trek toward the city. Bolan pondered what Abdourahman had just said.

  “You said that man was from a different country. I thought the rebels were local militia.”

  “Militia? What that? Don’t talk now. Too hot. Save strength. Talk later.”

  They had been walking for ten minutes alongside the railroad tracks when they spotted a distant dust plume that seemed to be heading toward them. Bolan shielded his eyes against the shimmering heat, hoping to make out some details. Abdourahman had seen it, as well.

  “I hope this is friend. If police, then is big problem,” he said.

  Bolan silently agreed. There was nowhere to hide in the desert, so the pair could only wait to see who it was.

  A few minutes later a dust-covered and battered black Toyota pickup rolled into view.

  “It’s a friend,” Bolan said.

  Peter Douglas leaned out the window as he brought the pickup to a halt. He grinned through the dirt and sweat that covered his face.

  “What kept you?” Bolan asked.

  “Had to lose some friendly cops that I picked up,” Douglas replied. “I suddenly remembered that Langley taught us evasive-driving techniques. I took their underpowered Dacias on a trip across the desert and left them there. Is this him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit. Let’s hope that he was worth it.”

  * * *

  THEY TOOK THE long route back to the city, following a track that Abdourahman knew of, one he assured the Americans that the police knew nothing of. It was used only by herders and smugglers. They would leave the track at the suburb of Balbala, a former shantytown to the west of Djibouti City that had been integrated into the city proper sometime in the late seventies. Abdourahman had an uncle there who could help them. The Toyota pickup would be on everybody’s look-out list following the trail of devastation and carnage that had been left behind. Douglas had mildly protested. The pickup had working air-conditioning.

  They passed Balbala’s large livestock market, once a thriving place full of goats and camels, now run-down and neglected, the camels and goats having become food long ago. The shantytown loomed before them.

  “Oh, boy,” Douglas muttered, “this place does not look promising. I have never been in this area. White folks are generally unwelcome. The town is a complete maze inside. Supposed to be schools and a good hospital in there, but I have no idea where.”

  “Do not worry,” said Abdourahman, who was sitting in between the two Americans. “My uncle has that building over there, right on edge of N1 Road.”

  The N1 was a major artery that cut across southern Djibouti, linking all the major towns and villages with the city. Large trucks and buses traversed the highway heading into or out of the city. Douglas stopped at the edge of the road, waiting to drive straight across. The moment there was a break in the traffic, he accelerated; a bus thirty yards away tooted in protest. Abdourahman pointed to a yard behind the dirty yellow building that was proudly displaying two signs, one the famous Coca-Cola logo, the other a local boutique.

  “Oh, Coca-Cola.” Douglas sighed. “How I’d love one of those. A cold one.”

  “I ask my uncle,” Abdourahman said as the Toyota pickup came to a halt, “I see what he has. But I first tell him about my brother.”

  “We need a car,” Bolan said, “and a place to hide this one.”

  “Yes, yes,” Abdourahman agreed. Bolan climbed out, allowing Abdourahman to run past him into the building.

  “You trust him to return?” Douglas asked as Bolan got back in.

  “I don’t know. He owes us, so let’s hope he honors that. Keep the engine running. I don’t like sitting here in this yard.”

  “What’s going on, Blanski? I mean, you have more experience with this sort of thing—car chases, jumping onto trains from moving vehicles. I’ve been with the Agency for years, but this is the first time I have ever done any of that.”

  “I have no idea what the threat is or where it’s coming from. I only know that so far, it has been too easy.”

  “Easy?”

  “Yeah. All the hitters that we’ve encountered have just been hoodlums. Useful for beating up old ladies but very little else. Now that we’ve taken out two groups of them, the enemy may up the ante, send some professionals in to do the job. It could get a little tougher from here on.”

  “Tougher. Gr
eat. How did they find us this morning, when I picked you up at the docks?”

  “They must have had spotters along the route, people from the organization who phoned our location in. Or they were using several cars to follow us, because I didn’t spot a tail. All of which indicates that there is a professional organization behind this. But what the goal is? No idea.”

  “Great. A professional organization.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You have something that they don’t.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Me.”

  They waited five minutes before Abdourahman returned, waving them into the building. The two men got out of the pickup, Bolan retrieving his sports bag, which had been sliding around in the bed during the journey. He brushed off some of the dust and sand before following Douglas, alert and ready to fight or flee, depending on the situation.

  Abdourahman led them into a large but empty room, which was considerably cooler than the temperatures outside. He pointed at a scuffed Formica table where two open bottles of Coca-Cola stood.

  “A gift from uncle,” he explained. “He see what he can do about a car. The black one will go to the slums where it disappear.”

  Douglas accepted the cold bottle, remembering that the last time he had seen cola was when Davies had ordered one in the Waverley hotel. He wondered how his partner was doing. But business came first. Abdourahman was sitting on a wooden chair, eyeing them nervously. Bolan sat on the opposite side of the table.

  “All we want is some information,” Bolan stated, “and then we’ll leave you. We won’t harm you. If you decide to tell us nothing, then we’ll still leave. I would prefer it, however, if you tell us about the men who hired you, the men you and your brother led into the mountains.”

  Abdourahman lowered his eyes at the mention of his brother. He gazed at the floor for a few seconds.

  “My aunt very upset about Abdullah. My brother was favorite,” he said softly.