Читать книгу Nuclear Storm - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Chapter 3

If he’d been alone, Bolan would have moved to intercept the motorcyclist and take him out, but his first goal had to be protecting Dae-jung.

He whipped the other man around, shielding him with his body as he drove him to the floor. At the same time, he brought up the MP-9 and fired a burst in the bike’s general direction. Bolan wasn’t expecting to hit anything, but he figured the surprise of finding out his prey was armed might spoil the rider’s aim.

He was right. The gunman’s nerve broke as Bolan’s weapon spit rounds near him. Swerving, he almost lost control of his blue-and-white street bike, the back wheel fishtailing on the smooth concrete floor, but pulled it out at the last second and zoomed around the ramp. His pistol shots, however, went wild.

As soon as the biker was completely past, Bolan hauled Dae-jung to his feet. “We’ve got to move!” Even as he said that, however, another single headlight lit them both up, and the garage level reverberated with the roar of the motorcycle coming at them again.

Before Bolan could even think about crossing the few yards of empty space between them and the next lot, the biker was on them, his pistol spitting bullets.

Bolan did the only thing he could do—he heaved Dae-jung over the hood of the Bentley and dived after him, hoping they both would get to cover before any of the bullets found them. He heard the thunks as the lead punched through the fender of the luxury car they hid behind. As he landed on the concrete, Bolan caught a glimpse of a yellow-and-red motorcycle racing by, its rider snapping off a shot that smacked into the low concrete wall at the head of the row, just above Bolan’s head, showering him with dusts and rock chips.

“Are we there yet?” Dae-jung asked, looking around.

“Not quite.”

Two shooters! Bolan had to admire the relative neatness of the trap they were in. With both ends blocked, no matter how he tried to advance or retreat, Bolan and Dae-jung would always be facing one or both of the bikers. Even with his submachine gun, the bikes were fast and maneuverable in the enclosed space, canceling almost all of the advantage of a fully automatic weapon.

The bikes roared again, preparing to make another run-and-gun pass. Bolan glanced at the vehicle behind them, a Lexus luxury SUV with a relatively high ground clearance. His plan formed instantly.

“Doctor, I need you to hide under here for a bit.” Bolan shoved him under the SUV.

With a strained gasp, the Korean disappeared under the SUV. Bolan hit the ground as well, trying to figure out which biker would be coming for them first.

“What the hell’s going on?” Tokaido asked.

“I’ve got two trigger-happy motorcyclists trying to take us both out in the garage!” Bolan snapped. “They’ve got us pinned down in Bay B.”

“Oh, yeah, I see ’em. Looks like the one above you is about to make another pass.”

“You can see him? How far away is he?”

“Yeah, I’m hacked into the security cams. He’s about twenty yards from you. What does that have to—”

“Perfect! Hold on!” Bolan dropped to his stomach and crawled under the Lexus, bracing his MP-9 with both hands in front of him. The bike’s engine reached a high point as the rider gunned his throttle, then took off down the ramp.

Bolan gave him a two-count to get up to speed, then squeezed the trigger of his weapon, emptying the magazine. The biker drove straight into the stream of bullets, which chewed up his leg and punched into the bike’s engine. Losing control, he spun out and flipped off the street machine, which fell over and crashed into the far wall, pinning the biker between it and the cinder blocks. Bolan rolled out and took aim in case the shooter was coming up for more, but man’s body lay unmoving on the floor.

“One down. Where’s the other one?” Bolan asked while ejecting the empty magazine and reloading.

“At the bottom of the ramp on your six. He seems uncertain—he’s not moving forward yet.”

“Good. Let me know if he starts moving in the next three seconds.” Still keeping an eye on the downed rider, Bolan moved around the back of the Bentley, crouched and crept forward until he was next to the concrete barrier. There was a chain link fence on the end.

“He’s starting to move—now!”

Bolan took a deep breath, centered himself and steadied his hands on the MP-9. The racket from the motorcycle was deafening as it approached. He waited for one more heartbeat, then pivoted around the corner, leading with the submachine gun, every sense tracking where the biker would be as he approached.

The motorcycle was almost on top of him, the biker looking left, anticipating where he expected his victims to be. He was just starting to lower his pistol, clutched in his right hand and pointed at the ceiling, to aim. But the time he saw Bolan and tried to correct, it was too late.

Bolan sighted on the rider’s chest and fired a short burst. The dozen or so bullets chopped into the man’s rib cage, pulverizing his organs, one round ricocheting up under his helmet to burrow through his jaw and into his brain. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The cluster of bullets that had mangled his chest, heart and lungs had done more than enough damage to kill him. The brain shot just brought his death ninety seconds faster.

The man fell off his bike, which, unbalanced, wobbled off into crash to the concrete. Again Bolan was moving, jogging back to the SUV and pulling Dae-jung out from underneath it. The Korean lay motionless, and for a heart-stopping moment, Bolan thought a stray round had found him. Then he twitched and a gasping snort escaped from his lips. Saliva burbled at the corner of his mouth as the scientist snored loudly.

He’d passed out!

Shaking his head, Bolan got the scientist up into a fireman’s carry and walked to the next bay. Turning and walking halfway down, he saw the brake lights of a metallic-green SUV flash twice.

“Tell me you just did that, Akira.”

“You got it, Striker. I just unlocked your doors. Dump the drunk in the back and hit the road. Your flight out of the city just touched down at Changi. The window’s only open for one hour, so you best get going.”

Bolan opened the rear passenger door and dumped Dae-jung into the seat, taking a moment to secure him with a lap belt, then got in the driver’s seat and pushed the start button. “Assuming nothing else waylays us on the road, we should arrive at the airport with time to spare.”

He backed out and headed down the ramp, careful to avoid the wrecked cycles in the lane. There was a stop bar blocking the exit lane, but as Bolan accelerated toward it, it rose out of his way, and he exited onto Bayfront Avenue. The avenue would lead to Marina Square, and eventually to the East Coast Parkway, one of the main highways circling the city, which would take him to Changi Airport.

Bolan adjusted the driver’s seat and started to breath a little easier as he sped up to match traffic. He checked his rearview mirror but didn’t see any outward sign of a disturbance—no police cars or hotel security cordoning off the entryway, no riot police storming the place. Except for a nondescript panel delivery van approaching fast with its high beams on, it seemed they had gotten away without a trace.

The van suddenly sped up until it was right on the Toyota’s bumper, its high-beam headlights flooding the entire passenger compartment with light. Bolan flipped up the mirror to redirect the beams and moved over to another lane. The van stayed right with him. Seeing only light traffic ahead, Bolan gunned the engine, the SUV leaping forward. Caught by surprise, the van driver tried to catch up, his engine roaring as he pulled alongside Bolan’s vehicle. The window in the side door opened, and a man poked out a gun barrel, aiming at him.

The moment he saw the muzzle, Bolan wrenched the Harrier’s steering wheel hard left. The SUV slammed into the van, making it veer into another lane. Seeing a semi truck ahead of them, Bolan swerved right, narrowly missing the trailer. He pushed down on the gas pedal, seeing a sign that read Changi Airport: 4 Km.

“Just have to keep this sucker rolling for another couple miles.”

“Tell me you haven’t attracted more attention.” Tokaido’s voice was resigned.

Bolan checked his mirror—the van was still on his tail. “Must be the motorcycle jockeys’ backup. It looks big enough to hold two bikes. Hang on, they’re coming up again.”

The van was creeping up on the driver’s side once more. Bolan let it come, even setting the cruise control on the SUV to about eighty miles per hour and resting the loaded MP-9 in his lap. He checked his side mirror, watching the van inch closer to his Toyota. Although traffic on the highway was fairly heavy at this hour, Bolan couldn’t wait to find an empty spot to take out his pursuers. The other drivers would just have to take their chances.

“Just try not to attract any police,” Tokaido said. “Your current cargo would be very difficult to explain to the local constabulary.”

Bolan checked his mirrors again, gauging the distance. “Don’t worry, I have every intention of ending this as quickly as possible.”

The van surged forward, now only about ten yards away. A shadow appeared in the van’s side window again, and that was when Bolan made his move.

Holding the wheel steady with his left hand, he lowered the driver’s window, stuck out the MP-9, and emptied the magazine into the van’s windshield. The laminated safety glass was tough, but not designed to take that kind of abuse. It shattered into hundreds of tiny nuggets as the burst of fire chopped the heads and chests of the driver and front passenger into pâté.

With no one at the wheel, the van slewed to the left, cutting off a BMW as it careened hard into the concrete divider, sparks flying as its front fender crumpled under the impact. Bolan glanced back in time to see it flip onto its side, skidding down the road toward him. Increasing the gas, Bolan watched the van recede in his rearview mirror as the traffic began to slow and bottleneck behind it.

About a mile later, he reached the turnoff for the airport and took it. “Where am I going, Akira?”

“Follow the signs for T2 Boulevard, and keep bearing right. Your private jet is awaiting you at the second hangar.”

Bolan rounded one more turn and saw a sleek Gulfstream G650 jet waiting. “Well, at least I get to ride back in style.”

“You can thank the State Department for the ride. Word is they confiscated it from a drug smuggler in Bogotá, and Hal has the pull to use it, no questions asked.”

Bolan pulled up next to the hangar and turned off the engine.

Sliding out of the driver’s seat, Bolan opened the back passenger door and unbuckled his cargo, who was still snoring loudly. “Slept through the whole thing.”

Tossing the unconscious man over his shoulder, Bolan headed for the entry stairs to the jet.

“Good to see you, Mr. Cooper. I trust you had a pleasant time in Singapore?” The pilot grinned.

“What the hell’re you doing here, Jack?”

Jack Grimaldi pushed back the pilot’s cap on his head and grinned. “Well, Dragon Slayer is undergoing some upgrades to its flight computers, and Able and Phoenix are handling missions that don’t need my special talents, so when Hal said they needed someone to extract your ass out of Singapore, and that the someone would be piloting a brand-new Gulfstream, who was I to refuse?”

Bolan grinned at his long-time pilot and good friend’s enthusiasm. “Well, let me stow my package and let’s get out of here. I’m due a long rest after chasing this guy all over Southeast Asia for the past two weeks, and this flight’ll be a good start.”

“Aww, and here I thought you and I’d hit the town once you’d wrapped up your business.” Grimaldi followed Bolan up the steps, poking the limp Dae-jung. “Anyone I should know?”

“Only if you have a terrible interest in North Korea’s nuclear program.”

“Nah, I’ll leave that to the government types.” Grimaldi activated the door controls to seal the door and pressurize the interior as he headed to the cockpit while Bolan secured their passenger. As he sat Dae-jung in a plush, white leather captain’s chair, the scientist convulsed once, then hunched over and vomited—all over the carpet and Bolan’s shoes.

Staring at the mess, Bolan just shook his head. “Perfect.”