Shadow Strike. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ steps below with a ringing crash, then started bouncing along, impelled by gravity and inertia. A few seconds later, the unseen men began shouting curses, then running away fast.

       Pulling out a second grenade, Bolan started to remove the safety tape, then heard a sound from behind. Dropping the grenade, he drew the Beretta and pivoted at the hip.

       A large man in a yellow raincoat was running down the corridor, working the pump action on a 12-gauge shotgun. Instantly, the Executioner fired twice, the double report lost in the clamor of the alarm.

       The shotgun discharged harmlessly into the wall as the first round knocked it aside, then the man jerked backward as the second 9 mm bullet punched a neat black hole in his forehead. Slowly, he crumpled to the floor and lay down as if going to sleep.

       Suddenly, the soldier heard the sound of people running up the stairs again. This time, Bolan pulled the pin on an HE grenade, counted to three, then dropped the bomb over the railing. The metallic sphere hit the stairs with a hard metallic ring, and somebody cursed.

       “Grenade!” a man yelled.

       “Ignore it!” another countered gruffly. “That last one wasn’t even live!”

       A split-second later, a violent explosion filled the stairwell, and fiery chunks of human remains vomited into view. A smoking hand still holding a gun smacked into the concrete wall, and a tattered shoe arched over the railing to land in the corridor.

       Quickly starting down the stairs, Bolan hopped over the grisly remains of the guards and kept moving. Unfortunately, he could feel the stairs swaying, and cursed the fact that the builder had merely attached them to the wall with pinions and wires, instead of anchoring them properly to the masonry with thick steel bolts. Now there was a chance that the staircase would tumble to the bottom level with him on it. However, the elevator was a guaranteed death trap, so he had no choice.

       Increasing his speed, Bolan holstered the Beretta, using both hands to steady his hasty progress down the shuddering stairs. Pinions were ripping free from the wall moorings, the support cables lashing about like insane snakes, hissing as they whipped through the air. He was hit twice in the back, his life saved by the Threat Level IV body armor under his jacket. Then he caught a cable across the face. The sharp pain blurred his vision for a moment, and he tasted blood, but kept moving. Speed was his only defense now.

       As he neared bottom, the last flight of stairs gave a low groan and twisted sideways, closely followed by a horrible crashing sound that steadily built in volume and power.

       Jumping the last eight feet, Bolan hit the floor in a crouch and dived at the exit. The fire door resisted for a second, and just for a moment the soldier thought this was the end. Then the portal crashed open and he half fell onto soft carpeting. A split second later, a deafening avalanche of stairs, cables, stays and corpses arrived, blocking the doorway completely as it formed a ghastly pile of debris.

       As Bolan started to rise, a dozen armed men charged into view from around a corner. Drawing the Beretta 93-R, the soldier emptied the magazine into the group. Faces disappeared, and hot blood splashed the wall as the chests of the guards were torn open under the barrage.

       Dropping the magazine, Bolan slammed a fresh one home as a second group of gunners appeared. But these men were carrying M-16 assault rifles and wearing body armor.

       As the guards paused at the sight of the carnage, Bolan threw himself to the floor and quickly shifted targets. Firing 9 mm rounds across their exposed knees, he brought them down screaming and cursing, white bones and gore erupting from the hideous wounds.

       Rolling to a new position, Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and stroked the trigger. The big bore handcannon boomed louder than doomsday in the enclosed confines of the hall, the muzzle-flame extending for almost a foot from the pitted maw of the oversize weapon.

       The head of the first man simply broke apart, his life gone in a microsecond of high-powered annihilation. Then the nose of the second man vanished, just before the back of his head exploded, the men behind him caught in the spray of bones and brains.

       Temporarily blinded by the gory material, the other guards rubbed at their faces and fired back randomly, mostly hitting the floors and ceiling, and occasionally one another.

       Constantly moving and shooting, Bolan continued to ruthlessly exterminate each of them, one after another, until the corridor was again empty.

       Swiftly reloading both his weapons, Bolan took this opportunity to press the button on the remote detonator clipped to his shoulder holster, then toss the device away.

       Moving onward, the soldier stayed low and close to the walls, gunning down everybody he saw carrying a weapon, as well as every security camera that came into view.

       Pausing at an intersection, he fired the Desert Eagle into the ceiling, dislodging several foam acoustical tiles to expose raw concrete and several thick power cables. He grunted at the sight. Those would lead either directly to the power room or to Tiffany. A fifty-fifty chance. He went to the right.

       Sure enough, at the far end of the corridor, Bolan saw a group of men with military weapons clustered around an unmarked door. As they turned, Bolan shot the two men in front, then dived to the side. Caught by surprise, the guards took a moment to fire back, their assault rifles sending a fiery maelstrom of steel-jacketed lead along the corridor. But Bolan was already safely behind the corner, and unwrapping a grenade.

       “Surrender or die!” he yelled, yanking out the arming pin and releasing the safety lever.

       “Fuck you, cop!” somebody snarled in reply. “Come and get us!”

       As the guards cut loose with another barrage, much longer this time, Bolan threw the military sphere as hard as he could at the opposite wall. It bounced off the bricks and went around the corner.

       A man cursed, another screamed, then the antipersonnel grenade detonated in the air, sending out a hellish corona of stainless-steel fléchettes. Just for a second, Bolan heard the hiss of their trajectory, then there was only silence.

       Pulling a mirrored dental probe from his inside pocket, he glanced around the corner to check the damage. There were tattered bodies in sight, but none remotely resembled human beings anymore, just piles of ground meat in cheap suits. Then he spotted a disembodied arm holding an XM-15. Bolan scooped it up and slung the deadly weapon across his back.

       Stepping over the ragged corpses, the soldier heard one of the mutilated men give a low groan, and he quickly fired a mercy round from the Beretta to end the torment. Just then, the overhead lights went out, casting the corridor in near absolute blackness.

       Cracking open a chemical glow stick, Bolan tossed it onto the bodies, then blew off the lock to the office door with a single booming round from the .50 Desert Eagle. The thundering rip of an auto-shotgun answered, a dozen cartridges discharged in a single, continuous volley.

       Even before it stopped, Bolan tossed in an unprimed grenade. The bomb hit the carpet and rolled out of sight. He heard a man curse vehemently, and swung around the jamb.

       Standing behind a huge wooden desk was a short bald man, a tailored silk shirt almost unable to contain his amazingly muscular frame. He appeared to be made out of nothing but bulging muscles and scar tissue. On the brick wall were several certificates from local charities, and a framed picture of the short man standing with his arm around the recently elected congressman who was rumored to be in the pockets of organized crime. Tiffany was clean-shaved, and had a puckered СКАЧАТЬ