Don Pendleton - Blood Testament

"Get down!" he shouted at her. "It's a hit!"

Behind him, out of sight, she heard the door burst open, slamming back against the wall. DeVries was turning, firing back along the hallway, when the sliding windows at her back imploded, raining shattered glass. She caught a fleeting image of the lawn chair as it bounced across the carpet, recognized the hammering of automatic weapons as she dived for cover, flattening herself behind the couch.

It would protect her for a moment, and Susan had no time for thoughts of Hal Brognola now. Her mind was fully occupied with facing the reality of sudden, violent death: her own.

Mack Bolan parked his rental Ford between a Firebird and a family station wagon. He killed the engine and remained behind the wheel for several moments, listening. The cul-de-sac was quiet, sidewalks empty, and he was relieved that there were no apparent parties underway in any of the nearby condominiums. His mission was a soft one here, but crowd scenes added unknown variables, inconvenient witnesses, unnecessary risks.

Brognola had supplied the name of the investigator on his case, and in a hurried phone call he had also tipped the soldier to a scheduled midnight meet in Arlington. The Executioner would be there, standing by his friend, but first there were some questions begging to be answered, and the answer man would be Brognola's nemesis, Erskine DeVries. He had the condo's number, knew the guy was single, that he lived alone and that he wasn't in his office. Odds were good that he would be at home, and based on Hal's assessment of the man — "a loser with the ladies" — it was likely that he would be on his own.

The odds against his making voluntary conversation would be something else entirely, Bolan knew, but he could be persuasive when he tried. DeVries had seen the "evidence" against Brognola, had perhaps collected some of it himself, and with some marginal encouragement along the way he just might share his knowledge with the Executioner. Convinced that Hal was being framed, the soldier was more interested in motives than in manufactured evidence, but any leads might be productive in the end. If he could squeeze some solid answers from DeVries, he would be that much closer to the men behind the frame.

He locked up the car and struck off through the complex, checking numbers as he went and homing on the address that Brognola had provided. A stereo was warming up somewhere to Bolan's right, discordant strains of heavy metal drifting toward him through the darkness, far enough away that Bolan could afford to put it out of mind. He found the numbered building he was seeking, turned the corner — and immediately froze.

Four hardmen, wearing trench coats over suits, were there ahead of him. They picked out the condo's number, huddled briefly, then fanned out to take up their positions. Two disappeared around the back, the others killing time until their backup men were in position, smoking, whispering between themselves. A minute passed, then two, and Bolan watched them grind their cigarettes to ashes on the sidewalk, fanning back their coats to free the automatic weapons bolstered in shoulder rigs.

The hardware banished any fleeting thought that these might be detectives setting up a bust. The pincer movement was a classic, crashing in the front while snipers waited to annihilate the target fleeing through another exit, and if nothing else, the soldier knew that someone else was interested in DeVries. No time to ponder the apparent contradiction of a hit upon the man who was cooperating in a major frame. DeVries might be demanding bigger bucks, or suffering the pangs of conscience. At the bottom line he was expendable, and someone had decided it was time to break the chain, remove a crucial link before it could be followed backward to the source of Hal Brognola's troubles.

They were on the doorstep now, one reaching up to jab the bell when Bolan moved, the sleek Beretta filling his hand. Split-second timing was required, and if he blew it there would be no hope of any answers from DeVries.

An endless moment passed while the gunners waited for an answer to the doorbell. The soldier had already covered half the distance, fading in and out of shadows as he ran. With twenty yards between them, Bolan saw the gunners tense, their weapons rising in response to something he could neither see nor hear.

And instead of opening, the door was sprouting chest-high bullet holes, the shooters desperately recoiling, dodging lead and flying splinters. They recovered swiftly, like professionals, the taller of them stepping up and kicking at the door. The impact shattered its lock, opening the way. His partner loosed a short precision burst to clear the entryway, and they were inside before the soldier could react effectively.

He broke for cover, sprinting for the stoop, aware of new activity around him. Cautious faces peered through the curtains of surrounding condos, porch lights winked on, dispelling darkness in an instant. Sharp, staccato gunfire echoed through the open doorway, coupled with a crash of broken glass.

Too late.

The message hammered in Mack Bolan's brain before he cleared the concrete steps, before he reached the doorway and plunged inside.

But he would never know for sure until he tried, until he saw it for himself.

If he survived that long.

He came upon the hit team from behind, and even so he almost lost the advantage of surprise. With twenty feet between them, someone in the living room began returning fire, big .45 rounds gouging plaster from the pastel walls. The shooters scrambled backward, crouching, and the nearest of them caught a glimpse of Bolan from the corner of his eye.

He barked a warning, swiveling to bring his Uzi up, the muzzle winking fire at point-blank range. Excellent timing and the shooter's haste were all that saved Mack Bolan's life, a belly slide on blue shag carpeting removing him from the initial line of fire. He heard the parabellums slicing air above his head, impacting on the walls, and he was angling with the Beretta, making target acquisition as the hit man started to correct his aim.

The first round from the 93-R ripped through the gunner's chest and rocked him backward on his heels. The Uzi's snout drifted upward, bringing down a rain of plaster dust as 750 rounds per minute chewed up the ceiling. Bolan's second round bored in beneath the shooter's chin and snapped his head back, opening a jagged keyhole in his skull.

The second gunner was already ducking as the body fell across his line of fire, and Bolan took advantage of the momentary distraction, rolling clear before the automatic rounds came ripping in, peeling ragged strips of carpet back and pulverizing the concrete beneath. He triggered three quick rounds from the Beretta, saw his target jerk, colliding with the wall, rebounding in an awkward pirouette that ended in a sprawl. He didn't have to check for vital signs to know the guy was as dead as hell.

From the direction of the living room he heard male voices hoarse with tension, calling to the dead.

"Zito! Eddie! What the hell?"

On his feet and closing, Bolan left them guessing as he stepped across the leaking corpses of their comrades. He holstered the hot Beretta, then stooped to retrieve the Uzi from his first kill, picking up an Ingram MAC-11 as he passed the second lifeless body. Both weapons were primed and a quick check told him he had sufficient ammo to meet the challenge. He cleared the doorway, searching for another target.

They were waiting for him in the shambles of the parlor, shattered sliding windows open on the night behind them, curtains stirring with the breeze. He was aware of someone stretched out on the carpet to his right, but there was no time now for sizing up the casualties.