Читать книгу Final Judgment - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Black spots swam in Bolan’s vision. He ignored the pain, ignored the burning in his chest, ignored his inability to take in air. Instead, he snapped his feet out and together, creating a scissors that collided with the shotgunner’s lead ankle.

Bone snapped.

The gunner screamed and folded, collapsing to one knee as the stark white bone of a compound fracture jutted through the flesh of his leg and a rip in his pant leg. Bolan pushed himself to a sitting position, grabbed the butt of his combat dagger, yanked it free of its scabbard and rammed the curved tip through the neo-Nazi’s neck. The blade penetrated up and through, lodging inside his skull, killing him.

Bolan could still hear the helicopter, which was practically on top of him, over the courthouse roof. Just beyond that closed hatch.

“G-Force to Striker!” His transceiver sounded again. “Sarge, we have a big problem here. Washington Metro has scrambled a D.C. MPD chopper to protect the cargo helicopter they’re bringing in for the evacuation. The MPD is blocking me. Repeat, Sarge, the Metropolitan Police Department is protecting the cargo chopper! It’s a Boeing Model 234 Long Range. If the authorities let them fly loose, they could be six hundred miles away before they need to refuel!”

Bolan tried to speak, but his breath caught in his throat. He focused on short, shallow breaths. The tension was bad, but he thought it was starting to ease.

He focused on his body, lying very still. Carefully, he moved his hands to his stomach, probing. He found his canvas war bag instead. The fabric was shredded. Magazines and other pieces of equipment were spilling out.

Sitting up, Bolan assessed the damage. Every breath still felt like fire, but they were coming more easily now. A double O buckshot pellet spilled out of his war bag, followed by another. He realized then what had happened. As his body had turned, the sturdy canvas war bag had shifted in front of him. The heavy shot had punched him with all the force of the close-range blast, but the gear in the bag had absorbed some of its energy. The result was a badly bruised abdomen for Bolan—and some items dented and destroyed—but no serious damage that he could detect. With some difficulty he pulled the long, wide strap free from around his neck and over his shoulder. The canvas bag would keep.

Pushing to his hands and knees, he dragged himself to the dead sentry, gripped the hilt of his knife with one hand and pushed against the dead man’s forehead with the other. The blade finally came free. Bolan wiped it against the man’s battle dress uniform before resheathing it.

He hit the steps of the ladder and grunted as ripples of pain rushed through him. He would be feeling that close call for a while. It didn’t matter now; he had no time to worry.

Shoving the hatch open with his shoulder, Bolan risked a look.

Bullets tore into the roof to either side of him. He let himself fall, crashing heavily to the floor below, slowing his descent only by gripping the ladder’s uprights with his knees as he slid down. Catching his shoulder at an imperfect angle, he cracked his head and swore as his teeth rattled.

The gunners above ripped the hatch up and chased him with automatic fire from their micro-Uzis. The opening hatch admitted a small tornado of wind churned up by the cargo helicopter. The neo-Nazis were visible briefly in silhouette against the sky. There were no hostages nearby.

Rolling to dodge the bullets, Bolan yanked a grenade from his web gear, jerked out the pin and counted. The neo-Nazis were just moving to close the access hatch when, as if thrusting a shot put in the Olympics, the Executioner heaved his grenade through the opening. He continued his roll as the explosion rattled the metal hatch in its frame, buckling it. Plaster dust and fragments of concrete pelted his arms while he covered his head from the debris.

“Jack,” said Bolan, his ears ringing. “G-Force, come in.”

There was no response.

He reached up and touched his ear. The earbud transceiver was gone. It had to have been dislodged during his fall. If Grimaldi was still speaking to him, Bolan’s hearing was too far gone at the moment to perceive it.

The only option was the ladder, then the roof. Grimaldi would have to look after things in the air as best he could; there was no way for the soldier to ask for help or suggest options.

The noise of the chopper above was changing pitch, growing more powerful. The craft was lifting off.

Bolan hit the ladder, pausing when the steel structure creaked and groaned, obviously loosened in its mounts by the explosion. The soldier kept going, again putting his shoulder against the hatch, this time straining with all his might against the bent, hot metal. He finally succeeded in dislodging the cover, and pushed through, hitting the roof of the courthouse amid the gritty windstorm that was the big helicopter’s rotor wash.

The chopper was hovering three feet off the roof, its doors open. When the neo-Nazis saw Bolan and, more importantly, his modified M-4 carbine, they opened up on him from the chopper with their Kalashnikovs. The soldier took cover behind the only object close enough and strong enough to save him: a large external air-conditioning unit squatting on the rooftop.

The frame of the air conditioner rattled and banged as the 7.62 mm rounds started to smash it apart. Bolan arranged himself to present as compact a target as he could. Then he pressed up with one leg, waited for a lull in the gunfire, and popped up, triggering a blast from his carbine.

He targeted the chopper’s rotor. The pilot recognized the threat immediately and began to veer away. It was unlikely Bolan could bring the bird down that way—nor was he putting the hostages in any danger—but if he damaged the rotor sufficiently, any sane pilot would put the aircraft down. There was an equal chance the helicopter would simply fly away to escape the danger. Either way, the hostages would be out of the direct vicinity of the firefight, if only because the neo-Nazis had left their opponent behind.

Where was Grimaldi?

Bolan popped up again and unleashed another blast. The chopper moved farther from the roof, nearing the edge.

Three men jumped out.

The camouflage-clad neo-Nazis ran straight for Bolan’s position, firing their weapons. The soldier was impressed; it was the play they were least likely to make, requiring the most guts. He let them blaze away. They were well-trained for their kind, but not compared to him. They didn’t stagger their fire, and ran dry on top of one another, scrambling to change magazines. With no choice but to fight or die, they rushed Bolan, perhaps thinking to bludgeon him with the heavy wooden stocks of their assault rifles.

Behind them, the chopper lifted clear and kept going.

Bolan rounded the chewed-up air conditioner and emptied the magazine of his carbine into the first man. He let the weapon fall to the end of its sling, drawing his Beretta 93-R and Desert Eagle in one smooth motion. The men were coming straight for him as his pistols came up, tracking them both.

The Executioner could hit whatever he could see, but he was human.

There simply wasn’t time to shoot the men before they collided with him. Bolan hit the roof on his back, tucking his head this time, clenching his jaw against the pain as the neo-Nazis bore him down and crushed him. The shotgun blast to the abdomen made itself known again, as his stomach screamed in pain under the pressure of his two foes.

Bolan slammed the Desert Eagle into the side of the closest man’s head and pulled the trigger, punching a round into the roof of the courthouse. The thunder of the pistol against the neo-Nazi’s skull burst his eardrum. Screaming, bleeding from the ear, he clapped his hand to the wound, losing his grip on Bolan.

The soldier wrenched his Beretta back on target from beneath the second enemy. He slammed the butt of the Desert Eagle into the man’s face and pulled the Beretta’s trigger a heartbeat after. His opponent jerked, his eyes rolled up and he collapsed, now nothing but deadweight.

Bolan’s hearing was, despite the firefight, returning to normal. The sound of sirens was becoming louder. There were many of them.

Standing, the Executioner stepped in and threw a savage kick into the ribs of the writhing, half-deafened neo-Nazi, who was struggling to draw a pistol from a holster on his hip. The kick caused the terrorist to double up. Bolan bent and, realizing he had nothing with which to secure the man’s hands, rolled him over and grabbed him by the collar. He dragged the bleeding, stunned man behind him toward the open hatch and threw him in. The terrorist landed with a crunch as Bolan followed, sliding down the ladder before it came completely free from its frame. Loose now, it rattled within the widened metal collar framing the hatchway.

“Sarge!” a tinny voice was saying from somewhere in the anteroom. “Sarge! Come in!”

Bolan looked toward the neo-Nazi, who was curled in a ball on the floor, and then scanned the space. He spotted his transceiver and snatched it up, replacing it in his ear.

“Sarge!” Grimaldi called once more. “I’ve lost the chopper, repeat, I have lost the chopper!”

“Striker to G-Force,” Bolan said. “Report.”

“Sarge, the MPD shielded the helicopter with their own units. They dared me to shoot them down, knowing I wouldn’t. Barb and Hal are burning up the airwaves with the powers that be in D.C., but they’re stonewalling us. I repeat, they’re stonewalling us.”

Bolan grunted. “No small feat.”

“No, it isn’t, Sarge,” Grimaldi said. “There’s more bad news.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your position is about to be overrun. Police, fire, first response medical… It’s a zoo out there now that Nitzche and his men have pulled out.”

“Understood,” Bolan said. He began rummaging through the shredded remains of his canvas bag, sorting out the undamaged equipment and munitions from the rest. He found several of his plastic zip-tie cuffs and used these to secure the deafened terrorist’s wrists and ankles.

In the little time he had left, the soldier redistributed everything he could from the ruined war bag to his web. Fortunately, most of his loaded magazines had survived the assault. A few pieces of electronic and countermeasures gear were destroyed. Finally, he found the item that had saved his life: a slim netbook computer, sheathed in a Kevlar skin designed by John “Cowboy” Kissinger. The tiny computer was wrecked, bent into a V-shape from the fist-size punch of heavy shot at close range. It was the point of that V that had bruised Bolan’s gut, as brutal as any spear-hand blow to naked flesh.

He heard footsteps echoing from the courtroom beyond the anteroom. His company was here.

“Freeze!” someone shouted.

“Don’t move!” another man roared.

Bolan was suddenly very aware of the many rifles and shotguns pointed at him.

“We have him,” shouted one of the members of the Special Response Team. They were wearing Kevlar helmets and body armor and wielded MP-5 machine pistols.

“Federal agent,” Bolan said, standing and holding his arms out at chest height, palms open.

“He’s armed for bear, sir,” one of the SRT operatives said.

“I can see that.”

“Cooper,” Bolan said. “Matthew Cooper. Justice Department. My credentials are in my pocket.”

“Let’s see them, Cooper,” the first man said. His subdued name tag read Reynolds.

The soldier produced his identification, provided for him by Stony Man Farm. He offered it to Reynolds and was very careful to make no moves that could be construed as hostile. His weapons were all in position about his body, the M-4 at the end of its sling. The SRT team was as aware of this as Bolan was.

The neo-Nazi on the floor moaned. One of the SRT men jerked an MP-5 on track to cover him.

“Who’s that?” Reynolds demanded.

“One of Nitzche’s men,” Bolan said.

When the SRT men looked at each other, he added, “One of the terrorists.”

Another contingent of armed, armored SRT personnel arrived at the entrance to the anteroom. The lead man’s tag read Reed.

“Sir,” Reed said. He spared Bolan a wary glance. “The building is cleared. We have emergency personnel on-site and sweeping the building for stragglers.”

“There are men on the roof,” Bolan said.

“Active hostiles?” Reynolds asked.

“Neutralized,” Bolan replied. “Like him.” He jerked his chin to the terrorist on the floor.

“What’d you do to him?” Reed asked, bending to check the fallen man. “His ear is gushing blood.”

“He wouldn’t listen,” Bolan said.

Reynolds eyed the Executioner disapprovingly. He handed over the identification. “So you’re the one.”

“Sir?” Reed asked.

“His people at Justice have been jerking my chain all morning,” Reynolds said. “They aren’t happy about the decision to let the chopper through. Seems Captain Go-It-Alone here has an attack chopper up there whose pilot doesn’t listen to local authority very well. Maybe he’s hard of hearing, too, Cooper?”

“I was told I would have full authority,” Bolan said. “Your men let the terrorists escape with live hostages. My air support and I could have prevented that.”

“We all answer to somebody, Cooper,” Reynolds said. “My orders come from the top of the chain here in D.C.”

“I doubt that,” Bolan said.

“To go higher you’d have to go to the President, tough guy,” Reynolds stated. When Bolan didn’t blink at that, he looked less sure of himself. “Had you interfered, they might have started killing hostages.”

“Had we cut off their escape,” Bolan said, “killing hostages wouldn’t have done them any good. They’d have traded their own lives for the lives of the captives.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Reynolds said. “Whatever authority you think you have, Cooper, I’m not interested. Nitzche is gone, and so is your reason to be here. Get out of my crime scene.”

Bolan turned to leave. He paused when Reed looked up. “Strange,” the SRT man said.

“What?” Reynolds asked.

“I wouldn’t have pegged them for the suicide type,” Reed said, searching the pockets of the terrorist’s camouflage fatigues. “That’s not really the profile of…” He stopped. “Hey. What’s this?”

Reed had lifted the hem of the terrorist’s BDU blouse, probably to check for weapons at the waistline. The terrorist was wearing another uniform shirt underneath the fatigues. Reed ripped the BDU open, popping buttons. The logo on the chest of the uniform shirt was unmistakable.

“DCFD,” Reynolds said. The terrorist was dressed as a District of Columbia Firefighter.

“Oh, shit…” Reed said.

Bolan was on the move before the SRT men could think to stop him.

Of course the neo-Nazis weren’t ready to give up their lives. It wasn’t their style; it wasn’t how they did things. If Nitzche had left men behind to cover his escape, he would have provided for them a plausible means of escape. It wouldn’t matter to him if the escape plan actually worked or not. It only had to seem workable to the men staying behind in the courthouse.

It was possible the shooters from the chopper had planned to exit the helicopter at the last moment regardless of resistance offered. That made sense: ensure Nitzche’s escape, then remain behind to counter any last-minute resistance by the locals.

It also made sense that there would be one or two terrorists hiding somewhere in the building to serve as a rear guard. They would have waited for the worst of the battle to pass them by, then blended with the inevitable mop-up chaos—simply by shedding their paramilitary uniforms.

Taking the steps two and three at a time, Bolan ran past startled emergency personnel working their way through the corridors. He hit the street, and the crush of vehicles and bystanders, at a dead run.

Someone screamed.

Bolan looked left, then right. He spotted the fire department vehicles, and then, in the opposite direction, a pair of men dressed as DCFD.

“Federal agent!” Bolan yelled. “Down!”

He brought his carbine to his shoulder and fired.