Don Pendleton - Twisted Path

Bolan had an edge-on view of the two-story Georgian house about two hundred yards away across a vast and carefully manicured lawn. A series of outbuildings lay beyond the main house, and clustered around the front door were four guards, with a case of beer at their feet. Two more chatted idly by the wall around the corner.

So far he had counted nine hardmen, and he would bet that there were at least as many more hanging around other areas of the estate. However, they weren't taking their assignment seriously, and were paying almost no attention to what was going down. They were obviously relying on safety in numbers, trusting to bulk and brawn rather than brains to keep them safe.

That hadn't worked for the dinosaurs, and it wouldn't work for these guys.

There was almost no cover between Bolan and the house, just a few trees and shrubs cut and trained into ornamental patterns. But he took advantage of what was available, making the approach to the front door on an angle, weaving from cover to cover. At each bush he paused to observe the guards, but saw no sign that they were aware of his presence. They were content to chat, rifles and stubby machine guns slung over their shoulders. The glow of cigarettes flared from time to time.

One more silent rush brought him to an evergreen carved like a perfect pyramid. Bolan had heard a superstition once that pyramids brought good luck. So much for old wives' tales.

Time to do it.

Bolan unsheathed the 93-R and sighted on the two hardguys laughing by the side of the house. The Beretta coughed out three rounds, sending one gunman staggering, his belly chewed into ribbons. His buddy gaped openmouthed until the Beretta spit again and the Executioner sent him reeling to the soft grass.

He replaced the magazine with a full clip and switched to the submachine gun, bringing it to bear on the little party by the doorway. The Beretta had been so quiet that they were still unaware of Bolan's arrival.

He squeezed the trigger, hammering a stream of 9 mm death at the unsuspecting gunmen.

Bolan fired low, stitching a fat man in his ample belly as his last beer can went flying from between twitching fingers. One man caught a full load in the groin and collapsed screaming for the few seconds it took for a severed femoral artery to bleed his corpse dry over the marble stairway. A spray of steeljacketed stingers ripped into the faces and throats of the two remaining hired killers.

The man in black inserted a fresh clip on the run, pausing by the blood-drenched stairs, listening for reinforcements. From the sounds of running feet he guessed the gunplay had attracted at least two groups.

The three hardmen by the gate were charging up the driveway, seeking a target for their half-drunken fury. The Beretta SMG stuttered its one-note death chant as Bolan drew figure eights of blood on each of the running gunmen. Three rapid bursts sent the hoods tripping over the doorstep to hell.

Flying mortar chipped from the heavy balustrades as two more gunners made their appearance from around the corner. One was blasting away with a large-caliber handgun, sighting carefully, pistol levered in a two-handed grip. A long-haired and mustached giant of a man was spraying Bolan's cover with an Uzi assault pistol grasped in one oversize ham of a fist.

The Executioner swiveled and dropped onto the bloodstained stairs. Target acquisition took only an instant, and the Uzi flew into the darkness as Bolan riddled the gunner with half a magazine.

The giant flopped hard onto his back, empty eyes staring at the quarter moon, as his chest seemed to dissolve into one large, red spot.

The stuttergun clicked on empty as the second man turned to flee, all thoughts of resistance and his easy pay vanished from his mind.

Bolan drew the big .44 and sighted over the long barrel at the retreating gunner. The cannon roared and sent its prey sliding into the dirt.

The warrior listened a moment for the sounds of more reinforcements. From the gate came the metallic thump of slamming doors, followed by the squeals of tires from what sounded like two cars.

The hired muscle were abandoning their position those that still could.

That reduced the odds a little more in Bolan's favor. But the soldier would have bet that there were at least a few hitters left who had gone to ground to wait him out in ambush.

The Executioner still had a few surprises in store.

Bolan reloaded, then ripped two fragmentation grenades from his belt and depressed the safety spoons. He smashed one through the window on each side of the main door and dived for cover behind a large plant stand at the base of the stairs. A terrified shout erupted from a window as the two grenades exploded within heartbeats of each other, showering the lawn with glass and rubble.

The soldier bounded up the refuse-strewed steps and halted by the oak door. A solid smash from his booted foot above the brass door handle drove it back on well-oiled hinges as Bolan ducked away from the opening.

The storm of angry lead whistled through the opening from somewhere inside, expecting to find a body flying through the entrance.

Bolan wound up and tossed off another grenade, throwing it overhand with an easy motion around the edge of the doorway. He heard it strike a wall before bouncing away like a lead billiard ball.

In a second, a blast of scorching flame erupted through the doorway. Bolan made his move, diving through the floating plaster dust and landing in a roll. The Beretta nosed in the gloom, seeking a target.

All Bolan found was destruction. Shredded ancestors hung in tatters from the hall walls.

Fine antiques looked as though they had been chewed by a marching army of termites. In a dining room to the left, the floor was covered in crystal and china fragments, hurled from glass cabinets lining the room.

The killers had set a trap for Bolan, with cross fire coming from the doorway on the left of the hall and from a second man hidden behind an overturned mahogany dresser at the end of the hall. One of them lay crumpled halfway through the door leading into the dining room. A second killer lay behind the dresser, leaking onto the Persian carpet in the hall, twisted into an unnatural position by the blast. He was partially concealed by the remnants of a crystal chandelier jerked from its mooring by the explosion.

After a moment of study, Bolan eased to his right to peer into the opposite room. Feathers and flecks of padding floated in the air, torn from the insides of assorted kid leather furniture. Two empty frames stared like sightless eyes from each side of a massive fieldstone fireplace. Bolan surmised that McIntyre was making his break, and was taking what he could with him.

Not a chance.

Bolan got to his feet and started up the broad carpeted staircase to the second floor. This was the type of situation he didn't like — pushing ahead into enemy territory where the foe knew the ground and made the rules was nerve-racking work, like clearing a village in house-to-house fighting.

Still, it had to be done, and the soldier would do whatever it took to get to McIntyre.

Or die trying.

Bolan shut that thought away. Death was something that he lived with, a force as close to him as the air he breathed. There was nothing new about facing death; and he had delivered too many enemies into cold, wet graves to fear his own passing.

Conquering fear was the challenge, fighting down the icy panic that clawed at a man's chest when he had to lay everything on the line, especially his life.

He had faced down that fear long ago. Now death and fear were merely other weapons in his arsenal.

Quieter than a Ka-bar, they slowed the enemy's hand and clouded his judgment, giving the Executioner the fighting edge that sometimes made the difference.