Don Pendleton - Deadly Contact

“Murderers always try to justify their crimes,” she said. “You are no different. In the end you are all no more than backstreet scum, criminals and thieves, and one day your actions will reach out and drag you down into the grave with us.” She spit in his direction. “Do your worst, you bastards.”

A swift nod and the escorts raised the automatic weapons they were carrying. There was no preamble, no final words or comfort for the victims. The clearing echoed to the vicious crackle of autofire that riddled the six with 9 mm bullets. The writhing bodies tumbled forward into the pit, screaming out their final moments as they hit the rain-sodden earth. Torn flesh, shredded clothing, the final spurts of blood. A pink haze floated for seconds over the open pit, dissipating in the continuous rain.

“Fill it in,” the big man said. “Then get out of here. Report to me in the morning.”

He turned then, flicking a finger at the others standing with him and they merged with the dark trees, retracing the steps that had brought them to this place of slaughter. Minutes later they emerged from the trees and climbed into waiting SUVs. Powerful engines purred to life and the small convoy moved off, following the curve of the thin track, disappearing into the gray mist until there was no sign they had been there.

At the pit site, the escort squad had exchanged their weapons for long-handled shovels. They worked quickly, scooping the wet earth back into the pit, covering the bodies, then dragging clumps of shorn foliage and leaf mold over the plot. The rain would soon reduce their boot prints to nothing, washing away evidence of their activities, and it would not take long for the forest to reclaim its disturbed ground. The grass would grow, and the foliage would weave and tangle its way back.

AN HOUR LATER THE SITE WAS deserted. The distant rumble of the departing truck had long since faded, leaving only the sound of the rain to break the solitude.

From the far side of the clearing a dark figure emerged from concealment. He was a lean, tight-featured man clad from head to foot in camouflage clothing that had allowed him to remain unseen until he stepped into the open. Even his face was striped with camo paint, so his eyes stared out from the mask, bright and feral. He carried an expensive, professional camcorder in his hands. The equipment was state-of-the-art and was fitted with a powerful variable-focus lens arrangement that allowed for tight, detailed closeups even from a distance. The man had been in place well before the events at the pit had taken place. He had recorded the whole episode, making certain that his tape logged every face, of victims as well as the killer escort. He had also focused in tightly on the group by the trees, recording their presence at the massacre. He stood and took a final pan of the area, ending by holding his camera on the camouflaged area of the burial site.

He had just completed his filming when he felt the soft vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He unzipped the flap and took out the phone, pressing the button to open the connection.

“Are you finished?” the voice of his employer asked.

“I was about to leave.”

“You have it?”

“Oh, yes. Everything. They are all identified. It is all on the tape.”

“Excellent. You know what to do?”

“As we discussed. Give me until the end of the week and it will all be documented.”

“I will talk to you then. Now I have to go. They are ready to start the proceedings. We have the past to toast and our assured futures to celebrate.”

The cell phone went silent and the man put it away. First he placed the camera in the soft, waterproof case he had tucked inside his zipped jacket. He slung the case over his shoulder by its webbing strap, then turned and began his long tramp back through the forest to where he had left his car. He had at least a half hour walk ahead of him, but he consoled himself with the anticipation of the warm apartment waiting for him. He would do what he needed to do with the video cassette and the material he had recorded over the past few weeks. He also thought of the money it would bring him, courtesy of his employer, and the payments in the future that would ensure he continued to enjoy his life of upcoming luxury. During his walk back to his concealed car, he never once gave any thought to the six people he had seen slaughtered. In his mind they had ceased to exist the moment the fiery 9 mm bullets had ripped into their bodies.

Present Day

Throw a pebble in water, and the waves extend outward with a speed that reaches far beyond the moment of its creation.

For Mack Bolan those ripples had already reached out to engulf someone he knew and had drawn him to this isolated, derelict farm in upstate Virginia on a rescue mission about to go hot.

Armed and clad in blacksuit, he erupted out of the dark shadows and confronted the three-man crew holding Erika Dukas hostage. The crew had been waiting for their orders and were on less than full alert. They had been promised cash for their part in the operation. It had been good pay for a relatively easy job, and the men were congratulating themselves on the easy money.

They were unprepared for the tall, blacksuited Executioner as he opened the abandoned farmhouse door with a powerful kick from a booted foot. As the door flew open, sagging from one hinge, Bolan appeared and lashed out with his Uzi at the closest of the three men before him. The man tumbled back, blood welling from the heavy gash in his head, stumbling to the floor. Bolan turned his attention to the other two as they produced automatic pistols, the suppressed Uzi spitting fire as he squeezed the trigger, tracking the muzzle from left to right, then back again, kicking the stunned kidnappers off their feet. As the last of the 9 mm shell cases clinked to the floor Bolan strode across the room, laying his Uzi on the wooden table he passed and used his Ka-bar fighting knife to cut through the bindings securing Erika Dukas to a wooden chair.

She ripped the duct tape from across her mouth.

“Another one outside…” she gasped before drawing breath.

Bolan helped her to her feet.

“There was,” he said quietly.

It was his only reference to the man who had been standing guard outside. He slid the knife back into its sheath, but not before Dukas caught a glimpse of the blood smear on the blade.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Bolan’s concern over Dukas drew his attention, momentarily, from the men he had taken out. If he had to come up with any excuse as to his momentary lapse in concentration, it would have referred to the clubbing he had received back at Tira Malivik’s apartment. The slight concussion had not entirely cleared, and it had left him less than fully alert.

Behind him a bloody figure rose awkwardly from the floor, turning to make a grab for the Uzi on the table.

The woman’s gasp of surprise warned Bolan.

He turned and powered himself across the room, his eye on the weapon too, aware of the end result if he failed to commandeer it. The kidnapper had less distance to cover and he moved fast, a near-triumphant smile on his bloody lips as he reached out for the submachine gun. His fingers closed over the metal, yanking the Uzi toward him. Bolan was still a couple of feet away. He made a last-ditch attempt, launching himself forward and across the table, sliding over the surface, and slammed bodily into the kidnapper.

The impact sent the guy stumbling back, almost losing his grip on the SMG. He crooked a finger around the trigger and hauled the muzzle around to track on Bolan. The Executioner kept his forward motion. He rolled across the far side of the table, landing on his feet and swinging out his right arm, delivering a smashing fist that clouted the man across the side of his face. He reached for his holstered Beretta.