Don Pendleton - Final Judgment

Under the gunfire and the ever-louder sound of the chopper, he could feel vibrations in the floor. Footsteps―a lot of them. The occupants of the courtroom were being moved. The helicopter overhead sounded as if it was practically on top of the roof…which it would be, if it were to serve as Nitzche’s means of escape.

“—something screwed up out here, Sarge,” Grimaldi’s voice said into his ear, dotted with static and almost drowned out by the nearby gunfire.

“I need an ID on that chopper!” Bolan shouted. “Jack, intercept! Intercept!”

The desk stopped shaking for a moment.

A grenade skittered across the floor and brushed Bolan’s boot.

He would never clear the desk and get beyond the blast radius in time. Instead, Bolan stretched for all he was worth, wrenching something in his shoulder. His fingers found the bomb and he whipped his arm up at the elbow, tossing the deadly steel egg over the desk and back at his attackers.

The explosion had enough force to shove the desk against the wall, pinning him under it. His ears, already ringing, were rattled by the blast. He bit his lip and tasted the coppery tang of blood.

“Sarge, do you read me?” Grimaldi was saying. “Sarge! The locals are telling me to hold at a one-mile perimeter. They’ve got some FBI hostage negotiator on-site who’s cleared a cargo chopper for the terrorists.”

“That wasn’t the play,” Bolan said. He checked his M-4 while crouched under the desk. “Who cleared that?”

“I can’t get confirmation,” Grimaldi said. “Sarge, you want me to take out the chopper?”

“Who’s flying it?”

“No official word,” the pilot replied, “but my guess would be either law enforcement or civilian volunteers.”

“Innocents, in other words.”

“Yeah.”

Bolan swore under his breath. “Break the airspace cordon. Block that chopper. Threaten to shoot it down if you have to, but don’t fire on it. We’ve got to cut off Nitzche’s escape route.”

“You got it, Sarge.”

On his back, Bolan got his legs under the desk, then heaved, shoving the heavy piece of furniture across the floor. He wasted no time as he used the desk to cover his move back to his feet. He moved toward the doorway to the courthouse, the M-4 leading the way.

He met no resistance, which told him the courthouse had already been emptied. When Bolan began the dive to the doorway, he went low, extending his arms to keep the M-4 in firing position as he landed painfully on his stomach.

At the last minute he pushed right and slammed into the wall next to the door. He’d caught a glimpse of another remote claymore mine sitting in the opening, a trap set by the gunmen he’d taken down. They had fought a delaying action, giving their leader and his hostages time to get to the roof, and they had left a little explosive package behind just to be sure.

Bolan got to his feet and raced back to the entrance opposite the formerly concealed door. Using the wall as cover, he aimed around the corner and simply shot the mine.

The explosion rocked the room, decimating the books and knickknacks on the shelves in the judge’s chambers. The smoke was still swirling as Bolan burst through it.

The court was a shambles. The explosion at the chambers’ door had done only minor damage, but the terrorists had trashed the place while waiting with the hostages. Whatever wasn’t nailed down had been turned over and even shredded. Law books and court records were strewed everywhere. The American flag had been torn to rags, its pole thrust through the seal on the wall behind the judge’s bench.

There were several bodies.

A couple were bailiffs, their guns missing from their holsters. One had been shot. The other had been stabbed repeatedly by someone who obviously enjoyed his work.

No one opposed Bolan. The courtroom was empty. The entire building vibrated under the buffeting of the helicopter overhead, which would be only a couple yards above his position right now. He felt it as much as heard it.

More mines had been stashed in the stairwell leading up to the balcony, but this time the soldier was ready for them. He skirted the stairs on one side until the steps were chest height, then lifted himself up over the railing, well out of the effective kill zone of the explosives. He hit the stone steps and climbed them two at a time. The balcony was clear of weaponry. A set of double doors took him to a small anteroom.

The sentry stationed within was pressed against the wall opposite the door. As he leveled his sawed-off shotgun, Bolan swiveled, bringing up the M-4.

The shotgun roared, the impact slamming into Bolan’s gut like a hammer blow. Air rushed from his lungs, and he went down, landing on his back, hard.

The gunman was standing between Bolan and the ladder to the roof. Behind the shotgunner’s head, the soldier could see the metal hatch. It was closed.

Then all he could see was the barrel of the shotgun. The neo-Nazi racked the pump action.

“Bye-bye, asshole.”

Chapter 3

Black spots swam in Bolan’s vision. He ignored the pain, ignored the burning in his chest, ignored his inability to take in air. Instead, he snapped his feet out and together, creating a scissors that collided with the shotgunner’s lead ankle.

Bone snapped.

The gunner screamed and folded, collapsing to one knee as the stark white bone of a compound fracture jutted through the flesh of his leg and a rip in his pant leg. Bolan pushed himself to a sitting position, grabbed the butt of his combat dagger, yanked it free of its scabbard and rammed the curved tip through the neo-Nazi’s neck. The blade penetrated up and through, lodging inside his skull, killing him.

Bolan could still hear the helicopter, which was practically on top of him, over the courthouse roof. Just beyond that closed hatch.

“G-Force to Striker!” His transceiver sounded again. “Sarge, we have a big problem here. Washington Metro has scrambled a D.C. MPD chopper to protect the cargo helicopter they’re bringing in for the evacuation. The MPD is blocking me. Repeat, Sarge, the Metropolitan Police Department is protecting the cargo chopper! It’s a Boeing Model 234 Long Range. If the authorities let them fly loose, they could be six hundred miles away before they need to refuel!”

Bolan tried to speak, but his breath caught in his throat. He focused on short, shallow breaths. The tension was bad, but he thought it was starting to ease.

He focused on his body, lying very still. Carefully, he moved his hands to his stomach, probing. He found his canvas war bag instead. The fabric was shredded. Magazines and other pieces of equipment were spilling out.

Sitting up, Bolan assessed the damage. Every breath still felt like fire, but they were coming more easily now. A double O buckshot pellet spilled out of his war bag, followed by another. He realized then what had happened. As his body had turned, the sturdy canvas war bag had shifted in front of him. The heavy shot had punched him with all the force of the close-range blast, but the gear in the bag had absorbed some of its energy. The result was a badly bruised abdomen for Bolan—and some items dented and destroyed—but no serious damage that he could detect. With some difficulty he pulled the long, wide strap free from around his neck and over his shoulder. The canvas bag would keep.

Pushing to his hands and knees, he dragged himself to the dead sentry, gripped the hilt of his knife with one hand and pushed against the dead man’s forehead with the other. The blade finally came free. Bolan wiped it against the man’s battle dress uniform before resheathing it.

He hit the steps of the ladder and grunted as ripples of pain rushed through him. He would be feeling that close call for a while. It didn’t matter now; he had no time to worry.