Killpath. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ barrier as sheets of shell fragments and notched wire clanged off its surface.

      Bolan lowered Blanca to the floor gently. He sent a quiet prayer to the universe to watch over her spirit, and reloaded the Beretta.

      Bolan kept the machine pistol handy as he grabbed his last banger from his harness and pulled the pin, counting down as the fuse burned. When the time was right, he dropped the grenade into the middle of the group of guards who’d followed their own bombs down the stairs. Bolan released a loud bellow, equalizing the internal and external pressure on his ears to protect himself from the sound of the explosion.

      Bolan rose from behind the steel table and stepped through the shredded plastic sheet. Blinded and deafened foes staggered helplessly around the room. The Executioner lived up to his name, putting bullets into the brains of the trio of Zetas guards directly in front of him. He holstered the machine pistol and pulled out the AK.

      A sentry to the right of him was leaning against a wall, pressing his forearm against his eyes in an effort to restore his burned-out vision. Bolan sliced him in half with a burst from the AK, then turned and spotted another man, blinking and raising his rifle one-handed to gun him down. Bolan sidestepped, aimed the AK with both hands, and tore open the gunman from crotch to throat.

      Bolan headed toward the staircase, doing the math on the diminished guard force. There would be two men left at most, plus the guy he’d left unconscious in the hall closet.

      His AK was low on ammo, so he drew his Desert Eagle from his hip holster. The door at the top of the stairs was closed—the perfect spot for a gunman to wait him out. Bolan dumped the current magazine in the .44 Magnum and slid in a stick of copper-solid hunting bullets. Pure homogenous copper from nose to tail, these slugs were meant to penetrate the heaviest hides in nature. For the Executioner’s purpose, they would tear through walls easily, while causing massive destruction to human flesh.

      He loaded the magazine, racked the slide and put the first heavyweight round into the barrel. He paused to scoop up the conventional hollow point and pocket it, not wanting to waste his ammunition. Then he fired two shots through the drywall on either side of the door. The high speed slugs struck and plowed through the plaster, their mass and velocity preventing any deflection. Bolan heard a scream as a man on the other side was hit.

      A second guy kicked the door open, and Bolan put a round right into his opponent’s rifle. The gun shattered in the man’s grasp, saving his life, for the moment. Bolan continued up the stairs as another figure staggered into view. It was the man he’d clobbered before, and he’d rearmed himself.

      Another stroke of the Desert Eagle’s trigger, and the Executioner all but beheaded him, the copper slug destroying the man’s jaw and blasting out the bottom of his skull. By the time the soldier reached the top of the steps, the man who’d lost his rifle had raced out of the kitchen, leaving the back door bouncing on its frame.

      The first man, who’d screamed as Magnum slugs tore through the wall and then into his body, lay on the ground, curled up and gasping, blood spurting from his neck. Bolan shot a single copper slug into his brain to end his suffering.

      With all of the estate’s guards down for the count, Bolan paused to reload his mostly spent weapons, then pulled out his combat PDA. It was time to call Brognola, to let him know the fate of the missing agent. A corpse wagon—several—would be needed for the bodies left sprawled around the property. They would also need an ambulance to recover and treat the woman upstairs. Without Blanca to rescue, only retrieve, the other woman took top priority.

      And once she was cared for, the brutal thugs who sent Teresa Blanca to die by the inch were going to dominate the Executioner’s attention until every last one of them was dead.

       3

      Brunhilde Rojas’s feet slapped the wet tiles in the prison shower. She admired her taut muscles as she ran the hard, coarse bar of soap over them. Though she was closing in on her fifties, seven years in prison had given her time to maintain a lean and firm body.

      Not that Rojas had worked in the prison weight yard for her looks. She kept her body strong for the sake of survival and the hope that maybe, in ten to fifteen years, when she was released, she’d have a chance to get revenge against the bastards who’d killed her boys.

      It was a long shot, Rojas admitted to herself as the hot water splashed down on her, matting her inch-long black tresses to her scalp. The spatter of droplets on her skin and on the tile almost drowned out the sound of footsteps behind her.

      “Don’t drop the soap, Hilda!” came a husky, slurred voice. Chuckles accompanying the speaker’s own simplistic tittering confirmed to Rojas that she was outnumbered.

      She didn’t stop the shower as she turned to face the trio. The speaker, the leader of this group of women, was two inches taller than Rojas, an even six feet. However, this woman was as wide as two of her. The others were slightly smaller than their leader.

      Despite Rojas’s strength, these women had at least seventy-five pounds on her—each. They were dressed in their orange coveralls, rubber-soled canvas sneakers giving them some traction on the slippery shower floor. Their calloused fists were mute testimony to their experience bludgeoning people.

      Rojas didn’t say anything, and Pequita Morales cracked her knuckles, smirking at each of her minions in turn.

      “Don’t worry, Hilda,” Morales taunted. “We’ll leave your face alone so you can have an open casket funeral.”

      That was all Rojas needed to hear. She squirted the water she’d trapped in her mouth, hitting Morales in the eyes. Rojas slipped off her shower sandals to get more traction from her bare feet, but she needed to get to the high ground. As Morales brought her hands to her face to protect her splashed eyes, Rojas grabbed on to one of the woman’s big, muscular forearms and swung her knee up into the pillowy gut of the hired bruiser. The sudden blow made Morales step backward, pushing her two partners aside and dragging Rojas with her. The naked woman kicked out to her right, the sole of her foot slapping hard into the cheek and jaw of one of the other brawlers. A screech escaped the woman’s lips as she staggered back.

      Rojas pivoted on her heel and delivered a kick to Morales’s sternum. With the speed and lithe power of a leopard, she then brought her elbow into the side of the second minion’s neck. Pudgy but powerful arms wrapped around Rojas’s shoulders, squeezing her tight and propelling her toward the second bruiser, who was now baring her teeth. Rojas tucked her chin against her chest at the last second. She winced as her opponent’s incisors sliced her scalp before they snapped off against her skull.

      The grappler let go of Rojas, and the naked woman dropped back to her feet. Her most recent opponent was pouring blood from mashed lips and gums. Morales lunged forward again, having recovered quickly from the blow to her chest. Rojas brought up her elbow in a swift scythe, meeting Morales’s face with a crunch. Rojas was knocked off balance as the big woman threw her hands up to her own face. She lost her footing on the slippery floor and hit the tiles. Within seconds, the rubber sole of a sneaker smashed into her ribs.

      It was the woman she’d swatted in the face with her bare foot, giving Rojas what she’d paid.

      Rojas lashed out and snagged the witch’s ankle before she could pull her foot away.

      “Puta!” СКАЧАТЬ