Desperate Passage. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ down!” he barked.

      He levered his rifle barrel over the edge of the tree trunk and tore loose with a long burst of answering fire. He then rolled took a position at the end of the log where a tangled mess of old roots had been torn from the earth. He used the broken cover to quickly survey the scene.

      The militia gunmen from the convoy had advanced and fallen against the road bank, using it like a berm to gain cover as they fired at their adversaries. On the left side two of the braver men had begun to creep forward under the covering fire of their teammates.

      Bolan swung his carbine, spraying the wreck of the SUV. Three times he poured tight bursts into the vehicle until he managed to ignite the gas tank. The already ruined vehicle exploded into flame. Black smoke rolled off the bonfire of gas, rubber and oil. It began to choke the thick forest.

      He rolled around and crawled across the ground next to the cowering Sukarnoputri. Bolan realized that necessity had put him in the company of a person completely unsuited for the situation.

      “We have to move,” he urged the frightened woman.

      She nodded, her face streaked with tears, and Bolan was able to coax and into a crawl. He pushed her forward to speed their flight into the jungle. As he turned to cover their retreat, he saw a gunman race forward, weapon at the ready. The man’s eyes squinted hard against the choking smoke, and Bolan used the advantage to put a single 5.56 mm round through his throat.

      The man tumbled forward and sprawled on the ground. A second gunman leaped over the body, weapon chattering in his fists as he fired from the hip. Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that put the man down two steps from the corpse of his militia brother.

      “Move!” Bolan urged.

      Sukarnoputri lurched to her feet and stumbled behind the cover of a thick tree, swatting away low-hanging branches as Bolan burned off the rest of his magazine in covering fire.

      The bolt on his M-4 locked open as he fired his last round, and he dumped the empty magazine as he turned and sprinted for cover. More gun-fire answered his, and bullets tore through the jungle all round him.

      Bolan slid around the cover of a tree and slammed a fresh magazine home. He went to one knee and twisted around the trunk of the tree. He saw figures moving in the smoke and foliage and triggered snap bursts in their direction without striking a target. He heard an all-too-familiar shrieking sound and instinctively ducked behind the tree.

      A second later the 84 mm warhead of a RPG-7 struck off to his left and exploded with savage, devastating force. Bolan felt the shock waves roll over him even through the sturdy protection of the massive tree trunk. Shrapnel burst through the jungle and Bolan heard Sukarnoputri scream.

      He rose and whirled, his ears still ringing from the explosion, and sprinted away from the battle. He stormed through the undergrowth searching. He saw the huddled woman on the ground and went to her.

      He rolled her over and saw her blouse was splattered with blood and a long gash had opened across her forehead, turning her beautiful face into a mask of blood. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and her eyes flickered beneath her lids. She moaned in pain as Bolan lifted her and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

      He rose, lifting her slight form easily, and began to run.

      Sukarnoputri’s blood poured over him in a hot, sticky rush. His shirt clung to his skin as if glued there, and each bouncing step he took forced another agonized moan from the woman. Behind him gunshots rang out but the bullets flew wider and wider as the Executioner ducked around and through trees, heavy brush and bamboo stands.

      He knew from the reconnaissance maps he had looked over prior to his jump that a Malwi river tributary down out of the mountains near his location. He was unsure how far they had driven in their chaotic ride, but he estimated the bridge for the river should be no more than a few miles from their present position.

      He began to make his way back toward the road. Roots and vines tugged at his feet, threatening to trip him up at every step. Branches slapped at his face and angry shouts chased him. He had no time to check Sukarnoputri’s wounds and the slip of a woman had ceased to groan. He feared she had fallen into shock.

      Bolan gritted his teeth against the strain and ran on.

      He cut out of the brush minutes later and hit the road well below the initial contact site. He jogged onto the road. It was simply too hard to break a trail through the jungle with the woman on his back. For his plan to work he needed to make it to the bridge quickly and as fresh as possible.

      He crossed the road and began making his way back toward the stalled convoy that had transported the men now hunting him.

      When he caught sight of the convoy, he slowed his approach and took to the trees, choosing his steps carefully. The burning SUV caused light and shadow to flicker and dance across the vehicles.

      Bolan paused and scanned the scene. All the vehicles, two battered Nissan Pathfinders and an even older jeep, had been left with their engines running to facilitate movement under fire. Two armed men in black and olive drab civilian clothes and headbands had been left behind to secure the vehicles.

      The men stood at either end of the convoy in the middle of the road. The hectic action in the jungle kept drawing their attention away from their posts and toward the still burning hulk of Bolan’s vehicle. The soldier gauged the distance and frowned. When he moved there would be no time for hesitation. Other members of the militia were calling out from the trees, close at hand.

      The Executioner made his decision.

      He looped the end of his rifle sling over his right shoulder. Grabbing the M-4 carbine by its pistol grip, he was able to steady his muzzle one-handed by thrusting his weapon against the pull of the sling braced against his shoulder. At this range it would be enough.

      Bolan gritted his teeth and shifted the limp form of Sukarnoputri into a more comfortable position. He jogged forward out of the brush and onto the road about five yards from the tailgate of the last vehicle in the line.

      He shuffled forward four steps before the sentry closest to him turned. Bolan flexed the muscles of his forearm and triggered his weapon. The M-4 bucked in his hand with the recoil of his 3-round burst. The 5.56 mm rounds caught the spinning militiaman high in the chest.

      The man staggered backward at each impact before he went down. Bolan brought the M-4 to bear as the second sentry turned in alarm at the ambush. He saw the man snarl in fear and outrage as he lifted his Kalashnikov, and a burning cigarette tumbled from his mouth as he fought to bring the AKM around in time.

      Bolan stopped him with a 3-round burst to the gut. The AKM tumbled to the ground and bounced before the slack corpse of the gunman pinned it to the dirt. Almost immediately a questioning cry was raised by the trailing members of the hunter-killer team deployed near the crashed vehicle.

      Bolan wasted no time. Letting the M-4 dangle from its sling, he opened the door on the jeep and ducked inside. He thrust the unconscious Sukarnoputri across the seat and up against the front passenger door.

      The glass in the window of the driver’s door shattered as bullets slammed through it. Bolan dropped and spun, swinging the M-4 up by its pistol grip. He saw a figure at the top of the berm above the roadside.

      He triggered a blast from the hip across the fifty yards and punched the man back into the underbrush. Wasting no СКАЧАТЬ