Deadly Contact. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      1

      Present Day

      Throw a pebble in water, and the waves extend outward with a speed that reaches far beyond the moment of its creation.

      For Mack Bolan those ripples had already reached out to engulf someone he knew and had drawn him to this isolated, derelict farm in upstate Virginia on a rescue mission about to go hot.

      Armed and clad in blacksuit, he erupted out of the dark shadows and confronted the three-man crew holding Erika Dukas hostage. The crew had been waiting for their orders and were on less than full alert. They had been promised cash for their part in the operation. It had been good pay for a relatively easy job, and the men were congratulating themselves on the easy money.

      They were unprepared for the tall, blacksuited Executioner as he opened the abandoned farmhouse door with a powerful kick from a booted foot. As the door flew open, sagging from one hinge, Bolan appeared and lashed out with his Uzi at the closest of the three men before him. The man tumbled back, blood welling from the heavy gash in his head, stumbling to the floor. Bolan turned his attention to the other two as they produced automatic pistols, the suppressed Uzi spitting fire as he squeezed the trigger, tracking the muzzle from left to right, then back again, kicking the stunned kidnappers off their feet. As the last of the 9 mm shell cases clinked to the floor Bolan strode across the room, laying his Uzi on the wooden table he passed and used his Ka-bar fighting knife to cut through the bindings securing Erika Dukas to a wooden chair.

      She ripped the duct tape from across her mouth.

      “Another one outside…” she gasped before drawing breath.

      Bolan helped her to her feet.

      “There was,” he said quietly.

      It was his only reference to the man who had been standing guard outside. He slid the knife back into its sheath, but not before Dukas caught a glimpse of the blood smear on the blade.

      “Oh,” she whispered.

      Bolan’s concern over Dukas drew his attention, momentarily, from the men he had taken out. If he had to come up with any excuse as to his momentary lapse in concentration, it would have referred to the clubbing he had received back at Tira Malivik’s apartment. The slight concussion had not entirely cleared, and it had left him less than fully alert.

      Behind him a bloody figure rose awkwardly from the floor, turning to make a grab for the Uzi on the table.

      The woman’s gasp of surprise warned Bolan.

      He turned and powered himself across the room, his eye on the weapon too, aware of the end result if he failed to commandeer it. The kidnapper had less distance to cover and he moved fast, a near-triumphant smile on his bloody lips as he reached out for the submachine gun. His fingers closed over the metal, yanking the Uzi toward him. Bolan was still a couple of feet away. He made a last-ditch attempt, launching himself forward and across the table, sliding over the surface, and slammed bodily into the kidnapper.

      The impact sent the guy stumbling back, almost losing his grip on the SMG. He crooked a finger around the trigger and hauled the muzzle around to track on Bolan. The Executioner kept his forward motion. He rolled across the far side of the table, landing on his feet and swinging out his right arm, delivering a smashing fist that clouted the man across the side of his face. He reached for his holstered Beretta.

      The other man grunted, pain flaring. He swung the SMG in a vicious arc that cracked against Bolan’s shoulder and followed it with a brutal kick that caught the soldier in the side, spinning him away from the table. The kidnapper pulled the muzzle of the SMG on line, increasing pressure on the trigger.

      Bolan tried again for his holstered Beretta, aware he was competing with a man with his finger already on the trigger.

      The sound of the single shot made Bolan stiffen, expecting the impact of a bullet hitting home. When it did, it wasn’t Bolan who was the victim. He was looking directly at the kidnapper and saw the bloody exit hole that appeared in the man’s left shoulder. The bullet had entered to the right of his spine, coring its way through his body and blowing clear, taking bone fragments and fleshy debris with it. The man didn’t even have time to scream before he fell, letting go of the Uzi when he hit the floor.

      Bolan scooped up the weapon, ran a quick check, then turned to the shooter.

      It was Erika Dukas.

      The Stony Man Farm translator was still on her knees where she had made a grab for the pistol dropped by one of the other kidnappers. She still held the weapon in both hands and stared in stunned silence at the man she had shot.

      Bolan went straight to the woman, crouching in front of her. He gently pried the pistol from her trembling fingers, then placed a large and comforting hand on her cheek.

      “We need to get clear of this place, Erika. Before others come.”

      She looked at him and he saw her eyes were threatening to spill over with tears.

      “I…needed to stop him. He was going to kill you. Wasn’t he going to kill you?”

      “I’m a lucky guy to have you at my back. Now let’s get out of here. We can talk this over when we’re safe.” He took hold of her arm and helped her to stand, conscious she had transferred her gaze to the sprawled body. “He can’t hurt us now, Erika. Come on, we need to go.” His voice was low and gentle, his words soothing the turmoil she was undoubtedly experiencing.

      Dukas bent to pick up something from the floor. It was the fanny pack she had been wearing. She secured it around her waist.

      “Time to move,” Bolan said. “We need to talk.”

      “I’m surprised you have time for conversation,” she said as she followed him outside and away from the silent house.

      Bolan didn’t reply. He led her back the way he’d come, a walk of at least a quarter mile through the rainy darkness before they came to the concealed Jeep Cherokee. Dukas slid onto the passenger’s seat and waited while Bolan opened the tailgate door. He got out of his combat harness and pulled a lightweight black leather jacket over his blacksuit. He wore the 93-R in a shoulder rig under the jacket. When he joined Dukas, he handed her a 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol and a clip-on hip holster he had taken from his duffel bag.

      “From here you go armed. I know you’ve done some time on the firing range. I’ve heard you have a steady hand and a good eye,” Bolan said.

      “Paper targets don’t shoot back,” she said as she ejected the magazine, checked it, then clicked it back. “But I suppose I just proved I can handle a gun.”

      Bolan saw how capable she was with the pistol. Her movements were smooth and unhurried. He watched her ease the safety on before she put the gun away, adjusting the holster on her hip. He handed her a couple of extra magazines, and she dropped them in her pocket.

      “These people we’re dealing with don’t appear to have much regard for life. We’ve already seen how they operate. If we meet up again and the need arises, just remember it’s your choice. Your life, or theirs,” Bolan stated.

      She nodded. “I understand. I won’t let you down.”

      As he drove Bolan checked out the still, silent figure beside him. He understood what she was going through, and though he kept his thoughts to himself he knew that Dukas would need to come to terms with what she had just done.

      All the right reasons were not going to make the slightest difference. Justification, moral