Don Pendleton: Doomsday Disciples

Bolan hated going in blind. It was a wild-ass warrior's tactic, sure, but there were times when no choice remained — times when a soldier had to play the cards as they were dealt, with no real means to improve his hand.

If the stakes were high enough, a gutsy soldier gambled and played it through without a backward glance. With any luck at all, he might find a way to bend the rules and give himself an edge.

The telephone receiver crashed in its cradle, and the gunner cursed under his breath. Bolan knew he had perhaps a heartbeat to map strategy and put it into action.

The man in black poked his head around the corner, intent on the hardman's retreating back. He whistled softly, barely loud enough to bridge the space between them, then swiftly retreated from sight.

He could picture the gunner, hesitating in the corridor, glancing back at his companions and wondering if he could trust his ears or whether he should call a backup to help him check things out.

It could go either way, Bolan knew. The guy could pass it off as nothing and go about his business, or he might fetch a squad to join him in the check. Ideally, he would be curious and confident enough to run the check alone. If he did, there was a chance the Executioner could buy some precious numbers for himself and for Amy.

The alternative — blasting in without an inkling of the odds — would be foolish.

Foolishly fatal. Sure.

He would play the game, and take it to the limit, but his fearlessness did not include a disregard for danger.

Bolan ticked off a dozen numbers in his mind before the gunner made his choice. Another muffled curse, and then footsteps were coming closer, not receding as the Executioner feared.

His fish was taking the bait. It was up to Bolan to reel him in.

He started the countdown, picturing the soldier as he cautiously closed the gap. Any second now...

Bolan braced himself, determined to avoid shooting if possible. He had the advantage of surprise on his side, but the warrior wasn't taking anything for granted.

There was no sure thing in the hellgrounds.

The soldier came around the corner into view, eyes bulging at the sight of the apparition dressed in midnight black. He recovered quickly and reached for a holstered weapon, but he never made it. The Executioner was too fast.

Bolan seized him by the throat with one hand, fingers digging deep, while the other hand struck his adversary's gun arm a numbing blow. He swung the gunner around, slammed his back against the wall and felt his breath rush out on impact.

The guy struggled feebly, gasping for air and clawing at Bolan with his one good arm. The jungle fighter bored in, pivoting to drive a knee against the gunner's solar plexus, feeling bone and muscle collapse under the blow. At the same time, he released the "elder's" throat, slamming a rigid forearm across his larynx and putting all his weight behind the move.

It was sufficient. The hardman died on his feet, a startled expression frozen on his face.

Bolan lowered the body into a sitting position and turned toward the new killing ground. He bought himself a moment, nothing more, and he would now have to play it through with all his warrior's skill.

He turned the corner, moving briskly down the corridor, one hand clasped around the Ingram's pistol grip. The "elders" were expecting their companion and with any luck, a figure moving in the dimly lit hallway would not arouse suspicion. At least not before the Executioner was well within effective striking range.

His eyes swept rapidly from side to side, his field of vision widening with each stride. A fourth gunner drifted into view, tracking from the left at a casual pace, and the shoulder of a fifth was visible around the corner to his right.

There was still no sign of Amy Culp. And Bolan was going in blind, right, in spite of himself. The lady might be anywhere — even in the line of fire — but there was simply no alternative. Bolan had to forge ahead.

He had come too far to turn around, and it was do-or-die time, with odds of perhaps a dozen guns to one. Potentially killer odds, but not insurmountable. With an edge...

Bolan was perhaps twenty feet from the seated soldier when the guy glanced up and spotted him. There was gauze wrapped around his head, stained with seeping blood, and a compress taped across one eye, but his good eye was staring straight at Bolan, unblinking. The shock of recognition gave his ravaged face a sudden haunted look, the appearance of a man confronting sudden death.

For a moment he was silent, speechless, then panic boiled over in his gut and escaped in a strangled cry of warning.

"Jesus, watch it!"

The gunner threw himself sideways, toppling the chair. Bolan chased him with a short precision burst. The bandaged skull exploded into bloody tatters and his dive became an awkward slide.

Tracking on, Bolan swept the entryway from left to right and back again, finding flesh and bone with his short, measured bursts. The muffled MAC-10 made a sound like canvas ripping in the deadly stillness of the warehouse.

On his left, two hardmen were standing close together, gaping at the bloody mess that landed at their feet. One was turning toward Bolan when he hit both with a blazing figure eight, deadly parabellums ripping in at chin level, blowing them away.

To his right, a solitary soldier had his hands full wrestling a Magnum out of side leather, cursing as the holster fought him. Bolan ripped him open with a burst of steel-jackets, punching him over backward in a floppy somersault.

It was in the fan now. Bolan took the entryway in a rolling dive, below the line of fire, coming up in a crouch with the Ingram out and tracking. He turned toward the sound of running feet and caught three "elders" charging at him; two of them brandished pistols, and the point man was fighting with the stubborn cocking bolt of an Uzi submachine gun.

Bolan held the Ingram's trigger down, sweeping them at waist level with a string of 9mm manglers, dropping them in a thrashing, screaming mass of arms and legs. Another heartbeat and the Ingram emptied out, silencing the screams forever. The thrashing ceased abruptly.

Someone was firing back at Bolan now, bullets chipping the pavement around him. He dropped the MAC-10, spinning to confront the newest threat. The big silver AutoMag found his hand, leaping out and into target acquisition even as he recognized the enemy.

There were two, dressed in carbon-copy suits, blasting at him with their autoloaders, never really taking time to aim. Bolan took them in rapid fire. Downrange, the hollow men danced, leaping with the impact of roaring death.

A door banged open and Bolan swung the Auto-Mag around to find his next target. Another soldier — apparently the last — and he held a trump card of his own.

The guy was clutching Amy Culp in front of him like a living shield, one arm circling her chest while the other aimed a .45 at Bolan. The lady's arms seemed secured somehow behind her back.

The "elder" was grinning at him, a wild demented expression on his florid face.

"It's over, Slick," he said. "Drop the piece and — aaiiyee!"

Bolan took a heartbeat to determine what happened. With her hands behind her, Amy Culp had found her captor's groin, talons digging deep into tender flesh. At the same instant, she stomped on his instep, twisting hard and wrenching clear of his grasp, going down on both knees.

The "elder" wailed, clutching his wounded genitals, the .45 autoloader wavering off target. Bolan sighted on the screaming lips and squeezed off a single round at thirty feet.

There was simply no way to miss, and 240 grains of death punched through the soldier's open maw at 1,500 feet per second. Above the chin, his skull disintegrated. The headless body toppled over backward.