Don Pendleton: Doomsday Disciples

Moving in for the kill, Bolan primed the launcher with a high-explosive round. It would be his backup, his fail-safe, the doomsday weapon just in case things went to hell.

He closed in on the tank when a pair of dusty and disheveled figures rose behind it, facing him across the hood. Minh's lifeless gunner lay between them like a human sacrifice.

Minh's voice stopped Bolan twenty paces out.

"That is far enough," he said. "You will drop the weapon, please."

Bolan's tone was flat, uncompromising.

"I don't think so," he answered. "Look around you, Minh. It's finished."

"Is it? I don't believe so."

The voice rose nervously. There was a wild look in his eyes as he raised an automatic pistol, brandished it and jammed the muzzle hard against his captive's side.

"You may recognize my friend, the senator," he said. "Please believe that I will kill him instantly if you do not put down your rifle."

Bolan let his shoulders slump, his attitude telegraphing grim defeat. The muzzle of his weapon slowly drooped, sagging toward the ground. His eyes fastened on Minh's face, watching as a look of satisfaction spread. Minh smiled and instantly Bolan stroked the trigger of the 40mm hand cannon.

The high-explosive charge struck the limousine behind the driver's door. Bolan crouched then rolled sideways when the ball of flames erupted with devastating force, rocking the limo on its springs and setting up a massive shock wave. Minh and Michael Culp were flattened by the blast, shrouded in a cloud of smoke and dust that mingled with the fog.

Bolan circled through the hellish mist, his nostrils engulfed by the stench of burning. The limousine was shattered, flames licked the interior. There were moments left — perhaps mere seconds — before the gas tank exploded.

As he reached the killing ground, Bolan saw a dazed and dusty Michael Culp staggering away, moving from danger on shaky legs. Minh was closer, kneeling in the dirt and scrabbling around with both hands, searching for the weapon he lost in the blast.

Bolan raised the M-16 and held its muzzle steady on Minh's chest, unwavering. He announced himself to Minh, attracting the shaken "holy" man's attention with his voice.

"Like I said, it's over."

Minh slowly straightened up, meeting Bolan's gaze. With an effort, he struggled to his feet, almost standing at attention.

"One man," he said reflectively, as he talking to himself. "I knew it."

"One can be enough," Bolan told him.

"You were in the war?" he asked.

Bolan nodded solemnly.

"I still am."

Minh's smile was thoughtful, introspective.

"I understand."

And there was nothing more to say.

Bolan switched the fire selector back to automatic as he pressed the trigger and held it down. Steel-jacket tumblers ripped through the standing figure at a cyclic rate of 700 rounds per minute, blowing him away like a rag in a high wind.

The rifle's magazine emptied out in something under two seconds, firing bolt locking open on the smoking chamber. Two seconds was a heartbeat, yeah... and a lifetime for Minh.

Bolan followed the senator.

Flames found the limo's gasoline tank. It detonated like an incendiary bomb, the heat wave washing over Bolan's back, but he didn't turn around to watch the fire. He didn't need to see the cleansing holocaust at work.

It was now time to think about survivors.

Twin Peaks is a tourist magnet in the San Francisco area. Twin Peaks is the geographic heart of the whole scenic wonderland that is the City by the Bay. From her overlooking peaks, a breathless visitor has the entire Bay Area spread out below for a seemingly infinite distance — an especially spectacular view at night. The many observation points and pull-overs once provided lovers with a heady lure... before car-window bandits and rapists found the lure equally rewarding.

Bolan had been there many times, but neither as a lover nor a bandit. In another life, another war, he had brought his California hit to a conclusion there, with a fusillade that shattered Don DeMarco's dreams of power. It was only fitting, then, that another San Francisco strike should end there.

A golden dawn broke in the east, warm rays of sunshine burning off the nightly fog until the city below began to steam. In another hour, maybe less, the view would be awesome. Except neither Bolan nor his passenger came to see the sights.

After all of it, the blood and burning, destruction and death, there was only one thing in the world Michael Culp wanted to see. The senator was virtually silent on their ride across town, but the Executioner could read the tension in the man's movements, the way his hands kept opening and closing in angry fists. No amount of verbal reassurance could put his mind at ease.

It would take a special kind of rendezvous, sure, and Bolan didn't want to keep him waiting.

By prearrangement, Herman Schwarz was waiting for them at the scenic overlook. Amy Culp sat beside him in the car, her face showing signs of animation as she caught sight of Bolan and his passenger.

Michael Culp was out of the car before it stopped rolling, his voice breaking as he called his daughter's name. Amy met him on the run and they clung together, openly weeping, afraid to let each other go and sacrifice the moment.

Later, there would be time enough for talk.

Bolan watched them for a moment, feeling for them, sure, before he left the car. Gadgets met him at the Caddy's battered tail and shook his hand, glancing at the bullet holes and lacerated fenders.

"Looks like you had some wild ride," the Able warrior said.

Bolan gave his friend a smile.

"Wild enough," he said. "How's the mop-up going?"

"Five-by-five. Between the marshals and their prisoners, it's SRO around the federal building. Guess you could say the same thing about the morgue — except they won't be standing."

"Did they bag the yacht?" Bolan asked.

Gadgets flashed a crooked little grin.

"Had a problem there," he answered. "Seems the damned thing sprung a leak. Went down like the Titanic off the waterfront."

It was Bolan's turn to smile as he let himself unwind, tension slowly draining out of him. It was good to be alive and sharing the company of a friend, basking in the warmth of early-morning sunshine.

For a soldier, such moments were few and far between.

The senator moved toward them, keeping Amy close beside him with an arm around her shoulders. Both smiled widely, at peace with themselves and each other. Michael Culp addressed Bolan in a voice heavy with suppressed emotion.

"I don't know how to thank you."

Bolan flicked a glance at Amy and saw her smiling face and shining eyes.

"Sure you do," he said. "Tend the home fires, Senator."

"I will, believe it. I owe you one."

The warrior shook his head.

"Call it paid," he said, "and get the lady out of here."

Culp nodded. Amy Culp mouthed a silent thank-you as she and her father turned away.

And it was over, yeah, in San Francisco.

The serpent's head was destroyed. The severed pieces of its body that clung to life would be picked up by Brognola. Without direction, the tattered remnants of the Universal Devotees would wither on the vine. There might be some fight left in them, a last reflexive spasm, but the war was finished.

It had taken all of six short hours.

How many men had Bolan killed within that time?

Enough.

He turned to face the sun, letting its cleansing heat bathe his face and soak into his aching muscles, driving out the chill of night, the weariness of battle.

For the moment, yes, for here and now, it was enough.