Executioner 054 - Mountain Rampage

by Pendleton, Don

  The downward glance was as telling as Bolan knew it would be: no gunman in his right mind would look away from his target while clawing for his weapon. "I'm hunting for Wolf Mountain."

  Bolan's big hand moved faster than the eye could follow. Instead of the promised map, the Beretta filled his fist.

  The point man heard the word "mountain" and nothing more. A red eye appeared in the center of his forehead.

  The 9mm jacketed parabellum slug plowed through the hardguy's brain as though it did not exist. The slug exited through the back of the skull. A chunk of bone and scalp the size of a small child's hand departed with it.

  The Beretta again whispered its silent tune. The guy on the near side of the Jeep took a slug that ripped through his larynx. A good portion of his throat exited with the slug. Crimson spurted from the torn flesh. Realization struck as a fountain of red gushed onto the front of his fatigues. His eyes widened. Dying, but not accepting the fact, the hardman was swinging up his 180 carbine. Another slug crashed into his breastbone, throwing him back against the side of the CJ-5. His torn body crumpled down the side of the vehicle to the dust at his booted feet.

  Two down. One in the wings.

  Bolan's lightning reflexes had already turned the machine pistol toward the guy on the far side of the Jeep. His only concern was for the two captives on the ground behind his target.

  As the Executioner squeezed off his fourth single shot round, the guard's finger was caressing the trigger of the 180. The air was suddenly full of whining .22 muzzle issue, any one of which could tear a fatal chunk from Bolan's head.

  Bolan snapped a fifth round off as his previous jacketed slug tore out the back of the man's left shoulder.

  The new round cored dead center into the guy's chest. He staggered slightly, the metal punching through his lungs and blasting out of an exit hole large enough to contain a grapefruit.

  But the guy's finger never slackened its pressure on the trigger of the autocarbine. Like angry hornets released from captivity, the little .22 hummers filled the air above the Executioner. Bolan dropped to the ground.

  Then the chattering carbine ceased its talk of death. The man lay on the ground, his weapon still within the grasp of his hand. Bolan saw fingers twitch spasmodically, become still, twitch again.

  Wary, Bolan approached the fallen guard. Their eyes met. Dull, full of the awareness of dying, the man's eyes were nevertheless those of a soldier. A guy would rather have this type on his own side; there was a professional edge to those whose souls die even before recruitment—they have that much less to lose, but they hold onto it twice as viciously.

  As Bolan watched, the eyes became sightless and life left. Bolan eased the dead guy's weapon free of slack fingers, then deftly released the partially spent magazine before tossing the weapon into the rear of the Jeep.

  So much for the soft probe.

  2

  "PRETTY FAIR SHOOTING," said the grizzled old man, who sat with his knees drawn up, his wrist bound securely to the slim ankle of the woman at his side.

  She sat with her arms behind her, supporting her upper body. Her bootless foot extended forward, held prisoner by the stainless-steel handcuff. Her calm gray eyes regarded Bolan.

  "Think you might be in a position to do something about this?" the old man asked, rattling the short chain joining the two.

  "Which one has the key?" Bolan asked.

  "None of them, if they can be believed," said the old man as he spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto a small stone. "Said the key was down at the main house." He gestured with his head in the direction of the compound.

  "I'm Josh Williams, and this is my grand kid, Sara." The sun highlighted the graying stubble on his chin.

  "I'm John Phoenix," Bolan said.

  Sara continued to stare at the warrior, but she made no effort to join the conversation.

  "Think maybe you might shoot that chain in two?"

  Bolan slipped the small carbon-steel wire cutters from his belt and gestured with their tip. Josh lifted his hand, bringing Sara's foot with it. Bolan positioned the cutters and brought his strength to bear on the handles. Twin cutting edges bit into the hardened steel chain, then snapped it. The old man's hand jerked free and the girl's ankle pulled away.

  The warrior extended his free hand and helped Josh up. Bolan studied the cuff on the old man's wrist and used the carbon-steel cutters again. Josh pressed with his free hand against the opposite side of the cuff to give Bolan as much distance as possible between cutting blades and flesh. Bolan brought the two handles together with steady pressure. The blade tips connected, and Josh Williams was free of the stainless-steel cuff.

  "Your turn," Bolan said, looking at the woman.

  She stared at him. "Do you always carry cutters with insulated handles every time you get lost in the mountains?" she asked.

  "When I know I'm going to need them," Bolan said.

  Even with Sara pressing against the lower side of the cuff as hard as she could, there was little space between stainless steel and tender flesh.

  "I may nick you," Bolan cautioned.

  The tip of the cutting blades bit into her as the blades met. Blood stained her white sock. She did not flinch.

  "We're much obliged to you, Mr. Phoenix," Josh said.

  Bolan stood and slipped the carbon-steel cutters into their slim sheath before turning to confront Josh. The old man held his rifle with the muzzle pointed near Bolan.

  "Those Remington 700 Classics are real pretty," Bolan said. "That adjustable sliding rear ramp-sight makes it a good high-country weapon. Chambered for .270?"

  "That's right." The old man studied Bolan closely.

  "You using the 150-grain slug?" Bolan asked.

  "Nope. I'm shooting 130s. They give a bit more bullet speed."

  "About 3,140 feet per second," Bolan smiled.

  "About." Josh looked away from him. "Mr. Phoenix knows his guns," he told his granddaughter.

  "I heard." She was standing now, both boots on. She walked off to retrieve her own rifle.

  Bolan studied her. Her body was slim, lithe, yet richly curved. It suggested great inner strength. Twenty-four or-five, he guessed. Her hair fell in a cascade of rich color in the bright sunlight. She was taller than average but not lanky. Her voice was warm, rich, womanly.

  Around her neck, on a braided lanyard, was a whistle for the dogs. Her hands and fingers were long, slim, tapering. Musician's hands. Hands ready to coax a symphony of death from the Winchester 70 STR she was pointing at Bolan. He knew her casual stance for what it was, the competence of someone ready and willing to trigger a shot into him or anyone else, should the need arise.

  "Your granddaughter like that little .243?" Bolan asked Josh.

  The old man nodded. From inside a mass of leathery wrinkles his pale blue eyes peered brightly. Something seemed to amuse him. "For a city dude you're about half bright."

  Bolan pointed to the three fallen men. "Them? Are they city dudes?"

  Josh shot a second stream of brown juice in the general direction of the distant compound. "They're parasites."

  "You should know," Sara said to Bolan.

  She turned on the worn heel of her boot and approached the Jeep. From its rear rack she extracted a shovel. Rifle in her right hand, the tool in her left, she started back up the slope.

  "Going to bury her dogs," Josh said. He squatted, his rifle now pointed ninety degrees away from Bolan.

  The man in black stood easy, his icy eyes and keen senses constantly alert.

  "You government?" Josh demanded at last.

  "In a way. Not the sort of government you've run into in the past."

  The old man took in the combat scene around them. He spoke wearily.

  "We were out after coyotes this morning. I run a deeded ranch near here and rent government graze during the summer. Until this weirdo outfit bought in and started building, we never had much trouble with coyotes. Last few months the blasted critters have been ever
ywhere."

  Bolan heard the distant sound of a truck engine. It came from far south of them. He said nothing.

  "Thought we'd see if we could get a line on them with the dogs. Maybe even the odds a bit. Greyhounds are about the only dogs around that are any good against coyotes. Don't know what we'll use now." Again a stream of brown juice punctuated his words.

  "Other than coyotes, what—who were you tracking?" Bolan asked.

  Josh rose slowly to his feet. He stared to the south. "Truck's bringing in supplies," he said. "Same time every day."

  Bolan let the conversation lapse.

  "You know what parasites are?" the old man asked at last.

  Bolan nodded.

  "You know what they call this place?" He gestured to the unseen compound with his head. "State and county records say it's the Paradise Valley Rest Home. Some rest home that runs armed patrols! They trying to keep the resters in or us out?"

  The sound of the truck was stilled. Another lighter engine was firing up.

  "How many patrol units do they have?" Bolan asked.

  "One out at all times. One, maybe two, on roving patrol. This one—" he jerked his head at the CJ-5 beside them "—was a rover. We didn't expect it."

  Josh glanced at the level of the sun overhead. He decided to open up.

  "Sara wanted to be a nurse. She wanted it bad ever since her parents were killed in a head-on crash with a drunk and I took up raising her. So Sara went to university, got qualified and went to work down toward Denver. She was happy as a girl could be.

  "She was working the night shift in surgical recovery. One night a pair of dope addicts came looking for drugs. They grabbed a student nurse and started saying what they would do to her if Sara didn't get the drugs they wanted. She got them the drugs and a little something extra. Sara was always sort of quick with her hands. She picked up a scalpel when she went for the drugs. My little grand-kid gave more than drugs to that pair. She got them good.

  "The next day she came back home, back to the mountains. She decided to apply for nursing work at Paradise Valley." Josh paused and listened.

  The vehicle was coming closer but did not pose an immediate threat. Even so, Bolan un-leathered the 93-R and moved the fire-selector lever with his right thumb to the three white dots that indicated burst fire.

  "But Sara didn't get a nursing job," Bolan finished when the old man remained silent.

  "Right. She said the place was more like a prison than a rest home." Josh's washed-out blue eyes met the icy blue ones of the younger warrior. "We were tracking a young fella named Doug Fletcher today, that's what we were doing. Doug neighbors to the east of us. Took it into his head that he wanted to check up on this place. That was three days ago."

  The radio in the CJ-5 came to life in a crackle of sound. No more than half a mile away the approaching vehicle geared down, its engine changing pitch as it took the strain of a steep grade.

  "Sara and I best be on our way," the old man said. "We're situated due north on the other side of that ridge. Sign over the cattle guard says Rocking JW. That's us. Just don't come in too quiet. Let us know you're about."

  Josh turned to go, paused to rub his bruised head, then turned back. From his jacket pocket he withdrew a plug of tobacco and bit a chunk from it. He offered the plug to Bolan.

  "I don't use it, but thanks."

  The old man nodded, then he set out up the slope to join the young woman.

  The oncoming vehicle's engine changed pitch again as the driver shifted. Bolan moved quickly toward an outcrop he had already decided was his best position both defensively and offensively. He detoured to retrieve his M-1.

  As he awaited the unfolding of events, Bolan reflected on the scene just passed. It is possible to know a man for years, to work with him and fight beside him and yet never to become friends with him. Or, you might meet a man, talk with him and become friends immediately. Josh's acceptance of Bolan meant much to the big guy. The old man had fiber—and so did his granddaughter.

  Given a dozen like them, Bolan could whip a whole army.

  3

  APRIL ROSE GLANCED UP as Herman "Gadgets" Schwarz entered the War Room.

  "Grimaldi is waiting it out at Fort Carson, just outside of Colorado Springs. He'll be ready when Striker gives him the word."

  Stony Man Farm, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, was suddenly so far from where April wanted to be. She twisted the pencil she held, became conscious of what she was doing, then laid it aside.

  Though he did not take part in the brief interchange, Aaron "The Bear" Kurtzman was aware of every word spoken. Face drawn, showing strain, the computer genius did not look up from his console screen. His tobacco-stained fingers played a tune that only he understood as they danced across the console's keys. "Check the master video screen," he said without turning away from the console. "I've got some new stuff coming in."

  An aerial photo appeared before them.

  "This and the ones following were taken during a flyover earlier this morning by a USAF jet."

  All eyes focused on the photo. The Bear punched a key. A new photo appeared, bright on the huge video screen.

  The Paradise Valley Rest Home was visible in perfect detail. The trio studied the newly arrived photo. April eventually broke the silence.

  "Nothing we didn't already have. Signs of recent construction. A real-lock fence around the entire area. It looks very professionally laid out."

  Another photo appeared on the screen. The infrared photography brought night-hidden images to light.

  "These were taken this morning about three, Mountain Daylight Time," Kurtzman reported.

  In slow procession a series of photos came to life on the big screen.

  "Freeze that one!" April said.

  The image remained before them. Details sharpened as Aaron fiddled briefly with his controls.

  "Look at those animals. There must be a hundred or more. What are they? Dogs?" she asked.

  "Not dogs," Kurtzman said. "Coyotes."

  "A hundred fifty coyotes all in one place?" muttered Gadgets.

  No one had an answer, all remained silent, surveying the photo.

  "It has to be food," April said at last. "Only food would bring so many coyotes to one place."

  She turned to the others.

  "Why weren't these photos available to us sooner?" she asked. "Mack should have known about this."

  Aaron shrugged. "Delay in transmission, April. Someone along the line was slow, got tied up, didn't understand the importance of what he had. It happens."

  Sure, things like that happen all the time. Again she gave her attention to the milling mass of coyotes on the screen. A shudder ran the length of her spine. She glanced at the two men, managed to control her anger.

  Then, as though drawn to it, April viewed the screen once more. What sort of hellground was Mack about to enter this time?

  AGAIN THE APPROACHING VEHICLE changed gears. Bolan's trained ears kept track of its speed.

  Yeah, professionals. The downshift meant one, perhaps two hardguys had left the vehicle and were now on foot, seeking to flank him. The enemy's strategy brought no change in Bolan's position. First things first.

  Between the big guy's protective barrier of rock and the near edge of the forested slopes, the CJ-5 suddenly barrelled through, the driver's foot down hard. To the driver's right sat an alert patrol member armed with an auto-carbine. The Jeep's back seat held another man and weapon.

  Mack Bolan set his sights on passenger number one. His forefinger caressed the trigger, the M-1 bucked slightly into his broad shoulder, and the guard riding in the front of the Jeep stopped living. A crimson flower of death adorned the left breast pocket of his otherwise spotless fatigues.

  As the driver began to react, Bolan lined up the M-1 on the vehicle's back-seat passenger. Even with the Jeep's speed, the shot was routine for the big guy. Just enough lead, a gentle, firm stroke of the trigger.

  The slug quartered off the man's breast bo
ne, plowed its way through flesh and muscle and emerged just beneath the left shoulder blade.

  Bolan turned his attention to the driver. The guy was spinning the Jeep's steering wheel in a frantic effort to put space between himself and his executioner. Miniature geysers of earth sprayed from the vehicle's four mudgrip tires. The CJ was in a power slide, each tire tearing into the fragile turf beneath its skidding treads.

  With one hand the hardguy clawed for the 12-gauge Remington Autoloader racked at his side. Professional to the end, unwilling to face the fact that his luck was gone, the guy was aiming to kill.

  The Executioner gently triggered his third round. It lifted the top of the driver's skull from his head. Bits of gray tinged with red decorated the vehicle's windshield. The husk of what had been a man steered the vehicle into a pair of eight-inch-thick lodgepole pines at full throttle.

  The numbers were falling fast now. Bolan discarded his M-1 and its night sight and filled his fist with the familiar bulk of Big Thunder. A quick one-eighty gave the big guy a new field of vision.

  Twenty-five yards from where he crouched, he saw the business end of an auto-carbine appearing around the edge of a rock.

  Bolan considered his options, his mind sorting and filing possible courses of action. He wanted some hard intelligence about the compound. Taking this hardguy captive posed no problem that Bolan could not handle. But, putting himself into the minds of those who engineered the area's defense, why drop just one flanker onto the field of battle? Two could have stepped from the CJ as easily as one.

  The blitzing warrior went with the odds. By doing so, he issued a death warrant on the guy poking his head around the protective jut of rock.

  The .44 AutoMag roared twice. The second shot followed the first so quickly, the open mountain valley below returned only one booming echo. The first 240-grain missile tore the lower jaw free of the man's face. White upper teeth were suddenly revealed. The second mangling messenger of death had entered his head just below the socket of the left eye.

  The Executioner was already in motion. If he was wrong about a second killer stalking him on foot, then he was going to be doing some rapid and unnecessary footwork. If he was right, he was in the process of saving his life. Bolan broke from cover, reached the corpse even before it had completed its sag to the ground, and rounded the outcrop of rock at full speed. His right hand full of ready .44 AutoMag, the big guy knew in an instant that his conclusion was correct. Rounding the opposite end of the rocky outgrowth was the fifth member of the team. Looking the other way, the heavily built guy in the snappy fatigues had only one thing in mind—to catch an unsuspecting Bolan and tear his body to shreds with a hail of .22 long-rifle bullets.