Don Pendleton - Whipsaw

Bolan listened with half an ear as he considered his position. The aisles were wide. Wide enough for a forklift to maneuver among them. It was a good twelve feet. From a standing start, it was one hell of a broad jump.

But if he could get over two aisles, he could reach the catwalk.

"What the hell," he said.

And jumped.

The impact of his booted feet on the next shelf bounced around the girders above him like a sonic pinball. The metal and its echo made direction impossible to fix, and Bolan took the next leap and dropped to his stomach to wait before the noise had a chance to die down.

The men in the corner raced toward him, two aisles over. Picking the one spot that gave him a direct line among the shelves, he gripped the Beretta and waited for a target.

It wasn't long.

The first man flashed by. The second wasn't as fast... or as lucky. The 9 mm slug bored down through his left shoulder, breaking the collarbone and ripping through a lung. He fell like he'd been poleaxed.

Bolan crawled along the shelving toward its far end, getting to his feet and climbing onto a pair of wooden crates. He left the AK-47 behind and launched himself straight up, caught the edge of the catwalk and swung a leg up under the safety rail. The M-16 dangled off his shoulder, its sling sliding down along his upper arm.

Bolan swung his other leg up and lay flat on the catwalk. The rifle still hung over the side, and someone spotted it. A sudden burst of automatic rifle fire whistled past and punched holes in the roof overhead. Rainwater started to pour through the holes, its tepid warmth spattering the back of his neck.

He tugged the rifle up onto the catwalk and sprang into a crouch. As he ran, the catwalk swayed beneath him, and two more weapons joined the attack. The slats of the catwalk pinged as the hail of fire chewed at it. In the high shadows, they couldn't see him, and he reached the far wall and paused to catch his breath.

Moving quietly toward the dockside corner, he searched the tangle below for a glimpse of the searchers. Dropping to one knee, he zeroed in on the most likely spot, trying to gauge the angle of fire. The shooting stopped, and he heard running feet but nothing else.

Then, like silhouettes on a practice range, two men swung into the open, their rifles ready and faces turned expectantly upward. Bolan cut loose with a tight burst, and chopped one face to pieces, but the second man dodged behind cover.

Bolan fired another burst, but the solid hammering of the slugs on the crating told him they weren't getting through. The man hadn't seen him, but it wouldn't be long. Surprise was no longer on his side.

Bolan started inching along the front wall, ducking under a pair of ventilation ducts.

He could hear the slight hum of the fans turned by the wind as it whistled past.

The search party was down to three, but he took no comfort in the fact. He knew enough about probability to know that the odds against him were still nine to one. Someone fired a short nervous burst that ripped into the corner behind him, and Bolan smiled.

They still didn't have a fix on him.

A heavy door banged, and someone ran toward the center of the warehouse. Though it was out of his sight, Bolan knew from the sound that it was just one man.

When the voice boomed up into the shadowed corners, he didn't have to guess who it was.

"Belasko, I know who you are." Harding sounded unruffled, even faintly amused. "You don't think you can get out of here alive, do you?" Harding laughed, and for a moment Bolan was tempted to take the bait.

"You don't have a prayer, Belasko. But I'll make you a deal. You ought to be with me, not against me. You know that. I'm going to give you one minute. You hear that? Sixty seconds. You can sign on, Belasko, and there'll be no hard feelings. If not, your ass is mine, mister. Think about it."

Bolan looked at his watch. It read 11:51.

He didn't know whether Harding was stalling for time or not. But there was only one way to make sure. The middle catwalk was just thirty feet away. He moved toward it, waiting between steps to prevent the shaky platform from banging against the metal wall beside him.

At the intersection he eased out onto the narrow walkway. His weight made it squeak slightly, and he held his breath for a moment.

"Thirty seconds, cowboy."

Another five steps, and he could see two men: Johnson and one of the two remaining members of the search team. Two more steps and he had a clean shot. He steadied the Beretta on the safety rail. Squeezing once, he jerked the muzzle and squeezed again.

When he looked, Johnson was nowhere to be seen.

A fatigue-clad arm, its hand twitching spastically, was barely visible at the edge of a wooden crate. He couldn't tell whether it was Johnson or the other man, and he didn't know whether he'd gotten them both. But that was not the question.

Where was Harding?

That was the question.

"Ten seconds, Belasko. Nine... eight... seven..."

And he broke for the far wall, the catwalk swaying beneath him like the deck of a plunging boat in high seas.

"Kill him!" Harding shouted.

Gunfire, as near as he could tell from only two weapons, ripped at the metal slats, punching holes in the aluminum and scattering sharp slivers in every direction.

He was willing to bet they expected him to take the ladder. Bolan reached the far wall and ran toward the ladder a few steps, then stopped. He cut back, remembering the thick bundle of canvas. He spotted it, nearly twenty-five feet on the ladder's far side. One of the huge doors rumbled open, then an engine sprang to life.

The jeep raced its engine, then jerked into gear.

"You hear that, Belasko? It's over, sport. Time's up."

The jeep's tires squealed on the concrete, and a burst of gunfire echoed through the warehouse as Bolan leapt. Before he touched down, he heard the jeep slam into the wall, its engine racing under a lead foot, the tires screaming against the cement, then the engine died.

Bolan hit and rolled. As he came up, Johnson and the other man turned their rifles on him, but Bolan was just a little quicker. He emptied a clip, then jerked the wasted clip free and jammed in another.

Bolan sprinted past the twitching bodies and careered around a corner. He caught a glimpse of Harding just before the man vanished. Someone fired a shot, and Harding returned the fire with two quick ones from an automatic pistol. Bolan reached the aisle and ran into Carlos, nearly knocking him over, just as Harding rounded the far corner. In surprise, Bolan turned, reaching out to steady the young Filipino. Behind him he saw a bright flash of light, then it went dark.

The clunk of the master switch echoed through the warehouse.

"Carlos, what are you doing here?" Bolan whispered.

"The police are coming soon. Senora Colgan, she said you needed help. She led me through the tunnel. When we came up, I saw the jeep starting to leave. It was Cordero."

"Was?"

"I killed him, Senor Belasko." That left Harding himself. Swat him like the bug he was, wipe your hands, and walk away, Bolan thought. That's all there was to it.

But first he had to find Harding. And that wouldn't be easy in the dark.

Bolan heard the footsteps, and clapped a hand over Carlos' mouth. "Shhh. Listen, you find Senora Colgan, and you stay with her. Sit on her if you have to, but don't leave her alone. And whatever she says, don't let her talk you into anything. Understand?"

Carlos nodded, and as Bolan relaxed the pressure, Carlos whispered, "Si, senor."

He heard Carlos move away, back down the aisle toward where he'd seen Marisa just before the lights went out. The concrete underfoot, covered with sand and hunks of wood, papers and the usual sort of litter, made too much noise under his soles. Bolan unlaced his boots and kicked them off, then moved toward the wall. He hadn't had time to check the warehouse, and Harding had a distinct advantage in knowing the layout. When his outstretched fingers brushed against the rough metal of the wall, Bolan hesitated.