Don Pendleton - Death Gamble

As the soldier looked for a side street or an alley, he assessed the situation. Small-arms fire wouldn’t cripple the hulking SUV. So, despite their nimbleness and firepower, the bikers had little chance of stopping Bolan. The armored undercarriage would offer at least some protection against a hand grenade or land mine. The hell of it was, if Bolan knew it, so did they. He assumed they had something much more devastating planned for him.

Two more motorcycles, engines whining, appeared from the darkness and joined in the pursuit. Muzzle-flashes erupted around the Jeep and bullets thudded against the windshield, hood and grille. Bolan didn’t dare return fire, not while even a single innocent life hung in the balance.

But that didn’t mean he was helpless.

Cutting the wheel left, Bolan gunned the engine and again swiped at the motorcycle to his left. The shooter ceased fire, let the SMG fall from his grip and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. The bike engine roared, momentarily drowning out the gunfire, as the rider tried to gain some speed and clear himself from the path of Bolan’s vehicle.

The biker never had a chance.

The Jeep plowed over man and machine, causing the SUV to jerk side-to-side, as though crossing over a speed bump. The three remaining bikers fell back and regrouped. Engines thundering, they formed a triangle and roared toward the SUV as Bolan guided it into a nearby alley.

Chattering weapons, squealing tires and roaring engines assaulted Bolan’s senses as he guided the SUV through the urban canyon. Coaxing more speed from his vehicle, he locked the steering wheel in a death grip and continued on.

“What the hell do you call this?” Rytova asked.

“I call it improvisation,” Bolan replied.

A slight drift to the right and the side-view mirror scraped brick, eliciting a quick shower of sparks. Bolan corrected before the impact sheared the mirror completely from the passenger door.

“You’re insane,” Rytova said.

Bolan didn’t argue the point. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the lead motorbike break away from the pack and close in on the Jeep’s tail end. The vehicle shot from the alley and into a cross street. The impact jolted Bolan, and he fought to steady the rocking vehicle as it raced over broken roadways. He heard tires screech and saw headlights as he interrupted traffic flow and caused cars to jerk to a stop on either side of him. He aimed the vehicle into the mouth of the next alley and drove in with the motorcycles following close behind.

Gunshots continued hammering the vehicle. A scrape followed by a loud crack to Bolan’s left gripped his attention. The driver’s side mirror had struck the brick wall. He watched as it tore free and disappeared from sight.

The Jeep again broke free from the alley and rolled into another cross street. Ahead lay a row of burned-out buildings—drooping heaps of exposed steel, shattered windows and charred brick. The alley had come to an end. Bolan braked hard, steered left. The big tires screamed in protest as the SUV spun 180 degrees before finally coming to rest. The stench of burning rubber and the roar of approaching motorcycle engines filled the SUV’s interior as Bolan regrouped.

Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he backed onto a nearby curb, then cut the wheel right to straighten the vehicle. Thumbing the electric window’s switch, the warrior grabbed the MP-5’s pistol grip, hefted the weapon and jammed it through the open window. Bolan pushed the stock into his shoulder and steadied the weapon. Rytova had opened her own window and aimed the Beretta’s muzzle ahead.

The motorcyclists emerged from the alley, weapons spitting flame and lead as they raced their way to Bolan’s position. Two more motorcycles approached the Jeep from either side.

The Executioner triggered the subgun, sweeping the muzzle across the alley and hosing down the approaching bikers. Return fire smacked into the windshield and burned past Bolan’s arm as he continued laying down sustained blasts of hellfire. Hot shell casings from the MP-5 flew, and bounced across the windshield and hood. Gunsmoke swirled in Bolan’s face, stung his eyes.

The night burst into thunder and flames as a round from Bolan’s subgun ignited one of the motorcycles’ fuel tanks, the resulting blaze immolating the driver in a spontaneous funeral pyre.

Bolan’s peripheral gaze caught another of his original pursuers bearing down on the Jeep. Before he could react, Rytova unloaded a 3-shot burst from the Beretta. The Parabellum rounds pounded into the man’s chest, and his dead fingers simultaneously released the SMG and the handlebars. The rider fell backward from his two-wheeler while momentum carried the bike onward until it collided with a wall.

The soldier took down two more bikers with the MP-5 before it locked dry. In the same instant, Rytova’s weapon ran empty. Bolan extracted two more 20-round magazines for the Beretta and tossed them to Rytova. He reloaded his own weapon. Just as he prepared to resume fire, the remaining attackers turned nearly in unison and fled.

Bolan and Rytova shared confused looks.

“They ran?” Rytova asked.

A sinking feeling told Bolan otherwise.

“More like a strategic retreat,” he said. “That can only mean something bad for us.”

The beating of helicopter blades in the distance told the Executioner he was right.

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