System Corruption. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
true colors.
That came fast enough.
Nelson’s car accelerated without warning, the driver arcing it around a bend and taking a side road that pushed into open country, with little more than open fields and acres of green trees on either side. Dust billowed up from the tires, misting the air as the car picked up the pace. The SUV put on a burst of speed, starting to swing out to run alongside Nelson’s vehicle.
Bolan slipped his right hand under his jacket, easing his Beretta 93-R from the shoulder rig. He worked the selector lever by touch, setting the pistol on single shot. Then he swapped hands. Right on the wheel, his left gripping the auto pistol. Bolan powered down the driver’s window, pushing his own foot down on the gas pedal, and felt the powerful engine respond smoothly. The car closed in on the SUV.
A figure leaned out of one of the SUV’s left side windows, a squat submachine gun in his hands. The muzzle was aimed toward Nelson’s car.
Too close, Bolan thought, and triggered his weapon, driving a shot through the SUV’s rear window. His intention was to distract those in the vehicle. As the glass shattered, the exposed shooter threw a swift glance in Bolan’s direction. Judging Bolan to be the bigger threat, he opened up with his weapon. Bolan felt the slugs whine off the rental car’s roof. He didn’t allow the shooter the chance to realign his weapon. Swinging his car to the right he gained a view of the shooter. Bolan flipped the selector to tri-burst mode and braced his elbow on the window frame and tracked in with the Beretta. He stroked the trigger and fired off half the magazine. With the rocking motion of the car and the erratic travel of the SUV, accurate fire was difficult. Bolan managed to place a couple of shots close enough to force the shooter to retreat back inside.
Nelson’s driver used Bolan’s intervention to step on the gas, taking the car away from the SUV. Ignoring any kind of safety precautions he throttled hard, the heavy car bouncing and swaying along the narrow track. The maneuver worked only for as long as it took for the SUV’s driver to regain his own line of travel. As the SUV drew parallel with the colonel’s car the shooter opened up, raking the vehicle at window level. The car veered, clipping the SUV’s front bumper before angling away in an erratic swerve. It left the road and bounced its way across the uneven ground, the SUV following and moving to close in again.
Bolan slammed down hard on the gas pedal. He closed the gap and cut across the front of the larger vehicle. Dust billowed as the SUV driver stood on his brakes, bringing the heavy vehicle to a skidding stop.
Bolan shoved open his door and stepped from the car, his Beretta already lining up as the SUV’s back door opened, disgorging the shooter and his submachine gun. As the guy made to step around the open door Bolan hit him with a tri-burst to the chest. The shooter fell partway back inside the SUV. The moment he fired Bolan changed position, crouching and circling the SUV, catching the second shooter to emerge. They exchanged shots, the SUV man firing from behind his open door. Bolan had a clear field and he punched holes in the shooter’s lower legs. The shooter sank to his knees, clinging to his auto pistol. Bolan triggered a final burst from the Beretta and the man went backward with a chest full of 9 mm slugs weighing him down.
Bolan ejected the magazine from the Beretta, snapping in a fresh one from his pocket. He turned swiftly back toward the SUV. He caught a glimpse of the driver fumbling with a weapon through the window, raised the Beretta and fired, shattering glass and hitting the man. He fell away from his driving position.
The moment he had delivered his shots Bolan climbed back into his own car and fell in behind Nelson’s vehicle. The military car was slowing, lurching, as the driver obviously struggled to keep it under control. Bolan saw the car come to a sudden stop. He braked and climbed out, crossing to check it out. He yanked open the rear door and saw Nelson curled up on the seat. There was evident blood spatter. Up front the driver, the back of his uniform holed and bloody, was clawing at his door handle.
“Take it easy, soldier,” Bolan said. “We’ll get help.”
“How’s the colonel? How is he?” the driver asked.
“Alive,” Nelson said, pushing himself up off the seat. He turned and saw Bolan’s face bending over him. “You get them?”
“It needs finishing,” Bolan said. “You able to deal with this first?”
Nelson, a hand clutching at his bloody shoulder, nodded.
Bolan helped him out of the car and led the colonel around to the driver’s door. They got it open and eased the wounded driver onto the ground. The man was still losing blood and had lapsed into unconsciousness.
“Do it,” Nelson said and saw Bolan turn and walk away.
As Bolan approached the SUV he saw the rear passenger door swing open, and a bloodied figure half tumbled from the vehicle. The shooter still had his hands clutched around the submachine gun. When he saw the Executioner he started to lift the weapon. Bolan hit him with a pair of 9 mm slugs in the chest. The force slammed the man against the side of the SUV, pinning him there until gravity took over and he toppled facedown in the dirt. Closing on the SUV, Bolan saw movement from the driver’s seat. The man raised his head and looked at Bolan through the shattered window. He grabbed for the pistol holstered under his jacket, blood-sticky fingers slipping on the grips. He shouldered the door open, twisting around to face his enemy. A 9 mm slug took away his final thoughts, along with a portion of his skull, and spattered the steering wheel with bloody debris.
Bolan checked the SUV’s interior. As expected, the vehicle was clean. He went through the pockets of the dead men. There was nothing to identify the men or the SUV. Their fingerprints might give some clue to their identities, but that was out of Bolan’s hands.
He made his way back to Nelson’s car. The colonel had located the first-aid box and was doing what he could to staunch the blood flow from his driver’s wounds.
“How is he?” Bolan asked, crouching beside them.
“Couple in the back. Listen, Cooper. I called it in. Police and ambulance are on their way. You should get out of here. No point you getting involved.”
“Colonel, I am involved. How’s your shoulder?”
Nelson smiled. “I’m fine. Now haul ass, mister. I’ll handle the flak on this one. You’re better out there on your own. Last thing you need are the cops on your tail. Hal told me you were the right man for this.”
“You have Hal’s number. If you get anything from the cops that might help, pass it along.”
Bolan refused to leave until he had fashioned a temporary pressure pad that he bound to Nelson’s shoulder. He made the colonel sit with his back to the car.
“No moving around, Colonel.”
“I won’t. Now go. And stay loose, soldier.”
Bolan stood. “You sure you can hold on until they get here?”
Nelson was pale, obviously in pain. “I have to. I buried my son today, Cooper. I owe him justice for what happened.”
“We both do, sir, and he’ll get it.”
“Stay on this road about a mile. Take a right and it’ll take you back to the main highway.”
Bolan returned to his car and drove off. He saw Nelson’s car shrink as he gained distance.
However he looked at the situation he was definitely involved. Fate had decreed Mack Bolan’s participation and he would not shy away from his responsibilities.
3
Frank Carella recalled something a friend had said to him some weeks back. It was a passing remark during a social evening out with friends. One of those friends, Cal Ryan, was a feature writer for one of the Washington news groups. He’d mentioned to Carella that he was working on an article that was going to expose shady deals within the armaments industry. Ryan had joked about OTG being one of his targets. He hadn’t said anything more, moving on to another of the group, leaving Carella with the casual