Hellfire Code. Don Pendleton
Читать онлайн книгу.
Bolan couldn’t be sure if he or Peter Hagen had been the target, although it hardly mattered at this point. Rain and plaster chips rained on him from the fractured ceiling. The soldier choked back a cough. He couldn’t allow himself to succumb to the dust-thickened air as long as the threat remained.
Bolan watched bullets dance across a nearby wall. China inside a cedar cabinet burst under their impact. The rounds shattered the glass in the doors and ripped massive gouges in the antique wood. A bullet trail stitched the wall and headed directly for Lupe, who now stood in the entryway of the den and screamed in horror at the sight of Hagen’s torn and broken body. Bolan leaped to his feet and threw his body toward Lupe, tackling the maid as a continuous stream of autofire buzzed the air where she’d stood a millisecond earlier. They hit the ground hard and the impact knocked the wind from the woman.
Bolan ordered her to keep her head down, drew and primed the Beretta, then crawled to the front door. He reached up, yanked on the latch-style handle, and opened the door wide enough to crawl onto the porch. The soldier rolled into the L-shaped hedge for cover, then risked a glance over the top.
A dark sedan sat parked at the curb and three men dressed in black stood in a line just outside its open doors. Bolan watched as they ceased firing their Uzi submachine guns and took a moment to reload. The Executioner seized the advantage in the lull. He pushed his body beneath the base of the hedge and came out the opposite side with a perfect field of fire on the enemy. He aligned his sights on the nearest target and squeezed the trigger. The single 9 mm Parabellum round took the man in the face. The impact spun the gunner and slammed him into the open door.
The other pair was still trying to reload while frantically searching for Bolan. One man reached down to grab his deceased comrade and drag him inside the sedan while the second guy fumbled with a fresh magazine. Bolan decided to change tactics, to prevent the enemy’s escape. He realigned his pistol sights on the driver’s side of the front windshield and pumped two slugs into it. The driver’s skull exploded into a gory mess under the Executioner’s skilled marksmanship.
Bolan returned his attention to the more immediate threat, which had now identified his position and was swinging an Uzi in his direction. The soldier thumbed the selector switch to 3-shot mode, snap-aimed and squeezed the trigger. The trio of 9 mm stingers struck groin, stomach and chest. The man dropped his weapon and grabbed at his stomach. His body pitched forward a moment later and landed prone on the wet lawn.
The remaining gunner had the body of one of his cohorts halfway inside the sedan when he saw the second man fall. Obviously he realized self-preservation was his only remaining option, so he quickly dived into the front seat and crawled to the driver’s side. Bolan climbed to his feet and sprinted toward the sedan as the surviving gunner fought with the deadweight of the body behind the wheel. The engine suddenly roared to life. Tires spun on the slick pavement as the sedan rocketed away from the curb.
Bolan changed direction and headed for his own car. He figured if he played his cards right, the guy would try to return to the safety of his own kind, and that meant he’d lead the Executioner right to the answers.
Bolan jumped behind the wheel, started the engine and gave chase to the fleeing sedan. He didn’t know exactly where it would all lead him, but he was desperate for answers. The enemy had been onto him since his arrival in Atlanta, and perhaps even before that. He didn’t like the thought that Roger Neely had betrayed him, but there was no other reasonable explanation. Few people outside of Stony Man should have known of any connection between what had happened in Atlanta and Dr. Peter Hagen. The only other people who would have that kind of information were Downing and any people he had on the inside.
What Bolan couldn’t help but wonder was if he had been the one to lead them to Hagen. He had made damn sure nobody followed him before he contacted the scientist, but it was possible he could have missed them. And if he hadn’t led them to Hagen, then why did they wait until Bolan was there before making the hit? Had they hoped to kill them both and somehow sow a disinformation campaign that would tie things up and leave Downing smelling rosy clean? That didn’t make much sense, since Downing had already claimed full responsibility for the operation in that slum neighborhood.
Well, he could figure it out later. For the moment the Executioner knew he had to keep his focus on the mission at hand. He stayed back far enough not to spook his quarry. Bolan had felt uneasy about leaving Lupe behind to contend with the mess there, but he didn’t think she was in any further danger. Whoever was behind this hit had probably accomplished what they went there to accomplish: the assassination of Peter Hagen. Bolan wasn’t buying the hit team had been there for him. There was something else going on here, something deeper and more insidious.
The sedan left Brookhaven city limits and merged onto the highway, heading toward Atlanta. It was possible the driver had a ruse in mind, but somehow Bolan didn’t think so. Unless the hit team had observed him park his vehicle, they wouldn’t know he had transportation close by. In all probability, the driver would think he’d gotten away clean. At most, he’d be looking for marked police units that might have a description of his car. That would have him a little paranoid and thus less watchful of civilian vehicles.
They continued along the highway until they entered the city, and soon the sedan took a north side exit. Bolan continued to follow at a relatively neutral distance. He reached into the bag sitting next to him and pulled out a Fabrique Nationale Herstal FNC compact assault rifle. The FN-FNC was as versatile and dependable as the acclaimed FAL. However it chambered the 5.56 mm round, the most popular high-velocity slug in use by military units around the world. At a cyclic rate of 800 rounds per minute, the weapon had become a trusted ally in Bolan’s war and he often included it in his basic mission arsenal.
Bolan was checking the weapon to ensure he was ready for action when the sedan’s brake lights caught his attention. The vehicle made a sharp turn onto a side street between a pair of large, abandoned buildings. He noticed they had entered a rundown industrial area, and most of the businesses were either closed or abandoned. It seemed like a strange place to set up shop, but Bolan could see where it might prove the perfect place to hide something—something like an elite hit team.
The Executioner increased speed and prepared for action.
THE SOUND OF TIRES crunching gravel and skidding to a halt brought Lyle Prichard to the steel hopper window of the old warehouse. This whole deal had him a bit jumpy. He hadn’t been very keen on the idea of maintaining this ridiculous vigil from the moment Alek Stezhnya had ordered it, and now they had company. He checked his watch and hoped it was Galeton and the crew returning from Hagen’s place. They were already an hour overdue.
Prichard looked through the slightly open window to stare at the alleyway below and confirmed it was the sedan. It was about damn time. Now maybe they could get the hell out of here. After their operation in Atlanta, Stezhnya had insisted on returning to headquarters in the Philippines and leaving him in charge to complete their operations. Hagen had remained the one loose end in their business here in the States, and apparently Garrett Downing didn’t like loose ends. Assuming Galeton and the crew had done their job, they could now report the mission completed and return to the temporary training grounds south of Milan.
Prichard turned from the window and looked at Mick Tufino. The Italian’s feet were propped on a plain, metal table. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his mouth while he flipped through a Hustler magazine.
“They’re back,” Prichard said.
“That’s nice.” Tufino grunted.
“For chrissake, put that down and start getting our gear together, Mick,” Prichard said. He flipped open his cellular phone with a snap of his wrist. “I’ll call the boss and let him know we’re ready to extract.”
Tufino sent Prichard a flat look before tossing the magazine aside and getting to his feet. He went to the bags stacked nearby and began to inventory their equipment. Two of the bags contained an assorted cache of automatic weapons, including four M-16 A-3 carbines, four MP-5 subguns, and a pair of HK 33Es. Another bag held most of Tufino’s demolitions. He’d packed twenty-five, one-pound sticks of C-4 plastique, an equivalent number of detonators, plus some standard