Читать книгу Death Gamble - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Freetown, Sierra Leone

Bolan stomped the brake pedal as the figure staggered into the Jeep’s path. The car jerked to a stop, the force pushing Bolan forward. The safety harness cut into his shoulder, and he steeled himself by gripping the steering wheel and locking his arms straight. The headlights doused the figure in a white glow, and Bolan saw it was a woman. Crimson eclipsed part of her face. With her right hand, she held her left ribs, which were encased in a Kevlar vest.

She gripped a pistol in her left hand.

The hand hung at her side in plain view, not threatening Bolan. A second pistol was holstered on the hip opposite an empty holster. She staggered slowly toward the Jeep, wincing with each step.

What the hell? Bolan shifted the Jeep into Park, reached for the butt of the Desert Eagle, then opened the Jeep door. Setting one foot on the ground, he kept as much of his body as possible inside the vehicle. Jabbing the Desert Eagle through the space between the door and the frame, he drew down on the woman.

“Drop the gun,” he said, “and raise your hands.”

The woman shot Bolan an angry look and spoke through gritted teeth. “We’re losing Talisman,” she said. “We don’t have time for this.”

Bolan heard a hint of an accent and identified it as Russian. It was soft, almost like a fading echo, as though she’d trained very hard to lose it. He could guess at her country of origin. Great. But what did she want with Talisman?

“Lady, either you drop that gun and identify yourself, or I guarantee Talisman will be the least of your worries.”

The woman gave him a hard stare, but dropped her pistol in the dirt.

“My name is Natasha Rytova,” she said. “I’m Russian intelligence. I can tell by your voice that you’re American. Let’s go.”

“SVR?” Bolan asked, referring to Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service.

“Yes, yes. SVR. Of course. Can we go? We might lose them.”

Bolan’s mind raced as he weighed the situation. The woman was right. The longer they stood sparring, the better the chances Talisman—Bolan’s best lead to finding the missing scientist—would slip through his fingers.

The fact was that if she hadn’t stumbled directly into the SUV’s path, he probably would have blown right past her. She could be lying, ready to hit Bolan when he least expected it. But she could be telling the truth, a prospect Bolan found equally disturbing. He wanted to know why Russia cared enough about either Talisman or Dade to send in an operative. If that country’s intervention was about Dade, the implications were even more chilling.

Bolan figured it was in his best interest to keep the woman in his sights.

But he’d do it under his terms.

“Lose the guns,” he said.

“And leave myself defenseless? Go to hell.” The woman was defiant.

“I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you. You stopped me. You’re injured. Drop the guns and I’ll help. Otherwise, I’ll hop back into this vehicle, get the hell out of here and leave you to fend for yourself.”

Rytova wiped some of the blood from her head, studied it for a moment and seemed to consider Bolan’s words.

Tentatively, she unbuckled the pistol belt, letting it slide down her hips and legs until it landed around her feet. She raised her hands and shot Bolan an irritated look. “Now may we go?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bolan said.

Climbing into the Jeep, he held the Desert Eagle in his left hand and rested his opposite hand on the gearshift as he waited for Rytova to climb into the vehicle. He’d watched her to make sure she didn’t retrieve any of her weapons along the way.

She grimaced as she climbed inside the vehicle.

Bolan shifted and navigated out of the compound. Moments later, the vehicle was racing down one of the main roads into the middle of Freetown.

“You okay?” he asked.

The woman stared ahead. “Someone shot me in the ribs, stomach and kidneys. My vest stopped the bullets, but it hurts to breathe. Another bullet grazed my head.”

“Who shot you?” Bolan asked.

The woman shrugged and immediately winced in pain.

“I’m not sure. Some men I have not met before. I believe the shooter’s name was Cole. He wasn’t one of Talisman’s people.”

“You know most of Talisman’s men?” Bolan was intrigued.

She nodded. “I’ve been watching him for days. But these were not his men. He’s a strong warrior, but his people are unskilled thugs, little boys playing soldier. The men I encountered were professionals. They work for Talisman’s boss.”

“And that would be?”

“None of your business,” she stated.

“Look lady…” he began.

She turned and glared at Bolan. He could tell the effort cost her physically.

“No, you look,” she said. “I have no guns. I don’t know your name. My information is the only leverage I have.”

Bolan clenched and unclenched his jaws. He scanned the road and guided the vehicle into a sharp turn. He heard the tires squeal, felt a slight slip in the back end as the Jeep cornered. Navigating the vehicle back into a straightaway, he mulled the woman’s words and admitted she had a good point.

“When all this is over, you and I are going to have a talk,” he said. “A very long talk.”

“I do not fear you.”

Hell of it was, Bolan could tell she meant it.

“So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“Do you have a name?”

“Cooper,” Bolan said, drawing upon an alias. “Matt Cooper.”

The woman fixed her gaze through the windshield, nodding and absently rubbing her ribs as she did. “You’re American. Are you CIA?”

Bolan shook his head. “Justice Department.”

“Interesting. Why does the American Justice Department care about a small-time hood like Talisman?” she asked.

“To quote someone, none of your business,” Bolan replied.

Rytova’s mouth twisted into a frown. If she had a reply, she kept it to herself. Bolan used the dead air time to check out his surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Talisman.

He reached into a pocket of his combat suit, grabbing a pressure bandage and some packaged alcohol pads. He tossed them into the woman’s lap.

“Here,” he said, staring straight ahead. “These might help.”

“Thank you.”

From his peripheral vision, he saw the woman pull down the lighted sun visor and stare at her reflection as she used the pads to wipe away the blood. She winced when the alcohol seeped into the open wound.

“Your vest is matted with blood,” Bolan said. “Did you lose a lot?”

The woman continued studying her head wound in the mirror, touching it gingerly with the fingers of her right hand.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “But I do feel a little woozy.”

“You going to pass out on me?” Bolan glanced at her.

She gave him an angry look. “I didn’t come this far to quit. I’m not some frail thing who faints at the sight of blood. Can we concentrate on finding Talisman instead of my damn head wound?”

“Sure,” Bolan said.

The Jeep hurtled ahead, occasionally shuddering as it rolled into an occasional pothole. Bolan passed the burned-out remains of a stately building with columns and domes—left over, he guessed, from Sierra Leone’s colonial days—past several smaller buildings and storefronts. Bolan saw occasional clusters of people, the women clothed in colorful dresses, the men in ragged western clothes.

Talisman had gained at least a three-minute lead. That was enough time to disappear into one of the alleys or side roads threading off the main route that led from his compound into Freetown. Or perhaps he’d found refuge in an old warehouse or garage.

Bolan also knew three minutes gave Talisman ample time to call ahead and set up an ambush. The Executioner accepted the risk. Without a doubt, the play had been fraught with danger from the beginning, and he was in too deep to shrink from the challenge.

Glancing into his rearview mirror, Bolan noticed headlights approaching. They began as pinpricks of white interrupting a black background, but swelled in size as they bore down on the Jeep quickly. As the headlights neared the vehicle, they split apart and low rumbles sounded as a pair of motorcycles drove around either side of the Jeep. Both bikers wore black leather jackets and black helmets with clear face shields.

Flashes erupted from either side of the Jeep as the riders caught up with the Jeep and triggered their submachine guns. Bullets drummed hard against reinforced steel as the shooters sprayed the vehicle with autofire.

Bolan glimpsed an approaching biker in his side view mirror and saw the guy fire a burst at the tires with little effect. He guessed that either the man had missed or the tires had been outfitted with special inserts to keep them rolling if punctured.

The other biker came even with the passenger side of the Jeep and loosed a burst of autofire. Bullets collided with bulletproof glass, causing Rytova to flinch and push herself deeper into the seat as she tried to make herself a smaller target.

Trusting his gut, Bolan reached into his shoulder holster, drew the Beretta and handed it butt-first to Rytova. The Russian gave him an uncertain look, then took the weapon. If he’d made a mistake, he’d know soon enough and he’d pay for it with his life.

“Hang on,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Cutting the wheel sharply to the left, he nearly swiped the rider closer to him. The shooter veered into an oncoming lane, firing his submachine gun until it went dry. Bullets sparked and whined off Bolan’s door. With precise movements, the biker let that gun fall limp on its strap, scooped up a second SMG and continued to fire on the Jeep.

Bolan grimly considered the small knots of African men and women standing on the sidelines. A few ran for cover, but others remained rooted where they stood, unable to turn and run away as the deadly tableau unfolded before them. Years of bloody warfare and abuse had left them too shell-shocked to save themselves.

Bolan had blood on his hands this night, but he’d be damned if he’d add innocent blood to the mix.

He mashed the accelerator, drawing more speed from the Jeep’s power pack. He wanted distance from the crowded street, a place where he could reduce the risk to innocent civilians.

As the soldier looked for a side street or an alley, he assessed the situation. Small-arms fire wouldn’t cripple the hulking SUV. So, despite their nimbleness and firepower, the bikers had little chance of stopping Bolan. The armored undercarriage would offer at least some protection against a hand grenade or land mine. The hell of it was, if Bolan knew it, so did they. He assumed they had something much more devastating planned for him.

Two more motorcycles, engines whining, appeared from the darkness and joined in the pursuit. Muzzle-flashes erupted around the Jeep and bullets thudded against the windshield, hood and grille. Bolan didn’t dare return fire, not while even a single innocent life hung in the balance.

But that didn’t mean he was helpless.

Cutting the wheel left, Bolan gunned the engine and again swiped at the motorcycle to his left. The shooter ceased fire, let the SMG fall from his grip and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. The bike engine roared, momentarily drowning out the gunfire, as the rider tried to gain some speed and clear himself from the path of Bolan’s vehicle.

The biker never had a chance.

The Jeep plowed over man and machine, causing the SUV to jerk side-to-side, as though crossing over a speed bump. The three remaining bikers fell back and regrouped. Engines thundering, they formed a triangle and roared toward the SUV as Bolan guided it into a nearby alley.

Chattering weapons, squealing tires and roaring engines assaulted Bolan’s senses as he guided the SUV through the urban canyon. Coaxing more speed from his vehicle, he locked the steering wheel in a death grip and continued on.

“What the hell do you call this?” Rytova asked.

“I call it improvisation,” Bolan replied.

A slight drift to the right and the side-view mirror scraped brick, eliciting a quick shower of sparks. Bolan corrected before the impact sheared the mirror completely from the passenger door.

“You’re insane,” Rytova said.

Bolan didn’t argue the point. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the lead motorbike break away from the pack and close in on the Jeep’s tail end. The vehicle shot from the alley and into a cross street. The impact jolted Bolan, and he fought to steady the rocking vehicle as it raced over broken roadways. He heard tires screech and saw headlights as he interrupted traffic flow and caused cars to jerk to a stop on either side of him. He aimed the vehicle into the mouth of the next alley and drove in with the motorcycles following close behind.

Gunshots continued hammering the vehicle. A scrape followed by a loud crack to Bolan’s left gripped his attention. The driver’s side mirror had struck the brick wall. He watched as it tore free and disappeared from sight.

The Jeep again broke free from the alley and rolled into another cross street. Ahead lay a row of burned-out buildings—drooping heaps of exposed steel, shattered windows and charred brick. The alley had come to an end. Bolan braked hard, steered left. The big tires screamed in protest as the SUV spun 180 degrees before finally coming to rest. The stench of burning rubber and the roar of approaching motorcycle engines filled the SUV’s interior as Bolan regrouped.

Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he backed onto a nearby curb, then cut the wheel right to straighten the vehicle. Thumbing the electric window’s switch, the warrior grabbed the MP-5’s pistol grip, hefted the weapon and jammed it through the open window. Bolan pushed the stock into his shoulder and steadied the weapon. Rytova had opened her own window and aimed the Beretta’s muzzle ahead.

The motorcyclists emerged from the alley, weapons spitting flame and lead as they raced their way to Bolan’s position. Two more motorcycles approached the Jeep from either side.

The Executioner triggered the subgun, sweeping the muzzle across the alley and hosing down the approaching bikers. Return fire smacked into the windshield and burned past Bolan’s arm as he continued laying down sustained blasts of hellfire. Hot shell casings from the MP-5 flew, and bounced across the windshield and hood. Gunsmoke swirled in Bolan’s face, stung his eyes.

The night burst into thunder and flames as a round from Bolan’s subgun ignited one of the motorcycles’ fuel tanks, the resulting blaze immolating the driver in a spontaneous funeral pyre.

Bolan’s peripheral gaze caught another of his original pursuers bearing down on the Jeep. Before he could react, Rytova unloaded a 3-shot burst from the Beretta. The Parabellum rounds pounded into the man’s chest, and his dead fingers simultaneously released the SMG and the handlebars. The rider fell backward from his two-wheeler while momentum carried the bike onward until it collided with a wall.

The soldier took down two more bikers with the MP-5 before it locked dry. In the same instant, Rytova’s weapon ran empty. Bolan extracted two more 20-round magazines for the Beretta and tossed them to Rytova. He reloaded his own weapon. Just as he prepared to resume fire, the remaining attackers turned nearly in unison and fled.

Bolan and Rytova shared confused looks.

“They ran?” Rytova asked.

A sinking feeling told Bolan otherwise.

“More like a strategic retreat,” he said. “That can only mean something bad for us.”

The beating of helicopter blades in the distance told the Executioner he was right.