Читать книгу Chain Reaction - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

CHAPTER SIX

The bulk of the house spread before them, partly obscured by the overgrown network of trees and undergrowth. The access road was little more than a rutted track. Two vehicles were parked in front of the building. Bolan and Mitchell crouched against the perimeter wall.

“Not exactly a Realtor’s dream property,” Mitchell whispered.

“Ideal for these guys,” Bolan said. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s somewhere they can carry out their work in safety.”

“I’m not sure I like what you’re suggesting. What work?”

Bolan checked his Beretta.

“No time for chitchat,” he said. “We can’t be sure we dealt with the whole of the search team back there. We need to go in now.”

Bolan led them across the low wall. They skirted the bulk of the house and pressed against the side wall. A number of boarded windows were set in the wall. With Mitchell at his back, the soldier moved to the rear corner, crouching to peer around. Thirty feet from the back of the house were more trees and a heavy spread of undergrowth that almost reached the rear of the building.

They observed more closed-off windows on ground level and the upper floor; a derelict outhouse; a single wooden door that would allow access to the interior.

“Our way in,” Bolan said quietly.

Mitchell tapped his shoulder in agreement.

“Stay sharp,” Bolan said and moved to the door.

Mitchell checked back the way they had come. There was no movement but she was aware how quickly a situation could change.

“Clear,” she said.

Bolan examined the door. Wood, the panels cracked and warped. Whatever paint had once coated it was long gone. He set himself, knowing that wooden barriers could be deceiving.

“No walking through walls?” Mitchell said. “I’m disappointed, Cooper.”

Bolan set his distance and drew back his right leg, then launched a powerful kick that planted his boot over the lock. Wood splintered. The door flew open, crashing against the inside wall. Bolan went through, breaking to the right. Mitchell copied his move, going left. They both swept the empty room. Nothing save dust and scattered detritus.

Beyond the room they heard voices raised in anger.

“We disturbed someone,” Mitchell said.

They crossed the room and went through the door on the far side, which revealed a wide passage with stairs to one side.

“Shooter,” Mitchell yelled as a moving shape emerged from the shadows ahead.

A slim guy in shirtsleeves opened up with a squat SMG, a line of slugs punching into the wall to one side. He seemed to fire more for effect than to seek a definite target. Bolan turned and cut loose with the Beretta, catching the guy in the side. The shooter slammed against the far wall, clutching his side as blood began to soak his shirt. Bolan put a triburst in the gunner’s skull. The guy sagged to his knees, then toppled over.

Mitchell caught sight of a second shooter, taking a side step to avoid his falling partner. She took advantage of the man’s hesitation, leaning out from behind Bolan. She settled her aim without hesitation and punched a pair of .40-caliber slugs in the guy. Chest high, over the heart, the solid impact of the slugs knocked the target off his feet. He took an awkward fall, slamming to the floor on his face and rolling against the wall, his body in spasm just before he died.

A shadow materialized along the passage, weapon up and firing. The burst of autofire came close. Bolan held his ground, the enemy fire bypassing him as he raised the Beretta and triggered a burst. The distant figure staggered as slugs ripped into his body. He refused to go down until Mitchell fired a .40-caliber round through his throat. This time he dropped without a sound.