Don Pendleton - Desperate Passage

Bolan paused and scanned the scene. All the vehicles, two battered Nissan Pathfinders and an even older jeep, had been left with their engines running to facilitate movement under fire. Two armed men in black and olive drab civilian clothes and headbands had been left behind to secure the vehicles.

The men stood at either end of the convoy in the middle of the road. The hectic action in the jungle kept drawing their attention away from their posts and toward the still burning hulk of Bolan’s vehicle. The soldier gauged the distance and frowned. When he moved there would be no time for hesitation. Other members of the militia were calling out from the trees, close at hand.

The Executioner made his decision.

He looped the end of his rifle sling over his right shoulder. Grabbing the M-4 carbine by its pistol grip, he was able to steady his muzzle one-handed by thrusting his weapon against the pull of the sling braced against his shoulder. At this range it would be enough.

Bolan gritted his teeth and shifted the limp form of Sukarnoputri into a more comfortable position. He jogged forward out of the brush and onto the road about five yards from the tailgate of the last vehicle in the line.

He shuffled forward four steps before the sentry closest to him turned. Bolan flexed the muscles of his forearm and triggered his weapon. The M-4 bucked in his hand with the recoil of his 3-round burst. The 5.56 mm rounds caught the spinning militiaman high in the chest.

The man staggered backward at each impact before he went down. Bolan brought the M-4 to bear as the second sentry turned in alarm at the ambush. He saw the man snarl in fear and outrage as he lifted his Kalashnikov, and a burning cigarette tumbled from his mouth as he fought to bring the AKM around in time.

Bolan stopped him with a 3-round burst to the gut. The AKM tumbled to the ground and bounced before the slack corpse of the gunman pinned it to the dirt. Almost immediately a questioning cry was raised by the trailing members of the hunter-killer team deployed near the crashed vehicle.

Bolan wasted no time. Letting the M-4 dangle from its sling, he opened the door on the jeep and ducked inside. He thrust the unconscious Sukarnoputri across the seat and up against the front passenger door.

The glass in the window of the driver’s door shattered as bullets slammed through it. Bolan dropped and spun, swinging the M-4 up by its pistol grip. He saw a figure at the top of the berm above the roadside.

He triggered a blast from the hip across the fifty yards and punched the man back into the underbrush. Wasting no time, he jumped behind the wheel of the jeep and slammed the door shut. Leaving his carbine across his lap, he threw the vehicle into reverse and gunned it, twisting in the seat to look out the back window.

He heard Sukarnoputri moan on the seat beside him, but he couldn’t risk looking down. Still driving in reverse he navigated the primitive road as more bullets began to strike the vehicle frame and punch holes through the windows.

There was no time or space to perform a bootlegger maneuver on the narrow track, so Bolan simply drove in reverse. The windshield caught a round and spiderwebbed, but the intensity of fire coming from the jungle had begun to slacken and he knew the members of the Indonesian crew were making for their own remaining vehicles.

Suddenly a screaming gunman raced into the middle of the road and took up a position in the jeep’s path. Kalashnikov rounds punched through the rear windshield and burned through the space around Bolan’s head. The soldier floored the gas pedal on the already erratically bouncing jeep and hurtled toward the gunman.

Green tracer fire arced through the cab of the jeep and rounds thudded into the seats. Sukarnoputri screamed at his side as the plastic screen over the gas gauge and speedometer shattered. A 7.62 mm round struck the steering wheel, and for a wild second Bolan thought it was going to come apart in his hands.

Then the speeding jeep struck the gunman. As metal made contact with flesh and pulverized it. Blood splashed into the back of the jeep, painting the seat and a battered old jerri can of gasoline.

Bolan felt the vehicle shudder as he rolled over the man. Then he was past the corpse and around a bend in the logging road.

He continued to drive in reverse, hunting for a place where the road widened sufficiently to turn the jeep around.

Driving in reverse, he was unable to use his headlights and so was unable to circumnavigate some of the more egregious ruts and potholes. The jeep was taking a brutal beating, and both he and the wounded woman were being knocked around mercilessly. She was moaning softly but when Bolan risked a glance to look at her he was surprised by how alert she appeared.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I feel awful, dizzy and my arm and back hurt badly. But I don’t think I was hurt, you know, inside,” she said.

“Good, because we’re in a damn tight spot.”

Sukarnoputri struggled to sit up. She lifted her arm and pointed out the spiderwebbed front windshield back down the road from where they had fled.

“I only want to see my little girl again. Please you have to help me see her again,” she cried.

Bolan knew her voice was too raw with emotion to be a lie, he respond with the same honesty.

“I will, I promise you. I will help you. But you have to help, you have to fight.”

“Here they come!” she cried.

Bolan whipped his head around and saw headlights appear out of the darkness, bearing down on them with deadly speed.

He snarled something Sukarnoputri didn’t catch and continued driving. The vehicle was shaking apart from the beating it was taking on the rough road. Sukarnoputri fought her way into a sitting position and snapped her seat belt into place. Bolan pushed the gas pedal to the floor of the jeep.

Then the grenades began to rain down.

Sudden flashes of light and the deafening sound of explosions hammered into the Executioner. Suddenly the steering wheel was wrenched from his grip and he felt the jeep fly into the air and tilt. He rolled, weightless, for a long moment then the vehicle crashed back to the ground and he was jarred hard against his seat harness.

He heard metal shriek in protest as the roof of the car crumpled inward and felt the frame slam into his head. He hung upside from his seat belt and his M-4 flew up from his lap and smashed his nose.

He felt the inverted jeep sliding forward, hurtling across the broken road. Dirt flew up through the shattered windshield to spray him. Fumbling with the release on his seat belt, he found it and released himself, dropping onto the crumpled hood. The jeep pitched abruptly and he was thrown against Sukarnoputri.

The vehicle slammed hard into something, and Bolan was catapulted forward again. He buckled around the steering wheel and dropped against his seat in a heap.

His head was spinning from the blasts and the crash. He could feel a sticky mask of blood on his face and he gasped for breath. He reached for his assault rifle but couldn’t find it. Pulling the Beretta clear of the sling beneath his arm, he struggled to get orientated properly.

Machine-gun fire raked the bottom of the vehicle. Bullets burned through the frame and tore the covers off the seats, stuffing exploding into the air. Bolan was clipped above the elbow and felt a hammer blow on the heel of his boot. Sukarnoputri screamed, and Bolan twisted to look as she shoved herself forward through the blown-out windshield of the car.

He waited until she was clear then followed.

“Go!” he shouted.

He reached out a hand to give her support and the jeep exploded behind him.

They were tossed through the air, everything went black.