Death Gamble

by Don Pendleton

  Where the hell was her backup? She turned and started out of the room. Along the way, she heard the blacksuits talking to one another through the headset as they closed in on the house. She wanted to wait for the help, but another scream all but dragged her to the stairs.

  She felt more than saw someone sneak up behind her. She came about, both weapons tracking in on a shadow.

  She stopped.

  It was a small child, a little girl. Her eyes were wide and she looked too frightened to cry. The poor thing, Rytova thought. Holstering the pistol, she gathered the girl into her arms and took her into a nearby room. The girl didn’t resist.

  As she clutched the girl to her, the child seemed to thaw and started to sob.

  Putting herself between the girl and the door, Rytova set the child down and began stripping off her Kevlar vest. She felt a sudden coolness surrounded her torso as she unsheathed herself and began wrapping the child in a protective cocoon of Kevlar.

  “I want my mommy,” the child said.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Rytova whispered, “but I need you to stay here for a moment. I’ll go get your mommy for you.”

  The girl spoke in a low voice. Rytova guessed that shock kept her from becoming completely hysterical. “Mommy’s crying. They’re yelling at her. Did she do something bad?”

  “No, sweetie.” She ushered the girl into a closet. She knew time was burning down fast and she had to move. “Please stay in here for just a minute, and I’ll get your mother for you. You must stay until someone comes for you. Can you do that?”

  The girl hesitated, nodded.

  “Good girl.” Rytova shut the door and went back on the move.

  Another scream from upstairs, this time followed by a male voice.

  She assumed it was the one Hawkface had called Joseph.

  “You stupid bitch! Perhaps I should cut open your face. See how you like that. I will make this a very long night for you. And I will make your children watch it all.”

  Like hell, Rytova thought as she slipped up the narrow stairwell. She refilled her left hand with the sound-suppressed SIG-Sauer as she went.

  “Please let us go,” a woman pleaded. “I want my husband back. I want my children safe. Can’t you see that?”

  Gilmore’s voice, hushed but edgy, sounded in Rytova’s ear-piece. “We’re in the house. Just another few seconds.”

  Before she could stop herself, Rytova had burst upstairs into the hallway. Everything slowed to one-quarter speed. She could hear blood pounding in her ears but could no longer feel herself breathing. She’d lost all sense of time. A big shape registered in her peripheral vision. She turned. Her brain analyzed the shape, synapses fired and the micro-Uzi rumbled in her hand as she pumped bullets into a big man with a pump shotgun closing in on her position. He backpedaled, fell and she jerked her head to the left. A man in a white dress shirt, the tails pulled out from his pants, was dragging Monica Haley through the bathroom door. The woman’s face had been burned red by exposure to the hot water. Her soaked hair hung limp around her face.

  The man brought up a straight razor, ready to fling it over-hand at Rytova. The SIG-Sauer whispered, bucking against Rytova’s palm as she fired the weapon. The first round pounded into the man’s chest and he jerked to a stop as though colliding with a wall. The second bullet buried itself just under his collarbone, coring its way through his body before ripping out his shoulder muscles. When he refused to fall, Rytova pumped a third shot into his forehead. He teetered back and fell headfirst through the bathroom door.

  Rytova made eye contact with Monica Haley. The woman’s face was alive with terror, and Rytova at first thought Haley was scared of her. It was too late when she realized the woman was looking over her shoulder at someone else.

  A gun barked. A bullet plowed into Rytova’s back. It hurt too bad for her to determine the exact point of impact. Her mind reeled. She sank first to her knees, her weapons slipping from her grip as she went down. She went facedown on the floor, her body consumed in fire, her mind still registering the melee erupting around her.

  A man was curled around a door frame, a gun homed in on Rytova. She realized the killing blow was imminent. Steeled herself for it.

  A black blur erupted from the stairwell. A submachine gun spit fire and flame. A sustained burst pounded into the hardman, spun him and heaved him down the hallway.

  More black shapes poured onto the second floor, securing Monica Haley, and the remaining two children, ministering to Rytova’s wounds. A dark shape loomed over her, and she saw Gilmore’s face.

  “Closet. First floor,” she whispered.

  With the worst over, she slipped into a welcome blackness and wondered whether it was time to reunite with Dmitri.

  FUELED BY ADRENALINE, Bolan raced the motorcycle down the hill, took it into a tight turn and aimed it toward the Haven. Gunning the engine, he closed in on the front gate, which had been knocked from its moorings by a charging vehicle and hung in two pieces.

  The facility had been turned into a war zone: a sea of overturned vehicles engulfed in flames, corpses everywhere, muzzle-flashes splitting the darkness like lightning bolts.

  The warrior brought the bike to a halt and caught a ragged line of gunners initiating a death march toward him. They were moving fast and aiming weapons at him. Holding the M-16’s butt in close to his hip, Bolan fired the weapon with one hand, dousing the killers with a sustained fusillade of 5.56 mm tumblers. Two of the men crumpled to the ground. A third fired off a burst of autofire at Bolan. The slugs passed to his right and punched through the windows of a nearby building, showering the surrounding terrain with glass. The Executioner triggered another burst at nearly the same time as his opponent. The M-16 chugged, the shots ripping into the man’s head and throat.

  The beat of chopper blades sounded to the north of Bolan and he saw one of the Black Hawks coming to life, preparing for a takeoff. At the same time, a gunner poised in the chopper’s side door fired upon a pair of blue-suited Sentinel security guards. Bolan knew he couldn’t let the chopper get into the air, or they could pulverize him and everyone he’d come to help.

  Pulling the M-16/M-203 combo to his shoulder, the warrior squeezed off a high-explosive round, planting it squarely in the side door. A moment later, the HE round blew, ripping apart the helicopter’s interior and eventually igniting the fuel tanks. The chopper—a roiling orange fireball—heaved up and spun away before falling to earth and smashing into what appeared to be a motor pool building with large bay doors. A storm of glass and shrapnel sliced through the air, forcing Bolan to tip the bike, hug the ground and wait out the explosion.

  With his leg pinned under the motorcycle, Bolan spotted two more hardmen bolting from a nearby building and closing in on him. He figured he’d expended two-thirds of the M-16’s 30-round clip and decided to go for broke. The assault rifle blazed to life, hurling a punishing fusillade of tumblers toward the approaching gunners. The closer of the pair bore the brunt of Bolan’s skilled marksmanship, absorbing most of the burst in his chest. Another slug grazed the second man’s shoulder, but barely slowed him as he whipped up a machine pistol and sprayed Bolan’s position. The warrior freed the Desert Eagle from his right armpit and unloaded three of the 240-grain man-stoppers in the guy’s direction. The man corkscrewed toward the ground.

  Pushing the motorcycle off his leg, Bolan rolled to his feet, ejecting the M-16’s clip as he rose. Stuffing the Israeli-made pistol between his ribs and his biceps, he reloaded the assault rifle and moments later was on the run, both weapons held at the ready.

  A shrill scream to his right caught the warrior’s attention. Jerking his gaze toward the sound, he saw a woman—a civilian worker—who’d fallen to the ground as she tried to elude a pursuer. Face twisted in panic, she crawled along the ground and tried to distance herself from a gunner who stepped from the shadows. Raising an Uzi, the man drew down on his victim, prepared to deal a killing strike.

  Bolan struck first. Th
e assault rifle barked out two quick bursts that ripped the killer apart before he could squeeze off shots of his own. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, the Executioner moved in on the woman, scooped her up and carried her to one of the nearby buildings. It was locked.

  “You have clearance to this place?” he asked.

  The woman nodded. Reaching inside her lab coat, she withdrew a security card and swiped it through the reader. The door hissed open. Dim fluorescent lights illuminated the main corridor, but the rooms to each side sat dark.

  Moving inside, Bolan carried the injured woman down the hall and into a windowless office. Setting her on the floor, he turned and started back out the room. The woman grabbed his pants leg and he halted.

  “What if they come for me?”

  Reaching behind his back, Bolan drew the Colt Python. “You know how to use one of these?”

  The woman nodded. “I grew up around guns.”

  Bolan handed her the pistol, two speed loaders and a flashlight. “Pull yourself into a corner and wait. I’ll send someone for you as soon as possible. Make sure you ID your target before you shoot.”

  The woman nodded and Bolan was again on the run. Using her security card, he passed through the door and back into the battle zone. Taking the woman to safety had cost him precious seconds, but he had no choice. If he had to sacrifice even a single innocent life, reaching his ultimate goal was meaningless.

  Firing from the dark, he mowed down two more rogue fighters as they ran by.

  Bolan remained in the shadows and glided along the buildings. Looking around, he identified what he thought was the primary hangar. The curved roof rose above the other two- and three-story buildings surrounding him. He estimated the distance at about three hundred yards. An easy run under any other circumstances.

  This night it was a race through hell.

  13

  William Armstrong saw the blacksuited man mowing down his people, uttered an expletive and kept on moving. His first instinct was to turn, help his men fight. Not because he felt a kinship or camaraderie with them. Hell, no. They were hired hands.

  He just hated to turn tail and run from a fight, especially from someone able to do battle like that big bastard cutting a swath through a team of elite soldiers.

  Jon Haley also saw the stranger running interference, and his face hardened. Armstrong could practically see the wheels turning. Haley was no longer alone, and his soldierly instincts were kicking in. Maybe the odds were moving in his favor.

  Armstrong cracked him across the jaw. The sucker punch sent the pilot reeling to the dirt.

  “Don’t even think it, Cowboy,” Armstrong said. “Any of my crew sees you trying to rebel, they have orders to call back to Vegas and have your family wiped out. You got it?”

  Haley pulled himself to his feet and wiped blood from his lips. He said nothing, but his expression told Armstrong he still was willing to play along. Armstrong grabbed the guy by the back of his flight suit and shoved him forward. “C’mon, Cowboy, you got the clearance.”

  At the hangar door, Haley went through the ritual: first the retinal scan, followed by a thumbprint check, followed by a voice-recognition check. The heavy steel doors slid open and Haley went inside, followed by Armstrong.

  “Halt.”

  Armstrong saw a pair of security guards down the corridor. One had sought cover inside a door frame while the other was hidden behind a steel locker. Both men had weapons trained on Haley and Armstrong. Armstrong grabbed the pilot by the neck and held him at arm’s length from himself.

  “Sir,” the guard in the doorway shouted, “you need to drop that weapon.”

  Armstrong stood fast.

  “Drop the fucking weapon,” the other guard yelled.

  Armstrong shoved Haley aside, dropped into a crouch and triggered his weapon. The Uzi etched out a blistering figure eight that flayed open the guards’ thighs, pounded at their body armor and ripped into their faces before either man could squeeze off a shot.

  Still in a crouch, Armstrong ejected the Uzi’s clip and reached for a fresh one. A shadow stirred behind him, causing him to turn. Fisting his Glock as he whirled, he extended his arm and planted the Glock’s barrel in Haley’s belly. The pilot was less than a foot away, caught dead to rights in his sneak attack.

  “Bang,” Armstrong said through clenched teeth. He laughed and pushed Haley ahead of him. Armstrong reloaded the Uzi and holstered the Glock as they neared a stairwell.

  “You’re a psychotic piece of shit,” Haley said over his shoulder.

  Armstrong grinned. “Ain’t it the truth? And guess who’s next on my hit list if he doesn’t shut his damn mouth?”

  Haley gave him a defiant look. “I’m not afraid to die.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Cowboy. You’re afraid for your family, which gives me the same results. Now get down those stairs.”

  Minutes later, they’d passed through two more steel doorways and a labyrinth of reinforced concrete tunnels. Each step of the way, Haley reluctantly used his all-points security clearance to get them through the next security hurdle. They stepped inside a cavernous underground chamber about the size of a football field.

  The Nightwind prototype sat on a platform, the plane’s black skin gleaming under rows of recessed fluorescent lights. The cockpit hatch rested open.

  “Cold in here,” Armstrong said.

  “That’s to keep the diagnostic computers cool,” Haley said. “We run the plane through an extensive series of tests before we stick it in the air. Usually takes a dozen technicians working constantly for three or four hours to get this thing in the air.”

  “Tonight you got three minutes. The escort pilots should be along any minute. Once they’re here, we take this thing topside and fly it the hell out of here.”

  Footsteps sounded behind the two men. Armstrong wheeled, raising his weapon as he did. He saw Banner approaching, and the guy held up his hands. Armstrong lowered his weapon and looked at Haley who had also turned in Banner’s direction. The pilot’s face reddened, and he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “You son of a bitch,” Haley said. “You set me up. You put my family in harm’s way.”

  Dressed in a flight suit, Banner crossed the room but avoided Haley’s fiery stare. Blood crusted his clothes, and he had a deep gash on his forehead. He carried a mesh bag filled with two flight helmets and other gear in one hand and a pistol in the other.

  “I didn’t want it to work out this way, Cowboy,” Banner said. “But I had no choice. You have to believe that’s the case.”

  “I’ll show you what I believe,” Haley said.

  The pilot stepped forward but stopped when Armstrong threatened him with the Uzi.

  “Forget it, Cowboy,” Armstrong said. “Much as I’d love to watch you two pukes have a slap fest, I’m working on a tight timetable. Now take the helmet like a good boy and get your ass on that airplane. Give him his fucking helmet, Banner.”

  The older man leathered his pistol, reached inside the mesh bag and pulled out the headgear. Keeping his distance, he tossed the helmet to Haley. The test pilot gave the older man an icy look but took what was offered to him.

  Armstrong had expected the conflict to explode and felt almost disappointed when it hadn’t. He knew he’d enjoy watching these two mix it up, but he also knew he didn’t have the time.

  Still, he couldn’t resist one more dig.

  “Hey, Haley, forget about the Beretta and the flare guns stowed in the survival gear. Banner removed that from the craft earlier tonight. Right, Banner?”

  Banner’s voice was quiet. “You know I did, Armstrong.”

  “Yeah, but I want the kid to know.”

  Haley stopped and turned back toward Banner, pinning the older man under his gaze. “Why did you do it, Banner?”

  “It’s complicated, kid.”

  “We’re burning time,” Armstrong said. “Get on that plane before I shoot your legs off and leave you to bleed to death down here.
”

  Haley frowned but continued to walk toward the jet fighter.

  Armstrong jabbed his index finger in Banner’s direction. “You. Start the hydraulic lifts. I want that hunk of steel topside in two minutes.” He barked into his headset. “Where the hell are you people? I need my pilots front and center five minutes ago.”

  “We’re one minute from your position, sir,” came the response.

  “Let’s go. I want us out of here and this place glowing in another couple of minutes.”

  Haley stopped in midstride and turned. “What the hell did you say?”

  A cold feeling passed through Armstrong, and he realized he’d almost said too much.

  He checked his chronometer, realized more than a minute had passed. Where the hell where the pilots? Before he could shout the question into the headset, a blast thundered from somewhere inside the building. Gunshots followed close behind.

  “Get your ass in that plane now,” he bellowed.

  AS HIS BLITZ CONTINUED, Mack Bolan came upon a pair of Sentinel security guards caught on the losing end of a gun battle against a group of killers. Hidden behind an overturned Chrysler, one of the guards held his abdomen with bloodied hands while a female guard wielding a handgun fought back against three-to-one odds. Two other civilian workers were huddled together behind the vehicle, trying to make themselves as small targets as possible.

  Bolan hid behind another car and scanned the area. A half dozen of Kursk’s soldiers were spread out on the opposite side of the street, hiding behind cars and buildings. Orange ribbons of fire streaked from their weapons as they battered the innocents with gunfire. Bolan saw three more shadows moving along the rooftops.

  “Striker to Ace,” Bolan called into his headset.

  “Go, Striker,” Jack Grimaldi said.

  “I think Kursk has people up on the roof. I need air support.”

  “I’m on it, Striker. Been waiting for your call. You seen any signs of Haley yet?”

  “Negative.”