Don Pendleton - Meltdown

Mack Bolan realized he had only two options: get the stuff back now, or wait and try to take the Libyans with it. The first was easier, no question about it. But which was better? He might never have a second chance to take a little wind out of the Libyan sails. His decision made, Bolan settled in for a long night. The switch might be made under cover of darkness, but he didn't think so. The logging roads were little more than ruts.

Only a fool would try to negotiate them in the dark with such a cargo. And Mack Bolan knew his enemies were no fools. Otherwise his fight would long since have been over. It was precisely because they were so good that Bolan still found himself watching mankind through a rifle sight. It wasn't pleasant... just necessary.

By dawn, he was chilled through. Flurries during the night had added to his discomfort, and he had slept only sporadically. At first light, he settled his binoculars on the cave mouth again. One of the goons was stretching himself A big guy in white coveralls did a few knee bends to loosen his joints, and then a few jumping jacks. While Bolan watched, the gunner took his own glasses and checked the logging road. That meant it would be soon. Bolan started working his way down toward the bottom of the valley as soon as the sentry had gone back into the cave. He wanted to be close. If he was going to pull this off, it would have to happen swiftly. Time was a luxury Mack Bolan rarely had.

As he reached the foot of the opposing ridge, a muffled rumble echoed through the trees. They were here to make the switch. Bolan hurried up the rocky slope, checking the road behind him twice. He heard a door slam before he saw anyone. There were only two of them. Good, Bolan thought. That cut the odds a little.

Working his way closer, he watched the newcomers climb toward the cave. Bolan put the glasses on them. Dressed in jeans and denim jackets, both men were armed, and they weren't bothering to hide the fact. The weapons were assault rifles, probably Kalashnikovs. About fifty yards away from the cave, one of them stopped while the other continued on up to the cave mouth. He stepped inside and called to the others, then walked back to join his companion.

Maybe luck was with him, Bolan thought. If they all came out in the open, it would be a hell of a lot easier, provided he could get between them and the cave.

He scrambled up the slope to a niche in the rocks. He had a better angle now. All it would take was patience. A minute later three men came out of the cave. The goon in coveralls was followed by two smaller men in combat fatigues and parkas. They walked down to the newcomers. Bolan sighted in on the man closest to the cave. If he took him out, the others would move away from the cave.

They'd have cover in the trees, but that didn't bother the Executioner. The Weatherby was cold in his hands, but it steadied him. It seemed appropriate.

Death, too, was cold. Steady. Now! Bolan squeezed and immediately sought a second target. The guy in coveralls flew backward. The impact of the ribcrushing Weatherby slug slammed him into a boulder. The sound of the second shot was lost in the deadly reverberation of the first. A puff of parka down, and two were gone. But the rest weren't going to be as easy. The first shot had stunned them; the second galvanized them. The three remaining men dived for cover. They had no idea where Bolan was. One by one, they poked their heads out, desperately seeking the source of the hellfire.

If he were lucky, he'd nail a third before they spotted him. Keeping an eye on the cave mouth, Bolan waited. And waited. A shout echoed in the cave, but no one showed. Whoever was inside, and however many there were, they knew to stay put.

One by one, Bolan located the three men in the open. They still seemed bewildered. He could hear them talking among themselves. But they were too confused to mount a counterattack. Backing more securely into the niche, he picked his target. The guy didn't know it, but he had been sticking his head up a little too far for his health.

Bolan squeezed gently. The slug homed in, taking the guy just above and to the left of his nose.

Bolan heard the bullet strike. A pale cloud of bone and brain tissue rained silently behind the rock. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

The remaining two had seen Bolan. A sudden chatter of automatic fire chewed eagerly at the rocks around him. He couldn't stay where he was for too long. A ricochet might nail him, even if he kept his head down. They knew where he was; they didn't have to see him now to kill him.

Both weapons were firing at once. The men would have to reload at the same time. If he could get their timing down, he could get out of the rocky vise before it became his coffin. There was a lull in the firing. At the next reload, he would make his move.

Bolan reached into his heavy coat for the .44 AutoMag. Getting out was going to take some firepower, and the Weatherby was too tough to handle on the run. The spray of bullets and fragments of rock was merciless. The whining of the slugs seemed as if it would never end. And then it came — the pause he was waiting for.

Scrambling to his feet, Bolan darted out from behind his cover. Big Thunder's deadly eye scanned back and forth, watching for an opportunity. To the left, there was a small stand of trees. Squeezing off several rounds, Bolan dived into the shelter of the trees, landing on one shoulder and rolling among needles and leafy litter.

Finding a small hollow, Bolan swung around to face his foes. Stationary, he could use the Weatherby. He refilled the magazine and sighted it on the mouth of the cave. It was time for the rest of the boys to join the fun. Staying down, Bolan slithered through the prickly needles on the forest floor. He wanted to angle around and down and get himself in position to pick off anyone unlucky enough to get careless in the cave mouth. They still didn't know whether he was alone. For the time being, they would assume he had help. They'd be cautious, and slow. But Bolan knew that wouldn't last.

The two gunners down the slope had quit firing. The denim cowboys were getting it together.

Swinging his glasses around, Bolan swept the area where he had last seen them. There was no movement.

Either they were playing a waiting game or they had moved. Scanning the cave mouth, he picked up a shadow on the far wall. He put the glasses down and trained the Weatherby scope on the shadow, then moved it to the rocky edge of the cave mouth.

After thirty seconds, someone dashed out of the cave. He got about five yards before the Weatherby boomed. The shot caught him in the side of the chest.

Thrown sideways, he sprawled face downward on the rocky scree and slid another ten yards before smashing into the base of a tree. His legs kicked convulsively, and then he lay still. Four down. But how many to go? Bolan wondered. Three?

Four? Did it matter? Bolan knew he'd have to get them all, or he wouldn't get out alive.

A flash of light caught his attention. Down below, among the rocks, someone was moving. The reflection was barely discernible. The morning light hadn't really burned through the overcast of the night before.

But it had been enough. Again the reflection. This time closer. One of the gunners had spotted him. Rather than risk a shot at long range, he was moving in. Okay.

Showtime.

The guy was good. In covering seventy-five yards he hadn't made a sound. It was too bad they were on opposite sides. Mack Bolan was the consummate warrior. And like the best in any field, he acknowledged skill, even in the enemy. It wouldn't help the guy any, though. Not now. Bolan realized the guy was good, but he was going against the best.

He was close now. Maybe twenty-five yards away, and still he hadn't made his move. There he was, his rifle to his shoulder. Bolan sighted in on him. His finger found the trigger. He began to squeeze, but something stopped him. The guy was aiming, all right, but not at him. Bolan was watching so intently that he flinched at the sound of the shot. Instinctively he turned to find the target, in time to see another gunner fall from behind a tree. What the hell was going on? The rifleman turned and gave Bolan the thumbs-up. Then he signaled for Bolan to cover him. The guy crawled toward him, expertly using rocks and the trunk of a fallen tree to cover his approach. When he joined Bolan in the trees, he grinned.