Don Pendleton - Black Death Reprise

With the LAW’s maximum effective range of 660 feet, Bolan hoped the helicopter would be hovering low over the highway. The lower the chopper, the better his chances to hit it with a less-than-perfect aim.

The steady sound of the Bell’s blades could be heard when the truck was ten yards or so from the exit. Bolan’s assessments of his enemy’s positioning and intended tactics had apparently both been correct, and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly to steady himself.

As the pickup moved through the exit into the dark night, he noticed an area on the highway roughly fifty yards outside the tunnel that was illuminated by a powerful spotlight mounted on the chopper’s underside. Before they reached that spot, Bolan realized, he’d have to fire the LAW’s missile.

The instant his line of vision cleared the edge of the tunnel, allowing him to see the sky, Bolan placed the hovering Bell 206 into the center of the reticle’s V sight. The helicopter was low, perhaps no more than two hundred feet off the ground, when he depressed the trigger bar and felt the missile on his shoulder come to life. With an eardrum-aching whoosh and a backblast of fire and hot gases, the high-explosive armor-piercing warhead zipped out the front of the LAW, crashing straight into the belly of the hovering aircraft.

Before the gunner had time to squeeze even one round from his gun, the helicopter exploded in a fireball that illuminated the countryside in orange light. Resembling an outer-space creature in a poorly produced science-fiction movie, the mangled mass of burning machinery tumbled onto the top of the tunnel exit, where it balanced for a moment before crashing onto the highway.

The thunderous sounds of two secondary explosions that scattered pieces of sizzling helicopter metal across both travel lanes echoed across the rolling terrain. With the echo of the blast ringing in his ears, Bolan reached into a pouch on his web belt, withdrew a cell phone, and speed-dialed a secure number.

“Yes?” Hal Brognola answered an ocean away, the sleep in his voice reminding Bolan that in the nation’s capital, people had been in bed for only a few hours.

“Customs,” Bolan said. “Three minutes. Not the Turbo. Blue pickup truck, two passengers.”

“Good job, Striker,” Brognola replied.

He hung up without another word. There would be plenty of time for talk when they got to Stony Man Farm.

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