Divide and conquer.
Like hell.
Bolan took his first step onto a trail soon to be soaked with blood, fully prepared to walk his final mile, if necessary.
He vowed to not walk it alone.
8
The guard wasn’t supposed to hear the Executioner coming.
But as Bolan emerged from the jungle the stout stalk of a plant snapped underfoot, diverting the man’s attention from his cigarette to the soldier closing in on his back.
The guard had ventured too close to the jungle. Bolan had hoped to take the man down quietly, perhaps interrogate him and gather valuable intel regarding troop strength, perhaps even garner the man’s help in breaching the compound.
Instead, the noise had ignited the hardman’s combat reflexes and set him into action. In a single fluid motion, he turned, firing his Galil and trying to acquire a target as Bolan approached.
The Galil’s snout was homing in on Bolan’s chest, but he had the other man in his sights. The Beretta chugged once, spitting out a single 9 mm round, which burrowed deep into the man’s cheek before ripping out the side of his head in a spray of blood, bone and brain matter.
As the man tumbled to the ground, Bolan continued on. He exchanged the Beretta for the Colt Commando as he went. The Galil’s chatter had shattered the stillness along with Bolan’s hopes for a quiet insertion. People already knew he was somewhere on the island. The Galil’s burst just told everybody where.
It was time for the bigger firepower. The Colt carried a 30-round magazine of 5.56 mm and had a four-inch flash suppressor attached to the barrel’s tip. Bolan switched the Colt to full-auto as he glided along the wall, eyes darting about, scouring the area for the next threat.
The intel had indicated the island’s nerve center was located within a single sprawling compound positioned at the land-mass’s highest point. Satellite photos provided to Bolan by Kurtzman indicated the main complex included Kursk’s home, dual helipads, the motor pool and several smaller, unidentified buildings. A twelve-foot-high security wall protected most of the compound’s perimeter, while a sheer cliff plunged down the back side, making entry from that direction all but impossible.
If he wanted to locate Dade, Bolan had no other choice but to enter the main compound. He’d lost his climbing gear along with most of his other equipment back in the tunnel. That left him with a single option, and not a very good one at that: he had to go through the front door.
A flash of movement ahead caught Bolan’s attention. A gunner popped up at the corner of the security wall, exposing his head, part of his upper torso and an Uzi submachine gun. Muzzle-flash blossomed from the SMG’s barrel and autofire buzzed a path toward Bolan.
The Colt cracked out a smooth line of return fire that struck the wall just inches from Bolan’s target. The rounds chipped away at the concrete and forced his opponent to take cover. Bolan bolted to the right, returning to the dense foliage that lay nearby. He emptied the Commando’s clip on the run, peppering the wall with an angry swarm of slugs and keeping his opponent pinned down.
When the gun went dry, Bolan ejected the magazine and grabbed another from his seized combat webbing. As he recharged the weapon, the hardman braved the corner and came into view. He had his right arm raised overhead and appeared ready to lob something in Bolan’s direction.
Fluidly, Bolan aimed the Colt and stitched the man from hip to shoulder with a quick burst. Even as bullets pulped the man’s midsection, the grenade flew free from his fingers and arced in Bolan’s direction.
The fragmentation grenade’s smooth surface caught the sun’s glare as it arced overhead and began its descent about ten yards from Bolan. The warrior ran the numbers in his head as he turned and ran. If the egg had a standard fifteen-meter kill radius and a four-second fuse, Bolan had two, maybe three seconds to get some cover.
The warrior sprinted for the nearby trees and underbrush. As the doomsday numbers plummeted to zero and the grenade boomed behind him, Bolan thrust himself into a tangle of plants. He landed on his belly, the impact driving out his breath. Though he had distanced himself from the kill zone, bits of razor wire whistled overhead, shearing the tall grass and plants and slicing the skin of the palm trees.
As the grenade’s thunderclap died down, Bolan rolled onto his back and stared up at the emerald leaves of the palms. He took a moment to regain his breath while his right hand patted the earth, searching out the Colt Commando, which had slipped from his grip when he hit the dirt. He found it and let his fingers move over the smooth finish until they reached the pistol grip. He pulled the weapon to him and brought himself upright.
Moments later, Bolan was crossing the clearing. Hoping to scavenge more weapons, he knelt beside the corpse and stripped the guy of two fragmentation grenades. An access card with a magnetic strip hung from the man’s neck by a thin chain. Bolan grabbed the chain and ripped the access card free.
The rumble of an engine, the grind of earth under wheels caught Bolan’s attention. The noise originated from an opening in the trees to his right and about thirty yards away. At the same time, he also heard gunfire emanating from within the compound at his back. An image of Rytova in trouble flashed across his mind faster than he could will it away.
As Bolan got to his feet, a Land Rover rocketed out from the jungle and roared down a trail toward him. The arms and heads of shooters protruded from the vehicle’s windows, and weapons rattled as they spit a hail of deadly fire in Bolan’s direction.
The warrior spun and ran for the gate, feet pounding hard against the red earth. Staying close to the security wall, he dug the access card out of his pocket. From behind, he heard the Land Rover’s driver red-lining the engine as he mashed the accelerator to the floor.
Bullets whistled as Bolan sprinted up the incline leading to the front entrance. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Land Rover weaving back and forth as it struggled over deep ruts worn in the road. Bolan figured the jostling caused by the rough terrain probably was throwing off the gunners’ aim and consequently saving his ass.
At least for the moment.
He knew Kursk’s mercenaries were pros.
Ahead, a pair of hardmen bolted through the stronghold’s front gates. Even as the gunners started to raise their own weapons, Bolan raked them with long bursts from the assault rifle, cutting down both men where they stood.
Bolan crested the hill, ran past the dead men and reached the gate, which was closing. He wedged himself between the two ends of the chain-driven gate as it slammed shut behind him.
The main house—a luxurious three-story structure—stood to his right about thirty-five yards away. Three other buildings, all single-story painted aluminum structures about twice the length of a suburban ranch home, stood in a row to his left. Bolan guessed the area contained the barracks and other utility buildings.
The soldier heard the steady whir of helicopter blades before he saw the craft. Looking toward the house, he glimpsed the whirling rotors as they peeked just above the roofline for a moment before the chopper came in to full view. The aircraft hovered for a moment and machine guns erupted, raining down a punishing volley of slugs that shredded the house’s exterior.
Before Bolan could react, the helicopter shot farther up, whirled and winged its way toward the Atlantic Ocean.
He cursed under his breath. If Dade was on the chopper, the mission had been a bust. From the start, Bolan had had serious misgivings about pulling the scientist’s fat from the fire, considering his fast and loose lifestyle and how he’d jeopardized national security. But the warrior had agreed to do it for a greater good. Thus far, he’d gotten zilch in return.
A mechanical growl sounded behind Bolan. He whirled in time to see the Land Rover, knobby tires kicking up long plumes of dirt, as it carved out a collision course for the gate. Steel clashed against steel. The barrier bowed under the battering but didn’t give. The driver slammed the Land Rover into Reverse, grabbed some running room and accelerat
ed again. A glance at the twisted metal gate told Bolan it wouldn’t withstand a second strike.
He needed to get some combat stretch. The sprint to the house was too great to make before he became a hood ornament. He’d have to make a run for the aluminum buildings. Bolan raced over the expanse of barren earth and headed for the nearest of the three buildings.
At the same time, the Land Rover broke through the gate and roared into the compound. It immediately swerved in Bolan’s direction and, with engines whining, bore down on him.
A brick wall rose about four feet from the ground and surrounded the group of buildings. Bolan willed his legs to move faster as he closed in on the barrier and without breaking stride, he vaulted over it and sprinted between two of the buildings.
The Land Rover ground to a stop, and Bolan heard doors snap open as a group of gunners disgorged from the vehicle. Two of the men pursued Bolan into a valley between the buildings while the third went MIA. On the run, the warrior plucked a frag grenade from his web gear, yanked the pin and lobbed the weapon behind him.
As he raced out from between the buildings, he thrust himself into a deep rut and burrowed in for cover. The grenade discharged, raking the area with shrapnel and flame and cutting anguished cries short. Holding the Colt Commando close to his body at waist level, Bolan checked the blast site and found what appeared to be the remains of two men.
Stepping back into the open, Bolan spotted a slender, red-haired man sprinting for the main house. Recalling the intelligence photos supplied by Stony Man Farm, he identified the guy as Jack Cole.
Bolan knew the rogue CIA agent had been part of the team trying to ambush him at Talisman’s compound. Chances were he’d had a hand in the murders of the State Department agents. That made Cole a traitor of the highest order. And, even if Bolan had lost Kursk and Dade, he’d consider the mission a partial success if he could eliminate Cole.
It was better than nothing.
But not by much.
Yeah, he’d hunt the guy down, lean on him to find out what he knew about Kursk’s plans. He’d make sure the treasonous agent was served justice.
HIDDEN IN A TANGLE of tall grass, Natasha Rytova rested her gaze on the sentry standing several yards to her left and thought about how best to take him down.
Sheathed in a Kevlar vest, eyes obscured by mirrored aviator shades, the man stood a foot away from the security wall, an AK-47 canted across his chest.
Fear fluttered about Rytova’s stomach like a moth circling an exposed light bulb as she decided her next course. She guessed the man outweighed her by at least one hundred pounds. And he was heavily armed with an assault rifle, a pistol and a combat knife in plain view and who knew what else hidden on his person.
Even with her training, she could end up losing if she undertook a head-on clash with this man.
Undoubtedly, the quickest path to survival was to exterminate him with a bullet to the brain. Clean, neat, precise.
The question was could she do it? Not could she kill; she’d already done that many times over, but always in self-defense. Could she shoot an unsuspecting person, even one she considered a murderous thug? That posed a whole new dilemma for her.
And what about Nikolai Kursk? The question had nagged her since she’d started this quest months ago. What if he raised his hands and surrendered? What if the same man who’d killed her father and husband in cold blood begged her for mercy? What then?
Finally, she shoved the conjecture away.
She bracketed the big guard in the sights of her SIG-Sauer and tightened her finger on the trigger.
A crack, distant and muffled, broke the stillness. The guard turned, looking in the direction of the noise. As chatter broke out on his headset, he cocked his head, listened.
He replied in Russian. “Yes, yes, I understand,” he said. “I will stay at my post.”
Almost as soon as he said the words and killed the connection, he began running along the length of the security wall and heading for the fight.
The guard made Rytova’s decision for her. Breaking cover, she drew down on the man. If Cooper was waging war elsewhere on the island, she couldn’t stand by while this man went to join the fray.
“Stop!” she yelled in Russian.
The man halted.
“Drop your weapon.”
The AK-47 thudded as it hit the ground.
“Turn toward me.”
The man did. He stared at the Russian woman.
“I hope you can shoot that pistol well. It’s much bigger than you are.” A grin spread across his features. “I am much bigger than you are, for that matter.”
Hot rage flushed Rytova’s face.
“The other weapons,” she snapped. “Drop them now.”
Unsheathing the knife, he chucked it several feet away, then unholstered his pistol and set it lightly on the ground.
“Turn and lie facedown on the ground. Put your hands behind your head.”
The man turned, dropped onto one knee. He kept his left biceps level with his shoulders, while his forearm shot up at a ninety-degree angle and his palm faced forward. His right hand drifted out of sight. He whirled at the waist, clutching a small, black pistol and hastily tried to acquire a target.
The SIG-Sauer bucked twice against Rytova’s palm as she cored two shots into the man. One hammered into his throat, a second into his mouth.
The guard’s body convulsed for a minute as his overloaded nervous system worked in vain to understand the trauma gripping his body. He went still and pitched forward, dead.
Rytova noticed her hands trembled, and she bit hard on her lower lip. Fighting to regain her professional detachment, she turned to the wall and appraised it, shoving the image of the dead man from her mind. Solid. Poured concrete. No hand- or footholds. Fifteen feet high. Ornate iron lamps positioned along the top ledge every fifteen feet or so. A small rail ran the length of the walls.
Reaching into her bag, she extracted a length of nylon rope tipped with a black rubber-coated grappling hook. Tossing the rope up and over the wall, she pulled back on it until one of the claws caught under the railing. She tugged at the rope, checking to see whether it would bear her weight, found that it would and began to climb.
By the time she reached the top of the wall, her shoulder and arm muscles burned from the effort. She ignored the discomfort, relying on the anger surging through her body and her countless hours of conditioning to shore up her stamina. Dmitri would have made the climb, she knew. He’d have walked through hell for her and never complained. Could she do any less? The answer was obvious.
Pulling herself onto the top of the wall, she dropped the rope down the other side, and rappelled quickly to the ground.
Moving into an angular shadow cast by the wall, Rytova checked her surroundings. An unmanned helicopter gunship sat nearby. The house was a luxurious three-story structure with a stucco exterior and a roof covered in ceramic tiles. Potted palms filled balconies running the lengths of the second and third floors. A tennis court and a swimming pool were set in back of the house.
A pair of women clad in bikinis lay in the sun, roasting their already dark skin to what seemed to Rytova to be the color and consistency of beef jerky.
Rytova guessed the women were hookers; she knew from Kursk’s profile that he rarely surrounded himself with any other type of woman. Rytova also knew from her contacts in Moscow that it galled him to no end that a female was methodically damaging his criminal empire piece by piece.
A pair of gunners sprinted from the house, and Rytova burrowed deeper into the shadows. Instead of coming for her, though, they turned, headed around the front of the house and went to the front gate. One man swiped a card, opening the barrier, while the second man covered him. They disappeared from the compound, the gate sealing behind them.
Rytova made her way to the house, using the sweeping shadows cast by palm trees for cover wherever possible. She holstered the SIG-Sauer and replaced it with an Uzi. She slipped up b
ehind the women, drawing within a few feet of them before her shadow betrayed her approach. They turned in unison and one started to speak. Rytova held up a finger to silence her.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said in a low voice. “Please be quiet. Things here are about to become very unsafe. You must go somewhere else. Do you have such a place?”
One of the women nodded and pointed west. “Nikki keeps a house for his ladies on the west beach. It’s where we entertain.”
Rytova nodded. “Have you seen a man, an American?” she asked. “He’s a scientist.”
The woman scowled. Rytova noticed her words were slurred and she seemed to struggle as she put together her thoughts. “Oh, yeah, we seen him. Spent the night with the guy. He’s a freak. Not a freak like kinky. But just a freak, you know?”
Rytova felt adrenaline-fueled anger ready to spill over. She glanced at the pool and watched as sunlight danced on small breaks in the surface. She sucked in a deep breath. “Please. Is he in the guest house?”
“Aww no, honey. He’s in here.” The woman nodded at the main house. Her voice went quiet, almost reverential. “Nikki says he’s a real important guy. I still say he’s a freak. Nikki always sticks us with the freaks.” She said it as if she were sharing information with a close girlfriend. The woman’s glassy red-rimmed eyes and constant sniffing indicated strong cocaine use.
“So he’s in here?” Rytova asked.
“Yeah. He’s on the third floor.”
“Is there a cell in there?”
“A cell?” The woman paused for a moment. “Oh, you mean like a prison cell? Hell no. He’s Nikki’s guest.”
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. All last night he was talking about him and Nikki this and him and Nikki that. How Nikki had promised him a big score, but ended up giving him the shaft. How ‘he was going to get even with that big Russian SOB.’ He’s not a gnat on Nikki’s ass, you ask me.”
Gunshots sounded from within the house.
“Go,” Rytova said forcefully.
Death Gamble Page 13