Sabotage. Don Pendleton
Читать онлайн книгу.
board.”
“I’ll need something fast,” Bolan had said. “Something that can get me across the country and maybe even out of it.”
“It’s already covered,” Brognola confirmed. “I’m sending the data to your secure satellite phone now.”
“All right, Hal,” Bolan said. “I’m on it.”
“And, Striker?”
“Yeah?”
“Take them down. I want these people, and so does the Man.”
“So do I, Hal,” Bolan said. He closed the connection.
The conversation, still fresh in Bolan’s mind, had taken place several hours ago. The cemetery in which Mack Bolan now stood was a short drive outside of Green Bay, Wisconsin, where Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi waited at the Austin Straubel International Airport. Grimaldi would even now be crawling over every inch of the C-37A that was Bolan’s transportation for the duration of his mission.
The Stony Man pilot had traded up; he and Bolan had hopped an available USAF C-21A Learjet to Straubel while local federal assets had the longer-range C-37A prepared and positioned for their use. The modified Gulfstream V was a twin-engine, turbofan aircraft with an intercontinental range of 6,300 miles. This particular jet had been outfitted by a black-ops shop affiliated with the Farm. All in all, Bolan was traveling in style. Except for the new jet’s speed and range, however, these details were irrelevant in Bolan’s mind. He had work to do. He refocused his Zeiss binoculars, taking a more critical look at the scene below.
Then he heard the motorcycles.
The soldier zoomed in on the reactions of the mourners below. The set of their bodies, the way they stood or moved, indicated surprise—and relief. The loud roar of two-dozen motorcycles rolling up the access road drowned out all other sound. As Bolan watched, the men on the motorcycles brought their machines neatly into line and killed the engines. After they dismounted, they conferred briefly, and the largest of the bikers walked forward to speak with someone from the funeral party. From the man’s dress and bearing, not to mention the large zippered portfolio he carried under his arm, Bolan thought he might be the funeral director.
Brognola hadn’t mentioned these guys on the phone, but the data files that were part of Bolan’s briefing had included their write-ups. The men on the motorcycles were the Patriotism Riders, a group of citizen bikers, many of them also military veterans, who rode to military funerals to protect the families from protesters. They were nonviolent and apolitical, for the most part; they sought only to put themselves between the families and the protests to protect the relatives of dead service people. Someone within the Patriotism Riders’ network had alerted them to this service at the last minute, apparently. Bolan admired their dedication and the service they provided.
As Bolan watched, the Riders took up their position on the access road, linking arms and forming a human chain across the pavement. They stood, quiet and watching, their eyes scanning the access road, their heads slightly bowed out of respect for the mourners.
They didn’t wait long.
The funeral director and the representative from the Patriotism Riders finished whatever hushed conversation they were having. The Rider joined his fellows on the access road, while the director hurried back to the graveside. As if on this signal—Bolan realized as his brain processed what his eyes took in through the binoculars that there had to be some unseen coordination by scouts or observers hidden from view—a cargo van roared up the access road.
The van was moving too fast to be harmless. The Patriotism Riders scattered as the old Ford barreled through their ranks, narrowly missing the men closest to the center of the road.
Battle was joined.
The Remington 700 came up in Bolan’s hands as the van below lurched to a stop on whining, squealing brakes. As the van’s side door was shoved aside, the Executioner was already acquiring the first target through the Leupold telescopic sight.
The group that piled out of the van was a mixed half dozen—four men, two women. They ranged in age from perhaps early twenties to maybe middle thirties, wearing a mixture of grunge and protest chic. Each one carried a hand-lettered cardboard sign attached to a wooden handle.
Through the Leupold scope, Bolan could see that each also carried a gun.
Whether to make some political point or as a means of distracting their victims before they struck, the “protesters” were waving their signs with one hand while holding handguns behind their backs. Bolan, from his vantage, could see that clearly; the Protest Riders and the mourners beyond them couldn’t. The first of the protesters started to bring his weapon up from behind his leg.
Bolan took a breath, let out half of it and allowed the rifle to fire itself as his trigger finger applied pressure. The first 146-grain, 7.62 mm M-80 NATO specification bullet screamed toward its target. The metal-jacketed slug struck the would-be shooter before he could utter a sound, the fist of an avenging god smiting him from on high.
The gunner was dead before he hit the pavement.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, nothing moved. From mourners to Riders to the attackers themselves, each man and woman present struggled to process the sudden death that had appeared, unbidden and unforeseen, in their midst.
Then someone among the funeral-goers screamed and hell was unleashed.
Bolan was working the bolt of the Remington before the dead man completed his fall. He had lined up the next of the armed protesters as the mourner’s scream reached his ears, and he was pulling his rifle’s trigger before the next shooter in line could bring his handgun to bear on the nearest potential victim. For a second time, thunder pealed, and a second man fell dead before he knew the end had come.
One of the protesters, near the rear of the suddenly dwindling group, started to fire blindly. He emptied the .45 pistol in his fist—straight into the backs of the two women in front of him, cutting them down in his haste to react to the threat he couldn’t find. Bolan calmly worked the Remington’s bolt, tracked the shooter and put a bullet through his brain.
The Patriotism Riders had recovered quickly from their initial shock, surging toward the attacker. Several of them tackled the last of the men, burying him in a crush of bodies. Bolan caught this but ignored it; there was one other variable still unaccounted for.
The van’s engine roared to life and the vehicle started backing down the access road.
That would be the Ford’s driver, whom Bolan knew had never left the van. It was a tricky shot, through the windshield of the moving van, but there was no more experienced a sniper than Mack Bolan. He made the shot easily. Beyond the suddenly spiderwebbed windshield, the driver slumped over the steering wheel. The van slowed to crawl, and then came to rest half on and half off the access road.
Bolan ejected the empty brass from the Remington and placed the rifle on its hard case. Drawing the Beretta 93-R and flicking the selector switch to 3-round burst, he surveyed the killing ground below him as he stalked toward the aftermath of his deadly handiwork. The Riders were dragging the subdued, disarmed survivor out of the road. Several had spotted Bolan and were pointing at him. A couple looked ready to charge him, and Bolan mentally lauded them for that; they were taking no chances, and Bolan was an armed, unknown man who could be foe as easily as he could be friend.
“Cooper,” he said as he neared them. “Justice Department.”
“Justice?” One of the Riders shook his head. “Man, you ain’t kidding.”
Bolan nodded grimly. Justice, it was.
This was only the beginning.
CHAPTER TWO
Bolan stood, leaning against the nearest of the police cruisers, as local law enforcement prowled the area. Already the crime scene was being meticulously photographed, tagged and logged, while uniformed officers and a couple of plainclothes personnel circulated among the Patriotism Riders.