Death Gamble. Don Pendleton
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his peripheral vision, he saw the woman pull down the lighted sun visor and stare at her reflection as she used the pads to wipe away the blood. She winced when the alcohol seeped into the open wound.
“Your vest is matted with blood,” Bolan said. “Did you lose a lot?”
The woman continued studying her head wound in the mirror, touching it gingerly with the fingers of her right hand.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “But I do feel a little woozy.”
“You going to pass out on me?” Bolan glanced at her.
She gave him an angry look. “I didn’t come this far to quit. I’m not some frail thing who faints at the sight of blood. Can we concentrate on finding Talisman instead of my damn head wound?”
“Sure,” Bolan said.
The Jeep hurtled ahead, occasionally shuddering as it rolled into an occasional pothole. Bolan passed the burned-out remains of a stately building with columns and domes—left over, he guessed, from Sierra Leone’s colonial days—past several smaller buildings and storefronts. Bolan saw occasional clusters of people, the women clothed in colorful dresses, the men in ragged western clothes.
Talisman had gained at least a three-minute lead. That was enough time to disappear into one of the alleys or side roads threading off the main route that led from his compound into Freetown. Or perhaps he’d found refuge in an old warehouse or garage.
Bolan also knew three minutes gave Talisman ample time to call ahead and set up an ambush. The Executioner accepted the risk. Without a doubt, the play had been fraught with danger from the beginning, and he was in too deep to shrink from the challenge.
Glancing into his rearview mirror, Bolan noticed headlights approaching. They began as pinpricks of white interrupting a black background, but swelled in size as they bore down on the Jeep quickly. As the headlights neared the vehicle, they split apart and low rumbles sounded as a pair of motorcycles drove around either side of the Jeep. Both bikers wore black leather jackets and black helmets with clear face shields.
Flashes erupted from either side of the Jeep as the riders caught up with the Jeep and triggered their submachine guns. Bullets drummed hard against reinforced steel as the shooters sprayed the vehicle with autofire.
Bolan glimpsed an approaching biker in his side view mirror and saw the guy fire a burst at the tires with little effect. He guessed that either the man had missed or the tires had been outfitted with special inserts to keep them rolling if punctured.
The other biker came even with the passenger side of the Jeep and loosed a burst of autofire. Bullets collided with bulletproof glass, causing Rytova to flinch and push herself deeper into the seat as she tried to make herself a smaller target.
Trusting his gut, Bolan reached into his shoulder holster, drew the Beretta and handed it butt-first to Rytova. The Russian gave him an uncertain look, then took the weapon. If he’d made a mistake, he’d know soon enough and he’d pay for it with his life.
“Hang on,” he growled through clenched teeth.
Cutting the wheel sharply to the left, he nearly swiped the rider closer to him. The shooter veered into an oncoming lane, firing his submachine gun until it went dry. Bullets sparked and whined off Bolan’s door. With precise movements, the biker let that gun fall limp on its strap, scooped up a second SMG and continued to fire on the Jeep.
Bolan grimly considered the small knots of African men and women standing on the sidelines. A few ran for cover, but others remained rooted where they stood, unable to turn and run away as the deadly tableau unfolded before them. Years of bloody warfare and abuse had left them too shell-shocked to save themselves.
Bolan had blood on his hands this night, but he’d be damned if he’d add innocent blood to the mix.
He mashed the accelerator, drawing more speed from the Jeep’s power pack. He wanted distance from the crowded street, a place where he could reduce the risk to innocent civilians.
As the soldier looked for a side street or an alley, he assessed the situation. Small-arms fire wouldn’t cripple the hulking SUV. So, despite their nimbleness and firepower, the bikers had little chance of stopping Bolan. The armored undercarriage would offer at least some protection against a hand grenade or land mine. The hell of it was, if Bolan knew it, so did they. He assumed they had something much more devastating planned for him.
Two more motorcycles, engines whining, appeared from the darkness and joined in the pursuit. Muzzle-flashes erupted around the Jeep and bullets thudded against the windshield, hood and grille. Bolan didn’t dare return fire, not while even a single innocent life hung in the balance.
But that didn’t mean he was helpless.
Cutting the wheel left, Bolan gunned the engine and again swiped at the motorcycle to his left. The shooter ceased fire, let the SMG fall from his grip and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. The bike engine roared, momentarily drowning out the gunfire, as the rider tried to gain some speed and clear himself from the path of Bolan’s vehicle.
The biker never had a chance.
The Jeep plowed over man and machine, causing the SUV to jerk side-to-side, as though crossing over a speed bump. The three remaining bikers fell back and regrouped. Engines thundering, they formed a triangle and roared toward the SUV as Bolan guided it into a nearby alley.
Chattering weapons, squealing tires and roaring engines assaulted Bolan’s senses as he guided the SUV through the urban canyon. Coaxing more speed from his vehicle, he locked the steering wheel in a death grip and continued on.
“What the hell do you call this?” Rytova asked.
“I call it improvisation,” Bolan replied.
A slight drift to the right and the side-view mirror scraped brick, eliciting a quick shower of sparks. Bolan corrected before the impact sheared the mirror completely from the passenger door.
“You’re insane,” Rytova said.
Bolan didn’t argue the point. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the lead motorbike break away from the pack and close in on the Jeep’s tail end. The vehicle shot from the alley and into a cross street. The impact jolted Bolan, and he fought to steady the rocking vehicle as it raced over broken roadways. He heard tires screech and saw headlights as he interrupted traffic flow and caused cars to jerk to a stop on either side of him. He aimed the vehicle into the mouth of the next alley and drove in with the motorcycles following close behind.
Gunshots continued hammering the vehicle. A scrape followed by a loud crack to Bolan’s left gripped his attention. The driver’s side mirror had struck the brick wall. He watched as it tore free and disappeared from sight.
The Jeep again broke free from the alley and rolled into another cross street. Ahead lay a row of burned-out buildings—drooping heaps of exposed steel, shattered windows and charred brick. The alley had come to an end. Bolan braked hard, steered left. The big tires screamed in protest as the SUV spun 180 degrees before finally coming to rest. The stench of burning rubber and the roar of approaching motorcycle engines filled the SUV’s interior as Bolan regrouped.
Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he backed onto a nearby curb, then cut the wheel right to straighten the vehicle. Thumbing the electric window’s switch, the warrior grabbed the MP-5’s pistol grip, hefted the weapon and jammed it through the open window. Bolan pushed the stock into his shoulder and steadied the weapon. Rytova had opened her own window and aimed the Beretta’s muzzle ahead.
The motorcyclists emerged from the alley, weapons spitting flame and lead as they raced their way to Bolan’s position. Two more motorcycles approached the Jeep from either side.
The Executioner triggered the subgun, sweeping the muzzle across the alley and hosing down the approaching bikers. Return fire smacked into the windshield and burned past Bolan’s arm as he continued laying down sustained blasts of hellfire. Hot shell casings from the MP-5 flew, and bounced across the