Don Pendleton - Death Gamble

Bolan figured it was in his best interest to keep the woman in his sights.

But he’d do it under his terms.

“Lose the guns,” he said.

“And leave myself defenseless? Go to hell.” The woman was defiant.

“I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you. You stopped me. You’re injured. Drop the guns and I’ll help. Otherwise, I’ll hop back into this vehicle, get the hell out of here and leave you to fend for yourself.”

Rytova wiped some of the blood from her head, studied it for a moment and seemed to consider Bolan’s words.

Tentatively, she unbuckled the pistol belt, letting it slide down her hips and legs until it landed around her feet. She raised her hands and shot Bolan an irritated look. “Now may we go?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bolan said.

Climbing into the Jeep, he held the Desert Eagle in his left hand and rested his opposite hand on the gearshift as he waited for Rytova to climb into the vehicle. He’d watched her to make sure she didn’t retrieve any of her weapons along the way.

She grimaced as she climbed inside the vehicle.

Bolan shifted and navigated out of the compound. Moments later, the vehicle was racing down one of the main roads into the middle of Freetown.

“You okay?” he asked.

The woman stared ahead. “Someone shot me in the ribs, stomach and kidneys. My vest stopped the bullets, but it hurts to breathe. Another bullet grazed my head.”

“Who shot you?” Bolan asked.

The woman shrugged and immediately winced in pain.

“I’m not sure. Some men I have not met before. I believe the shooter’s name was Cole. He wasn’t one of Talisman’s people.”

“You know most of Talisman’s men?” Bolan was intrigued.

She nodded. “I’ve been watching him for days. But these were not his men. He’s a strong warrior, but his people are unskilled thugs, little boys playing soldier. The men I encountered were professionals. They work for Talisman’s boss.”

“And that would be?”

“None of your business,” she stated.

“Look lady…” he began.

She turned and glared at Bolan. He could tell the effort cost her physically.

“No, you look,” she said. “I have no guns. I don’t know your name. My information is the only leverage I have.”

Bolan clenched and unclenched his jaws. He scanned the road and guided the vehicle into a sharp turn. He heard the tires squeal, felt a slight slip in the back end as the Jeep cornered. Navigating the vehicle back into a straightaway, he mulled the woman’s words and admitted she had a good point.

“When all this is over, you and I are going to have a talk,” he said. “A very long talk.”

“I do not fear you.”

Hell of it was, Bolan could tell she meant it.

“So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“Do you have a name?”

“Cooper,” Bolan said, drawing upon an alias. “Matt Cooper.”

The woman fixed her gaze through the windshield, nodding and absently rubbing her ribs as she did. “You’re American. Are you CIA?”

Bolan shook his head. “Justice Department.”

“Interesting. Why does the American Justice Department care about a small-time hood like Talisman?” she asked.

“To quote someone, none of your business,” Bolan replied.

Rytova’s mouth twisted into a frown. If she had a reply, she kept it to herself. Bolan used the dead air time to check out his surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Talisman.

He reached into a pocket of his combat suit, grabbing a pressure bandage and some packaged alcohol pads. He tossed them into the woman’s lap.

“Here,” he said, staring straight ahead. “These might help.”

“Thank you.”

From his peripheral vision, he saw the woman pull down the lighted sun visor and stare at her reflection as she used the pads to wipe away the blood. She winced when the alcohol seeped into the open wound.

“Your vest is matted with blood,” Bolan said. “Did you lose a lot?”

The woman continued studying her head wound in the mirror, touching it gingerly with the fingers of her right hand.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “But I do feel a little woozy.”

“You going to pass out on me?” Bolan glanced at her.

She gave him an angry look. “I didn’t come this far to quit. I’m not some frail thing who faints at the sight of blood. Can we concentrate on finding Talisman instead of my damn head wound?”

“Sure,” Bolan said.

The Jeep hurtled ahead, occasionally shuddering as it rolled into an occasional pothole. Bolan passed the burned-out remains of a stately building with columns and domes—left over, he guessed, from Sierra Leone’s colonial days—past several smaller buildings and storefronts. Bolan saw occasional clusters of people, the women clothed in colorful dresses, the men in ragged western clothes.

Talisman had gained at least a three-minute lead. That was enough time to disappear into one of the alleys or side roads threading off the main route that led from his compound into Freetown. Or perhaps he’d found refuge in an old warehouse or garage.

Bolan also knew three minutes gave Talisman ample time to call ahead and set up an ambush. The Executioner accepted the risk. Without a doubt, the play had been fraught with danger from the beginning, and he was in too deep to shrink from the challenge.

Glancing into his rearview mirror, Bolan noticed headlights approaching. They began as pinpricks of white interrupting a black background, but swelled in size as they bore down on the Jeep quickly. As the headlights neared the vehicle, they split apart and low rumbles sounded as a pair of motorcycles drove around either side of the Jeep. Both bikers wore black leather jackets and black helmets with clear face shields.

Flashes erupted from either side of the Jeep as the riders caught up with the Jeep and triggered their submachine guns. Bullets drummed hard against reinforced steel as the shooters sprayed the vehicle with autofire.

Bolan glimpsed an approaching biker in his side view mirror and saw the guy fire a burst at the tires with little effect. He guessed that either the man had missed or the tires had been outfitted with special inserts to keep them rolling if punctured.

The other biker came even with the passenger side of the Jeep and loosed a burst of autofire. Bullets collided with bulletproof glass, causing Rytova to flinch and push herself deeper into the seat as she tried to make herself a smaller target.

Trusting his gut, Bolan reached into his shoulder holster, drew the Beretta and handed it butt-first to Rytova. The Russian gave him an uncertain look, then took the weapon. If he’d made a mistake, he’d know soon enough and he’d pay for it with his life.

“Hang on,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Cutting the wheel sharply to the left, he nearly swiped the rider closer to him. The shooter veered into an oncoming lane, firing his submachine gun until it went dry. Bullets sparked and whined off Bolan’s door. With precise movements, the biker let that gun fall limp on its strap, scooped up a second SMG and continued to fire on the Jeep.

Bolan grimly considered the small knots of African men and women standing on the sidelines. A few ran for cover, but others remained rooted where they stood, unable to turn and run away as the deadly tableau unfolded before them. Years of bloody warfare and abuse had left them too shell-shocked to save themselves.

Bolan had blood on his hands this night, but he’d be damned if he’d add innocent blood to the mix.

He mashed the accelerator, drawing more speed from the Jeep’s power pack. He wanted distance from the crowded street, a place where he could reduce the risk to innocent civilians.