Читать книгу Justice Run - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

People who’d never been in combat didn’t understand what it did to the mind and the senses. How it changed a person, enhancing some perceptions and subduing others. Bolan understood the transformation all too well, though. He’d spent his entire adult life as a warrior—first as a U.S. Army soldier, then in his war against the Mafia and more recently his war against terrorism.

He’d spent his life honing his skills as a warrior. At the same time, he’d honed his senses. It was something he couldn’t turn off now, even if he wanted to.

When something nagged at him, alerting him to a threat, he couldn’t ignore it.

Acting on gut instinct, he turned just in time to spot a man coming through the door. The guy’s SMG was lining up on Turrin’s back. The soldier lunged, wrapped his arms around his old friend’s midsection and drove his right shoulder into his middle.

Turrin lost his footing and dropped to the floor. The bullets sliced through the air above them, missing them by a few feet. A microsecond of hesitation on Bolan’s part and Turrin likely would have been dead. Just as they hit the tiles, Bolan heard his friend grunt from the impact. The Executioner rolled away, brought up the MP-5 and squeezed off a burst at their attacker.

The bullets flew wide, though the onslaught was enough to make Bolan’s adversary dart from the doorway.

The soldier glanced at his friend. Turrin was already pushing up from the floor and appeared to be okay. Bolan was on his feet and moving slowly down the hallway, hugging the wall and waiting for his opponent to come back into view.

The guy was going to bolt or risk another shot at the Americans. Either way, Bolan needed to prepare himself to react.

He saw a blur of motion at the doorway. The gunner had popped back into view, the barrel of his SMG hunting for a target. In addition to his gun, half of his face and one of his shoulders was visible.

A burst of gunfire screamed down the hallway, but again left Bolan and Turrin unharmed.

The H&K churned out a short burst. The bullets drilled into the gunner’s exposed shoulder. A cry of pain burst from the guy’s mouth. His weapon fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Surging to the doorway, Bolan caught the guy on his knees. The fabric covering the man’s left shoulder was ripped and darkened with blood. His hand was under his jacket as he struggled to pull something free.

Bolan’s right foot lashed out and caught the man in the chin. The kick knocked the guy backward and caused him to land on his injured shoulder, eliciting another yelp from him.

Bolan moved through the door and locked the H&K’s barrel on the man’s chest.

The hardman froze and then tried to raise both hands. The move apparently sent bolts of pain coursing through him because he inhaled sharply and grimaced. Prying his eyes open, he raised his good hand.

Bolan reached down, grabbed a handful of the guy’s jacket and yanked him to his feet. He spun the guy and shoved him face-first against a wall.

Looking at Turrin, he said, “You do the pat-down.”

“Jesus, why do I always have to frisk these guys?”

“Nimble fingers.”

Scowling, Turrin stepped forward and searched the man. His hand disappeared under the guy’s jacket and came out with a Walther .380. Handing it to Bolan, he continued the frisk, ultimately turning up a couple of magazines for the Walther and a folding knife.

He pocketed the knife.

Bolan ejected the magazine from the Walther and tossed it aside. He then threw the empty pistol in the opposite direction.

Bolan turned the guy around.

The soldier pulled a field dressing from his pocket. Unwrapping it, he handed it to the man, who took it and gingerly placed it on his wound.

“You speak English?” Bolan asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’s the woman?”

The man hesitated. Bolan reached out and pushed down on the hand the man was using to hold the dressing in place. The man grimaced and moaned, bending slightly at the knees.

The captive cursed in French.

“Let me ask again,” Bolan said. “Where is she?”

The guy pushed himself up to his full height. He leaned against the wall for support, but glared at Bolan.

“Downstairs,” he said, forcing the word through clenched teeth.

“Downstairs where? And how do I get down there?”

The hardman opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and clamped his eyes closed for a couple of seconds, apparently riding out another wave of pain.

“Downstairs where?” Bolan repeated.

With some effort, the guy opened his eyes, turned his head left and gestured with his chin. Even that much movement seemed excruciating to the man. A double door stood a few yards away.

“Go through there,” he said. “Follow the hallway. There’s a freight elevator at the end of it...”

“Go on.”

“Hit the B2 button. Get off and...”

The hardman’s voice trailed off again. He looked pale and Bolan guessed the blood loss was weakening the guy.

“Get off on B2.”

“Three doors,” the guy said. “You want the second one.”

“Locked?”

The guy nodded. “Security card.”

“The one around your neck?”

Another nod.

Bolan took hold of the card and pulled up, drawing the lanyard over the other man’s head.

“How many guards down there?”

“How many have you killed?”

“Ten.”

“Two, maybe. They might have gone elsewhere.”

“Where’s Dumond?”

“Look, I already told you where the lady is. Isn’t that enough?”

“Answer the question.”

“I sent him away. I knew this was a lost cause,” Bellew said, licking his lips, “so I told him to go.”

“Where would he go?”

The guy’s eyes looked heavy and he was unsteady. Bolan guessed the effects of shock and blood loss were overtaking him.

“I don’t know. There’s Paris. There’s Africa.”

“Where in Africa?”

“Evergreen. Monet....” His voice was barely audible.

His eyes slammed shut and his body sagged. Bolan let him slide to the floor.

“Not much to go on,” Turrin said.

Bolan shrugged. “You look for Dumond,” he said. “I’ll find Rodriguez.”