Deadly Contact. Don Pendleton
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SUV was only yards from them, slowed almost to a stop as the occupants searched for their quarry.
“Did they see us?” Dukas asked above the hiss of the rain.
“Most likely didn’t,” Bolan answered. “Easy to miss us in these conditions.”
“What do we do?”
“Use it to our advantage. Start cutting down the odds. You go for that front tire. Now.”
She didn’t challenge his command, simply eased the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer around and stroked the trigger three times. The first shot missed. The next pair chunked into the tire, which blew with a soft sound. The SUV lurched to a stop.
Bolan hit the driver’s window with a pair of close shots, the glass imploding and the wheelman jerking in his seat as the 9 mm slugs hit home. Coming up on one knee Bolan triggered more shots at the SUV’s windows.
Confusion stalled the passengers and by the time they had overcome it, two were dead, another wounded, and the rest frantically pushed open the doors on the opposite side of the vehicle, tumbling clear. High ground clearance left them exposed, and Bolan laid his fire into the crouching figures, seeing one go down before the others broke apart.
“The other car’s coming,” Dukas warned.
“I see it,” Bolan said. “Start to back up, flat to the ground. And keep going. Take the bag with you.”
“What about—”
“Go.”
His tone warned her not to resist. Dukas wriggled away from her position, sliding her body through the greasy mud, dragging the duffel bag behind her. She had gone only a few yards when the stutter of a submachine gun sounded. She felt the impact as the line of slugs churned the earth. She continued to crawl, surprisingly calm despite the entirely new experience of being under hostile fire. There was something almost unreal about the situation, but she didn’t pause to question it. Later, if there was any later, she would.
Bolan had started to move in the opposite direction, working his way around to the rear of the stalled SUV. He was making his plan as he moved, aware of the ever-changing situation, using the confusion that had to have been present within the ranks of the opposition. They had been anticipating a run down of their quarry, not the opposite where the hunted became the hunter. Bolan’s strike against them had made them stop and reconsider. If he kept that feeling alive by taking the fight to them, rather than simply running, he might yet gain full advantage. It was worth the risk. Bolan had never lost a fight through quitting, and his warrior mentality always urged him forward, using superior thought and tactics.
He slithered his way through the mud, low to the ground, and he noticed that the gunfire had ceased. The targets had vanished and the gun crew was evaluating what to do next. They were in open country, the terrain unforgiving and the driving rain simply adding to the difficulty of locating their quarry. That was their problem. As Bolan got closer he saw figures silhouetted against their vehicles, with headlights still blazing. The enemy stood out clearly. It suggested that these men were not seasoned fighters in this kind of situation. He figured they were probably a hired gun crew from an urban background.
Bolan drew himself against the bulk of the vehicle and hauled himself up on one knee. Peering around the edge, he counted the opposition. Three close to the second car, a fourth standing off a few yards, cradling a submachine gun as he peered into the misty gloom.
“No way we’re going to find them out here,” one of the men said.
“Billingham said that it we don’t find ’em we don’t need to go back.”
Someone laughed nervously, then said, “What’s he going to do? Wipe us all out?”
“Now I know you never worked for him before, because that’s just what he will do.”
Bolan snapped in a fresh magazine and cocked the Beretta. He rose to his full height and stepped out from behind the SUV, his finger easing the selector switch to 3-round bursts.
He took out the SMG man first, the 9 mm bullets catching the guy in the chest as he turned to rejoin his three partners. The 93-R’s muzzle was already tracking in on the trio as the shot man went down. Bolan broke away from the SUV, moving in close as he triggered repeat bursts, the slugs ripping through clothing and into flesh, spinning his targets off their feet. They collided with one another as they toppled into the mud.
Bolan went directly to the SUV and opened the driver’s door. He slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine and swung the vehicle around, moving in the direction Dukas had been crawling. He braked and stepped out of the SUV.
“Erika? Over here,” he shouted.
In the beam of the lights he saw her mud-caked shape emerge from the mire, then haul herself toward him.
“Don’t,” she warned. “One crack and I’ll lose it.” She flicked mud from her face. “Can you believe women pay to have this stuff plastered over them to improve their looks?”
“In your case it looks like it’s working already,” Bolan said.
“Until I work that out I’ll consider it a compliment,” she said as she tramped by him. She yanked open the passenger door and dumped the duffel bag inside, then climbed into the SUV.
Bolan turned the vehicle in the direction of the distant highway, his mind working constantly. He needed to get them clear of this area, somewhere they could hole up temporarily and assess the events that had started when Erika Dukas had received a phone call from a friend sometime earlier that day.
2
Earlier that day—Falls Church, Virginia
Chill winds had been blowing from the north with a hint of snow in the fine rain misting the windshield of Erika Dukas’s 1965 Chevrolet Impala-SS. She drove steadily, aware of the gathering weariness that had started to impinge upon her being as she wound down. She had just finished a complicated translation for Carmen Delahunt at Stony Man Farm. The work had been intense, urgent. After handing over the completed transcript, she had logged out and had left the Farm, raising a hand to the blacksuit manning the exit gate. She had maneuvered the Impala along the quiet roads until she was able to pick up the main highway that would take her home.
Home was an apartment in Falls Church, Fairfax County. It wasn’t a long drive, but tiring on this gray winter afternoon. The constant rain didn’t help, the insistent sweep of the wipers across the windshield doing little to help her relax. She put on the radio and picked up some soft jazz. The car’s heater blew warm air around her feet. A couple of times Dukas had to blink her eyes. She was tired. She hadn’t been home for two days. The anticipation of a relaxing shower and bed filled her thoughts.
Once inside her apartment she switched on the lights, dropped her briefcase by the door and shrugged out of her coat. Making her way to the kitchenette, she filled the kettle with fresh water and clicked it on to boil. She spooned coffee into a mug, kicked off her shoes as she wandered across to her telephone and then checked her messages.
There were four.
One from her mother asking when she was going to visit.
A call from someone wanting to sell her insurance.
And two from a longtime girlfriend Dukas hadn’t spoken to for a while. The first was from the day before, the second from a few hours earlier.
The girl was Tira Malivik. And the first thing Dukas noticed was the fear in her voice. She couldn’t explain it any other way. Her friend was frightened of something, and she was reaching out for help.
Dukas snatched up the phone and hit the speed-dial button for Malivik’s cell number. She waited as it rang. Finally the call was answered.
“Tira? It’s me—Erika. I just got your message. What’s wrong?”
She could hear ragged breathing on the