Don Pendleton - Meltdown

"Very well. Let's move on. It's getting cold, and I'd like to be enjoying the warmth of a raging fire."

As the Blazer vanished over the hill, Mack Bolan realized he'd been had. But why? He knew that the answer would not be found back at the Parsons place. Parsons wasn't the type to lead an armed assault on Thunder Mountain. But Achison had been in the Blazer. That could only mean one thing: Glinkov.

Bolan floored it, pulling back onto the highway, fishtailing for a hundred yards until the tires gained traction. They were clever, all right.

They'd bought themselves plenty of time, but Bolan was determined that it wouldn't be enough.

Thunder Mountain was forty miles away, nearly an hour's drive over winding, ice-slick roads. And Bolan had no idea what he would be up against once he got there. But there was no time to consider possibilities. There was only time for a direct attack. As he maneuvered the Camaro through the slippery turns, always riding on the thinnest edge of control, Mack Bolan knew that he was the only man who stood between order and chaos, and the only man who stood between Rachel Peres and certain death, unless Eli Cohen was still on the inside. With less than twenty miles to go, Bolan had decided only one thing. He had to approach the place carefully. There was no margin for error. If he blew it once, the ball game would be over.

Bolan pulled off the road to check a map of the Thunder Mountain installation, but it showed him little he didn't already know. He'd have to trust his instincts, and hope for a little luck, something that had seemed in short supply the past few days. He rammed the car back into gear. The menacing roar of the Camaro echoed through the trees, filling the car, and Bolan's head, with the rumble of combat. Every battle he had ever fought paled before the coming confrontation. Never had the threat to innocent civilians been so enormous.

With five miles still to go, Bolan decreased speed. Glinkov was no fool; he might have more resources than Bolan realized. He had to prepare for the worst, and that was going to him time, time he didn't have. But there was no other way to go.

A warning sign on the right told him that the plant was just a mile away now. Bolan began looking for sentries that Glinkov might have posted on the approach road. He hoped the Russian was cocky enough to ignore that precaution. Such arrogance would be Bolan's ally, as it had been so often in the past. Seldom did the outcome of a battle hinge on one major mistake. It was an accumulation of errors that made the difference.

Thunder Mountain's glow lit up the trees now. They were starkly etched against the gray background. Bolan pulled into a small clearing, driving the Camaro past a bend in the narrow road and slamming it hard into a snowdrift to get it as far out of sight as possible. Approaching on foot, Bolan decided to check the main gate first.

It was the easiest point of entry. If Glinkov had taken the plant already, it would be most obvious at the main gate. The cover thinned as he neared the entrance, and the deep drifts among the trees hampered his approach. Finding a vantage point fifty yards from the fence, Bolan noticed nothing unusual. There were uniformed men in the main guardhouse. The gate was closed, and a patrol Jeep stood behind the small building.

While he watched, one of the sweep patrols rolled past, and a guard waved to the gatehouse. The driver beeped his horn, but kept on moving.

Bolan had no choice. He'd have to get over the fence and close enough to the gatehouse to hear what was going on. If Glinkov hadn't yet taken the plant he would be stopped. If he already had... Well, Bolan didn't want to make odds on the outcome.

Pulling back into the trees, the Executioner followed the fence as he moved away from the gate.

Bolan checked for the next Jeep patrol. Moving tightly against the heavy wire, he noticed footprints. The snow had been trampled by several pairs of feet. Above his head, the concertina wire dangled uselessly where it had been severed.

Footprints on the inside of the fence moved in the direction of the guardhouse. He was too late. The plant had been taken. But the attackers hadn't bothered to repair the fence. That might mean they weren't expecting anyone, at least not so soon. They were cocky, all right, maybe just cocky enough to give Mack Bolan the edge he needed.

Vaulting the fence, Bolan landed lightly on the inside and moved swiftly toward the guardhouse.

Approaching from the rear, he flattened himself against the building. Pressing an ear against the wall, he could make out the hum of conversation, but the words were obscured. Moving toward a window, he kept an eye peeled for the patrol Jeeps. The engine noise would give him some warning, but his position was exposed. Directly beneath the window, Bolan could hear the conversation more clearly. Two men inside were playing cards. There was no way to tell whether they were legitimate guards unaware that their defenses had been breached or Glinkov's men relaxing just a little too soon. There was another window, and Bolan slipped along the rough wall to a spot directly beneath it. The window was lighted, but no sound came from within the small room.

Stretching to his full height alongside the window, Bolan strained to hear, but the room was silent. He'd have to chance a look. Inside, several men, bound and gagged, lay on the floor.

There was no blood visible, and they appeared unharmed. But there was no way to get them out without going through the front. It was too risky.

Bolan would have to try another tack.

Watching for the next patrol, Bolan sprinted along the fence, leaving the guardhouse behind. Just ahead was a stand of trees that approached the fence, creating a small gap through which the Jeep would have to pass.

Bolan headed for the trees, pulling at his Beretta while he ran. Once in the trees, he could watch, unseen, and nail the first Jeep that came along. Cutting down on the patrols would limit the possibility of discovery before he could get some help. He had to find Eli Cohen. The Jeep rumbled into view from the direction of the guardhouse.

Its two occupants seemed more concerned with their conversation than they were with surveillance. Bolan knew there were supposed to be four patrols. If Glinkov had kept to that practice, that meant eight men. There were several men in the guardhouse and probably several more elsewhere in the plant. It meant Glinkov had a substantial force at his command. Bolan didn't like the odds, but he knew he had no choice. The Jeep was rapidly approaching. The men continued their conversation. The Executioner set his Beretta for a three-shot burst and crouched among the trees to take aim at the driver. The Beretta whispered, and all three slugs punched through bone and brain. A spray of death's shadow flew from the driver's skull, raining on the passenger who flew forward as the Jeep careened into the trees.

Bolan moved swiftly, reaching the Jeep just as the second guard scrambled to his feet. A second burst from the Beretta slammed into the man's chest and found his heart. He fell like a tree, slamming his head into the frozen ground. His feet kicked spasmodically for a second and then he lay still.

Bolan wasted no time in celebration. Quickly he hoisted the dead man and tossed him into the rear of the Jeep. The driver was slumped forward over the wheel. The Executioner shoved him aside, slipping in to restart the stalled engine. He had to get the Jeep out of sight before the next patrol came along. The engine coughed reluctantly, then caught. Slamming the Jeep's transmission into reverse, Bolan gunned the engine and backed away from the trees. The radiator had been punctured by the impact with the trees, and a cloud of steam billowed around the struggling vehicle.