“Move!”
Bolan and Abu ran down the wall. The men running juramentad swarmed screaming against the walls as the defenders shot down into them. Two of them ran up and began chopping at the gate with their parangs even as the dynamite burned.
Fass ran to Bolan’s side. “Makeen! We must—”
“Down!” Bolan shoved Abu and the woman to the sand.
Thunder rolled along the wall. The gate and the two men pounding on it disappeared in a flash. The assaulting group roared in mindless victory and surged toward the smoking opening.
Bolan was already up. “Abu! Single stick!”
Abu fished out a stick of dynamite.
“Abu! Suja! Give a hand!”
The pair made stirrups out of their hands. Bolan tasted the iodine bitterness of nitroglycerine as he shoved the sweating stick of dynamite between his teeth and took a running step. Abu and Fass grunted as they took his weight and boosted him to the top of the wall. Bolan pulled himself up. A pair of guards stood on the catwalk a few feet away shooting into the mob streaming in through the gate.
Bolan’s rifle ripped through the spine of one of the closest guards and ripped the head from the second. The .50-caliber gun was the real problem. The big Browning slaughtered all who came through the shattered gate.
The lighter in Bolan’s hand was cracked from his climb but still lit after a few flicks. He pressed the fuse to the flame. Someone in the tower got wise, and the fifty caliber swung its smoking muzzle in Bolan’s direction. He flung the dynamite. It turned end over end over in a sparking wheel, and the three men in the bamboo tower screamed as the stick of dynamite landed among them. The machine gunner dropped the spade grips of his fifty and leaped twenty feet to the courtyard to fall under the blades of the howling mob. One of the other two men tried to kick the stick off the platform. His sandal connected, and both he and the top of the tower were eclipsed by a thudding red ball of fire.
The Mahdi’s men swarmed onto the grounds.
Guards were firing from the patio and the balconies of the mansion.
Bolan stood on the wall and faced the jungle. His voice boomed over the sound of battle. “Ali!”
Ali and his five surviving riflemen charged out of the trees.
Bolan’s rifle corps clustered below him on the wall. Fifteen had survived the initial charge. He jumped from the wall. “Section Two! Flank right! Section Three, flank left! Four! You’re with me! Abu, dynamite!”
Bolan slid the stick into his tunic while the remnants of Section Two and Section Three peeled off and began flanking the mansion. The rest of the men clustered around Bolan. “Spread out!” he shouted.
The riflemen spread into a skirmishing line and moved forward steadily. They walked fire into the windows and balconies as they came to suppress the enemy guns. Ali and his section came through the gate at a run and fell into the line.
The door of the mansion’s triple garage was suddenly smashed off its hinges, and a black Hummer roared out with its lights blazing. Bolan’s corps swung their weapons onto the vehicle and flicked their selector switches to full-auto. Hundreds of orange sparks flickered like berserk fireflies across the body panels and windshield. The Hummer was armored. The M-60 machine gun mounted on its roof began strobing into the attackers. The men with blades were simply run down beneath the wheels. The machine gunner had his sights set on Bolan’s riflemen. The engine of the Hummer roared like Doomsday as it bore down on the line.
“Scatter!” Bolan roared. “Abu! Dyna—”
“Allah Akhbar!” Abu drew his kris and charged the Hummer. The machine gunner ignored him and shot down two more of Bolan’s riflemen as they scattered. The driver saw Abu waving his blade in the headlights and gunned the engine.
Fass screamed, “Abu!”
The driver failed to notice the canvas satchel slung beneath Abu’s arm. Abu ran straight at the Hummer’s grill. “Allah—”
Abu’s fifteen sticks of dynamite lit up the Hummer like an Air Force iron bomb on impact.
The force of the explosion knocked Bolan off his feet. Heat rolled over the compound in a wave. Bolan watched for a dazed moment as the back end of the Hummer rose twenty feet in the air trailing smoke and fire. The front of the Hummer was gone. The Executioner rolled as an axle came crashing down out of the stratosphere and thudded into the earth where he had just been. Half of his riflemen had been knocked down, and the others staggered dazedly. Bolan leaped to his feet, ignoring the rain of smoking metal all around him and pumped his rifle into the air.
“Abu!”
The dazed rifle corps rallied to the sight of their leader’s rifle, bayonet fixed and held like a flag. The riflemen roared back. “Abu!”
The juramentado were hacking at the front door and smashing at the windows while the defenders fired outward. The demolition charge to breach the mansion was gone. However, the shattered garage lay open and lit from within like the chink in the enemy armor.
“Chosen men!” Bolan shouted. “Allah Akhbar!”
“Allah Akhbar!” Bolan’s riflemen streamed after him in a wedge, firing their rifles from the hip-assault position. Bullets tore into the garage and sparked off the armored Mercedes limousine parked within. The fire-engine red Ferrari Testarossa fared much worse.
Bolan stopped beside the limo and tried the driver’s-side door. It was unlocked. He opened the door, flipped down the sun visor and keys spilled into his hand. “Ali! Smash down the door! Assault the house! Room by room! I’ll meet you in the middle!”
“Yes, Makeen!”
Ali and the riflemen began pouring fire up the step into the heavy oak door between the garage and the house.
“Suja!” Bolan folded the stock of his rifle and slid behind the wheel of the limo. “Get in!”
Fass crawled into the passenger seat as Bolan gunned the engine and slid the gear into reverse. The long Mercedes squealed out of the garage and fishtailed into a bootlegger’s turn as Bolan yanked up on the parking brake and spun the wheel. He rammed the limousine back into gear, and the tires spat gravel as he accelerated toward the side of the house. The suspension bucked and shook as he took the Mercedes off the driveway and onto the grounds. Sections Two and Three had the back patio of the mansion in a cross fire, but they were meeting spirited resistance from the defenders. The few fighters who had made it around back were sprawled on the lawn and the patio steps where they had been cut down. Bolan’s riflemen crouched behind trees and raised flowerbeds and engaged the defenders.
Dirt flew as Bolan brought the limo to a sliding halt in front of a flowerbed. He rolled down the window. The six remaining riflemen of Section Three stared at the black car that had miraculously appeared in front of them. “Get in!”
Bolan’s riflemen grinned, leaping over the planter and piling into the back of the limo.
The Executioner slid the car into gear and accelerated straight for the mansion. The defenders suddenly realized the limousine no longer belonged to their boss and began shooting at it. The body of the Mercedes popped and ticked as if it were in a hailstorm. Sparks flashed off the windshield.
Fass gasped in alarm as Bolan put the pedal to the floor. “What are you—”
“Brace yourselves!” Bolan said in warning.
The engine screamed in protest as he rammed it into low gear. The limo lurched and bucked like a bronco as it hit the flight of steps up to the terrace.
“Allah Akhbar!” Bolan shouted for the benefit of his riflemen.
The six young men roared like lions in response. “Allah Akhbar!”
The limo thudded onto the terrace, and Bolan shoved it into second gear and accelerated. A guardsman recklessly stood before them, spraying the Mercedes with a pistol in each hand. He flapped like a ruptured bird as the limo hit him and he flew across the hood. Fass screamed as he hit the windshield and rolled off.
The armored limousine plunged through the double glass doors. Sofas, chairs, tables and guardsmen were broken and sent flying as the limo
slammed into Megawatti’s living room. Bolan hit the brakes, and the tires shrieked and slid on the marble floor.
“Hold on!”
The limo’s rear wheels rose up as it slammed into the banister. The airbags deployed and pressed Bolan back into his seat. The rear wheels slammed down, and Bolan hit the button for the sunroof as the airbags deflated.
Two of Bolan’s riflemen popped up through the sunroof and began spraying their rifles at the guards.
“Short bursts!” Bolan kicked open his door and crouched behind it as a man with an Uzi sprayed the armored glass window. The Executioner dropped low and fired off a burst under the door. Rifle bullets shattered the killer’s ankles and knocked him off his feet.
Bolan’s men spilled out of the limo. Section Two was down to four men, but they had cleaned out the last defenders on the terrace. They entered the mansion and linked up.
“Suja! Take Section Two! Get the front door open!”
Gunfire erupted from the top of the stairs.
“Section Three! Cover me!” Bolan jumped onto the hood and stepped to the roof of the limo as his men cut loose at the men on the landing above. He tossed away his rifle and leaped. His hands caught the marble rail and he swung his right foot up and jammed his sandaled foot between a pair of uprights. The gunmen on the landing stared in alarm at the black figure that suddenly hung before them on the railing like a giant black spider.
Bolan pulled the Philippine Army .45 out of his sash and shoved it through the rail. The Colt rolled in twin trip-hammer blows as Bolan double-tapped each of the three gunmen in the chest. “Chosen men! To me!”
Bolan’s riflemen swarmed up the stairs. Below him, he heard the tearing scream of the crazed attackers as they entered the house. Bolan had no time for them. He hauled himself over the railing and dropped into a crouch as a door down the hallway burst open.
Rustam Megawatti emerged with two of his guards. The little Indonesian man wore a gold silk smoking jacket and not much else. Both he and his two men held gold-plated Sterling submachine guns in their hands. Women were screaming in the room behind them. Bolan took his .45 in both hands and the big Colt barked twice. Megawatti’s bodyguards both fell with burst brows. Bolan flung his empty .45 at Megawatti and threw himself into a forward shoulder roll. The two-and-a-half pound pistol cracked into the Pirate King’s chin and his gold-plated gun snarled off a burst into the mirrored ceiling.
Bolan slid his sword from over his shoulder as he rolled to his feet. The Indonesian spit teeth, staggered back a step and lowered his submachine gun for the kill. Bolan took a forward step and hurled the two-handed sword like a lumberjack at an ax-throwing competition. The sword revolved once and struck Megawatti’s sunken chest. It pierced his sternum and pinned him to the doorjamb behind him like an insect.
The Pirate King of the South China Sea stared at the iron ring hilt jutting from his chest. His gold-plated gun fell from his fingers. His chin drooped to his chest as he sagged into the Chinese sword impaling him.
Bolan’s riflemen hit the landing with Ali in the lead as Bolan took Megawatti’s golden gun and stripped his bodyguards of their spare magazines.
“You have slain him!” Ali was jubilant.
Bolan nodded and stared back down the stairs. The men running juramentado were in the house and rampaging from room to room. The real screaming began as Megawatti’s wounded, the household servants and anyone else they found were hacked to bits in an orgy of rising and falling blades. A few gunshots rang out, but mostly there was the fanatical howling of the juramentado and the sounds of a massacre. Prostitutes screamed as they were dragged from the bedrooms. Some fell screaming beneath the blood-drenched blades, while others were dragged off by men with a lust for more than just killing. Men in business suits who had obviously been Megawatti’s guests were hauled out of their hiding places in closets and beneath beds. They pleaded for mercy in half a dozen languages as they were dragged into the living room and summarily dismembered.
Bolan’s men stared down into the caldron of violence below. They had signed up to do the Mahdi’s will. They’d had dreams of encountering the nonbelievers, of striking off their heads and making great slaughter among them. Instead they had been sent, some very unwillingly, to join Bolan’s rifle corps and been made soldiers. As the chosen men gazed down onto the killing ground, they were like sober men at a party full of drunks.
The killers below were no longer human. They were like dogs, drunk on slaughterhouse blood.
The remains of the rifle corps looked down at the horror and then back at Bolan uncertainly. Ali looked sick. Suja’s face was a blank, unreadable mask. Pedoy swallowed uncomfortably. “Makeen—”
Bolan ignored him as Jusuf entered the mansion surrounded by armed men. A Chinese man Bolan did not recognize walked with him. Jusuf took in the horror surrounding him and a thin smile crossed his face. Bolan’s eyes went to slits.
Jusuf and his guards mounted the stairs. It was clear that they had not run juramentado but had watched the proceedings from a distance. The remains of Bolan’s rifle corps stood at attention as Jusuf came to the landing. The Indonesian stared long and hard at Bolan’s sword where it spiked Megawatti to the wall. “And where is the son? Isfan?”
The Chinese man looked Bolan up and down in hostile appraisal.
Bolan ignored him and glanced down the hallway to the suite adjoining Megawatti’s. “Probably in there. With some guards.”
“Fetch him.”
The Executioner ripped his sword free of Megawatti, and the Pirate King fell facefirst into a puddle of his own gore. Bolan wiped his blade on the silk smoking jacket and sheathed it. He crouched next to one of the guards and drew a bayonet and clicked it onto the muzzle of his submachine gun.
“All right.” Bolan raised the weapon. “Take cover.”
The men pressed themselves against the wall or lurked in doorways as Bolan fired a burst through the door. A woman screamed and men shouted. Rifle bullets ripped back through the doorway in response.
“Yeah, I think he’s in there,” Bolan said.
“Fetch him,” Jusuf repeated.
Bolan burned the rest of his magazine into the door. He kept his pattern in a circle the diameter of a saucer. He slid in a fresh magazine and took his last stick of dynamite out of his tunic. “Ali,” he called out.
Jusuf watched with hawklike interest as Ali drew his lighter and lit the dangling fuse. Bolan looked at his remaining men. He was down to nineteen riflemen. They had taken more than fifty percent casualties. He wasn’t going to forgive Jusuf for that.
“Be ready,” he said.
Bolan walked up to the door and put his fist through the spot he’d weakened. He yanked it back and pressed himself against the marble frame. Bullets flew out in a hail. Bolan watched the flashing flame climb its sparking path up the fuse.
When there was half an inch left, he popped the stick through the hole.
The men behind the door shouted in horror. The women screamed. Bolan raced down the hall and threw himself into an adjoining bathroom with two of his riflemen. The bathroom fixtures shook as the dynamite detonated. A flurry of wooden splinters and broken marble flew down the hall like shrapnel as the door disintegrated.
“Follow me!” Bolan charged through the black smoke filling the hall. The doorway was gone. He vaulted the section of missing floor into the suite of rooms. A white-suited guardsman bleeding out of both ears from the blast drunkenly aimed an immense revolver in Bolan’s direction. The Sterling snarled in Bolan’s hands and hammered the bodyguard backward and toppled him over a chair. Kalashnikovs erupted on Bolan’s flanks. Another white suit staggered as the two automatic rifles chewed him up like a meat grinder. A pair of naked blond women screamed in hysteria behind the bed. Bolan burned down another guard, and his submachine gun locked open on empty. The last guard fell beneath Ali’s and Pedoy’s rifles.
“Die!” Isfan Megawatti burst out of the closet in his underwear screaming and spraying the be
droom with an FN assault rifle. “Die! Die! Die!
Fass cried out as she was struck and fell. Pedoy spun as he took a hit from the big battle rifle.
Bolan lunged. He hooked the barrel of Megawatti’s rifle with his bayonet and slapped the muzzle skyward. Bullets shot into the ceiling. Bolan was wearing a black head wrap and greasepaint, but for a moment he and Megawatti locked gazes.
Isfan stared into Bolan’s blue eyes and gaped in shock. “You—”
Bolan rammed his bayonet into Isfan’s belly to the hilt. He ripped the eight-inch blade upward until it hit bone. The Pirate Prince let out a dying sigh and fell to the blackened carpet.
The two women would not stop screaming.
“Ali, take the women. Tell anyone who asks that I gave them to you as a reward for your bravery. When you have a chance, take them into the trees and hide them until we leave. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Makeen.” Ali nodded. “I understand.” The two women screamed uncomprehendingly as their savior dragged them away.
Bolan surveyed the carnage. The bullet had torn an ugly furrow through the flesh of Suja’s shoulder. Pedoy had a similar wound, but the bullet had broken his collarbone. During Bolan’s one week Warrior 101 intensive, he had taught his riflemen basic field dressing and two of his men were already tending to Suja’s and Pedoy’s wounds.
One of the surviving riflemen stepped up uncertainly. “Makeen?”
“What is it, Isah?”
“What would you have us do?”
“Locate all the men, dead, alive and wounded. I want a head count. Gather the weapons. We own the upstairs. Take what you want as spoils.” The Executioner gazed at the body of Isfan Megawatti. “And take him to Jusuf with my compliments.”
15
A great victory had been won. The Mahdi’s enemy had been struck down. The Pirate King of the South China Sea was dead, and so was the heir to his throne. To the victor had gone the spoils. Rustam Megawatti’s Cambodian mansion had been as richly appointed as the palace of any Saudi oil sheik. They had taken money, jewelry and valuables away from the estate in the millions. They had also sailed away with two of Megawatti’s yachts. It had been a good haul.
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