Was he?
His mind was suddenly boiling with strategy that crystallized in seconds. He went over it again. Looking for a hole. Looking for danger. Not to himself, but to the local police who would be his pawns. Bolan didn’t kill police. Even getting them wounded to further his own ends didn’t fit the Executioner’s strict ethical code.
But perpetrating a little mind game on the Kuwaiti cops? About that he had no qualms whatsoever.
THEY WERE JUST sitting there, listening to the action on the radio and straining to catch a glimpse of the other squad cars a block away—and heading in the opposite direction.
Neither of them said a word. Both of them were wishing they could be in on the chase. Both of them were regretting their frivolous conversation about their supervisor—which happened to be overheard and happened to be reported to the supervisor and happened to be the reason they were stuck with glorified security guard duty for the next three weeks. They were bored silly while every other National Police Force officer in Kuwait City was enjoying chasing a madman on a stolen motorcycle.
Like a pair of puppets on the same string they sat up straighter in the seats of the squad car. There it was! A motorcycle on the cobblestone pedestrian walkway, lights off, moving from the shadow of one awning to the darkness of a small boutique entrance alcove.
The action, against all odds, had come to them.
“Call it in.” Sa’doun, a four-year National Police Force veteran commanded.
“Are we going after him?”
Sa’doun would have glared at the man in the passenger seat if he dared take his eyes off the spectral motorcycle. His partner was worse than a rookie—he was a stupid rookie. He had no future in the police force. His stupid comments—which Sa’doun had unfortunately laughed at—had landed them with one of the worst assignments inside the city.
“We’re going to get all the backup we can muster in a hurry and trap him inside the mall by closing every exit. If we try to go after him alone, he’ll slip right by us on that thing.”
Stupid Rookie got on the radio. Minutes later, from all around the desert metropolis, the Kuwaiti National Police Force converged on one of the richest shopping districts in the world.
SA’DOUN FELT his heart pounding.
If he was instrumental in nabbing this foreigner—and that was about all he knew about the man, that he was a foreigner run amok—it might restore some of the luster to his dulled professional reputation.
When the motorcycle reached the end of the mall and paused in the shadows, Sa’doun almost took the risk of leaving the car to follow on foot. He would not risk starting his car—that motorcycle would be long gone before he could shift the Fiat into Drive.
Even following on foot was a long shot.
But he didn’t have to. The biker peered up and down the cross street and apparently disliked his chances in the occasional traffic. He turned and drifted back, moving from shadow to shadow, in search of another escape route.
“What is he up to?”
Sa’doun didn’t bother to glare at his partner. “Looking a for a way out.”
“Why?”
What kind of an idiotic question was that?
“I mean,” the rookie continued, “why does he think he’s safe here? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?” Sa’doun demanded, without really caring.
Before the rookie could respond there was a call from the radio. Squad cars were staged, ready to move into position at both ends of the boulevard and converging side streets.
“Hold off,” Sa’doun responded. “He is heading back the way he came.”
“Alert me when he is dead center—we will get him when he’s farthest from any escape route,” radioed the patrol commander. “Just in case.”
Yeah. Just in case. This one was as slippery as a fish, Sa’doun thought, and they were going to set the hook deep.
Sa’doun waited. Finally he reported, “He is in position.”
“Move in, all units! I want this street locked down now!”
9
Bolan heard the distant chirp of tires in two directions and saw lights converging on the far end of the blocks. Then the squad car that had been tucked in the shadows across the mall came to life. Bolan spotted them during his initial reconnoiter and guessed what they would do about him. He cranked his head at the squad car, gave them an openmouthed look of pure shock, then hit the gas and sent the Suzuki roaring down the street of boutiques.
At one end of the street a squad car turned in and headed directly for him, another Fiat patrol car coming up behind it with a ten-yard gap between them.
Bolan waited for the first squad car to drive over the spot where he dropped the device, then hit the button on the detonator. An orange ball of fire swelled and expanded fast on the heels of the first cop car, not quite able to catch up to it. Car two skidded wildly with the driver standing on the brakes, the tires screaming on the cobblestone surface. It veered onto the walkway and into a storefront. The finely etched name of an Italian fashion designer was obliterated in a fantastic explosion of plate glass and an inhuman-looking mannequin wavered then toppled, its head plunging through the shattered windshield of the patrol car.
More patrol cars were close behind. The next slalomed head-on into a concrete planter. Its headlights went dark, and the interior filled with white air bags that engulfed the occupants.
That left one squad car still in motion, and when its driver managed to get it under his control he headed straight for Bolan. The Executioner waited until there was just twenty feet separating the cop and the next explosive package, then hit the red button.
It was inside a stone-decorated trash receptacle. The garbage can flew apart in a belch of flame and litter. Bolan had been careful to make the charge small enough to be nonlethal, but the cop didn’t know that. He swung the wheel and escaped in the only direction open to him. The Fiat flattened a hedge and smashed through the gilded front double doors of a tiny shop that sold women’s shoes priced like top-grade gemstones. Display after display of colorful pumps were mowed down before the car came to a halt against the rear wall.
At the opposite end of the block more squad cars were screeching their tires and staging an impromptu roadblock, unwilling to get any closer to the madman who was apparently tossing incendiaries.
Bolan sped behind a concrete pillar molded like a Roman column and watched the scurrying officers of the Kuwaiti National Police Force.
A man with a bullhorn started shouting something in Arabic, but Bolan pressed a button.
The first charge went up a hundred feet from the roadblock, neutralizing the patterns of flashing headlights and emergency lights in a single sphere of brilliance. The gunners with their rifles and the bullhorn man scrambled behind their vehicles.
Sa’doun spotted the hand appearing from around the column yet again holding a remote-control device.
“Down!”
He and the rookie ducked behind the dashboard, and this time the blast was more distant. Sa’doun risked a look and spotted the smoking hole in the pavement from the next blast, not ten paces from the roadblock. The officers were fleeing on foot.
Sa’doun watched them go and knew there was no one left to stop the madman except himself. And the stupid rookie. Sa’doun slid from his car and bolted for cover behind a concrete bench. The night was now oddly quiet except for the puttering of the motorcycle engine.
“Surrender or I will shoot!” Sa’doun called out in English. The madman likely spoke English. He tried it again in Arabic. There was no response.
Time to strike fear into the man, Sa’doun decided. He rose up, leveled the combat shotgun on top of the concrete bench and found the madman standing in the middle of the street waiting for him. The big handgun bucked in the man’s grip, and the powerful rounds took big bites out of the top of the bench. The first was five feet away. Then four feet away. The shot that was two feet away came just after Sa’doun hit the deck.
&nb
sp; Hearing the motorcycle rev up, Sa’doun peered under the bench, seeing the lower half of the vehicle speed up the street, then slow and turn into the buildings.
There was a pedestrian entrance between the buildings, big enough for the motorcycle. The son of a dog was going to get out of the block without ever putting himself in range for the backup teams waiting it out at either end of the boutique street. He was going to get away.
Sa’doun launched himself to his feet and raced headlong down the middle of the pavement, stopping to fire a single wild shot at the bike as it was swallowed up by the buildings.
Officers on foot were coming from the squad cars that had crashed into the planter and the storefronts.
“He went through there!” Sa’doun shouted angrily as he ran for the narrow slot. “Did you block this exit?”
Before anyone answered the gap between the buildings was filled with fire, which reached out for Sa’doun like a hot, burning hand and swatted him to the ground like a man swatted a bug.
BOLAN HEARD the officer shouting as he ran toward the passage between the buildings. The soldier had dropped another explosive there to block his escape, but if he didn’t detonate now he’d risk killing the cop. On the other hand, Bolan might be the one killed if he used it too soon.
He pressed the button and yanked hard on the accelerator simultaneously, and the charge burst into life, creating a fireball that became a moving wall of flame that rushed up behind him like a living thing—a burning behemoth of incredible speed. Bolan felt a tidal wave of heat crash into him, and his mind struggled to ignore it while he concentrated on maneuvering the motorcycle. At near-highway speeds, every time the handlebar tips scraped the wall on either side the motorcycle threatened to rip out of his hands. At that speed, one solid scrape against the wall would twist the handlebars, jackknife the bike and result in a crash the likes of which Bolan could only imagine—the relentless inertia of the disintegrating steel mass contained in this narrow passage would chew through him like the blades of a meat grinder.
Then the world rushed at him and the confining walls of his makeshift oven fell away. Bolan found himself rocketing across four lanes of a city street. He heard the screech of brakes and the honk of a horn.
A vehicle veered around him, then did a punishing 360 that had white smoke coming off its tires. It was the sedan he had last seen in the parking garage below his hotel. Well, you start tossing around explosives, Bolan told himself, and you’re bound to attract some attention. His friends from the parking garage had to have heard about the commotion on the police scanner and come looking for him.
Bolan got the motorcycle moving again. So far the 144-horsepower, 988 cc power plant had served him well. The bike had impressive specifications: zero to 100 mph in less than six seconds. Top speed was better than 170. Every indication was that the wealthy Kuwaiti kid who owned the bike took good care of it, so its performance was as good as new.
Let’s see if that’s good enough, Bolan thought as he watched the car come at him.
Bolan upped his speed as the front end of a man emerged from the passenger-side window. Bolan aimed the motorcycle at the front end of the car and for a microsecond made eye contact with the driver. The man at the wheel saw death in the eyes of the Executioner. He thought the big bike was being used as a suicide weapon. He slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel and sent the car into a wild swerve, while Bolan maneuvered the Suzuki easily in the other direction, stopping just in time to see the car screeching to a halt.
The man protruding from the window had dropped his gun to cling like a stuntman, but the sudden stop was too much and he ejected onto the street, rolling to the curb.
Bolan hit the gas and came at them, his free hand jutting over the Suzuki’s low windshield with the big Desert Eagle extended like a tank cannon. The car’s right rear passenger door flew open and a man with an assault rifle emerged in low profile, making himself a small target.
But Bolan was an exceptional shot. He triggered the Israeli-made handgun, filling the hot night air with the retort of the .44 Magnum round. The round slammed into the gunner’s shoulder, bursting it apart. An AK-74 clattered on the concrete and the gunner collapsed alongside it, his usable arm moving rapidly but uncontrolled until he came into contact with the barrel of the gun. Bolan fired the Desert Eagle again, and this time the target was an easy one. The gunner went limp.
The sedan jumped into motion before Bolan closed in and the rear door slammed shut. The soldier accelerated after it, and just as he was getting a bead on the driver the rear window rose like a shield. Bolan fired into the narrowing gap, but the car veered and the round that would have splattered the brains of the driver zinged off the metal trim and flew harmlessly into the night.
Bolan fired into the rear windshield, proving it was bullet-resistant, then backed off enough to plant a round in the right rear tire. The rear quarter sank suddenly as the run-flat tire made the steering mushy.
Bolan increased his speed and pulled around the driver’s side of the car. The windows were firmly closed.
The Executioner smiled and waved. It was just the right thing to do. The infuriated driver swerved at the motorcycle, and Bolan used that moment to blast the front tire and fall back fast.
The handling of the car changed dramatically and the driver found himself wrestling with the steering wheel, unable to control the swerve. Bad tires on two opposing corners were more than the all-wheel drive was designed to handle and the car wavered sluggishly, hit a curb and slammed into a light post.
Bolan heard sirens. They were now a few blocks from the chaos of the explosions, but the gunplay was bringing the police to them.
Suddenly the car was in motion but gave Bolan a wide berth. Then the warrior saw their purpose. They were going to get the man they left behind. The gunner ejected from the window was now on his feet, shambling to meet the car.
Bolan pocketed the Desert Eagle to give himself two hands to control the bike. He gave the accelerator a vicious twist that sent the bike careening down the street as if rocket propelled. The power plant purred noisily, but the motorcycle flowed around the wobbling car like river water around a mossy rock.
The gunner froze—to him the motorcycle had seemed to emerge from nowhere. Maybe he thought Bolan was long gone. He had retrieved his weapon and faced the warrior with a sawed-off combat shotgun that was no match in range for the deadly Desert Eagle that had emerged and was again thrust over the Suzuki’s windshield.
The shotgunner looked wildly around. There was no place to hide. Bolan triggered the big handgun but at that moment the shotgunner, running for a dark storefront with amazing speed, jumped a brick planter and avoided the second round by a hairs-breadth. Bolan tracked his prey, but the man seemed to sense the shot and fell to his hands and knees as a third round burned the air where his chest might have been.
The gunner rolled to the side, putting a low concrete island between himself and Bolan, then jumped to his feet in a crouch behind a steel merchandise display.
Now Bolan understood what the gunner was up to.
Although it was designed with the elegance of a jewelry store, the tiny building was actually a gas station. The concrete-based humps out front enclosed pumps. Bolan saw himself barreling into another conflagration.
He triggered the Desert Eagle at the low shadow that scampered for the protection of the station. The shadow vanished. Then it was there again. The gunner’s face was a mask of glimmering scarlet in the security lights. Bolan made that blood mask his target and squeezed out a round. The mask of blood became something else without any resemblance to a human face, and the gunner stood there momentarily, dead on his feet.
He toppled, and the trauma of sudden death discharged an electrical tempest. Dead muscles convulsed. Dead fingers clenched the trigger of the combat shotgun. The gas pumps were just ten feet away, and the broad spread of the round meant the dead man wasn’t going to miss.
Fuel hoses parted with a spray of liqui
d and sparks from buckshot ignited the gas. Bolan felt as if he were wrestling a python in slow motion, but in reality it took him just seconds to slow the motorcycle enough to twist it through a sharp turn.
The orange flames snaked around the gas pump and crawled across the narrow drive to the storefront, almost licking the motorcycle’s tires. The emergency fire system responded with a laughably tiny snowstorm of foam. A few puddles of flame blinked out, then the snow was gone.
The gas pump burst apart and covered everything with raindrops of flame, including a distinctive plumbing connection, where a breath of fumes seemed to burrow belowground like a flaming mole. Something moaned underground, the pressure building fast.
Bolan raced away as an abrupt release of pressure sent burning gasoline spewing from the piping. He felt the spray of liquid, then felt it burning. He smacked out flames on his legs and arms, then ignored the fire while he brought out the Desert Eagle. There was the sedan, still plodding along after him.
He saw his own orange aura on the pavement. He was still burning. No time for the car. He left it behind before the occupants could figure out what to do about him.
Bolan turned off the street and rode hard, getting away from approaching sirens and pounding at his upper arm and shoulder until the flames were gone—but the burning continued. He could feel it.
He took the Suzuki over a curb and into the wrought-iron fence around the small outdoor café area of a darkened restaurant. The gate popped open, and Bolan found himself plowing through spindly rattan chairs stacked on flimsy tables. He dropped the motorcycle and looked for a water source.
His eyes fell on the ubiquitous restaurant fountain, there to help create a temperate ambiance even on a scorching hot day in the desert city. But the inside of this shallow vessel was just a dry crust of mineral deposits. Bolan stooped, yanked at the shutoff valve and tepid water spurted from the nozzle, set in the stamens of a concrete bloom. He thrust his burning arm into the water as the escalation of agony told him the smoldering embers had eaten through his jacket, burned his shirt and were consuming his flesh.
Mercy Mission Page 7