Читать книгу Hell Dawn - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Kneeling behind the front bumper of a maroon Ford Taurus, Schwarz ground his teeth and rode out a blistering fusillade of gunfire as two hardmen emptied automatic weapons into his cover. Bullets pounded through the vehicle, flattening tires, rending upholstery, shattering glass. An occasional round pierced the car’s sloped hood, exiting within inches of Schwarz’s crouched form. Lead pounded the engine block, pinging like metallic rain as the block stopped the rounds from ripping Schwarz apart.

Only moments earlier, the Able Team commando had started around the edge of the sedan, his micro-Uzi carving a path for him while he looked for the black-clad killer. When a flash of motion had registered in his peripheral vision, he had dived behind the Ford, his combat-honed reflexes taking him off the firing line a heartbeat before death found him.

A momentary break in the gunfire provided Schwarz a chance to raise his head slightly over the hood to scan the scene, but he saw no one. His opponents apparently had gone undercover while reloading their weapons.

Moving in a crouch, Schwarz rounded the car’s front end, now with his M-4 assault rifle leading the way. Climbing onto the sidewalk, he moved along the edge of the line of vehicles, his senses alert for any sign of trouble.

The sudden slap of feet against concrete drew his attention. He wheeled toward the sound, scanning for a target, his finger tightening ever so slightly on the trigger. A heavyset woman, apparently considering the silence a chance for escape, darted out from inside a drugstore, her worn leather purse clutched tightly to her chest. Seeing the commando, his weapon pointed at her, the woman froze and screamed.

Shit!

Schwarz pointed the rifle barrel skyward and waved her on with his free hand. Eyes bulging, the woman stood there rooted to the spot, her lips working wordlessly as her overloaded mind tried to process the events unfolding around her. Realizing the numbers were falling too fast for such a distraction, Schwarz felt his own anxiety creep up a notch.

“Move!” he yelled, hoping that the sound, if not the word, might jar her into action.

His command startled her, but she stood still.

Damn it! Left with no other choice, Schwarz surged forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. The instant his hand gripped her bicep, the fingers sinking into the cushy flesh, the woman screamed and threw a haymaker at Schwarz’s jaw.

The punch connected, jarring his teeth. He’d experienced a lot worse, of course, but the sudden sensation of pain emanating from his jaw diverted his attention for an instant. Almost long enough for him to miss the furtive figure rising from behind a nearby parked car.

Almost.

With a shove he bulled the woman out of the way and brought up his assault rifle. The weapon spit a line of 5.56 mm rounds that pounded into his opponent’s head, reducing it to a fine red mist. His attacker’s smoking weapon slipped from dead fingers as the partially decapitated corpse folded into a boneless heap, disappearing between two parked cars. Seeing the violence, the bystander screamed again and darted back toward the drugstore. Schwarz felt a rush of relief when the electric door slid closed behind her.

Moving with slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the space between himself and the felled shooter, figuring he ought do a visual check to make sure he’d cleared the nest. He found the man’s crumpled form where it had fallen. He made a mental note to search the guy later, even as he acknowledged that such an effort likely wouldn’t yield much. These guys obviously were pros and if they carried any identification at all, it likely would be fake. But they’d run the traps nonetheless.

The crackle of gunfire died down for a few moments. Schwarz heard a terse exchange between Lyons and Grimaldi. Moments later the helicopter’s engine grew louder and the craft rose from the street, cresting the rooftops as the pilot executed a starboard turn.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Schwarz noticed his combat senses kicking into overdrive, the small hairs at his nape brushing against his shirt collar, a cold sensation rushing down his spine.

Turn! his mind screamed.

He spun. Even before his mind registered the threat, Schwarz knew he was going to take a bullet. The guy with the black coat was poised on a second-floor balcony, his weapon aimed dead-center on Schwarz’s chest.

Move!

The Able Team warrior shot up.

Flames lanced from the other man’s weapon. Almost the same instant Schwarz felt something smack hard into him, the force robbing him of his footing, sending him tumbling to the ground. The shot, sounding oddly far away, registered with him even as his mind struggled to grasp the sudden trauma seizing his body.

Fire tore through his shoulder. Through blurred vision, he saw the other man adjust his aim, saw more flames leap from the gun’s barrel. White-hot pain lanced through his abdomen and he cried out in spite of himself.

He tried to raise his own gun hand but found it unresponsive.

I’m going to die.

He’d imagined it a thousand times, and here it was. If he was going to go, he’d make some damn noise.

Cocking his knee, his working hand stabbed down to his ankle, groping for the Colt Detective’s Special holstered there. Fire ripped through his bent calf, causing him to grunt in surprise and pain, making him forget about the weapon. His leg went limp. When he dropped to the ground, he glimpsed the shooter, poised and grinning, surveying his shattered form with satisfaction.

Schwarz struggled to remain conscious but found himself slipping away. The popping of gunfire, the wail of sirens, grew faint, distant.…

A TAUT VOICE EXPLODED in Blancanales’s earpiece.

“Man down!” Kurtzman said. “Gadgets is injured and taking fire.”

The commando keyed his headset. “Location?”

Kurtzman told him. Blancanales turned and began retracing his steps, moving at a dead run to reach his fallen comrade.

“Ironman?” he said into his throat microphone.

“Go.”

“You’re on your own.”

“Right. Take the bastards down.”

“Clear.”

Blancanales surged into the street, his eyes scouring the area for the shooter. He spotted the black-coated man, his lips twisted in an ugly grin, drawing down on an unseen target. Blancanales assumed his friend was on the ground somewhere beyond the string of parked cars lining the street.

From behind him, he heard the police cars closing in, a cacophony of blaring sirens and squealing tires. He did his best to ignore their approach, knowing he had less than a second to save his friend.

Twin Berettas chugged 3-round bursts, the bullets cleaving through the air to reach the shooter. His aim thrown off by the jarring impact of his footsteps smacking against concrete, the first volley cleaved through the air and collided with a brick wall several feet to the shooter’s right. Shards of brick exploded from the wall, nicking the man’s face, causing him to screw up the right side of his face and bunch up his shoulder in a protective gesture.

Whipping around, the guy spotted Blancanales and his pistol flared to life. The Able Team commando surged left, his weapons spitting another blistering fusillade. As before, most of the shots drilled into nearby brickwork or tore through the man’s long coat, driving him back, but not biting into flesh.

Blancanales darted right, purposely moving away from what he believed to be Schwarz’s position. Stuck in the middle of a four-lane street with no protection, Blancanales knew he made too tempting a target to pass up and he wanted to draw fire away from his comrade.

As he ran, bullets kicked into the asphalt, snapping at his heels. Turning at the waist as he moved, he squeezed off matching tribursts from the Berettas. This time a 9 mm Parabellum round cleaved into the side of the man’s neck, apparently just nicking the skin. He slapped a hand over the wound as though striking a bug. The realization that he’d been wounded seemed to unnerve the guy a bit, prompting him to unleash a final barrage from his weapon, the flurry of lead forcing Blancanales to sprint for cover behind a parked car. Even as he did, his opponent backed away, disappearing through the balcony door.

Springing to his feet, Blancanales crossed the street, his eyes taking in the carnage as he did. He counted at least three fallen hardmen, though there could be more sandwiched between cars or slumped in recessed doorways. Dozens of pockmarks scarred the historic buildings, pierced car bodies and caused spiderweb cracks to form on the car windows.

Even as he closed in on his friend, the commando kept an eye trained on the front door of the building that only scant heartbeats ago had provided a perch for a killer, knowing the guy might burst through the front door, gunning for a rematch. However, Blancanales considered the chances remote. The shooter more likely would find a rear exit, get the hell out of there while he still could.

He knelt next to Gadgets and checked to see whether his old friend was breathing.

CARL LYONS SPED through the diner, winding his way between patrons sprawled facedown on the hardwood floors scuffed and scarred from more than a century of use.

Thrusting his full body weight against the swing doors, he surged into the kitchen, intent on reaching the rear exit. He found himself facing a young man, hair dyed green, standing there, his face etched in terror. The kid clutched a butcher knife in a white-knuckled grip. Lyons halted, eyeing him warily, unsure whether he planned to attack. The young man held the knife to his heaving chest, as though it were a shield.

The young man’s face was pale, making his green locks seem all the more garish.

“We got a problem here, kid?” Lyons asked.

The young man shook his head, squeezing the knife against his chest.

“How about you put down the knife?”

“Can’t.”

“Kid, I’m losing time here. Drop the damn knife.”

“My fingers. They won’t move.”

Impatience flared within him, but Lyons squashed it with a deep exhale. He needed to get through that door, but he didn’t want to charge a panicked kid with a knife. Under normal circumstances, the kid likely wouldn’t pose a threat. But he had the look of a cornered animal and Lyons didn’t want to push him.

He adopted what he called his “jumper” voice, a soothing, patient tone he’d learned to use as a cop.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m a federal agent. I need to get through that door. What say you drop the knife?”

“They shot her. I saw it.”

“Who?”

“The lady cop.”

“Kid, we’re burning daylight. I gotta go through that door. You’re in my way.”

Hesitating another heartbeat, the young man finally shuddered and dropped the knife.

“Good,” Lyons said. He gestured the kid away from the door, and this time he complied. “Hide somewhere until the cops come to get you,” Lyons said as he brushed past the young man.

Lyons stepped into the alley and immediately found the pungent smell of rotting food assailing his nostrils. A garbage Dumpster stood to his right. Police cars barreled into the alley from both ends, their sirens screaming.

The Python extended, Lyons skirted the garbage bin, his eyes searching either for Gabe Fox or for another killer. Footsteps slapped against concrete and a moment later Lyons caught sight of a stocky man with coffee-colored skin bearing down on him. He remembered the guy as one of the gunners who’d been with the black-coated shooter a few minutes earlier.

The guy spotted Lyons and began to raise his gun.

The gesture came a microsecond too slow. The Colt Python bucked twice in Lyons’s hand. The slugs hammered into the hardman’s stomach and he collapsed to the ground. Even though he was sure the guy was dead, Lyons kicked away the man’s gun as he moved past him.

“Ironman to Ace.”

“Go, Ironman,” Grimaldi replied.

“You have any contact with our runaway?”

“Negative.”

“Politician?”

“With me. We’re watching the paramedics treat Gadgets.”

“Give me a sitrep.”

“Give us five and I’ll let you know.”

“Make it three.”

“Roger that.”

Before he could make another move, a police car skidded to a halt twenty yards to his left. Doors popped open on either side and a pair of county deputies surged from the vehicle, guns drawn. Anticipating this, Lyons had already holstered the Colt, exchanging it for his fake Justice Department credentials. He raised his hands, flipping open his badge case as he did, and played it cool. Experience told him that a downed officer put everyone on edge, igniting a volatile combination of fury and fear. He felt it burning in his own gut and wanted to chase down the bastards who’d shot Gadgets and the other fallen officer. He also didn’t want to waste precious seconds tangling with the locals. One of the officers, his gun drawn, approached him. From the corner of his eye, Lyons could see another deputy, a sergeant, closing in from the opposite direction.

The officer snagged Lyons’s ID from his hand, stepped back and inspected it. Holstering his weapon, the guy returned Lyons’s credentials and other officers emerged from cover.

“The other guys told us to look for you, Agent Irons,” the cop said. “We lost your shooter.”

Lyons nodded. “I’m going. I hope everything turns out okay for the lady.” Without waiting for the man’s reply, he turned and walked away.