Dragon Key. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
van’s rear doors. They spoke again and looked back at the small truck they’d gotten from the Triads before going around to the front of the van and getting in. It appeared they were going to abandon the black truck. A good move, just in case the Triad had rigged it with an IED or GPS. The van’s engine rolled over and caught. They were taking off. It would be nicer to follow them to their ultimate destination, but Bolan figured it was time to move, in case they lost the van in the Hong Kong traffic. Bolan keyed his radio and spoke into his throat mic.
“Crissey, target’s getting ready to move. You in position?”
“Affirmative.”
“Let’s hit them now.”
“Agreed. Heading in from the far end.”
That was all Bolan needed to hear. It was risky for the two of them to tackle five men who were no doubt armed, but it was also necessary if the intel Stony Man Farm had received was correct: the Iranians were purportedly buying the guidance system for one of China’s DF-21D anti-ship ballistic missiles. The kind the US designated as a “carrier killer.”
Hal Brognola had been most persuasive. “I don’t need to tell you how worried the Navy is about this one. It’s bad enough that the Chinese have them, but if they’re selling the technology to the Iranians, our ships will be sitting ducks in the Persian Gulf.”
Bolan knew Brognola was right. They couldn’t afford to let that kind of technology fall into the Ayatollah’s hands. Still, from what Bolan knew of the Chinese, the possibility that they’d export their technology to the Muslims seemed dubious.
“Cooper,” Crissey said over the radio. “I’m pulling my vehicle up to block the mouth of the alley. Are you ready?”
“Roger that,” Bolan said, and sprang from the shadows. “Moving in now.”
He was wearing black cargo pants and a BDU shirt that fit loosely enough to hide the shoulder rig with his Beretta 93R. He’d forgone combat boots for a lighter sport tactical boot, which afforded him traction and mobility as well as soundless movement. They also packed a pretty good wallop. Bolan pulled the Beretta out of its holster and increased his pace, centering himself directly behind the windowless van so he’d be less visible in the side mirrors. The van began to accelerate toward the mouth of the alley. Bolan ran faster, nearing an all-out sprint. If Crissey wasn’t in position, or if the Iranians decided to ram the Englishman’s car, things could get dicey.
Then the red flashes of brake lights glowed ahead and the van began to slow down. Bolan flipped the selector to auto as he got within two feet of the back of the van. Reaching out, he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, raising the Beretta at the same time. The door popped open, but the van jerked to a stop, sending the Executioner slamming against the rear door. The impact felt like a body blow from a wrecking ball. Bolan fell to the ground, rolling to minimize the impact. Just as he came to a stop, he glanced toward the van. Bolan could see the illumination from a pair of headlights. Crissey had pulled his damn car front first into the alley. Tactically, it wasn’t a bad move, if you were in the car. The engine block would provide the maximum ballistic cover from any gunfire emanating from the van, and it would certainly be more difficult for the van to knock the car out of the way, but the flip side was that Bolan’s position was now lit up like a Hong Kong business district. And there was nowhere to go on either side.
The right rear door opened a crack and the barrel of an SKS rifle emerged. The muzzle flash burst like an exploding star as Bolan rolled away from the rounds bouncing off the pavement. He aimed the Beretta at the solid top of the door, approximating where he thought the assailant’s upper body might be, and fired off three quick bursts. Luckily he’d loaded this magazine with armor-piercing bullets.
Neat round holes perforated the door in a semicircular pattern. Seconds later the rifle dropped to the ground, followed by a slumping body.
One down and three to go, Bolan thought. He wanted at least one of the Iranians alive.
As the van began backing up, the left rear door opened and the barrel of another SKS poked out.
Alive—only if possible, Bolan thought, and began rolling again.
The van’s front wheels twisted, and it veered toward him, its side striking the wall of the building next to Bolan. The rifle began spitting a deadly stream of bullets, but the rounds went wide as the vehicle abraded the brick wall.
No place to hide now. Bolan sprang to his feet, firing off another burst from his Beretta. He began running. If he could get back to the small truck the Iranians had abandoned he might be able to avoid getting run over or crushed.
Or shot, he thought as another staccato burst sounded behind him. He extended his arm back to fire another burst, buying a few seconds respite.
But the van was right behind him, maybe ten feet away now, sending out a shower of sparks as it scraped against the stone wall.
Five feet.
Three.
Just as he thought it was over, the top of the van collided with a protruding section of bricks, sending out a shower of debris like pellets in a hailstorm. The van careened left, then cut right again, giving Bolan a chance to slip into a shadowy recess along the wall. He flattened against the cold bricks and the van barreled past him, its right-side mirror snapping off as it caught the edge of the alcove. Bolan waited a second more, then brought the Beretta up and fired as the front of the vehicle came into view. A series of bullet holes dappled the windshield and the driver jerked backward. The van slowed. Bolan acquired a sight picture on the front passenger and fired another three-round burst. That man slumped forward and the van decelerated, slowing to a stop.
Bolan rushed to the front of the vehicle and suddenly felt a round zoom by him. He saw movement inside the van but no muzzle flash. It had come from behind him.
Crissey.
Bolan glanced back and saw the Englishman holding a Walther PPS in his left hand and practically covering his face with his right.
“Hold your fire,” Bolan yelled, hoping Crissey could hear him.
The Executioner saw two men moving inside the back of the van. One had a rifle and the other a pistol. Bolan fired another three-round burst through the pockmarked windshield and darted to the side. He reached into the pocket of his BDU shirt and pulled out a stun grenade. Hooking the round pin on the edge of the protruding bumper, Bolan pulled the pin out and rose up, smashing the driver’s-side window with his Beretta.
A round zoomed past him, this time from inside the van.
“Crissey,” Bolan yelled, “now would be a good time to shoot.”
The Englishman rose up and fired off a volley of several rounds. Bolan tossed the grenade through the broken window and ducked down. Four seconds later the inside of the van exploded with smoke and light, accompanied by a concussive blast. Bolan moved to the rear of the vehicle and tore open the back door. The interior was filled with a cloud of smoke and the acrid smell of burned gunpowder. The last two Iranians squirmed on the floor next to the crate. Bolan grabbed the first one by the ankle and pulled him out of the van. He dropped to the ground.
Crissey was next to Bolan now, and the Executioner told him to check and secure the prisoner. Then Bolan reached for the second man’s twitching feet, but the Iranian responded with a kick. The man sat up holding a pistol with an elongated barrel, pointing it directly at Crissey. Bolan fired a round into the Iranian’s forehead, and he slumped to the floor. The Executioner stitched the man with another quick burst and pulled his body from the back of the vehicle.
“Thanks,” Crissey said. He flashed an expression somewhere between a grimace and a grin. “And I’m sorry about that near miss when you popped up before.”
“Forget it,” Bolan said, moving his head slightly, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. “You got that guy cuffed?”
“Righto.”
Bolan glanced down and saw a thin strip of plastic securing the Iranian’s