Aftershock. Don Pendleton

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      7

      The first car they found was unlocked, and Mack Bolan counted himself lucky. He knew the faster he could cut across Van, the more lives he could save. He threw open the door and even though no keys were in the ignition, he had hot-wired enough automobiles to do it on autopilot. He stabbed his knife into the steering column and tore away its plastic housing when he heard a faint distant cry.

      “What’s wrong?” Abood asked.

      “I heard something,” Bolan answered. He put his fingers to his lips and concentrated. He heard the call for help again and got out of the car.

      “Someone is going to ask us what we’re doing around this car,” Abood stated.

      Abood was right. The longer it took to steal the automobile, the more chance they would be caught by Jandarma forces on patrol. But if there was someone in danger, Bolan’s instincts called for him to do something.

      “Stay with the car,” Bolan said. He stripped the wires and sparked them together. The car turned over in an instant. “Drive it around the block. I’m going to look for the source of those cries.”

      Bolan turned from the car as Abood scooted into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. “Stone—”

      “I’ll be careful,” Bolan told her. “Just keep the car warm.”

      Abood nodded and Bolan strode off, loping along at a ground-eating pace. He immediately saw where the cries originated from. A small girl stood alone, in the doorway of a half-collapsed apartment building. She turned and saw Bolan jogging toward her and her eyes widened, afraid.

      Bolan slowed and held his hands out carefully and gently, speaking low and soft, in English, but hoping that his tone would translate until he figured out what language the girl spoke. “No, it’s okay. I’m here to help.”

      The girl took a tentative step back, then pointed inside. She said something, only two syllables, but it was enough. “Mama.”

      Bolan nodded and followed the girl as she led him through a hallway. It was choked with rubble, and there seemed to be no way past. Through the barrier, however, he could hear the plaintive screams of a woman calling for help, deadened by the weight of collapsed stone. The girl spoke up, rattling off in rapid Turkish.

      The woman didn’t stop screaming, and Bolan wondered if she could hear clearly. He gestured to the girl to cover her ears. She did and then in his best parade march bellow, he called out. “Can you hear me?”

      The woman stopped. Garbled Turkish erupted. Bolan knew a few words in the language, but the gist was lost on him. She repeated one word several times— ”Lata.”

      Bolan knew the Turkish word for “help”; it was one of the phrases he memorized before cutting across the border. “Lata” sounded like a name.

      He looked down at the girl. “Lata?”

      The girl nodded.

      Bolan searched his memory for a moment and then pulled up the Turkish phrase he needed. He barked it out loudly, Lata covering her ears again. “Lata’s safe!”

      The woman on the other side broke down in a mixture of tears and laughter, the sounds of relief cutting through the heavy rubble. Bolan tested the barrier and pulled his flashlight. Its bright beam cut into the darkness above, and he knew that several levels had collapsed onto this hallway. The heavy floors made it impossible to move, as they had wedged down tightly. He’d need another way to get to the trapped woman.

      Bolan turned, his mind racing. Picking an apartment door, he kicked it open violently. Wood splintered and the door swung open. No one was inside. The ceiling had buckled in a few places, and in the direction of the woman, he noticed that the wall had crumbled at the top. He pulled the all-steel Jericho pistol and hammered it against the cracked drywall. The girl gasped in surprise that he was armed, but saw what he was doing and calmed down. After three hard taps, there was a fist-sized hole in the drywall, and he could see through to the next apartment.

      Bolan took a firm grasp of the drywall and cracked a chunk free easily. He holstered the Jericho and tapped the wall, checking for the width of the support studs, then hurled himself against it with all his might. Drywall crumbled under his weight, and he dented the far side.

      “Thanks for cheap apartment construction,” he muttered. The girl took a tentative step forward and Bolan rammed the half-broken wall again and burst through. Covered in plaster and powdered drywall, he looked around the next apartment. His shoulder ached from where he’d used it as an improvised wrecking ball. He looked back at Lata, who watched him in awe.

      The apartment’s ceiling was buckled in several places, and a sofa from an upstairs apartment poked through into the room. It wouldn’t be safe for the little girl. Bolan knelt and motioned for her to stay put in the doorway they’d come through. If the floor was going to collapse, that would be a safer place for her. Lata nodded in understanding and ran to where he pointed.

      “Thank you,” she said in Turkish. Bolan understood and smiled, then tried the apartment door.

      It opened a couple of inches but was stopped by a massive weight on the other side. Bolan braced the door with one hand, then drew his Jericho again, and its solid steel frame cracked the wood with one hammer blow. Bolan holstered the weapon, then used his forearm to drive the broken section of door away. He could see into the hallway, and the woman lying on the floor. She was wedged under a support pillar. He could see that her scalp was split, and that blood soaked down into one of her ears. No wonder she hadn’t heard the little girl’s voice. It had taken Bolan’s volume to cut through her partial deafness.

      Her eyes were glazed, and she was starting to slip into shock. Bolan grabbed the door frame and pulled hard. After his third tug, the molding around the door ripped free and clattered to the floor at his feet. Plaster rained from the ceiling above, and the Executioner knew that he wouldn’t have much time. He considered using a gun to shoot out the hinges, but the percussion would weaken the ceiling more. Instead, he took out his knife and pried the top hinge. Cheap brass folded under its leverage. Held in place by only one hinge, and unrestrained by the door frame’s molding, he’d be able to wrench the bottom hinge loose. With a powerful tug, his shoulders and back protesting against the effort, he tore the half-broken door free, using the space he’d smashed out of its corner as a handle.

      Bolan scanned the area, then grabbed a chair and wedged the door into it and up against the ceiling. It wouldn’t last for long, but he hoped it would buy him a few minutes. He knelt by the woman’s side. He took her dark, bloodied hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

      “I’m here to help,” he said as he looked at the weight holding her in place.

      “Lata?” the woman inquired. Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. She’d worn out her vocal cords crying for her child. Bolan dug his fingers in under the support pillar and tried to lift it, but he couldn’t move it. If he could get a quarter inch of slack, the woman would have been able to crawl out to safety. But there just was too much rubble wedging it down.

      The mother looked through the door, her eyes widening fearfully. “Lata!”

      Bolan looked back and saw the little girl.

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