Justice Run. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ held up a finger to silence him, then jerked his head slightly to the left. Two of Dumond’s hardmen had fallen across his line of sight. The submachine-gun-wielding thugs were less than thirty yards from the Americans, walking a few yards apart from each other.

      Bolan raised himself onto his elbows, like a cobra lifting its head from the ground. He lined up a shot on the closer hardman.

      Turrin had filled his hand with his sound-suppressed Beretta and was maneuvering his body so he could put a shot into the second guard.

      The Executioner caressed the MP-5’s trigger. The weapon coughed out a burst. Bolan had tried to catch the guy in the chest. In the instant the soldier squeezed the trigger, the man turned. The bullets ripped into his right shoulder and lanced into his ribs, caused him to yelp in pain and shock. As he stumbled back, his partner spun toward the commotion and was searching for a target with the muzzle of his SMG. Before he could trigger his weapon, Turrin cut loose with a triburst. The Parabellum manglers ripped a ragged line across the guy’s chest. He stumbled back a couple of steps before falling to the ground in a boneless heap.

      Repositioning the grappling hook, Bolan dropped the rope down the wall. Letting the MP-5 fall loose on the strap, he gathered the rope in both hands and rappelled to the ground while Turrin covered him. When he touched down, the soldier dropped into a crouch and scanned the area for more attackers while Turrin made his way down the rope. Holding the MP-5 in his right hand, Bolan unzipped the duffel bag and withdrew the dart pistol. In the meantime, Turrin was kneeling next to one of the dead men. He plucked a bud from the dead man’s ear and, reaching under the guy’s coat, pulled the cord, tracing its length until he found the radio.

      Bolan watched as Turrin slipped the bud into his own ear and listened for several seconds.

      “They keep calling out names,” he said, speaking in a whisper. “I assume it’s these chuckleheads.”

      The soldier nodded and slowly rose into a crouch. As Turrin began to uncoil from the ground, Bolan looked just over his old friend’s shoulder and spotted a shadow emerging from a copse.

      Bolan’s hand snaked out and he struck Turrin in the right biceps. The impact knocked the man sideways. At the same time Bolan was able to aim the pistol’s barrel at the shape launching itself from the ground. He could see the German shepherd dog’s black face, jaws open, saliva-soaked fangs bared and gleaming as it hurtled toward him. The soldier triggered dart gun. The missile buried into the muscle of the animal’s shoulder. If the sting of the dart registered with the dog, it gave no outward signs. Bolan whipped to the side, the animal’s body hurtling past him, striking the ground, rolling once before springing up from the earth and turning back toward the humans.

      A growl escaping its throat, the animal raced toward the Stony Man warriors. It leaped at Bolan, who was closer. Its jaws snapped at empty air. The soldier shoved his forearm out, and the dog’s jaws clamped down on it. Bolts of pain radiated from Bolan’s forearm, but he ignored it. The force of the dog striking him hammered Bolan from his feet and knocked him onto his back. He felt the animal’s jaws loosen and by the time he hit the ground, the soldier was able to push the dog away with a hard shove. It wheeled back in his direction. Mouth open, it stared at Bolan, but its stance had grown unsteady and it seemed to stare at Bolan without focusing on him. Whimpering, its legs grew rubbery and it dropped to the ground, panting.

      Bolan turned away from the animal, certain it would be all right once the tranquilizer wore off. A quick scan of the sleeve of his windbreaker revealed torn fabric and punctured flesh, but nothing he couldn’t tolerate.

      Turrin gathered the dart pistol from the ground and handed it to the soldier. Bolan took the pistol, broke it open, slid another dart into the breech and snapped the weapon closed.

      “Bullets,” Turrin said. “Faster, more effective.”

      “No,” Bolan replied.

      “Figured as much.”

      The Executioner gestured in the direction of the house with his chin.

      “This way.”

      He brushed past Turrin and moved in a crouch toward the mansion. A long expanse of land, much of it covered by a well-manicured lawn, lay between them and the massive structure. Several large oak trees rose from the ground, each of which would provide decent cover in a firefight. A driveway wound in from the front gate and carved out a semicircle in front of the house. A large circular pool stood in front of the building. In the center of the pool stood a statue of a woman dressed in flowing robes, a pitcher gripped in both hands. Water spurted from a hole in the pitcher and arced into the pool.

      After a few seconds Bolan spotted three more guards moving in a ragged line in his direction. He shot Turrin a look. With a nod the little Fed acknowledged that he saw them. One of the towering oak trees stood several yards away. Bolan gestured for Turrin to circle it and catch the guards from the side while Bolan moved head-on at them. He nodded once to signal his understanding and headed toward the trees.

      Bolan had returned the dart pistol to his combat bag. A group of halogen outdoor lights bathed the yard in white light. The lights had caused the trees’ canopies of leaves to cast fairly big shadows over the sprawling lawn, which provided them with additional cover.

      The soldier knelt and brought the MP-5 to his shoulder. He flicked his gaze to the right and could see Turrin’s shadow melt into a nearby tree. The man’s location would position him within a couple dozen yards of the approaching hardmen.

      “You have a clear shot?” Bolan asked.

      “Yeah,” Turrin replied.

      “On three,” the soldier said.

      He whispered the three-count into his throat mike. When he reached the final number, he squeezed the trigger on the subgun. The volley of rounds sliced through the air between him and his targets as he dragged the SMG in a tight arc. At the same time, Turrin began firing the Beretta from Bolan’s right. The sustained volley tore through the guards, whipsawing them as both fighters unloaded their weapons.

      Within seconds all three guards lay on the ground, dead.

      Getting to his feet, Bolan ejected the H&K’s magazine, slammed a new one home and kept moving.

      * * *

      TWO DAYS EARLIER Bolan had walked into the War Room, part of the Stony Man Farm facility in Virginia, and taken in the activity buzzing around him.

      Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, was seated at the large briefing table. A stack of folders stood at his right elbow. One was fanned open and its contents—papers and photos—spread in front of him on the tabletop. His tie was pulled loose from his throat and his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

      Barbara Price was seated next to Brognola, studying the contents of one of the folders.

      “There he is,” a voice called to his right.

      Bolan turned and saw his old friend, Jack Grimaldi, grinning at him. The pilot, his slim frame togged in olive-drab coveralls, stood at the coffeemaker, a carafe clutched in his right hand. The other two hadn’t noticed Bolan until Grimaldi spoke. They lifted their eyes from the files.

      Brognola greeted Bolan with a tight smile and a nod. “Striker,” he said, using Bolan’s code name.

      Price flashed Bolan a warm smile, the curve СКАЧАТЬ