Killpath. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ The most aggressive men would be bursting through the doors now, but cooler heads would not want to rush into a building with an unknown enemy inside.

      That meant he could expect two waves, one full of hot-blooded young bucks, the second a more cautious and experienced group. Bolan kept his ears open for the initial approach, which would be anything but quiet. Now, he had precious seconds to look through the other rooms along this corridor before returning to the bottleneck at the top of the stairs.

      Bolan swept into each bedroom, scanning for any sign of Teresa Blanca. He got to the end of the hallway without finding her, then the sound of men climbing the stairs forced him to direct his attention back to the enemy. The warrior took cover behind a doorjamb, making himself as small a target as possible. He had a clear line of fire against his opposition, as long as they poked their heads over the top of the stairs.

      The first of the gunmen rose up, and Bolan let him go for a few moments. Another guy popped up behind him and covered his partner. The Executioner cut them both down, short tri-bursts punching their bodies sideways.

      Screams resounded from behind and below them as their corpses toppled on to others. Bolan continued shooting, raking the air just over the top step. High-velocity slugs smashed through the faces that popped into view.

      Curses filled the air, and, as if on cue, a wave of gunfire whipped down the hall toward Bolan. Bullets tore into the ceiling and walls, but none came close to touching him. Still, he wasn’t about to sit back and watch the proceedings. Bolan threw a flash-bang grenade off the far wall, and it rebounded down the corridor in a well-planned trajectory.

      Instants later, the distraction device detonated with the force of a thunderbolt. Bolan exploded into the hall, keeping low and covering distance quickly with long strides. He’d reloaded the AK with a fresh magazine, and now he hammered a swath of death and destruction into the Zetas on the stairs.

      Bodies writhed as 5.45 mm rounds cartwheeled through flesh. The hapless gunmen fell backward on to the landing in a gory heap. When there were no men left standing and fighting, Bolan slung his rifle and mounted the rail. Swinging his legs over, he slid down past the landing, then hopped back on to the staircase below the pile of thugs.

      “Es peligroso aquí!” Bolan shouted loud enough for the woman in the closet to hear. “No se mueva!”

      “Si!” she responded.

      She’d survived in her hideout, and she’d stay put long enough. Satisfied, Bolan continued through the house. If Agent Blanca wasn’t on the first or second floors, then she’d be in the basement.

      He reloaded as he walked, discarding the spent magazine in the AK, but he returned it to its sling over his shoulder. If he cut loose with the automatic rifle in the close quarters of a basement, he’d end up deafening himself. He switched to the suppressed Beretta instead.

      He found the entry to the basement and descended the stairs quickly, but with caution. He didn’t want to get caught by a spray of bullets from below, but he wasn’t about to wait around for the next wave of guards to show.

      The basement was well-lit, but the uneasy silence of the subterranean layout set his instincts on edge. If there was a prisoner, there would be guards. And if there were guards, then his appearance should have elicited a response.

      Maybe they were part of the crew that he’d just taken out, but something told him that any hope of rescuing Teresa Blanca was gone. He spotted a hanging sheet of translucent plastic and moved toward it.

      No, Blanca no longer required gunmen at the doorway to keep her prisoner. He pushed aside the rubbery drape and stepped into the slaughterhouse.

      Blanca’s forehead sported a still-smoking bullet hole, and the rest of her body showed signs of recent and brutal torture.

      There was a muffled sound in the corner of the room. Bolan turned and saw a couple of disposal bins. As he walked closer, a muzzle rose shakily from behind one of them. The barrel of a pistol came into view, but Bolan had sidestepped from in front of the gun. He reached over the top of the gun’s slide and clamped down, twisting the weapon loose from the hand holding it with the snap of finger bones. A man cried out, recoiling and kicking one of the canisters aside.

      A man in a white coat held his hand gingerly, his trigger finger broken by the Executioner’s disarm.

      “Was that Teresa Blanca?” Bolan asked.

      The man was in his late forties, his wet hair matted across a receding hairline near the top of his skull. He was drenched with sweat. His big, trembling lips sputtered for a few moments. “Yes. It was her.”

      “And you shot her?” Bolan asked.

      The man gave a jerky nod. “Yes. I heard the gunfire upstairs…”

      “What about the torture?” Bolan pressed. “Were you part of that, too?”

      “Please. I stopped her suffering. Don’t hurt me.” He swallowed hard. “I was just following orders.”

      Bolan pressed a small handgun, a .22 auto-back, into the man’s hand, squeezing his fingers around the weapon. “I won’t hurt you.”

      The torturer blinked.

      “Take off the lab coat,” Bolan barked.

      “W-why…”

      “Because you’ll be too easy to spot,” Bolan said. “You don’t want to get shot, do you?”

      The man quickly began peeling off his coat. “You think there will still be shooting?”

      Bolan heard footsteps on the stairs he’d just come down. The second wave was here, and part of the group had been dispatched to the basement.

      “Over there!” Bolan shouted. He brought up his big Desert Eagle from its hip holster. As if spurred on, the torturer raised his own tiny pistol, shooting through the plastic tarp hanging in the doorway before the Executioner could even pull the trigger.

      Bolan cut loose with the .44 Magnum to make certain that the Zetas gunmen had something to focus on. The room filled with flying lead, bullets cutting through the walls and plastic alike. Bolan threw himself to the ground. The lab coat guy, however, was not so fast to react.

      Rifle slugs chopped into his chest, throwing him back over the bins he’d been hiding behind earlier. He reached toward Bolan, fingers stretching and clawing for mercy.

      “Physician, heal thyself,” the Executioner said.

      He brought up the Beretta 93R and cut loose, the silencer smothering any telltale flicker from the sleek machine pistol. He focused on one of the enemy muzzle flashes, and suppressed slugs hit one of the gunmen in the head. The other opponent continued blasting away, but he was on the move, trying not to make himself an easy target.

      Bolan blew out the guy’s knee with another tri-burst, and he fell to the ground. The rifle clattered across the floor. The man scrambled to remove his sidearm from its holster, but Bolan stopped him in the act, sending a trio of bullets into the sentry’s skull.

      The gunfire had drawn more guards to the basement, and they sent two grenades down the steps ahead of them. Bolan supported Teresa Blanca’s СКАЧАТЬ