The driver was still fighting the wheel. He was a hard-eyed individual whose qualifications would inevitably include political assassination and mutilation with car bombs. He was clawing for his .357 as Bolan wrenched open the passenger door of the still-moving vehicle. There was no contest.
The Beretta uttered its cough as Bolan ran alongside the open door, the 9mm parabellum slug ending the driver's efforts to draw his own weapon. The van came to a juddering halt, its headlights blazing into the deep dark of the mountain evening.
Bolan reached across to twist the ignition key but left the lights glowing. The driver slumped forward, his forehead resting on the top edge of the steering wheel as blood pulsed onto the dash.
Mack Bolan was again in motion. In half a dozen long-legged strides he was at the rear door of the commercial-sized rig.
With the Beretta at the ready, he tried the rear doors. The handle turned without resisting. He snapped the metal door open and twisted his body into attack position.
Inside the back of the van an overhead light gleamed in a feeble effort to push back the night. Two men crouched motionless near the front of the cargo space. Both peered out the open door with wide, questioning eyes. One man was young, probably in his early twenties. The other was middle-aged, his frail body and telltale smell identifying him as another wino.
Bolan eased his muscular body into the back of the van. He allowed the door to swing shut, but not latched behind him.
"What are you doing here?" he asked the younger of the pair.
"I was hitching. Next thing I knew a guy was pointing a cannon at me. They slapped cuffs on me and tossed me in with this poor bastard."
Bolan slid the Beretta into its snag-free holster and slipped the carbon-steel cutters from his belt. He extended the red-lensed light toward the younger man.
"Hold this on his cuffs."
The wino offered no protest as Bolan cut the cuffs from his thin wrists. Then Bolan turned his attention to the younger, stronger captive. The kid flinched, yelped in surprise as the tips of the cutter caught the flesh of one wrist.
"Hold still." Bolan's tone of voice stopped any further protest.
Once he had the pair free, Bolan pointed to the rear of the van.
"Follow the road back. It will lead to a larger road eventually."
The big guy reopened the van's rear doors and swung lightly to the ground, careful to look into the night's dark as he did so.
Cramped, numb, the two captives slowly followed Bolan's lead.
The sound of a second vehicle approaching from the east came clearly to the night fighter. The pair seemed unaware of its nearness.
"Get off the road, drop flat!" Bolan ordered.
The two hesitated and he propelled them headlong with a solid push. Stumbling, the two plunged into the open meadow. Bolan followed their bumbling progress with ears only. They were in no danger now if they used their heads. He had given them help. Whether they rose or fell was up to them.
At Bolan's side the van's twin taillights shone ruby red onto the narrow path of raw earth.
Bolan faded into the darkness to prepare for the oncoming vehicle. As he brought the Beretta to full firepower, he considered retrieving the M-1 but rejected the idea. He would stick to the silenced weapon and continue his quiet war.
It was a Jeep, probably another CJ-5. Bolan identified it from its engine's sound as it roared out of the forest belt. Lights on full bright, it rocketed forward, the driver unaware that the red glow of lights ahead came from a halted van.
When he realized the first vehicle was motionless, the driver braked hard, then was forced to whip the steering wheel back and forth as he corrected and overcorrected for the Jeep's bouncing skid. He brought his bucking vehicle to a halt only twenty yards behind the stricken van.
The Executioner was already in motion when the Jeep stopped. Bolan snapped a silent slug through the driver-side windshield.
His action drew an instant response from one of the passengers, though Bolan's flash hider prevented his position being revealed. A withering hail of .22 sizzlers spewed from the snout of a 180 auto-carbine.
Rolling as he hit the ground, Bolan snapped another jacketed missile through the Jeep's front glass. A grunt of pain mingled with surprise rewarded him.
The man's answering fire was high and wide. Aiming at the series of muzzle-flashes, Bolan fired in three-shot bursts. Behind the windshield, the guard lowered his auto-carbine for the final time. Sightlessly he stared down at two entry holes that joined the first, ruining the press of his fatigue shirt. The back of the seat was savaged by exiting slugs that ripped flesh, bone and tissue from the dying body and plastered it to the fabric covering the Jeep's passenger seat.
The third member of the crew had opened fire over his dead companions. Rather than return the fire, Bolan rolled half a dozen times to his left, the move taking him well clear of the tight-clustered bursts from the 180.
The hardguy was firing blind. He fired in short bursts, spreading in a pattern around the area that Bolan had previously occupied. The guy was playing it by the book.
Bolan's reply was aimed just above the light flashes and slightly to their left. Half a dozen .22 hummers rose skyward as the man's body was flung back by the force of the 9mm slug that shattered one rib, glanced off a second, then tore away his lung.
On single-shot the Beretta sighed yet another silent cough and the guard's heart exploded, blood spurting from its savaged upper chamber.
Bolan gave the vehicle and its crimsoned contents no further attention. It was time to breach the compound fence.
He left the van and CJ with lights still aglow behind him. The vehicles' beams shone as though to ward off attack from the dark meadow.
Yeah, Bolan thought as he gathered his M-1, let them wonder, and worry and wait. The more attention centered on the pair of motionless vehicles, the better his chances of slipping through the fence elsewhere, and across a hundred yards of no-man's land.
Mack Bolan became a shadow in a compo-sition of black on black.
RAUL HERNANDEZ stood three paces behind a pair of men manning the electronic control panels.
"Well?" The single word expressed his impatience with the two men, with the lack of hard intelligence available to him and with the entire operation.
"I think I'm just picking up animal movement, sir."
"You think? You don't know?" Even as he spoke, Raul knew he was allowing his own uncertainty to surface.
"Keep at it," the commander said.
The door to the control room opened and closed without Hernandez turning. Gino Cabelli, his third-in-command, came to his side.
One of two persons privileged to address Hernandez by his given name, Gino began his report. His voice betrayed no trace of emotion.
"We're surrounded, Raul. At least on three sides."
"What about the van? Has it moved?" "No. Its position is unchanged."
"And the patrol unit?"
"Their final transmission said they had the van in view. There was no follow-up."
Raul turned away from him. "Better they had remained guarding the main entrance."
Gino kept his own counsel. It had been his suggestion that the outlying unit be brought up at the last minute to provide cover for the nearly defenseless van.
"How many out there?" Raul turned to glare at him.
Gino referred to his clipboard. "Two, perhaps three confirmed from the west. All sharpshooters. Another two to the north. To the east—" he raised his tailored shoulders in a slight shrug "—at least half a dozen. That unit was among our best."
"Any identifiable gunshots other than our 180s?"
"Perhaps one or two autocarbines. Those on the east side were uncertain."
"No other weapons?" Raul's voice was harsh.
"Not that our men heard."
"Move three men from each of the west, north and east walls. Put them on the south."
"Sir." The response held an unvoiced question.
"That is the direction from which the main thrust will come."
Gino turned on his polished heel to do his chief's bidding. Not once in the seven missions in which he had served with Raul had the leader made a serious error.
"Gino." It brought the third-in-command to an instant halt. "What of the north gate?"
"It . . . it's still open."
"Have it closed."
"But it isn't electronic.. . . "
"Have it closed."
Gino Cabelli left the command room.
Raul studied the jumble of cybernetic devices over the heads of the two men. A dozen enemy on three sides. There would be much distracting fire when the attack became a reality. How many would come from the south? How would they breach the outer fence? Grenades, maybe. Satchel charges or plastique more likely.
He approached the two technicians. "Have the perimeter lights turned on and off in ones and twos, but follow no set pattern," he said. "Order the men to fire at anything near the fence."
"Yes, sir." Low-voiced commands began at once while fingers danced to shut off the lights.
He knew it would not stop the attack but it might diminish its effectiveness.
Another thought came to him. Perhaps the attack would be all-out, lacking the diversionary fire he anticipated. That would add another dozen to the attacking force. Which would bring the total to twenty-five? Fifty? How many died when the 180s chattered in the dark? How many of the attacking force were no longer able to advance against the compound?
Mentally Raul added his own losses. Eight earlier in the day. One more at the north gate—the coyote gate, as many knew it. Now three possibly lost on the road. And two more in the van. More than a dozen good men gone, and nothing to show for it.
Raul Hernandez set his mind to work on the problem.
It had to be simple, yet devastatingly effective.
For minutes he stood unmoving. Then his thin lips changed expression, becoming a cruel smile.
8
THE OVERHEAD LIGHT SHONE with a glow that gave the white interior of the small room the appearance of hospital-like sterility. Except for a stool, the room's only furniture consisted of a pair of narrow cots pressed against opposite walls.
She sat on the cot farthest from the room's locked door. Her slim legs, bare except for cut-off jean shorts and ragged sneakers, were pulled up toward her chin. The girl's worn T-shirt bore the slogan "Another Fine California Pair" and featured the picture of two large pears, each atop one of her breasts.
Her flawless skin was shining from her recent scrubbing in the tiny basin of water that she was given daily. Her brown eyes regarded her new cellmate with compassion.
"I'm Kathy O'Connor," she said. "Did you just arrive?"
"I'm Elsa Moore and I arrived yesterday.
Before that I resided at the Kellington Home for the Aged in Denver." The elderly woman's voice was firm, a contrast to her obviously frail body.
"I'm glad to have some company," Kathy admitted, quickly adding, "but not happy they brought you here."
"And just exactly where is here?"
"We're somewhere in the mountains. They got me in Denver, too. The van was enclosed, so I didn't see a thing. But I listened to traffic sounds and later to the driver gearing down, and I'm sure we're in the mountains maybe fifty miles or so from Denver."
Elsa Moore agreed. She had already undergone some dawning of the truth of her mysterious transfer. For the better part of an hour the two talked quietly.
Kathy twice left her cot's minimal comfort to pour water from her carefully rationed supply so that the elderly woman could moisten her dry lips and parched throat. Several times their conversation stopped in mid-sentence as the sound of booted feet came to them through the space beneath the door. Each time the footsteps either halted before reaching their holding room or went past. And each time Kathy exhaled the breath she held, unaware that she did so.
"And who are these people, these kidnappers?" Elsa asked at last.
"They wear some sort of army uniforms. At least the guards do. The man in charge is called Kurt Holbein." Kathy's lips pulled into a grimace as she spoke the name. "Raul Hernandez is in charge of the guards." She hesitated, then remained silent.
The old woman peered at the attractive young girl and waited, her bright eyes missing nothing. Finally Elsa Moore broke the silence.
"Tell me about the one you really fear, Kathy."
The girl's head came up, taking her chin from her knees. She regarded the old woman with frank curiosity.
"What are you, Mrs. Moore, some kind of mind reader?"
The old woman's chuckle gave no evidence of concern for self or future. "Kathy, I'm eighty-two years old. If a person hasn't learned something about human nature in that time, then she hasn't paid much attention to what was going on around her all those years."
After glancing at the door as though the dreaded person might materialize there, Kathy said, "Her name is Lavinia. I don't know her last name. She always wears some sort of white coat like a doctor. She just makes my skin crawl. It's something about her."
"A feeling of evil?"
"That's it exactly. She's evil. She reminds me of a really beautiful jungle animal, but when I look into her eyes I have the feeling she'd like to claw me to bits."
Again the elderly woman nodded her understanding. Slowly, carefully, she re-arranged her birdlike limbs on the edge of the the narrow cot. "My joints get stiff when I stay too long in one position," she explained. "You mentioned listening to traffic and hearing the driver change gears. That means you were conscious during your ride."
Kathy hesitated, then nodded her head. "I was awake."
"Where in Denver did they capture you? I assume you did not come of your own free will."
"I was walking along the street. It was pretty late at night. A couple of guys in this van pulled up to the curb and I went over to them. They grabbed me, and before I really knew what was happening I was handcuffed to a ring in the back of the van."
"You didn't call out for help?"
"The guy riding with me, one of the two guys who grabbed me, he'd have knocked my head off."
"He rode in back with you?"
"Yeah, he sure did."
Aware of the careful scrutiny of the older woman, Kathy hugged her knees closer to her body.
"And he abused you during your journey." It was a statement, not a question.
"If you mean he raped me on the floor of the van, I guess he abused me."
"And since you arrived?"
Kathy snorted, then grinned a mocking smile intended only for herself. "It hasn't been all that bad. Not much worse than the last couple of years, really."
"You're a runaway."
Impulsively, the girl left her cot and moved to sit beside the old woman.
With hesitant tenderness she wrapped her slim arm around the other's frail shoulders. For minutes the two captives sat taking silent comfort from each other.
When Kathy O'Connor began to speak her voice was low, yet strong. She spoke of running away from home two years earlier, of the fears she had had once on her own, and of her determination never to return to her drunken father and her mother.
She spoke of washing dishes in hostels, of sleeping in an alley, of running from gangs of roving juveniles. Eventually she walked the length of East Colfax waiting for someone to offer her the cost of a meal and rent in ex-change for her body.
"And how long have you been here?"
"A week. Actually eight days. It hasn't been all that bad. The Nazi, that's what I call Kurt, he likes me. Likes my body. He's not much in bed but at least he's quick. I've been with him four or five times. Raul has only been with me once."
"And Lavinia. Is she jealous? Is that why she seems to be evil to you?"
Kathy shook her head.
"She isn't jealous, at least not of me. She can have any man she wants and she knows it. Kurt is wild for her—I could see it in his eyes when they were together.
She's like a black widow."
"You're something of a psychic yourself," Elsa said.
"I've spent my life with creeps and bums, so I understand them."
"Tell me then. What's happening here? Why are we here?"
For seconds it seemed Kathy might not answer. When she began to speak her voice was low, her words muted.
"Some sort of experiment. I don't know for sure. All I know is that whatever happens in here can kill you. That's why they keep bringing in people like you and me. To replace the ones who die."
Instantly Kathy regretted sharing her knowledge. She wished to recall her words, and her face mirrored her dismay.
"Not to worry, Kathy." The bony hand lightly touched the girl's bare knee, then withdrew. "At my age death is merely a matter of the proper time and place. It holds no fear."
For the first time in days, tears blurred Kathy's eyes.
The two women sat in silence, each lost in consideration of what was, what was to be, what might have been. Both Kathy's hands now rested atop her bare legs, her long fingers tightly interwoven to prevent her hands from trembling.
The old woman's right arm was extended behind her to give support to her tired spine while her left hand toyed with her dress, stained from its contact with the bed in the van.
"How soon will they be coming for me?" Elsa Moore's voice held no distress. She simply wanted to know.
Kathy hesitated, considered lying, then dismissed the thought. Her cell mate was the first warm and caring human being she had met in months.
"It all depends. One woman was here when I came. They took her about an hour later. The second woman was with me most of one day. She didn't come back either. And now you're here."
"How many people would you estimate have vanished while you've been here?"
"As nearly as I can tell, seventeen." Her response was automatic. It was a figure she kept current. "No, it may be eighteen. Just before you came I heard them taking the retarded boy out of his room across the hall. I didn't hear them bring him back."
"Retarded?"
Executioner 054 - Mountain Rampage Page 5