Don Pendleton: Final Judgment

The only problem was that the powerful gas used had caused overdose deaths in some of the civilians. Conventional force operations traditionally fared little better, even when simultaneous and coordinated guerrilla tactics were used. No, in this case, the Executioner was the hostages’ best hope of walking out of court alive.

Bolan intended to see that they did, every last one of them.

He was counting on the fact that, as much as they blustered about killing their captives, the neo-Nazis needed those human shields. The hostages were the only reason the building hadn’t been taken and cleared using overwhelming force. Even when the gunfire started, the terrorists would be reluctant to start shooting their only leverage. They would fear coming face-to-face with SWAT or military guns with nothing standing between them and righteous bullets.

That would be all the delay Bolan needed.

The rear door to the judge’s chambers was almost hidden, flush with the wall and paneled to match it. Through the door, he could hear voices.

“—a problem,” said the first man. “Several sentries aren’t reporting.”

“Try them again,” said the second man.

“I have. No good.”

Bolan placed the last of his stolen claymore-style mines in front of the concealed door. He backed away down the corridor, using the corner of the hallway to shield himself. He was exposed to either side, and was very aware that there were more neo-Nazi sentries patrolling the building. There was no helping that. When the bullets started to fly, he would rely on his training, his experience and the simple luck that had sustained him for years. When the Universe finally saw fit to put him down, he would be moving forward to meet it.

He drew both his pistols, covering either direction.

Time to go to work.

“SWAT! SWAT!” Bolan bellowed. “They’re everywhere! Blow the mines!” He pointed his Desert Eagle around the corner and pumped several rounds into the concealed doorway. The .44 Magnum hand cannon was deafening in the enclosed space.

The shouts of alarm from within the judge’s chambers were cut short by the splintering of wood and the scream of hot metal shrapnel. The claymore at the doorway had been triggered, shattering the barrier itself. Bolan’s ears began ringing from the concussion, but as with so many things, he would simply have to endure it. It was, he knew, nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t suffer significant and permanent hearing loss after so many years of firefights.

He thrust his pistols back in their holsters and brought up the M-4, charging the smoking crater where the chambers door had been. Blood stained the ragged opening and coated the floor beyond; the claymore had caught at least one of the terrorists inside. Bolan triggered a short burst of 5.56 mm rounds before vaulting through the doorway.

He almost took a bayonet in the face.

As he entered the room, his senses registered a flash picture of the terrain he faced. The judge’s desk was flanked by heavy upholstered chairs, one of which had been overturned. The desk itself was pocked from shrapnel, and everything on top had been shredded. Opposite this were smaller chairs, obviously intended for guests conferring in chambers. They had been knocked over and one was split in two, near the body of the sentry whose blood decorated the blown door. Another corpse was lying, broken and still, near what Bolan knew was the entrance to the courtroom. This door was bolted from within.

The Executioner processed all of this in an instant, from long habit. As the AK bayonet—a heavy, clip-point blade, like a sturdy bowie knife—sliced through the air toward his eyes, he brought up the barrel of the M-4 and sidestepped. He was able to catch and guide the blade around and to the side, ducking it neatly, placing himself on the outside of the knifer’s swing. Bolan immediately reversed his weapon and slammed the retractable butt into the bridge of the attacker’s nose.

The neo-Nazi was wild-eyed and bleeding from several deep gouges in his scalp and neck. The neck wound pulsed. The sentry was dying on his feet but didn’t know it. Pale with shock and blood loss, he screamed as he tried for another blind, overhand stab. There was no technique here; there was only desperation and rage.

Bolan didn’t try to meet the knife. He sidestepped again, crossing the opponent’s body, moving out of range. As he went, he brought up his opposite leg in a soccer-style kick. The sole of his combat boot crushed the neo-Nazi’s knee joint and the man collapsed, screaming.

The soldier let his rifle fall to the end of its sling. He grabbed the attacker’s knife arm, twisted, and torqued the man to the left, tying him up. In the same fluid motion he drove the captured arm in and down.

The bayonet buried itself in the neo-Nazi’s stomach.

Bolan dropped to one knee as he shoved in the blade, using his enemy’s arm as a lever. His eyes locked with the terrorist’s.

“You bastard…” the man said.

“‘And then some,’” Bolan told him, ripping the knife across the neo-Nazi’s gut. Blood splashed from his abdomen as it erupted from his mouth. Bolan finished him with a tight elbow across the face, snapping his head back, knocking him flat.

Covered in gore, the soldier pushed himself to his feet and sprinted to the courtroom door. Screams and shouts came from the other side. Some were those of hostages, voicing their fear. Others were the terrorists, throwing confused orders to one another, terrified that the moment had come and the police outside were storming the building.

That’s when Bolan heard the chopper.

“Sarge!” Grimaldi’s voice sounded in his earbud transceiver. “We’ve got a problem!”

“Jack?” Bolan asked. “Is that you?”

“Negative, Sarge, negative,” Grimaldi responded. “The locals have—”

The hollow, metallic clatter of Kalashnikovs on full automatic cut off Grimaldi’s words. The commotion had drawn more of the sentries. Evidently Bolan’s trick with the mines hadn’t caught them all, nor had he realistically expected it would.

They came on without caution, without a plan, without apparent fear. Bolan raised the M-4 and ripped off several measured bursts, meeting the charge. Several of the neo-Nazis who attempted to breach the judge’s chambers were already bloody. They might have caught shrapnel from the claymores or simply have been nearby when their comrades did. The suicidal charge they now mounted was a symptom of Bolan’s turnabout. He had transformed the predators into prey, so swiftly and unexpectedly that they had reacted with ferocity.

Bolan shot out one man’s knees, dropping him to the floor, then pumped a burst of fire into the chest of the next terrorist. Two more gunners appeared hard on the heels of their comrades, and Bolan drilled each in the head with well-placed fire as he aimed through his carbine’s optics.

“Say again, Jack, say again,” Bolan said. He didn’t have time to hear Grimaldi’s reply before the courtroom door behind him was thrown open. The gunmen leaning through the opening held micro-Uzi submachine guns.

Bolan hit the deck.

The swarm of 9 mm rounds scorched the air where he had been standing. With nowhere to go, the soldier rolled sideways, out of the line of fire, until he slammed into the shrapnel-riddled wooden desk. He almost didn’t fit with his web gear, but he managed to shove himself under it and through to the other side.

The gunmen were on the move now, pushing into the room and looking for a better angle. They immediately lined up the desk and started firing on it. The heavy oak, which had already suffered extensively, groaned under the onslaught. A round tore the floor near Bolan’s left boot. Another burned a furrow in his calf, lightly grazing him. His teeth clenched as the pain bore into him.