Читать книгу Murder Island - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

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Bolan crossed his arms over his head as the water rose up to meet him. He hit the surface and the force of his descent slammed him down against the bottom. White and yellow tiles burst at the point of impact and pain shot through him, shocking him into motion.

He’d been hurt worse, and he forced the pain aside as he fought the instinct to struggle. It took him only a few seconds to realize he was in a swimming pool. He’d held his breath just before he hit, but if the water was deep enough to cushion his landing it was deep enough to drown in.

Through chlorine-stung eyes, he saw the rush of bubbles that signaled the tiger joining him in the water. The animal struggled to the surface with great flailing motions, and Bolan thrust upward a moment later, muscles and lungs burning in equal measure. He splashed toward the shallow end of the rooftop pool, away from the tiger. His body armor had three great slashes running across it where the big cat’s claws had caught him. The vest was fully capable of stopping bullets, but 600 pounds of angry carnivore was a different matter entirely. Luckily, the tiger didn’t seem interested in resuming the hunt. It glowered at him for a moment before it shook itself and padded away.

Satisfied there was no immediate danger, Bolan took in his surroundings. The atrium was only a single story above him, and he’d fallen into the pool that occupied the flat, patio-style balcony of the penthouse apartments below. Only luck had prevented his landing from being more unpleasant or even fatal, and a surge of anger, both at himself and at his quarry, rippled through him. It wasn’t often Bolan was caught by surprise. He thrust the thought away as he began to pull himself out of the pool.

He turned as a crackle of static assaulted his ears and a voice said, “It’s like this, right—what good is owning a tiger if you don’t let it eat somebody every now and then? That’s half the value right there, I swear to God. I think I’m going to get a leopard seal next, though. Or maybe a hyena. I know a guy in Lagos who’s got one—a hyena, I mean, not a leopard seal. Though wouldn’t that be great? Shit, maybe I’ll get both. What do you think? Never mind, you’ve got other things to worry about.” A second wash of static accompanied this burst of verbal diarrhea and Bolan spotted the intercom speakers wired along the wall.

A moment later he heard a familiar noise and turned as a helicopter bobbed into view above the edge of the roof. The intercom crackled again as the side door to the helicopter was hauled open by a wiry man in a suit worth more than the penthouse, with an artificial tan and teeth whiter than nature intended.

Byron Cloud was a parody of every renegade Wall Street trader and stock-and-bond hustler Bolan had run across in his long career. Cloud lifted his designer sunglasses onto his head and waved at Bolan as if to catch his attention. He was wearing a headset and, as he spoke, his voice emerged again from the intercoms.

“You like it? I got it cheap—it’s a Sikorsky S-76,” Cloud said. “Of course, I’ve made a few adjustments,” he continued, patting an M-60 machine gun mounted on an adjustable pintle arm. “Yard sale,” he said, bringing the machine gun around. “You would not believe what you can get for under a sawbuck in this economy.”

He grinned at Bolan over the length of the weapon. “Shame about the pad, but, hey, buyer’s market. Besides, the feng shui needs a shakeup. Am I right? Ciao!” Cloud fired and the M-60 bucked in his grip. His laughter echoed from the speakers.

Bolan ran for the patio doors and hurled himself through even as gunfire chewed the frame and the wall around them. Splinters of wood, plaster and glass filled the air. Bolan hit a leather couch with his shoulder and flipped it over. Bullets punched through, narrowly missing him.

He scanned the room, wishing he hadn’t lost the UMP in the fall. Bolan couldn’t take on an M-60 with only a pistol. He caught sight of the bodies of the guards he’d killed earlier. More importantly, he saw their weapons. He reached out with his foot and snagged the nylon strap of an AR-15 semi-auto rifle. He dragged it closer as bullets continued to sear the air around him.

“Still alive?” Cloud called through the few speakers he hadn’t managed to hit with his spray of gunfire. Whatever else he was, Cloud was no marksman. Nor did he seem to be trying particularly hard. He was like a child with a new toy. “Sweet,” Cloud said, as if Bolan had replied. “Look, I’m not a bad guy, right? I’ll give you a five count to get to the elevator. Then I’m opening up again.”

Bolan shook his head. He’d fought talkers before, but rarely one so intent on filling the air with absolute nonsense. He checked his newly acquired weapon. It would do in a pinch. He had the range, now he needed cover. Bolan removed one of the smoke grenades from his web gear, pulled the pin and sent the canister sailing over the top of the couch, out toward the patio.

“One, two…five!” Cloud said. The M-60 opened up again, chewing the apartment’s expensive decor to pieces. “We’re having some fun now, right?” he shouted as Bolan popped more smoke, using every grenade he had. He saw the tiger pad swiftly through the swirling fog, heading for the rear of the apartment, and felt a moment of relief. The beast deserved better than to die at the hands of its careless owner.

Bolan was tempted to return fire, but Brognola had been adamant that they needed Cloud alive and in one piece. There was too much information in that scrambled brain of his. Bolan couldn’t risk letting anyone else kill Cloud, either. It was only a matter of hours before every hired gun in the Pacific region was on Cloud’s trail, looking to punch his ticket once they knew he’d been compromised. Cloud’s clients, whatever their political affiliation or criminal record, couldn’t allow him to talk. Bolan wondered whether Cloud knew that or not; or if he did, whether he cared. It didn’t matter either way. Bolan had a mission to accomplish and he intended to do it.

He hefted the AR-15 and rose. The smoke thinned for a moment and that was all he needed. He let off a burst and heard the telltale sound of a bullet striking metal. The M-60 stuttered into silence and Cloud’s curse echoed through the intercoms. As the helicopter’s rotors began to clear the smoke, Bolan saw the other man trying to coax the machine gun back to life. Bolan’s shots had struck the weapon’s box magazine, denting it and causing the temperamental weapon to jam.

Cloud gave up when he saw Bolan and started laughing again. “Ha! Man, you come straight out of a comic book,” he said. “Right, fine, it’s been fun, but I’m out of toys and I’ve got a plane to Tokyo idling on the runway. Going to get me some sushi and wait for whatever this is to blow over. Catch you later, pal.” Cloud gave a jaunty wave as he swung himself into the compartment and made to shut the hatch. The helicopter began to pull away from the roof.

Bolan sprang over the couch. He was only going to get one chance at this. He tossed the assault rifle aside and charged forward. As he reached the edge of the balcony, he didn’t pause, but instead put on a burst of speed and leaped out over the void, angling his body toward the helicopter. Time seemed to slow as his perceptions stretched and thinned. The sound of the rotors became a thundering rumble and the background noise of the city below faded, replaced by the hammering of his pulse. Time rushed forward, speeding back up. His fingers hooked the edge of the hatch and he swung inside.

Cloud gaped at him and didn’t react until the soles of Bolan’s boots bit into the deck of the helicopter. Bolan wobbled a moment, warring against gravity, and then he lurched forward to tackle Cloud. The arms dealer slammed back against the other side of the compartment with a yell before charging at Bolan. Something gleamed in Cloud’s hand, and Bolan heard the hiss of the straight razor cutting the air as he jerked his head aside. He drove a fist into Cloud’s belly, and the arms dealer folded over his forearm, wheezing like an asthmatic. The straight razor clattered to the deck and Bolan kicked it through the open hatch. Grabbing a handful of Cloud’s throat, he slammed him into a seat, drew his Desert Eagle and aimed at the pilot, who’d been clawing for his own sidearm.

“Don’t,” Bolan said as he cocked his pistol. “Take it out, nice and slow, and toss it. I’d prefer not to shoot you, but the only person I can’t shoot is your boss. Remember that, and you might just get out of this in one piece.” When the pilot had disposed of his weapon, Bolan rattled off a series of coordinates and then said, “You know where that is?”

The pilot nodded. Bolan gestured with the Desert Eagle. “Good. Get going.” He looked back at Cloud, whose face was purpling as he clawed ineffectually at Bolan’s unyielding grip. He loosened his hold on the other man. “And you—behave.”

“You—you can’t shoot me,” Cloud croaked.

“Did I say I was going to shoot you?” Bolan asked. He smiled thinly. “I don’t need a gun to hurt you, Mr. Cloud,” he said, layering his words with as much menace as he could. Cloud blanched and ceased his struggles.

“All right, it’s cool, be cool, man,” he whined, holding up his hands. “I was just playing.” He sagged away from Bolan. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I’m the guy with the gun,” Bolan said. “Now sit back and shut up.” He grinned fiercely. “You’ve got a plane to catch.”