Then he waited, checking his watch to see how much time he had. If he had gauged it correctly, the delivery convoy should be well on its way. He figured, give or take a few minutes, he should be sighting the vehicles anytime.

  Bolan could feel the risen sun on his back. He moved the LAWs into the shadow cast by the rocks he was concealed behind. Despite the baseball cap, the heat made his scalp itch. A bead of sweat eased from behind one ear and trickled annoyingly down his neck.

  Kowalski was concealed in a spread of dusty rocks a hundred feet behind. She had accepted her role to watch his back with good grace.

  Bolan saw the lead vehicle as it nosed into view from a dip in the dusty track. Behind it was the laden panel truck, albeit with a longer wheelbase allowing extra load space. Despite its heavy-duty springs, the rear of the truck lay low due to the cargo it was carrying. Bolan allowed himself a thin smile as he anticipated his next move, which would relieve the truck of its heavy load.

  His earlier recon of the immediate area had given him the range for his strike. There were less than twenty-five yards between Bolan’s hiding place and the ill-defined road. This wouldn’t be the first time he had used the M72, and he knew the weapon’s capabilities. With his targets in sight, the soldier reached for the first missile and snapped out the extension tube that cocked the launcher as it clicked into place. With the LAW resting across his right shoulder, Bolan tracked the lead vehicle, hands and fingers in place. He fired, feeling the tremor as the missile’s charge built, then propelled it from the tube with a solid whoosh of sound.

  The thin vapor trail marked the rocket as it sped across the open space, the stabilizing fins having snapped into place as it left the tube. The missile tip struck midway along the vehicle. The detonation shattered the silence. Bolan saw the 4x4 vanish in a deadly burst of flame, the impact tearing it apart. The vehicle was lifted off the ground under the force of the explosion, and debris scattered as the blazing hulk dropped back to earth.

  Bolan already had his second launcher in place, this time targeting the main vehicle as it jerked to a stop. He hit the trigger, sending his follow-up missile on its fiery journey. Like an instant replay, the missile struck and blew the panel truck into a pulsing fireball. The difference was the secondary explosion as munitions detonated, adding a crackling, intense burst that consumed the bulk of the vehicle. As the truck came apart, Bolan saw a helpless figure ejected from the maelstrom. It spun, engulfed in flame, and hit the ground, jerking for agonizing seconds before it became still. A rain of debris began to fall to earth, shadowed by the rising pall of smoke from the burning wreck. Occasional crackles from ammunition still sounded.

  Bolan pulled back from his position as he spotted the third vehicle speed into view. He had been expecting backup. He reached for his remaining LAW, loaded it and turned it in the direction of the SUV as it swerved around the burning wrecks. Bolan fired head-on, but the driver spun the wheel and the powerful vehicle made a harsh turn. The missile missed by inches, hitting the ground well behind the target, throwing a thick geyser of earth into the air as the 4x4 came to a slithering stop. Doors opened, disgorging a five-man, armed crew that scattered, weapons up and chattering as they targeted Bolan’s position. He ducked behind cover as slugs pounded his protecting rocks, spitting shards of stone over him as he pulled back.

  The Executioner stayed low as he moved, aware that the crew had the numbers to outflank him if he remained static. He had taken the M-4 A-1 this time, giving Kowalski the Uzi. He unlimbered the rifle, moved the selector switch to three-round bursts, and used the protecting curve of the rocks to maintain his cover. That wouldn’t last for long. The upthrusting wall of rocks petered out after so many yards, and once that was gone he would become exposed before he could reach his concealed SUV.

  Bad odds, but the notion of possible defeat never once entered Bolan’s thoughts. He didn’t work that way. He had to remain positive, pushing ahead on the premise that life meant too much to even consider giving in. His battle against evil was never ending—so life had to continue.

  He caught movement to his right as one of the crew made a brazen attempt to get the drop on the quarry. The guy scrambled up across the rocks, his intention to get a clear shot at the Executioner. Bolan swiveled at the hips, his M-4 A-1 angling up and delivering twin three-round bursts that punched in at gut level. The target lurched, a short gasp bursting from his lips as his flesh was punctured and the 5.56 mm slugs ripped at his internal organs. He stumbled back into empty air and crashed to the ground out of Bolan’s sight.

  The soldier kept moving. He had little choice. With the crew having spread out, there was no easy way to deal with them. He heard a shout from behind as one hardman came around the far end of the rocks, calling to his partners, and at the same time warning Bolan of his presence.

  Thanks for that, Bolan thought, and turned, dropping to one knee. His fingers moved the selector to semiauto even as he brought the combat rifle to his shoulder and sighted in on the running man. He held the moving target for a couple of seconds even as the guy swung his own SMG into position. His finger eased back on the M-4 A-1’s trigger. The rifle fired and the unwary crewman went down with a 5.56 mm slug in his heart.

  Bolan was upright and turned around as the brass shell hit the ground. With the selector switch back on three-round burst, he moved on.

  Two down.

  Three to go.

  The end of the rock barrier was ahead, and open, undulating ground lay beyond.

  A flicker of movement came into his line of vision. A pair of gunners bolted around the final grouping of rocks.

  The lead guy opened fire the instant he saw Bolan. His shots were close, kicking up dirt feet away. The soldier returned fire. A miss, but the effect was to scatter the pair as they realized the vulnerable position they were in, too.

  Bolan saw a deep depression just ahead. He loosed another burst, then dropped, slamming down and rolling into the hollow, dust billowing up around him. As he went prone, M-4 thrust forward, he peered over the lip of the depression and saw the two men, ten feet apart, coming at him in a wild rush. They were firing on the run, peppering the earth with slugs, kicking up dust.

  The M-4 crackled and sent alternate bursts at the pair. Bolan saw one jerk sideways, his midsection bloody. As he went to his knees, the soldier hit him with a second trio, this time higher, and the guy’s throat suddenly turned into a bloody mess.

  A burn of pain creased Bolan’s left side. He swung the rifle around and hit the second guy as he loomed large on the lip of the depression. The gunner yelled as Bolan’s burst clawed into his torso, punching him off stride. His finger worked his own weapon, and the Executioner felt the ground vibrate as slugs struck around him. Cameron’s goon was on his knees, his face twisted in agony, his eyes staring at Bolan. He went to lift his SMG again, but his actions were lethargic. He jerked sideway as an Uzi stuttered a line of 9 mm slugs into him. He toppled backward and Bolan turned his head and saw Kowalski, only yards away, her face set and pale as she lowered the SMG.

  There was sudden silence. Bolan became aware of his own breathing, the rise of pain from the wound in his side. He touched the area and his fingers came away stained with blood.

  Damn.

  He rolled onto his back against the slope of the depression, forcing his hands to remain steady as he ejected the M-4’s magazine and replaced it with a fresh one.

  He had not forgotten there was one more armed crewman.

  “Get cover,” he called to Kowalski. “One more out there.”

  She nodded and drew herself into a dusty hollow.

  Easing to the lip of the depression, Bolan scanned the area and picked up the moving figure. The surviving gunner was heading in the direction of the backup vehicle. That was not what Bolan wanted. If the guy made it to the SUV, he was going to call in reinforcements.

  Bolan pushed to his feet and took off after the guy, aware of his bleeding side but knowing he was going to have to isolate the pain until later.

  Ahead of him the gunner turned to check behind and saw Bolan. He lifted his SMG and sent a burst of fire in Bolan’s direction. The slugs marked a ragged line of hits in the dirt. The guy pulled himself to a stop, lined up for another burst. His finger hit the trigger. The 9 mm slugs cleared his target’s left shoulder as Bolan fired his own return shots, a triburst impacting against the crewman’s chest and knocking him back. The Executioner fired again, placing his slugs dead center and the gunner half turned as his legs went from beneath him. Dust feathered upward as he slammed facedown. The SMG flew from his slack grasp and cartwheeled across the ground.

  “Clear,” Bolan called.

  Kowalski stood up and made her way to him.

  Bolan clamped his hand to his side, pressing hard to try to stop the blood flow. He headed for the 4x4. The engine was still running. Bolan reached in and cut it. In the silence he leaned against the side of the big vehicle and propped his rifle against it, taking a moment.

  “Let me see if they have a first-aid box on board,” Kowalski said.

  She checked the SUV and located what she was looking for under the passenger seat. She placed it on the vehicle hood and opened the box while Bolan peeled his blacksuit to his waist. She inspected the wound after pulling on a pair of latex gloves, her fingers gentle with the ragged, six-inch tear.

  “From the scars, I’d say this kind of thing happens to you often,” she stated.

  “It comes with the territory.”

  “Cooper, you’re not Superman. Well, I’m not sure who you are, but I don’t see tights and a cape. So how long are you expecting to stay alive carrying on like this?”

  As she spoke she was cleaning the torn flesh with gauze and an antiseptic salve that stung wildly.

  “I figure I’m doing okay if I wake up every morning,” Bolan said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  In truth he understood what lay behind her question. His survival in the hell grounds was not a finite thing. Bolan counted himself lucky each time he walked away from the latest brush with death. He was driven by his need to make his life count for something. To face and defeat his enemies, whoever they were and wherever they showed up.

  From the first pull of a trigger in his ongoing war, Bolan had expected to have a short life expectancy. Even after the many years he’d been fighting his war, he still expected a sudden end to it all. Not the thoughts of a defeatist, just the rationale of a mortal man willing himself to move on—to walk that extra mile. He knew he was pushing his luck to the limit.

  The Executioner understood the need to maintain his will to fight on. His victories removed small numbers over the big picture, he understood that well enough, too. He still faced the next hurdle, and the next, because he had no other choice. If he quit, who would stand up to the evil that man heaped on his fellow man? Who would get payback for the Emily Crocketts of the world?

  Kowalski covered the wound with gauze pads, then bound a bandage around his body, securing it tightly.

  “Cooper, this isn’t going to last too long,” she said. “We need to get you to a hospital so you can have it treated and stitched.”

  “Nurse Kowalski, you are a lifesaver,” Bolan said, pulling his blacksuit back into place.

  The deputy closed the box. “We’ll take this along,” she said, “in case you need more attention.”

  “Thanks for the help.”

  “You do realize that Cameron is going to lose it when he finds out what you did?”

  “Losing it isn’t the best mood to be in to make decisions,” Bolan said. “So I hope he loses it big-time.”

  19

  “What do we do?”

  Poliokof slammed his fist against the desk. “We take Cameron’s business apart. Piece by piece. Man by man. I want Cameron and his organization to vanish. Everything he has becomes ours. We start to hit them now. Do it fast. Don’t let them think about it.”

  They’d started with the Chicago and Newark bases. The Russians moved in swiftly and efficiently. First against Cameron’s people. They were taken off the streets, from the outlets. Bundled into cars and panel trucks and driven away. There were no prior warnings. No ransom or negotiating demands. Over a period of twenty-four hours, the Chicago and Newark crews ceased to exist. Some were gunned down on the street, others turned up dead in alleys, or garbage Dumpsters at the rear of Cameron establishments. A number were never seen or heard from again.

  THE POLICE IN BOTH Newark and Chicago were inundated with complaints from the public at the sudden escalation of indiscriminate violence, even though that violence was within the criminal fraternity. Behind closed doors the local cops might have been relieved that this was gang-related crime, with one group taking down another. But in public they had to decry the actions and state that they would be actively seeking the perpetrators.

  In Newark Captain Ben Cahill understood the genesis of the incidents. The man he knew as Matt Cooper, the guy responsible for the partial destruction of the late Nicky Costanza’s operation, had been instrumental in kicking off the current gang war. Stirring the pot had brought Poliokof’s Russian Mob into play. Cooper as a catalyst was working fine. As long as the perps kept their in-fighting between themselves, Cahill wasn’t about to lose any sleep.

  IN CHICAGO Tony Lorenzo saw the matter from a different perspective. Sent by Cameron to oversee the situation in Chicago and Newark, the damage being done to the organization did his reputation little good. Cameron had trusted his lieutenant to get things under control. The sudden, unexpected surge of violence against his crews worried Lorenzo. He had already contracted for additional muscle to be shipped to both cities and to McQueen County. The hired guns were already en route. Coming into play in the middle of the Russian attacks was going to escalate the problem, but Lorenzo saw that he had little choice. Cameron wanted it brought under control, and he understood there was no chance of any kind of negotiation. So the import of extra muscle was the only option.

  IT WAS LATE when Lorenzo arrived at his apartment building and stepped out of his car in the basement garage. The tail car containing his two bodyguards parked alongside him. Lorenzo climbed out and made for the elevator. He heard the sound of footsteps behind him as he pressed the button to bring the elevator down. That was when he heard the unmistakable sound of suppressed shots. He counted at least six. Behind him a man groaned. Heavy bodies thumped to the concrete. Reaching inside his coat, Lorenzo started to turn. He felt the cold touch of the garrote wire as it circled his neck, pulled tight against his flesh, cutting in so deep his clawing fingers were unable to grasp it. The wire sawed back and forth as the loop sliced even deeper. Lorenzo started to choke. Blood was flowing. A hard knee was jammed against his spine, braced there to increase the pressure….

  TONY LORENZO’S body was found lying on the dirty concrete in a wide pool of blood. His pair of bodyguards lay close by, both dead from head shots. Their handguns were still in their holsters beneath their coats.

  20

  “I don’t believe this,” Kowalski said. “Where did he come from?”

  The chase car was coming at them fast, holding the center of the road. Bolan watched it in the rearview mirror as it closed in.

  “Maybe the tail car got off a message before they came after us. Cameron sent these guys to deal with the problem.”

  “What does he think he’s going to do? Ram us?”

  Bolan shook his head. “No, he wants to get close enough so his partner can get off a good shot.”

  “This day just gets better and better.”

  The soldier felt the shock as a bullet hit the rear of the SUV. He couldn’t hear the sound of the shot above the roar of the engine, but he knew the shooter was fixing his aim. The rear window blew out as a slug tore through it. Glass fragments were scattered across the interior. More shots followed in a crackling volley of automatic fire

  “That’s enough,” Kowalski yelled in frustration. “I’m not sitting here letting them do all the damn shooting.”

  She grabbed the SPAS shotgun Bolan had taken from Lonny Magruder. She twisted her body and climbed over the back of her seat, dropping onto the rear cushions. She scrambled over the backrest and braced herself against the side of the rear compartment. She placed the SPAS on the bottom of the glassless frame and fired off two shots from the powerful combat shotgun. The second peppered the chase car’s hood.

  “Try for the shooter if he shows himself again,” Bolan yelled above the wind noise. “I’ll brake.”

  He saw her nod.

  The SPAS angled around as the shooter leaned out through his open window.

  “Now,” Kowalski yelled.

  Bolan touched the brake and the SUV slowed, the gap closing quickly as the chase car failed to draw away fast enough.

  The SPAS fired twice in rapid succession, and the chase car’s shooter jerked back as his right shoulder took one of Kowalski’s shots. His autorifle dropped from his hands. His shoulder had been opened like a side of butchered meat, pulped flesh and shattered bone soaked in blood. The guy slid awkwardly back inside the vehicle.

  The chase car held its position as if it was tethered to the rear of the SUV. Kowalski fired again, peppering the hood, and saw the car falter.

  “I’m out,” she called. “No more shells.”

  “Brace yourself,” Bolan said.

  He stood on the brake, feeling the 4x4 shudder, tires burning against the road. The heavy vehicle slid as the wheels locked. Bolan fought to keep the SUV under control. The front wheels hit the loose earth at the side of the road, momentum pushing the vehicle forward. It bounced as it cleared the road and slithered around in a half circle, throwing up clouds of dust.

 

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