Fire Zone. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ mine opened,” Kersey said. “You’re kidding about my gold being taken out of the vaults, aren’t you?”

      “One large truck would carry it all,” Bolan said. “I didn’t pass such a truck. Yours was the first vehicle of any kind I saw on the road. Are there other roads leading away from the mine?”

      Kersey shook his head. Bolan had studied the map and not seen any.

      “The entire Boise Basin is filthy with gold,” Kersey went on. He was beginning to ramble. “Centerville, Idaho City and—”

      “What about logging roads?”

      “This is a national forest. There’s no logging allowed. They hardly allow the railroad crews in and the trains are all diesel electric.”

      Bolan had heard enough. He slid behind the wheel of his stolen car and wheeled around, kicking up a cloud of dust as he roared back in the direction of the mine. There had been a side road, but he had ignored it because it didn’t go anywhere but to the railroad tracks running near the mine. For whatever reason, Lassiter Industries had not run a spur line to bring in supplies and ship out gold. But the railroad was still close enough to make that a viable method of getting away with almost a ton of gold.

      The dirt road came up on him fast. He stomped on the brakes, swerved the sedan around ninety degrees and lined up with the rutted lanes. Accelerating onto the rocky road, the car bounced around, sending him lurching back and forth in the driver’s seat. Bolan gritted his teeth and drove into the forest. These trees had somehow escaped the fire. As he drove, he appreciated the genius of the robbery even more. The fire had been set to go up the hills and away from this area. Sparks might have ignited the dry underbrush here, but the prevailing winds had made sure that hadn’t happened. Bolan wondered what contingency plan the gold thieves had if this part of the forest had been turned into a blast furnace like the rest of the timberlands.

      He skidded around a tight curve and crashed head-on into a truck. He had an instant to brace for the crash, but the other driver was taken entirely by surprise.

      The sounds of tearing metal and breaking glass filled Bolan’s ears as the car crumpled around him, but the shock of the air bag deploying into his chest almost knocked the wind from him. The Executioner rocked back, then pushed the deflated bag away. He was covered with talcum-fine powder lubricant used in the air bag and his chest felt as if an angry giant had tried to stomp him flat. Recovering, he kicked open the car door and dived out.

      There were two men in the truck. The driver slumped over the wheel, but the passenger shoved an HK53 out the window and fired. Bolan hit the ground and rolled, coming to a prone position with his pistol ready. The shooter in the truck cursed. In his nervous haste, he had fired on full-auto rather than using three-round bursts and had emptied his magazine at all the places Bolan was not. The Executioner fired a single round through the side of the truck door. His target let out a groan, pushed the door open and fell to the ground where he flopped about in pain.

      Bolan rose and sighted in, only to jerk to the side. A slug ripped through the air where his head had been a split second earlier. He landed hard on his side and fired three quick rounds. One went through the truck’s windshield. The other two grazed off the now-starred glass. Through the spiderweb of cracked glass, Bolan saw that the driver was now moving. The crash had only stunned him.

      The Executioner made a quick decision. He got to his feet and circled the truck until he got to a spot where he saw more movement inside. Bolan fired twice more and completely destroyed the windshield.

      “Don’t shoot. I surrender. I’m coming out.”

      Bolan wanted the man alive but knew a trap when he heard it. These men were professionals and did not surrender after a few shots were exchanged.

      “Here’s my rifle.”

      A SIG SG-551 short-barreled assault rifle came tumbling out and landed in a patch of weeds beside the road. Bolan saw that the receiver was partially open. The rifle had fired once and then jammed.

      “I’m coming out. Please don’t kill me.”

      Bolan fired the instant he had a decent shot. The man fell from the cab and landed facedown on the ground. He pushed up and turned to face Bolan. The expression on his face was not one of betrayal at the violation of a surrender but one of utter hatred because he had been outwitted. Then the hand grenade he had intended for Bolan exploded beneath him and lifted his body three feet straight up in the air. The lifeless body crashed to the ground.

      Swinging around, Bolan trained his Desert Eagle on the first man out of the truck. He cursed. The man had sneaked off. Bolan needed information, and only one of the mercenaries was left alive to tell him what he needed to know.

      He ducked low and looked under the bed of the truck. Nothing. Advancing in a crouch, he went to the rear of the truck and chanced a quick look inside. All he saw was a stack of suitcase-sized wooden boxes partially covered with a tarp. No one could hide under that. Wherever the passenger had gone, it wasn’t to get into the truck to die. Bolan ejected the magazine in his pistol and reloaded. He wanted a full clip when he found his man.

      A quick glance showed how his target had rolled into a shallow ditch alongside the road and then crawled away fast. The Executioner’s quarry had reached a small stand of junipers. Knowing he faced a wounded man who was carrying at least a sidearm and maybe grenades like the driver, Bolan used a large tree as cover. He listened hard but heard nothing moving. The animals in the woods had fallen silent, telling him a human had disturbed them. He listened but heard nothing until a deep inhalation told him where to look. Then he caught the scent of sweat, blood and something unpleasant—cooked flesh.

      He slipped around the tree and looked up. Partially hidden ten feet up among the foliage of an oak tree limb lay his camo-dressed prey. Bolan fired three times. The heavy .50-caliber slugs ripped enough wood away from the limb to bring it down. Amid the foliage the stunned man stirred and tried to get away. Bolan fired again but just missed and then had to dodge behind the juniper as the merc fired wildly in his direction.

      Bolan took no pleasure at being right about how the man was armed. He had a job to do and was taking too long. All the gunfire would attract the rest of the gang. Judging from the ease with which they had moved through the Lucky Nugget Mine complex, he estimated at least ten had taken part in the operation. Added to the ones in the field setting the fires, he might face twice that if he let them home in on him.

      “Who are you working for?” Bolan called out, not expecting an answer.

      To his surprise, he garnered a heartfelt “Go to hell.”

      The accent was faintly European, but Bolan doubted the man had learned English as his second or even third language.

      “Africa? South Africa? Afrikaans?”

      Bolan wanted to fix his location in the man’s thoughts by calling out all the inane questions. He scaled the tree and kept climbing until he came to a limb strong enough to support him. Bolan slithered out on it like a snake and then trained his weapon on the man below where he struggled to get away from the bullet-riddled tree limb.

      His finger drew back smoothly as he squeezed off the shot. The heavy slug tore through the mercenary’s right shoulder, driving him flat onto the ground. His right arm twitched as he tried to lift his pistol. As he reached over with his left hand, he froze. His head came up and he looked down the barrel of Bolan’s Desert Eagle.

      “Don’t,” was all Bolan had to say. The man collapsed СКАЧАТЬ