Promise To Defend. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ of fiery lead on his opponents.

      His weapon clicking empty, Blancanales ejected the machine pistol’s clip as he dived forward. Skidding to a stop underneath a large oak table, he drove a foot into the table, tipped it onto its side, grateful for the cover as he reloaded his weapon. He heard the dull thump of bullets smacking into the furnishing, ripping its finely crafted, curved edges into a jagged line, like a mouthful of broken teeth.

      He rolled onto his stomach, peered around the table’s curved edge and poked the Uzi through the opening. He caught one of the hardmen breaking cover, assault rifle snug against his hip as he closed in on Blancanales for the kill. The second shooter was firing sporadically at Blancanales’s position.

      He targeted another hardman delivering a blistering volley of 7.62 mm slugs from his AK-47. The commando heard glass shattering overhead, felt shards raining down upon him. He snapped off a short volley of slugs that came within a hairbreadth of slaughtering the gunner.

      His combat senses crying out, Blancanales thrust himself to the right before his mind understood why. A chandelier plummeted to the floor, hitting the spot he’d just vacated. The glass light fixture struck the ground and exploded, littering the air with shards that bit into the exposed skin of his face and hands. He shut his eyes, protectively wrapping a forearm around them and riding out the assault of splintered glass.

      Blancanales popped open his eyes in time to see his opponent drawing a bead on him with the AK-47. Snap-aiming, he fired the Uzi. The swarm of 9 mm slugs speared through the man’s lower stomach, shoving him back as the bullets devastated his internal organs.

      Ears still ringing with gunfire, Blancanales nevertheless sensed motion to his left. He spun and caught another shooter, this one armed with a sawed-off shotgun, popping up from behind a chair. Blancanales stroked the Uzi’s trigger as he swept the SMG in a figure-eight pattern that lanced through the overturned furniture and drilled into the man’s center mass. In a last act of resistance, the man triggered his shotgun, the weapon unleashing a thunderous blast that tore into the ceiling.

       Getting cautiously to his feet, Blancanales traded the Uzi for his Beretta. The thrumming of the helicopter sounded from outside. The aircraft’s noise combined with their distance from the street made it impossible to tell whether the police, sirens blaring, were descending upon the building. But he knew it was only a matter of time before the local cops hit the scene. Scanning the room, he took in the battlefield littered with corpses, shattered glass and shredded plaster. He couldn’t help but mutter an oath under his breath.

      Lots of carnage and no information.

      From behind a couch, he heard a grunt that unmistakably belonged to Lyons.

      At the same time he also noticed that Schwarz was nowhere in sight, and a cold sensation traveled down his spine. Where the hell was he?

      “C’mon, lady, give me a break here,” Lyons said.

      First things first.

      The Beretta leading the way, he rounded the couch and found Lyons tussling with a woman. She was dressed in black jeans, fashionable boots and a cranberry-colored, long-sleeved shirt. He couldn’t see her face, but her glossy black hair had spilled over the floor. From her profile, he could tell she was Asian. She also was giving Lyons a pretty fair tussle. Lyons had straddled the woman at the waist. He held her wrists in his big hands, but the woman continued to struggle.

      “Get your hands off me, you bastard,” she yelled. Blancanales recognized the voice in an instant, felt his heart skip a beat. Shit! What was she doing here?

      “Relax, lady,” Lyons was saying. “You jumped me, remember?”

      Shaking off his surprise, he closed in on the pair, each step intensifying the squeezing sensation on his heart. In an instant he recognized the woman from her brown eyes and full, coral-colored lips, to the fiery temper that seemed to emanate from every pore.

      It was Donna Ling, a woman from his distant past. And they had a history.

      WITH GRAVITY TUGGING at his feet and the punishing wind of the rotor blades smacking into him, Schwarz knew he had only one chance for survival.

      He raised the Uzi and fired the weapon at Hakim, dragging it across the man’s exposed knees. Hakim’s eyes widened in shock and the pistol fell from his fingers as 9 mm slugs tore through flesh and bone. He stumbled forward. At the same moment the pilot gave the chopper a hard jerk, an apparent attempt to knock Schwarz from the landing gear. The sudden motion caused Hakim to pitch out the door, his face instantly morphing from shock to fear as he went forward.

      Schwarz looked down, saw the distance between himself and the roof. He guessed a good twenty feet already separated him.

      Hell.

      Letting go of the landing gear, he watched as the rooftop rushed up to meet him.

      THE PRESENCE of someone approaching from behind had caused Lyons, his face red with anger and exertion, to glance over his shoulder. When he saw Blancanales, he rolled his eyes, but his teammate barely noticed. In the same instant, Blancanales’s gaze intersected with Ling’s and they stared at each other. He watched as the anger and fear fueling her struggle drained away to be quickly replaced by shock, the same emotion roiling inside him.

      “Let her go, Carl,” Blancanales said.

      “What?” Lyons shouted. “Are you crazy?”

      The woman stopped struggling, whipped her head toward Blancanales. “Pol?” Ling said.

      “I can explain,” Blancanales said to Lyons.

      “This ought to be good,” Lyons fired back.

      More gunfire crackled outside, followed by the sickening thud of something heavy hitting the roof. Almost immediately, the chopper’s whine grew louder and the sound of the aircraft’s engine more distant.

      Gadgets!

      Blancanales was sprinting for the door. Lyons was on his feet and following, the Colt Python gripped in his right hand.

      The Able Team warriors burst through the door. Blancanales swept his gaze over the rooftop. He saw a man, Hakim, writhing on the ground, his pant legs stained dark with blood, his flesh rent by bullets. Schwarz stepped into view, his Beretta held in front of him, muzzle aimed at Hakim as he closed in on the Arab. He was shouting for the man to stay down.

      The thrumming of the chopper’s engine grew louder. Peering up, he saw the craft circling and coming back for another pass, its side door pulled open. A hardman cut loose with a burst from the AK-47. The volley of rounds slammed into Hakim, causing him to convulse wildly. A half-dozen geysers of blood erupted from his torso.

      Schwarz dropped into a crouch and fired upward. A trio of bullets sailed through the aircraft’s door, driving the man inside. The chopper grabbed altitude almost immediately and left.

      “Damn!” Lyons yelled.

      Able Team converged at Hakim’s body. Schwarz already had moved to the terrorist’s side and was examining him for a pulse. He looked up at the two men and shook his head.

      “Need a séance to interrogate this guy,” he said.

      “Wonderful,” Lyons commented. “I guess we’re back at square one.”

      Blancanales СКАЧАТЬ