Don Pendleton - Dark Alliance

“I can’t walk out until Miami P.D. arrive. There’s one perp on the floor and another outside the building. I won’t leave and put these people in the way of further harm.”

“When they arrive let me speak to the head honcho. I’ll square things,” Brognola said.

“Thanks.”

“Any good going to come out of this?” Brognola asked.

“I don’t know yet but tell Bear to get ready because I’m going to send him some information.”

“Okay. Get back to me for your get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Ten minutes later the office was a busy place. Police and paramedics vied for space. Sebring was given treatment prior to hospital transport to have the bullet removed from his shoulder. The gunman Bolan had put down was cuffed before his own ride for treatment. He’d said nothing, mostly due to the fact that his jaw was shattered and his nose badly crushed. The second attacker had vanished by the time the cops arrived. He had left blood behind on the concrete at the bottom of the steps but he’d disappeared. Carrie sat on a chair in one corner of the office, absently rubbing at the bloodstains on her dress but physically unharmed.

The Executioner stood to one side, waiting while the cop in charge had his conversation with Brognola. The cop ended the call and returned Bolan’s phone to him.

“Looks like you’re off the hook, Agent Cooper,” he said amiably.

Lieutenant Gary Loomis was a lean, tanned cop in his thirties. His boyish face belied the things he had seen during his tenure with the Miami-Dade force. Despite the heat he wore a suit and tie. He stood in front of Bolan, hands on his hips, studying the big man.

“So what brought you to Sebring’s office again?” the cop asked.

“Just following up on information received,” Bolan recited. “An ongoing investigation. Sebring was pegged to answer a couple of questions. He isn’t a suspect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Loomis said. “Need to know and all that crap.”

“Sorry, Loomis. If I could tell you more I would.”

Loomis grinned. “Hell, don’t sweat it. I got enough local crime to keep me busy. Last thing I need is another pile of paperwork to wade through. That yahoo you gave us is going to use up a whole tree’s worth of forms by the time we get him processed.”

“Any idea who he is?”

Loomis shook his head. “Maybe when we run his prints we’ll get lucky.”

“I’d appreciate hearing about anything you turn up.”

Loomis handed Bolan a card. “Call me.”

“Thanks.”

“Anything for the Feds, Agent Cooper.”

“SO WHERE TO NOW?” Brognola asked.

Bolan was behind the wheel again, heading out of the city. His only lead was the origin of the package Maggie Connor had mailed to Sebring.

“Riba Bay. Have Bear check the place out. See if there’s anything Maggie might have been interested in. And tell him I’m going to download the contents of the memory card and flash drive as soon as I can.”

Bolan ended the call.

He saw a shopping mall and eased off the highway, taking a parking spot close to the entrance. He made his way through the mall until he saw a computer store. Inside he asked for the manager. When the man arrived, looking all of sixteen years old, Bolan showed his Justice identification and explained what he wanted. Minutes later he was seated at a work station in the manager’s office, downloading the memory card and flash drive to send to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, the communications expert for Stony Man Farm. An acknowledgment e-mail came through saying the material had been received. Bolan erased it. He found the store manager, thanked him for his cooperation and returned to his SUV.

He had been driving for just under thirty minutes when he spotted the car tailing him….

The Executioner was at least an hour from Riba Bay. All he had to go on was the postmark on the package Maggie Connor had sent to Sebring. It was hardly much in itself, but it wasn’t the first time Bolan had started out with almost nothing. But now he had company.

He spotted the tail car again in his review mirror, watched it as it narrowed the gap and kept edging closer.

Too close.

He checked the road ahead. For the past few miles he hadn’t seen another vehicle. The road was clear in both directions. Bolan checked that his seat belt was secure, then hit the gas pedal and sent the big SUV surging forward. The force pushed Bolan back in his seat. He saw the tail car recede.

That wouldn’t be the end of it, Bolan knew.

He was on a straight road, with no discernable turnoffs. There was no way out of this, except to keep driving and wait for something ahead to change things.

That something did show up a few miles along the road. But not in the way Bolan had hoped. He saw a distant configuration spanning the blacktop. At the speed he was traveling it only took a short time before he was able to identify it.

A full-size fuel tanker was stopped across the width of the road, blocking it completely. The road on either side dropped away into drainage ditches, offering no avenue of escape.

The tail car was coming up behind him, relentless in its pursuit.

Bolan realized someone was panicking enough to set up the roadblock. They were desperate enough to step out in public in order to stop him.

What, he wondered, had Maggie Connor uncovered?

He eased off the gas, stepped on the brake and steadied the SUV as the tanker loomed larger. Armed figures stepped into view. There were three. One opened up with a submachine gun. Slugs scored the asphalt in front of the SUV. A second gunman started firing. Bolan saw sparks as bullets skidded off his hood. One hit the windshield, leaving a spiderweb crack. Bolan worked the wheel, the SUV rolling back and forth across the width of the road, tires squealing. A glance in the mirror showed the tail car maintaining a discreet distance now that the shooting had started. A small bonus.

The firing got heavier. One of the door mirrors exploded in a shower of plastic and glass.

Bolan stood on the brake, turning the wheel to bring the SUV around in a hard slide, broadside to the tanker. He thought for a moment that the vehicle might flip over. He switched off the ignition, cutting the power, pulled out his Beretta and, as the SUV came to a jarring stop, he slid across the seat and opened the passenger door. He rolled out and dropped to the road, crouching, before moving around the front of the vehicle.

Footsteps sounded nearby. Bolan picked up the first shooter as he moved into sight. The Beretta 93-R punched out a triburst that hit the man chest high and put him straight down. Maintaining his aggressive stance Bolan moved again, half rising as he cleared the front of the SUV and met the two remaining shooters head-on. His cool appearance, seemingly oblivious to the threat of the pair of armed figures, gave him a psychological advantage, and though it was only for a brief moment it was enough. Bolan triggered three-round bursts in a continuous volley, hitting both shooters before they acquired their target. They tumbled to the ground in agony, riddled by the 9 mm bursts.

The Executioner ran forward and snatched up one of the fallen weapons—an H&K MP-5. He checked the action and moved behind the SUV as the tail car fishtailed to a stop. An armed figure was leaning out the passenger door. Bolan raised the MP-5 and laid down a long, damaging burst that raked the front of the vehicle and blew the windshield out. The Executioner maintained his deadly fire, emptying the remainder of the magazine into the cab of the vehicle. When the MP-5 locked on an empty chamber he dropped it and returned to pick up one of the other discarded weapons.

There was no movement inside the tail car. As Bolan carefully checked it out he saw two bloody forms sprawled across the front seat. He turned back and crouched beside the other dead shooters. He removed the weapons he found. All five men were Hispanic. The only useful evidence he found was a cell phone on one of them. He dropped it in his pocket.