Don Pendleton - Appointment In Baghdad

The door from Liu’s office had swung shut behind him, and Bolan heard it slam open. He whirled and leveled the Beretta, tracking for a target. Below him on the stairs a wild-eyed triad gunner leaped through the doorway, an MP-5 submachine-gun in his fists.

The 426 screamed and lifted the weapon. Bolan stroked the trigger on the Beretta 93-R, putting a burst just to the left of the thug’s sternum. The gunner buckled at the knees and pitched forward, triggering a burst into the carpet on the stairs.

Knowing the Red Pole had to have fielded numerous 426s in defense of the pit, Bolan spun and continued racing back up the stairs. He bounded to the top and tried the door. It was locked, but this time he could see the lock on his side of the door. He worked the latch and pushed through. His plan was fluid. From the harbor he would make his way to Ladder Street. Once he had climbed that steep incline he’d make his way to Tak Ching Road and begin extraction procedures.

Questions swirled in his mind. Had that hit been a triad business dispute? Had Bolan been the target? Or had it been designed to keep Liu from talking to him?

The Executioner moved through the door and stepped into a crowded kitchen. The room was big and white, and filled with staring Chinese cooks and busboys alerted by the gunfire on the stairs. They shouted in fear and began to scramble over one another in panicked efforts to escape.

Sensing no threat, Bolan cut through the kitchen, heading for a swing door set in a far wall. He followed close behind two teenage dishwashers who were running screaming through the exit just steps ahead of him. Bolan burst into a crowded restaurant filled with stunned Chinese couples and a smattering of Occidental tourists.

He raced up an aisle between semiprivate booths, heading for the front door of the restaurant. He caught a flash of motion and tried to turn. A lithe 426 in a heavy leather jacket leap toward him from around a decorative support beam, a long-bladed knife naked in the snarling man’s fist.

Blocking the wild thrust with the hand holding his Beretta, Bolan twisted at the waist, diverting the man’s energy. The triad gunner was tossed around Bolan’s center of gravity and crashed into a deserted table, spilling bowls of steamed noodles and Kung Pao chicken. The man’s blade sliced a six-inch shallow wound along Bolan’s arm, splitting the sleeve of his jacket.

The pain was sharp and intense and his clothes were soaked with blood, but the wound was superficial and Bolan was able to raise the Beretta. The 426 twisted smoothly as he slid across the table, recovering with the agility of a cat.

A slim dagger flew from the thug’s hand and tumbled smoothly. Bolan managed to jerk his head to one side as the knife spun past him and stuck in the support beam, pinning a narrow silk painting to the lacquered wood.

Bolan’s finger was already on the trigger as he ducked, and the Beretta spoke once. Avoiding the knife throw pulled the soldier’s aim and the rounds meant for the heart punched through the gangster’s upper abdomen instead.

The man shrieked at the sudden agony and Bolan put a second burst under his jaw, silencing the knife fighter before turning and running toward the front door of the restaurant. He could see a knot of panicked people blocking the entrance. Desperate men and women clawed at one another to escape as a tight group of 426s attempted to punch and kick their way into the restaurant. A tall 426 gunner fighting through the doorway recognized Bolan. The man’s eyes widened in the shock and he raised his Type-64 Chinese submachine-gun.

Civilians screamed and parted like the sea in front of the 426 death squad as the man unleashed a blast of 7.62 mm rounds. Bolan turned and dived backward over the corpse of the knife fighter as the submachine-gun began to chatter.

Bullets chased Bolan, 7.62 mm slugs tearing into the dangling feet of the 426 knife fighter’s corpse. As the Executioner rolled over the table and landed in the next aisle, the 426 he’d killed soaked up more submachine-gun rounds.

Bolan hit the ground, rolled over a shoulder and came up with the Beretta in a two-handed grip. He put the sights on the submachine-gunner and drilled him with a neat 3-round burst. The man fell and Bolan shot the man standing directly behind him. The third 426 staggered backward as the weight of his dead brother in arms pitched back into him. He fired a sloppy shot that sang wide and tried to turn and run. Bolan’s next triburst struck the gunner in the neck, knocking him into the street.

Bolan struggled to his feet, reloading on the run. He passed huddle knots of terrified people who watched his rapid progress with wide, unblinking eyes. He stepped over the sprawled corpses of the men he’d shot and left the restaurant to emerge onto a quiet street. No cars moved on the thoroughfare. He could discern no sound of approaching sirens. No other Triad soldiers rushed him. The third 426 he’d killed lay in the gutter.

Bolan lowered the smoking Beretta to his side and jogged across the street. He had rented a nondescript Isuzu Rodeo at the airport under his cover name and parked it several streets over. Once he was at his rendezvous point on Tak Ching Road he’d prep for exfiltration.

The scream saved him.

He heard the angry cry and flung himself flat in the middle of the street. Even as he hit the ground shards of gravel kicked up from the road as bullets slammed into the street all around him. He heard the high chatter of a submachine-gun and caught the muzzle flash blinking out of the darkness at the mouth of the alley.

He saw the shrieking 426 walking toward him, eyes narrowed into slits like an angry cat’s, the Type-64 bucking wildly as the man fired from the hip. Behind the gangster two more triad soldiers, each armed with twin Beretta 92-Fs, spilled out onto the street.

Bolan rolled up onto his left side and swung out his right arm, triggering the Beretta. His rounds cut into the crazy 426 just under the man’s bucking submachine-gun, ripping open his stomach. The man staggered to one side and fired his weapon into the ground. He stumbled then went down, dropping his weapon to the street.

The two 426 gunners behind him stood their ground, side by side, each man blazing away with the 9 mm Beretta pistols they held in either hand. Bolan sighted in on one, moving too fast for anything other than instinct, and drilled the man through his open, screaming mouth.

The gangster’s head jerked and a bloody halo framed his head as he pitched over backward. The triggerman beside him stopped firing as his partner went down. His face registered horror, and he thrust out his arms as he began to run back into the cover of the alley, his pistols belching flame and lead in a sporadic, indiscriminate pattern.

Bolan drew down on the man and put a burst into his torso under his waving arms. The man shook with the impact and staggered, then went down like a tree in a high wind. His pistols fell from slack fingers and clattered on the pavement.

The Executioner pushed himself up from his prone position, weapon at the ready. He shuffled backward across the street, his eyes scanning the restaurant and alley for even the slightest hint of hostile movement. He made it across the street and onto the sidewalk, then turned and sprinted down a small side street, putting solid cover between himself and the battlefield.

The CIA would be unhappy about a back door source into the People’s Republic CCI being shot to pieces, but Bolan could legitimately argue that it hadn’t been his fault. Gangsters killed off one another on a frequent basis. The higher the profits at stake, the more likely violence became.

Jigsaw Liu worked a dangerous profession but Bolan didn’t believe in coincidences. It was a very real likelihood that Liu had been silenced because of him, which meant his mission was compromised from the very beginning.