Читать книгу Cold War Reprise - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Mack Bolan reloaded his Desert Eagle, fitting a carefully calibrated stack of antiarmor loads. His initial shot against the leader of the cleanup squad had been with his conventional 240-grain hollowpoint rounds. They had been enough to tear through the fire door or the relatively slender metal of the autopsy table, but against Kevlar and trauma plates, the Executioner needed something with a lot more punch. This magazine was filled with 350-grain, tungsten-cored .429-inch slugs that Bolan kept on hand for when he had to take on criminals in an armored personnel carrier or corrupt thugs hiding behind the protection of million-dollar, tank-skinned limousines. The copper skin wrapped around the hardened cores would protect the gun from the steel-mauling tungsten centers, and the powder charge was balanced to cycle the action of the big Israeli autoloader. Once he caught a glimpse of one of the coverall-clad foes, they would be dead, no matter what they wore.

During the reload, Bolan spotted a munition placed on the floor off to the side of the autopsy room. He recognized it as a fuel-air mine, designed for destroying enemy forces or stockpiles of ammunition and arms inside cave complexes. The FAE mines would also work with deadly efficiency to turn every ounce of organic material inside the morgue into charred ash. From the look of the one he saw, it was on a countdown timer, hence Belkin’s urgency to get a hostage. Bolan didn’t know how much time he had left, but considering the speed and precision of the Russian crew, it couldn’t be much longer than a minute.

The enemy gunmen were reloading their machine pistols, contemplating their options as the doomsday numbers ticked down. One of the shooters swung into view, his MAC-10 blazing. Another raced into the open, rushing toward the stunned woman they had pegged as their hostage.

Bolan dived out onto the tile floor, 9 mm rounds plucking at his sleeve and pant leg as the enemy gunner sprayed to keep him contained. Sheer quickness had taken him outside the shooter’s line of fire, and he hit the ground in a slide. The second gunman was in full charge toward the fallen morgue attendant, not noticing the Executioner until a .44 Magnum armor-piercing slug smashed through his vest, coring deep into his heart as if he were clad only in tissue, not trauma plate.

“Son of a bitch!” Belkin snapped, watching the spray of arterial blood gush out from both sides of his dying comrade’s perforated torso. The man’s forward momentum gave him two remaining steps on his final run before he crashed face-first to the floor in a boneless heap.

“Bastard!” the other Russian gunman shouted, swinging out into the open to get a better angle on Bolan.

The Executioner’s next shot tore through the vengeful Russian’s shoulder, blasting the muscle, bone and cartilage of the joint in an explosive detonation. Blood sprayed from the horrendous injury, and the limb sagged on the few remaining ligaments of sinew that hadn’t been destroyed by the Desert Eagle’s rocketing talon of copper and tungsten. The shooter folded in pain, his gun hand pinning the dangling arm in place. Bolan ended his suffering with a third shot that caught the Russian at the bridge of his nose. It was as if someone had taken a hatchet to a melon, the top of the man’s skull flying backward in a spraying volcano of brains and gore.

Two down, one to go, but there was also the threat of the thermal charges. Bolan charged toward the overturned autopsy table that the team leader had taken cover behind. On the run, he spotted a second of the mines in the far corner of the morgue floor. Given their size and the number of toolboxes that had been brought in by the “maintenance men,” he estimated that there was a third atmosphere-destroying bomb that had been brought in by the cleanup crew. As one part of the brilliant combat computer that was the Executioner’s brain contemplated minimizing the damage, the rest of his consciousness was focused on bringing down the last of the lethal conspirators. With a vault, Bolan leaped over the upturned table. He spotted his opponent in midair and, using the edge of the table as a fulcrum, he steered himself feet-first down into the cleaner’s gut. The air exploded from the Russian’s lungs and his head slammed back against the steel tabletop.

Bolan kicked the machine pistol out of the stunned man’s hand, skittering the weapon wildly across the tile floor. Belkin reached up and grabbed Bolan’s belt. The soldier responded with the heavy trapezoidal wedge of the Desert Eagle’s muzzle, lashing it across the man’s jaw. Having incapacitated the last of the conspiratorial gunmen, Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and rushed to the closest mine.

The Executioner had hoped for a control lever that would allow him to disarm the explosive, but the enemy had sabotaged the mines’ control panels. The disengage mechanism had been destroyed.

Plan two, Bolan thought. The destructive power of the mines wasn’t a factor of the amount of explosives in them, but a mechanism of the fact that their concentrated fuel was dispersed through the atmosphere in an aerosol suspension that made the oxygen in the air into additional reactant for the secondary spark. By denying a large area of combustible air to the devices, they could be significantly defanged. It would require an airtight, heavy steel container to minimize the blasts.

Luckily, the refrigerated, hermetically sealed body-storage drawers in the morgue were exactly what Bolan needed. He shoved the mine into one shelf and swung the heavy steel door shut, snapping down the locking bolt. There was a brief sigh from the metal panel as the cabinet sealed itself, the airtight closure sucking into place.

“What…what’s hap…” the woman said, finally able to speak and move after her ordeal. Bolan scooped up a second mine from the tile floor.

“You need to get out of here,” Bolan ordered. “These are bombs.”

The morgue worker’s eyes widened. “Those drawers are under negative air pressure.”

Bolan paused for a half step. “Can you kill the ventilation?”

He continued his quick rush to stow the bombs away, parking the second mine into another empty storage drawer. Again, the door slammed shut, the locking bolt snapping into place just before the hiss of the air seal slurped the door tightly closed.

The woman limped toward a wall panel. She was bleeding from the forehead where the skin had been split, and it was likely that she had suffered head trauma when the Russian had struck her. “Ventilation shutoff…”

Bolan hauled the last thermic mine into his grasp and saw that there were no more empty shelves. He rushed to one of the sliding drawers where a dead Russian lay, his body riddled with bullet holes. Bolan grabbed the corpse under the arm and dragged him off the metal sliding slab. A spill on the floor would likely contaminate whatever evidence was on the body. If the mine detonated, it would kill dozens of people in the halls outside of the morgue.

The corpse flopped on the tile and Bolan shoved the mine in place. Slam! Latch! Hiss! Sealed.

Bolan spun away from the wall and dived toward the emergency ventilation cutoff. He punched the button hard enough to open a laceration on his palm, and the whole morgue seemed to gasp as if it were a living creature. Bolan scooped the woman into his arms and tucked her tightly into the corner, using his broad back to shield her. He’d equalized the pressure in his ears before firing the first shot from his bellowing Desert Eagle, so any explosion wouldn’t rupture his eardrums. He hoped that his body was enough to shield the morgue attendant, his hands cupped over her ears to protect them.

Belkin moved groggily, reaching for the handgun tucked under his coveralls. “Fucking…interloper…”

Those were the conspirator’s final words. If he had a thought behind them, it was cut off. The whole wall of the morgue devoted to body storage shook as if a train had crashed into the building. The hatches that contained the bombs were torn off of their hinges. One of them pulverized Belkin as it rocketed off, powered by the force of the explosive mine. The concussion wave bleeding off the wall hurled bodies to the floor, both the living and the dead. Bolan and his charge had been lifted off their feet by the heaving wall, but the soldier twisted so that the morgue attendant was cushioned by his body.

The storage drawers had done their job perfectly. Despite the wreckage wrought by their blasted hatches and a few fluttering pieces of burning paperwork that had been stored too close to the wall, the murderous power of the bombs had been smothered.

Bolan helped the woman to her feet, one hand under the back of her head to keep her stable. “Are you all right?”

“I’m Annette Brideshead,” she answered, large brown eyes blurry and unfocused. “I’m the medical examiner in charge of this shift.”

Bolan supported her, sliding his arm under her shoulder to keep her upright. Obviously she was mentally disconnected, not answering the question offered. “Can you walk?”

Brideshead’s unfocused eyes danced across Bolan’s face. He knew that her head would be wobbly atop her neck if he hadn’t been holding her. “I’m forty-five years old. I’ve been walking most of…Oh, dear.”

Bolan turned and saw that the leader of the cleanup crew was sandwiched between a storage hatch and the twisted wreckage of an autopsy table. At least Bolan assumed it was the leader. The ragged, bloody stump of a neck was all that remained above the shoulders. “Sorry for the mess, Annette.”

“The doors…You said those were bombs. Poison gas doesn’t act like that when it’s released, does it?” Brideshead inquired.

“Not gas, not like you thought. But it was good that you shut down the negative air pressure in the drawers,” Bolan replied. He didn’t want to think of the destruction that would have occurred if the aerosolized fuel had spread to the ventilation system, sucked up by the intake valves.

A policeman, the one Bolan had joked with only moments before, entered. He had a Glock 17 in hand and was ready for action. The bobby relaxed upon seeing Bolan ministering to Brideshead. “I thought you were only kidding about rocket launchers.”

Bolan looked around the corpse-strewed, blast-shaken morgue. He sat Brideshead down and folded his jacket to cushion her head. “Someone didn’t want me looking at the bodies stored here.”

“Haven’t these chaps heard of court orders?” the bobby asked as he holstered his pistol.

“That’s not the way these people operate,” Bolan replied. “Are there paramedics on the way?”

“Yes. Was that you that gave me mate a straw in the neck?” the officer asked.

“Headless over there crushed his trachea. He all right?” Bolan asked.

“Well, he was already laying down when the building bounced. He’s mighty thankful to you, Agent Cooper,” the cop said. Looking around at the mess, he sighed. “And for saving the rest of us from a right nasty bump, I’m adding my thanks, too.”

Bolan nodded in appreciation. “The sad thing is, I’m not done here.”

The British cop chuckled. “If it’s all the same, I won’t go running to any Russian restaurants for a while, Mr. Mafiya task force member.”

Bolan managed a weak smile for the officer. He patted the notebook in his pocket, unable to keep such a promise.

I T HAD TAKEN HOURS for Bolan to be cleared after the battle of the morgue. It took that long for the London Metropolitan police to be convinced of the order of events, especially the slicing open of the windpipe of a fellow officer, even with a crushed trachea. It also took that much time for the lawmen to return Bolan’s Desert Eagle, not that the Executioner hadn’t had spares stored back at his safehouse.

At least Bolan got a couple of mugs of coffee out of the interview process, which he followed up with an order of fish and chips to fill his empty stomach. Bolan tossed a French fry out the car window and picked up his PDA, dialing the Farm.

“Talked your way out of another mess, Striker?” Hal Brognola’s voice came over the line. Brognola was the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, Virginia.

“Can’t go running to Daddy every time I stub my toe. I handled it,” Bolan replied. “I suppose Aaron let you in on my progress so far.”

“Two gun battles in less than twenty-four hours. He couldn’t keep me out of the loop after that. I’m sorry, Striker, but as much as you want to keep this away from government interference, this has become an issue of national security,” the big Fed told him.

“What have you picked up on this thing?” Bolan inquired.

“The two faces you sent Aaron belong to Spetsnaz troopers reported killed in action by the Russian Department of Defense,” Brognola stated. “Officially, you didn’t kill anyone.”

“So I’m fighting the Special Forces of the living dead?” Bolan asked. He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “I knew the trend in horror movies was for smarter and faster walking dead, but they’re as much corpses as I am, Hal.”

“Now they really are dead.” Brognola sighed. “Of course, you remember your friends in Russian Intelligence.”

“Friends for real, Hal?” Bolan asked. “I’m a little too tired for wordplay.”

“No. Real friends,” Brognola emphasized. “A Russian Intel operative named Kaya Laserka just avoided being killed by a couple of thugs.”

“Laserka? She was Alexandronin’s trainee and partner. Did she get an e-mail from Vitaly?”

“Apparently so. She reported the incident and a friendly operator to Stony Man gave the report to us,” Brognola said. “She couldn’t get directly involved, and I don’t want to compromise her identity.”

“A friendly Russian agent?” Bolan asked. That lifted his mood some. “And a woman, so that really doesn’t narrow things down. Where is she?”

“Well, she’s holed up in her apartment for now. She was given a quick ‘how-to’ on going to ground. Barb gave her the lesson.”

“Barb” was Barbara Price, mission controller at Stony Man.

“And my description, so she doesn’t put a bullet in my head?” Bolan asked.

“Yes. I’ve got a flight for you leaving in two hours,” Brognola said.

“Get me one around midnight, Hal,” Bolan requested. “I’ve got one or two more stops to make here in London.”

“Damn it, Striker. What now?” Brognola complained.

“One of the men who was sent to kill Vitaly got away last night,” Bolan said. “He’s the only living witness that I have to what’s going on. I need some answers.”

“And you can’t let a guilty party stroll away from a murder attempt on a friend,” Brognola added.

“If I can’t protect the people who I care about, I can at least make certain that those who meant them harm get the punishment they deserve,” Bolan said.

“Does it quiet the ghosts?” Brognola asked.

“It placates my guilt,” Bolan answered. “Some.”

“All right. The plane will wait as long as it takes for you to show up, Striker. It’s a private charter, so he can delay for you,” Brognola told him. “Good hunting.”

“Thanks, Hal,” Bolan said. He closed the PDA, fired up the engine and drove toward the next battle in his War Everlasting.

K AYA L ASERKA PUT the phone down after the call from the woman named Barbara. She had arranged for a hotel room, quietly, and informed Laserka to expect to meet with a man who went by the identity of FBI Agent Matt Cooper. The Russian woman didn’t like that idea. “There was one man, several years ago. His name was Belasko.”

“You’ll find that Cooper is everything you’re expecting from Belasko,” Price told her.

“Everything?” Laserka inquired. “I doubt that anyone could match the man I knew. All right, what does Cooper look like?”

“Six three, black hair, powerful build,” Price rattled off.

“And cold blue eyes?” Laserka asked.

“Exactly.”

Laserka smiled, recognizing the general appearance of the man she had known as Belasko. “He’ll do fine, then.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Price replied. “Don’t worry. Help is on the way.”

Laserka packed a bag, slipping her Makarov back onto her belt’s inside-the-waistband holster. She draped her sweater over the handgun’s butt to conceal it, then she tucked another weapon, a tiny Glock 26, into her purse. She added two spare 15-shot magazines originally designed for the slightly larger Glock 19. Technically, the tiny Austrian pistol was considered a better design than her trusted old Makarov, smaller in length and height, chambered for a more powerful cartridge, and holding eleven shots. Still, the Russian Mak was flat, and its butt had room for all of her fingers on its comfortable grip. It just felt nicer than the teeny Glock. The 9 mm Mak had never let her down. Laserka knew sentimentality toward a tool meant to keep her alive was considered foolish, but she had an attachment that translated into comfort and superior skill.

Barbara had the right idea. Sticking around her apartment would only make her a sitting duck. If the men sent to kill her could find her while she was hunting for a dress on the black market, then they could easily be able to make a move on her in her own home. She tucked her purse tight under her arm and was ready to leave through the front door of her apartment. She heard the floorboards creak on the other side.

Since she wasn’t expecting visitors, she pivoted, scooped up her overnight bag and rushed for her window. A shadow fell across the fire escape and she put on the brakes, reaching for her Makarov. She looked toward the kitchen and saw that the light through the window in that room remained unbroken. Of course there wasn’t a fire escape at that point on the ledge, but Laserka hustled into the kitchen, drawing the sliding door shut behind her.

As it closed, she heard the front door rattle violently under a ferocious kick. She moved to the kitchen window. The front door shook again. When she heard the window just off of the fire escape rise, she opened the kitchen window at the same time. From the front, she heard the apartment door crack on the third kick. She saw the back of a man pulling through the fire-escape window as she slid out onto the ledge.

Laserka’s overnight bag was small and light, thankfully. If she’d been burdened with heavier luggage, balancing on the slender lip of cinder block would have been impossible. She let it hang on its shoulder strap, freeing her hands to grab the railing on the fire escape. She swung her legs down to the next landing, lowering herself to stand on the rail. Popping in front of the window that the second intruder had just gone through would have just been asking for a fight. She braced on the wall, then stepped onto the landing with a minimum of rattling metal.

“Where the hell is she?” she heard one man grunt.

She paused. “Oleg, is there anyone on the street?”

“The kitchen!” another voice swore. Whoever these men were, they had coordination, but no inkling of operational communications security. Laserka padded down the fire-escape steps, putting layers of grating between herself and her apartment. Laserka’s legs ached from the tension between speed and stealth on the metal steps. Still, she reached the bottom, apparently without being noticed. She clambered down the ladder, then cut away from the street, aware that Oleg and his friends might be watching her from above.

She walked four blocks before she walked down into the subway. By the time her hunters finished clearing her apartment and surmised that she was in the wind, she was stepping onto a train car, heading for the hotel to await “Special Agent Matt Cooper.”

Then, she’d start her own hunt, turning the tables on her tormentors.