Don Pendleton - Doomsday Disciples

While the choice remained, he intended to stay among the living.

Bolan scaled the wall and perched atop it, balanced like a great hunting cat, sweeping the ground below with his Nitefinder goggles. He knew the fog would lift with daybreak, but at the moment it was even thicker than before. Night jealously clung to every moment, reluctant to relinquish its domain. The grounds were shrouded, ghostly, and it took the warrior several moments to pick out his enemies and chart their patterns.

He watched and timed the perimeter patrols, noting the "elders" walked in pairs as before. If his first penetration had taught them anything at all, it didn't show.

So much the better, then. If they were cocky, overconfident, it could work to his advantage. It was another edge.

Bolan let a pair of walking sentries pass by, ticking off the numbers as they disappeared from sight. He dropped down inside the wall, landing in a crouch, holding the autorifle ready, just in case.

There was no such thing as too much caution in the hellgrounds. A canny warrior expected the unexpected.

Like voices in the fog, for instance.

Two voices were coming Bolan's way. Off schedule.

The warrior saw his choices in the space of a heartbeat. He could slip away, let them miss him in the fog — or he could take them now. Start the ball rolling here, and reduce the odds by two for openers.

He slid the black Beretta from its armpit sheath, thumbing back the hammer. There was no time like the present.

He waited, never moving from his combat crouch, the silent Belle locking on imaginary targets. He used the sound of voices to track his enemies. They were moving on a dead collision course with his position. Another moment...

Twin figures materialized in the mist, moving casually, taking their time. One carried an M-l carbine; the other held a flashlight, keeping any hardware hidden under his jacket.

Bolan didn't waste time trying to determine why the sentries were off schedule. They were here and now, and that was all that mattered.

The rifleman presented a greater threat, and Bolan took him first, lightly stroking the Beretta's trigger. A pencil line of flame chugged from the muzzle, lancing toward the nearby murky silhouette. A hot parabellum exploded in the gunner's face, mushrooming on impact, ripping flesh and bone, finding the rotten brain.

Bolan's target folded, legs turning to rubber as he died on his feet. He hit the ground before his partner realized what was happening, the carbine clattering beside him on the rocky soil.

The second gunner recognized the danger and reacted to it. But the move was too little and too late. His flashlight blazed on, sweeping onto target, while his other hand reached for a holstered side arm. Bolan let him reach it, but that was all. He wasn't giving anything away.

The first parabellum round pinned the gunner's arm against his chest, punching through, mangling vital organs. The second bored a 9mm channel through his forehead, exploding from the rear in a frothy crimson shower. The guy touched down beside his comrade, two discarded mannequins, silent and immobile.

Bolan left them there, pausing long enough to strip the carbine of its long banana clip before he melted into darkness, moving toward the manor house. The night enveloped him, covering his tracks. He moved swiftly through the trees, a gliding shadow in the fog.

The shadow of death, yeah.

He went to ground fifty yards from the big house, scanning with the Nitefinders, noting the light in the office window. From his vantage point, he had a view of several bungalows behind the house. They were still darkened and under guard. If the cultists were awake back there, they gave no sign of it.

The numbers were running now, and even with the fog it was only a matter of time before those bodies on the south perimeter were found by other sentries. Bolan was prepared to launch himself against the main house when the captured walkie-talkie crackled to life at his hip, metallic voices clamoring for his attention.

Bolan tuned the volume, making certain the voices wouldn't carry beyond his own position as he listened in.

"Tommy... you reading me?"

"Right here."

"We got some company down here at the checkpoint. Three dudes in a Lincoln. "

"So, who are they?"

"'One of 'em's a senator.''

Bolan cursed softly in the darkness. The guy called Tommy hesitated, calculating the problem in a hurry. Most of a minute passed before he got back to his sentry at the gatehouse.

"Pass 'em on, " he said. "We've got it covered."

"Right."

Bolan could almost hear the numbers falling now, like the tolling of a funeral bell. He didn't care to wonder for whom the bell tolled. The senator had made his choice, and from there he would have to take his chances.

Moments ticked away before a long, black car with U.S. government plates pulled up in front of Minh's mansion. Three men unloaded from the Lincoln. One of Minh's "elders" appeared on the steps to greet them. He ushered them inside and the broad front door was firmly closed, but not before Bolan's Nitefinders picked out the senator's familiar profile.

A group of eight or ten gunners collected in front of the house, surrounding the government Lincoln. Even from a distance he could see they were on edge, waiting for something. Bolan didn't have to wonder what their presence meant to Michael Culp and his companions.

He was rethinking his attack, allowing for the wild card — new civilians in the line of fire — when the walkie-talkie blared out another rush of voices mixed with static. There was no mistaking the excited message.

It was trouble, right. The two dead sentries were no longer a secret.

At the house, the "elders" reacted to the message, weapons coming out from under topcoats. One clearly had a walkie-talkie of his own, and they were ready to respond if the enemy could be identified.

On the radio, other harsh voices were chiming in, clamoring for information. Bolan knew he had to act fast, before the enemy could organize counteraction. Before he lost the edge.

Thinking fast, he lifted the walkie-talkie from his belt and cut in, overriding frantic voices, speaking rapidly.

"All sentries!'' he snapped. "We've got an intruder by the bungalows. Respond at once."

Some gunners in his line of sight cautiously drifted over for a better view around the house, moving warily. Bolan kept a finger on the radio's transmission button, holding the channel open, jamming' communications and preventing any questions from being answered.

Simultaneously, he dropped a hand to the radio-remote detonator at his waist and keyed the silent signal before his enemies could organize their forces. It was time for a taste of hellfire, right.

Around the perimeter, his charges exploded in rapid fire, with a built-in three-second delay between blasts, shattering masonry, tearing the night apart.

Hellfire, yeah. No one along that perimeter was going to answer a call for help from the house. They were too busy closing ranks against nonexistent enemies. Bolan could hear them firing at the shadows, venting their panic in an aimless fusillade.

The plastic charges were still detonating when he pivoted on one knee, angling his rifle in the general direction of the bungalows. He squeezed off a 40mm high-explosive round and saw it burst. To keep them hopping, he followed it swiftly with a smoking tear-gas shell.

Some of the gunners from the stoop were peeling off, sprinting toward the scene of the blast. Half of them, right, leaving the others stationed outside Minh's front door. The remaining "elders" closed ranks, pulling back and forming a tight defensive ring around the steps.

Out of options, Bolan brought the automatic rifle to his shoulder, quickly sighting down the barrel. He took a breath and held it, anticipating recoil as he squeezed the trigger and held it down.