Bolan stood behind one of the massive doors of the front entrance of the steel mill, looking out at the odds he faced. He was one man with a rifle and some grenades. Beyond his location, a small army of Russian special forces troops were hiding in the cover of armored vehicles. Their machine guns were belt fed and fired powerful rounds. They were primed, ready and—perhaps worst of all—they knew Bolan had slain many of their comrades.
The Executioner drew a deep breath. He was almost ready.
“American!” came a voice through a loudspeaker. At first, Bolan thought one of the Russians had to have a bullhorn. He realized after a moment that he was listening to a public address system in one of the Russian MRAPs.
“Sorry,” Bolan shouted back. “No solicitors.”
“American!” the amplified voice came back. “Turn over Octavios and no one will be hurt.”
“Send in someone,” Bolan said. “Let’s negotiate.” He had no intention of negotiating, but the Russians couldn’t know that. There was a long silence from the other side.
Finally the amplified voice said, “Very well. Do not shoot. If you fire on the negotiator, we will fire into the building until you are dead.”
“Understood,” Bolan called back.
He waited. Eventually, a man wearing civilian clothes, a Kalashnikov rifle slung over his shoulder, approached the building. He stopped a few paces from the door.
“We want the Greek,” he said simply.
“You can’t have him.”
“We’ll kill you to get him.”
“You still can’t have him,” Bolan said. “And he might die during the fight if you’re not careful. Is that what you want? You know what happens when he dies.”
The Russian swallowed, hard. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Did you kill—?”
“Mikhailov? Smyrnoi? Yes. I did. It was easy. And I’m going to kill the rest of you.”
“That is not how you are supposed to negotiate.”
“That’s how I negotiate,” Bolan told him. “If you don’t give this up, people are going to get killed. A whole lot of people have already been hurt. Your leader, Mikhailov, and Smyrnoi. Both dead. The rest of you are next. Lay down your weapons and surrender to this duly authorized agent of the United States Justice Department. That’s the only option left for you.”
“I regret that we will have to kill you now.”
“You don’t regret it yet. You’re about to.”
The negotiator walked back to the ranks of the Russians.
“Cooper,” Hazan said.
Bolan turned. The Mossad agent had been in hand-to-hand combat and had suffered injuries. She was pale and holding her stomach, which was crimson with her blood.
“Let me get the med kit—”
“No,” she protested. “I have it already. I moved the Malibu to the rear of the steel mill. Octavios is awake, but he’s having trouble moving. We need to get him medical help very soon. The Iranian assassin, Farhad Dabiri. He attacked me. Stabbed me. I fought him off, and I think I hurt him badly enough that he slunk away to tend to his wounds rather than finish me off. But he’s out there. Somewhere.”
“Understood,” Bolan said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do something for you?”
“You can kick their asses for me,” she replied. “I’ll patch myself up and see to Octavios. We’ll be waiting for you when you get done. But, looking out there, Cooper... I don’t like your chances.”
“You might be surprised,” he said.
“American!” roared the Russian voice on the PA. “I am going to count down to zero. At zero, we are going to move on your position, and when we do, we will kill anyone and everything that is not one of our number. You can prevent this. Give us Javier Octavios.”
“I don’t think so,” Bolan stated. “I’m definitely feeling contrary today.”
“Are you mad?” Hazan asked.
Bolan took out his smartphone. He typed a name from the contacts and selected a phone number. He texted a single phrase: G-Force. He put the phone away.
“What was that all about? Cooper? Why are you suddenly so pleased with yourself?”
“I’m always happy,” Bolan told her, “when I get to work with my old friend.”
The Israeli arched a brow.
“Five!” the Russian roared. “Four! Three! Two!”
“One,” Bolan said in unison with the enemy, and looked in the direction from which he knew his friend would be arriving.
Nothing happened.
“Cooper?” Hazan queried.
As the Russian vehicles started to advance, Bolan said, “Wait for it.”
The McDonnel Douglas Helicopter Systems MD 500 Defender flew in low, as close to the towers and structures of the steel plant as its daredevil pilot could manage. A variant of the OH-6 Cayuse Light Observation Helicopter, sometimes referred to as a “Loach,” the chopper was propelled by a single Allison turboshaft generating 420 horsepower. This particular Loach was armed with two 7.62 mm General Electric M-134 miniguns and two 7-shot rocket pods.
Bolan took his lightweight transceiver from his pocket. The little two-way device was used for short-range communications with other personnel from the Farm.
“Nice to see you, G-Force.”
“Nice to be seen, Sarge,” Jack Grimaldi replied. “It looks like you’ve got a little bit of a problem.”
“I’ve got a lot of a problem.”
“Then say no more,” the Stony Man pilot replied. “I’m about to mop it up for you.” The Loach climbed. Some of the Russians were now aiming Kalashnikovs at it, trying to bring it down with small-arms fire.
“It’s getting hot down there,” Grimaldi stated. “Don’t mind me. Going to go cool off a bit.” The Loach took off at an angle so sharp that Bolan almost didn’t think it was possible. There was no more experienced pilot than Jack Grimaldi, though. If it had wings or rotors, he could fly it.
“What is he doing?” Hazan asked. “Where is he going?”
“Building up speed,” Bolan said. “For a run.”
“A run on what?”
“Them.”
The Loach came screaming back down in a steep dive. Again, Bolan didn’t know how Grimaldi was managing it. The punishing dive must be threatening to knock him unconscious, but the pilot never wavered. He picked up speed, making him that much harder to hit with Kalashnikovs or the guns on the MRAPs.
The Loach pulled up at the last possible second. Grimaldi triggered the rocket pods, firing into the MRAPs. The munitions Grimaldi carried were more than a match for vehicles up-armored to be mine-resistant. They came apart like tin cans being split with an ax.
The ace pilot from Stony Man Farm wasn’t finished. He brought the chopper around and opened up with the 7.62 mm machine guns. Men raced away screaming, fleeing the burning MRAPs and trying to find cover among the wreckage of the vehicles in front of the abandoned mill.
Grimaldi pursued and harried them without mercy, firing controlled bursts that drove them forward. He began herding them into a kill-box, grouping them together and then spraying them down when they were foolish enough to stay clustered. The guns did their deadly work, filling the air with smoke and covering the ground in blood. The light, maneuverable helicopter was all the weapon Grimaldi needed.
One of the MRAPs, the only one still mobile, tried to break formation. It plowed past one smoking hulk as the driver tried to make for the highway beyond the mill. Grimaldi was having none of that. He used the helicopter to corral the wayward vehicle like a border collie barking at a herd of sheep. Every move the MRAP driver made, the pilot countered, firing with his guns. Finally, when the driver tried to cut past the chopper and make a break for it, Grimaldi fired his remaining missiles on the vehicle and blew it to hell.
Bolan watched dispassionately. He took no pleasure in the deaths of these men, but they were armed hostiles committing, and planning to commit, murder on American ground. Bolan would fight his way to hell and back to stop people like that from hurting his country.
Grimaldi made a few more sweeps. When he was satisfied that he’d hit everything, he began to circle. “Can I help you find anyone, Sarge?” he asked.
“No, I think we’re good here,” Bolan said.
“Not sure I copied that, Sarge.”
“Thanks, G-Force.”
“Roger and out.”
Being careful to watch for the Iranian assassin, Bolan and Hazan retrieved the car, brought it out to the killing ground in front of the steel mill and waited for the Loach to land. Grimaldi helped load the Israeli and Octavios into the helicopter, said his goodbyes to the soldier and took off.
Now it was just Mack Bolan standing in the middle of an abandoned steel plant, surrounded by dead men. The numbers were counting down, had been for a while. While the Farm would run interference and keep the authorities at bay, curious citizens were most likely flocking to the area.
The Malibu wasn’t safe to drive. It had taken a stray bullet to the gas tank and was leaking fuel badly. Bolan left it parked in front of the mill and walked out across the killing ground, just watching and listening. It was eerie, being surrounded by this much wreckage, these many corpses, knowing that it was your own handiwork. Or it would have been eerie if he were anyone but the Executioner.
Bolan reached into his pocket and took out the tactical OTF automatic knife he carried, holding the weapon in his palm.
There. The sound of gravel on the sole of a shoe. Bolan turned slowly to see Sheila Hargrave stumble out of nearby wreckage. Her face was bloody. In her hand was the kerambit he’d seen her wield before.
“You’re a monster,” she said.
“I’m Special Agent Matthew Cooper of the United States Justice Department,” he said. “You’re under arrest, Ms. Hargrave.”
She took a step closer. “How does a man like you live with himself? How do you wake up and breathe air and look yourself in the mirror, knowing how much blood is on your hands?”
“You appear to have some blood on your hands yourself.”
Sheila grunted, a noise that was pure pain and rage. Then she lunged at him, swinging the kerambit in a reverse grip, slashing and clawing at the air. She rotated the knife by the finger ring several times—a flourish that did nothing—and then came at him again, slashing and cutting at the air. It was clear she wanted to tear him apart.
“Fascists like you,” she said, slashing, “who serve the powerful. Who do as you’re told. You’re what’s wrong with the world.”
“I think what’s wrong with the world,” Bolan stated, dodging her slash, “is that people like you think it’s okay to steal and murder. It’s the job of people like me to stop you.”
“Who are you to judge me?” she demanded. “Who are you to interfere with the truth?”
“You steal dirty laundry from online networks and think you’re fighting for the truth.” Bolan snapped out his own blade and countered her slash by cutting her across the inside of her wrist. She cried out and backed off, but did not stop fighting.
“I’m going to gut you after I kill you,” she said. “And then I’m going to get Javier back and—”
“Your friend is dying,” Bolan said.
She stopped in her tracks, the kerambit still held in front of her. “What are you talking about?”
“Pulmonary disease. Javier Octavios is dying. He could be dead in days, in minutes. Any long-term fantasies you have about being with him... I don’t think they’re going to work out.”
“I hate you!” she shouted. She raised the kerambit high over her head for a killing blow.
Bolan dropped his blade and drew his Beretta 93-R all in one fluid movement. He shot her in the chest.
Hargrave collapsed. The kerambit landed with a clatter in the parking lot.
“Why...” she murmured. “Why...did you not shoot me when you saw me?”
“To see if any of your friends were still alive. I had to give them time to intervene.”
“You son of a—”
Bolan waited. She never finished her sentence. Her eyes were open and staring at nothing; her breathing had stopped.
The Executioner turned away.
“Not so fast, American,” Farhad Dabiri said.