Silent Running. Don Pendleton
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of the jail, the Beretta machine pistol held low against his leg.
“¡Hola!” he called.
The three gunmen turned and hesitated for a moment. This stranger was dressed in black, too, but by the time it registered on them that he wasn’t one of them, he had the 93-R up and was firing.
Bolan’s first 3-round burst took the man farthest from him, stitching a tight triangle over his heart. Retargeting smoothly, he put down the second man with another trio of 9 mm slugs before the first gunner hit the pavement.
The last guard had his AK halfway into position when a final short burst took him down, as well.
The only sounds of the hit had been the tinkle of empty brass on the pavement, the clatter of the AK hitting the steps of the jail and the soft thud of the bodies. So, before the machine gunner came back out, Bolan took the steps himself. He paused at the door, but the voices he heard inside didn’t sound alarmed.
Swinging his H&K around on its sling, he switched his 93-R to his left hand and gripped the assault rifle with his right.
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