Don Pendleton - Sabotage

The automatic gunfire cut down Hal West. Bringing up the Tavor, Bolan quickly loaded a 40 mm grenade in the launcher mounted under the barrel.

He waited for a lull in the gunfire, indicating the men outside were reloading. The Executioner had expected them to stagger their fire, but they were apparently overconfident in their numbers. He risked a quick peek around the edge of the doorway, through the mess of what had once been both sets of double doors.

Two gray Suburbans were parked out front. The men firing from behind the cover of those vehicles wielded M-4 assault rifles, dripping with accessories. Every weapon had an elaborate red-dot aiming system, foregrip, laser and flashlight pods, and a variety of other add-ons.

“There!” one of the armed men pointed in Bolan’s direction. The soldier ducked back behind cover as 5.56 mm bullets chipped away at the battered door frame.

He’d seen enough. He thrust the snout of the Tavor and its grenade launcher through the opening, trusting to luck and his own speed to prevent the weapon from catching a round, then he triggered it.

The grenade caught the lead Suburban, blowing apart the first quarter of the vehicle and sending hot shrapnel in every direction. As the explosion died away, the soldier could hear the screams of his enemies. There was more than one wailing voice. At least two, perhaps more of the shooters had been caught in the blast.

He reloaded the grenade launcher, then repeated the same rattlesnake-fast movement, shoving the nose of the weapon into the gap of the doorway and triggering a second grenade. The explosion, like the one before it, brought a wave of heat pressing through the shattered double doors. Bolan waited and was rewarded with a secondary blast of some kind. Something in one of the damaged vehicles, perhaps extra fuel, perhaps explosives, had caught and detonated.

Sparing the corpse of Hal West a final glance, the Executioner walked out into the flaming hellscape.

Bodies were scattered in and around the two burning vehicles. Some of the shrapnel had damaged two of the nearby parked cars, shattering their windshields and flattening a tire on the closer vehicle. Bolan checked each of the dead men, making sure no one was playing possum. He found only one man still alive, lying on his back behind one of the shattered trucks, staring into the sky trying to breathe with a collapsed lung. His shirt was soaked through with blood. An M-4 lay on the asphalt nearby, forgotten.

Bolan stood over him. He aimed the Tavor at the man’s head, one-handed.

“You’re…one…tough bastard,” the dying man gasped.

“Who do you work for?”

“Card’s…in my pocket,” the man said. Evidently, as death approached, he felt no compelling urge to remain loyal to his employers.

“SCAR?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah,” the man wheezed. “Was…Army.”

“And now you’re a mercenary,” Bolan guessed.

“Yeah.” The wounded man’s voice was growing weaker.

“Why?” Bolan asked. “What’s going on in there? What are you protecting?”

“Beats…hell…out of me.” The man grinned. “They…pay.”

“Was it worth it?” Bolan asked.

The dead man stared up at him, unseeing. He would never answer that or any other question.

The Executioner shook his head. They fought for money, and they died for nothing. He had seen it countless times.

Shaking his head again, the soldier shouldered his weapon and hurried back to his vehicle. There was much more work to be done.

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