Executioner - Blood Circle Part 13

A crease furrowed Bolan's brow as a plan came together in his mind. "Valentina, how's your driving?"

The Russian straightened and looked at Bolan seriously. "As a field agent I am trained in both offensive-and defensive-driving tactics."

Bolan nodded as he opened his cellular phone and punched a number. "Did you get what I needed?"

Jack Grimaldi's voice spoke across the line. "Everything you wanted. Andrews Air Force Base was closest, and let me tell you the officer of the day gave me some funny looks. But he got real friendly after he looked up the priority code I gave him. He had his men help me load this stuff, then loaned me a truck to carry it all. I'm in traffic, but my ETA's about ten minutes."

"I'll see you then." Bolan closed the phone and his eyes narrowed. "It's standard procedure in an ambush to let the scouts on point through before attacking. It gives your main target zero warning. I'm betting Baibakov will let the lead vehicle through before springing the trap on the limousine. This is how I want to play it."

Igor Baibakov ran a sharpening stone over the edge of his entrenching tool as he waited. The razor edge gleamed at the dark like silver. A small light flashed at his side, and he, picked up the cellular phone. "Yes."

A voice spoke excitedly. "They have left the Senate Office in a three-car caravan, one limousine with two four-door escort vehicles. Senator McCain is confirmed to be in the limousine. They are approaching the Arlington Bridge."

Baibakov nodded. "Have you observed any other kind of covert escort?"

The voice was clear. "None detected. Two of Senator McCain's bodyguards stayed at the Senate Office. The commando, Ramzin, another American, and the woman are still with McCain."

The giant smiled slightly. The American federal authorities were anything if not predictable. The called-in threats had mobilized every Secret Service agent and fast-reaction team available to cover more than a dozen targets in the D.C. area. In the old Soviet Union such threats would have had the army and KGB agents swarming the streets of Moscow in tanks, and the sky filled with gunships. The Americans were too proud of their vaunted freedom to allow such things. Baibakov grinned. It would be their undoing.

Baibakov's smile turned feral. The commando wasn't fooled. He stayed true to his instincts. He knew what was coming, but it wouldn't be enough. He would stay by the senator's side, and it would get him killed. The senator would die, and he couldn't prevent it. The giant regretted there would be no time to do a proper job on her as he examined the edge of the entrenching tool with a critical eye. Still, the beheading of a United States senator ought to be enough to make America sit up and take notice. The commando would die, and the traitor, Ramzin, would die, as well. Baibakov considered the woman. He would prefer to take her alive. It would give him and Krstic the opportunity to break her to their will and find out what she represented.

The giant enjoyed the image of that in his mind for a moment. He replayed it several times in deeper and richer detail before he snapped back to reality. The hunt was what was important. Anything else was secondary, and a distraction. This night America would be dumbstruck, and the next phase would begin.

Then America's will to fight would be broken.

The lookout's voice spoke again. "They are crossing the Arlington Bridge."

"Excellent. Baibakov out." He sheathed the entrenching tool behind his back and hefted the big .50caliber Barrett semiautomatic rifle.

The trap was set, and the quarry was heading straight into its jaws.

The giant flipped off the safety of the ma.s.sive weapon and waited with the patience of a tombstone. Krstic crouched beside him in the darkness with her rifle across her knees. Baibakov glanced across the road. In this part of suburban Arlington there could be fifty to a hundred yards between houses as the road wound through the light forest. He keyed his radio. "All positions ready?"

His fire teams reported in one by one. All was in readiness. The voice spoke over the phone excitedly. "They are approaching your position."

"Acknowledged." He spoke into the radio. "Targets approaching."

Baibakov saw headlights lighting up the bend in the road, and he could tell there were more lights behind them. A late-model American sedan came into view, and the long sleek lines of a limousine appeared behind it. The first sedan pa.s.sed the attack point, and Baibakov grinned in victory as he spoke into his radio.

"Attack! Now!"

The Executioner's eyes flared wide as the trees behind them lit up with orange glare.

"Hard left! Crank it!"

Bolan jumped out of the lead escort car as Svarzkova whipped the wheel around. An RPG7 rocket flew out of the woods toward the senator's limousine, trailing smoke and fire.

The Secret Service driver accelerated and swerved the big limo in time to avoid taking the rocket head-on in the engine block but not enough to make it miss. The big car rose up on its cha.s.sis as the five-pound warhead detonated in the left front wheel well. The stricken limo fishtailed on its remaining three wheels, and sparks shrieked off the road as its left fender sc.r.a.ped against the pavement.

Tires screamed as Svarzkova yanked the sedan into a 180-degree turn. Bolan had already rolled to his feet and yanked the olive drab tube of an M72 Light Ant.i.tank Weapon to the extended position. White smoke from the RPG7 rocket launcher's back-blast revealed the rocketeer's position in the trees. Thirty yards in, the shape of an open vehicle was a darker outline in the smoke. Bolan sighted and fired.

The 66 mm rocket sizzled out of the launch tube on a streamer of yellow fire. The projectile streaked into the trees and struck the RPG7 crew's vehicle broadside. The vehicle shuddered as the warhead detonated, and a ball of fire erupted into the air as its gas tank blew. In the fiery glare neither member of the two-man crew was visible as the hulk of the commercial Jeep burned. Bolan dropped the smoking launch tube and threw himself in a rolling dive to the side of the road.

A second RPG rocket streaked out of the trees from the opposite side of the road and struck the limousine head-on as it listed forward. Orange fire lit up the night, and the hood of the limo flew up into the air. The sedan raced past Bolan as Svarzkova left the road and took the car into the trees. The engine roared as Svarzkova headed straight for the rocketeer's position.

Bolan rose and unslung his second LAW rocket from his shoulder and extended it. In the glare of Svarzkova's headlights Bolan could see a second Jeep with a two man rocket crew standing in the roll bars. The loader desperately slid a fresh rocket into the RPG launcher and slapped the ready signal on the gunner's shoulder.

Svarzkova rammed the Jeep dead on. There was a dreadful crash of metal and breaking gla.s.s, and the rocket crew bounced inside the Jeep's roll bars with bone-shattering force. The vehicle skewed backward with the force of the blow, then smashed to a stop against a tree. The lieutenant's sedan piled in alongside and slammed to a halt.

Rifles began to open fire among the trees, and Bolan knelt in the ditch by the road. He held his fire. The rear escort vehicle had stopped at the bend in the road, and he knew his second team was deploying. He scanned the trees for his target.

On the other side of the road a ma.s.sive thump split the night, and a huge muzzle-flash lit up the trees. The limousine's pa.s.senger window shattered under the impact of the .50caliber bullet. Bolan sighted the LAW at the muzzle-flash and fired.

The ant.i.tank rocket streaked across the road and detonated. Bolan cursed as a tree burst into flames and fell. The tree cover was too thick to allow the rocket a clear shot. The Red Falcons had picked their fire lanes ahead of time. He had no such luxury. Bolan dropped the spent launcher and unslung his M-4 carbine. He would have to get close.

The Barrett roared and roared again. Two more holes were punched through the pa.s.senger compartment of the limousine. Bolan fired a burst at the muzzle-flash, and the weapon fell silent. He threw himself into the ditch as automatic-rifle fire walked over his position, then spoke into his throat mike.

"Ramzin, where are you?"

A hollow thump answered Bolan. The trees suddenly lit up as the warhead detonated, and two of the rifles fell silent.

Ramzin's voice spoke over the radio. "We are deployed and moving into the trees. What is your position?"

"I'm in a ditch on the south side of the road, forty yards from the bend. Baibakov is on the north, twenty yards in."

"Acknowledged."

The Barrett roared again. Baibakov had shifted his position. Other Red Falcons began to spray rifle fire through the limousine's shattered windows, and a grenade arced out of the trees and bounced across the limo's roof. The car shuddered, and a section of the roof crumpled under the blast of high explosive. Bolan rose out of his crouch and moved at a run across the road.

Baibakov snarled savagely as he dumped three more rounds from his .50caliber Barrett rifle into the limousine. The car shuddered and rocked as the big bullets punched through it. orange winks lit up across the road and through the trees west of his position as his opponents tracked his muzzle-flashes. Baibakov rolled to a new firing position and tracked the pulsing light of an automatic weapon across the road. The quick patter of its firing signature told him it was a 9 mm submachine gun, and none of his men was so armed for this attack. The giant aimed, and the Barrett .50 recoiled brutally against his shoulder, then he crouched and moved several yards to his right as two more 9 mm submachine guns reached across the street for him with long bursts.

His ambush was going to the devil.

He had lost both of his RPG teams, and the feint in Vermont had left him with few men. Too many of them were already down, The situation was out of control. Krstic crouched a few yards off to his left and fired round after round from her Dragunov sniper rifle through the shattered windows of the limousine. Baibakov's eyes narrowed as he fired another round into the limo himself, then rolled to another firing position.

Something was wrong.

The commando and his allies were making no effort to get to Senator McCain, defend the limousine or cut an escape route. Instead, they were relentlessly attacking. Baibakov fired into the limo again, then carefully peered through his scope. Something was definitely wrong. The interior of the limousine seemed to be lumpy and full of something.

Baibakov looked up at the thump of a grenade launcher. His eyes flared. A man was running across the road, and it came to the Russian with grim certainty that it was the American commando. The giant raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed.

The world lit up as the grenade detonated against a tree to his right, and the concussion knocked Baibakov to the cold, wet dirt. He rose, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, and picked up his weapon. The Barrett .50's scope was mangled and half-torn from its base. Rage flowed through him. His attack had gone from a perfect ambush to a pitched battle. It galled him, but his priorities were clear. He was no suicidal fanatic, and his mission was far from over.

It was time to break contact.

Baibakov roared at the top of his lungs, "Break contact! Retreat! Now!"

Bolan heard the unmistakable roar of Baibakov's voice over the battlefield and ran toward it through the trees. There was a snarl of an engine ahead, and the soldier jacked an ant.i.tank grenade into the smoking breech of his M-203 launcher on the run.

Baibakov was going to break contact.

Bolan spoke into his mike. "I hear engines. Baibakov is going to try and run for it."

Ramzin's voice came across the radio breathlessly. "Da! I hear them, as well! Koontz, the pilot and I are moving in."

Bolan ran on toward the sound of the engines. Return fire from the Red Falcons had all but ceased. "Lieutenant! Where are you?"

Svarzkova's voice sounded garbled as she responded. "I am all right. So is the agent with me. We are crossing the road."

"Stay near the forest edge. Shoot any vehicle coming out."

"Understood."

Ahead Bolan could hear the sound of two revving engines. As he sprinted through the trees he could make out their shape, and his line of fire was un.o.bstructed. He crouched and fired his grenade launcher. The stock of the carbine bucked against his shoulder, and the 40 mm grenade sailed in a short arc through the trees. The bomb slammed into a Jeep and detonated. Fire lit up the forest, and the vehicle rocked on its oversize tires. The back of the Jeep was torn up, but the men inside were still alive. An angry storm of tracers streaked through the trees toward Bolan as he went p.r.o.ne.

Off to the left another grenade launcher fired, and the Executioner could see Ramzin momentarily framed in his muzzle-flash. His grenade arced into the Jeep and detonated. The men inside were in the center of its killing radius, and they twisted and fell as the fragmentation round tore them to shreds.

A spotlight came on in the second Jeep and swept the trees. Bolan raised his carbine and fired a burst but not in time. The light transfixed Ramzin as he came forward. Red flame chattered from the vehicle as a light machine gun opened fire, and the major went down hard.

Bolan raced forward, then rolled behind a tree as the spotlight searched for him. He loaded a high-explosive round into his M-203 launcher as the white glare of the light swept over his cover. "Ramzin! Respond!"

Ramzin's voice was weak. "I am hit. I-"

Grimaldi's voice broke across the radio. "Sarge! Get back! Get back!"

Bolan didn't ask questions. He broke cover and ran for all he was worth.

The forest behind him lit up in a lurid red glare, and he felt a surge of heat behind him. Grimaldi's voice yelled in his ear. "Find cover! Anything!"

The Executioner threw himself behind a tree as a fan of fire streamed to his left and a tree several yards away was engulfed in flame. Baibakov was covering his retreat with a flamethrower. Trees were no cover. The soldier broke into a dead run as the forest around him blazed into an inferno. The fan of fire searched for him, and Bolan felt the heat wash over him as it approached. He hurled himself down as the stream of jellied jet fuel burned by overhead. There was a sudden wet spattering across his back, and the Executioner's stomach clenched as heat pulsed through his armor.

He was on fire.

Grimaldi was roaring in his ear. "Sarge! Sarge!"

Bolan rolled onto his back and squirmed against the cold, muddy ground. Heat seared the back of his neck as he pushed his head back into the mud and snow. Droplets of fuel burned his arm as he flipped the buckles of his web gear and tore open the Velcro tabs of his armor. Pain seared the soldier's hands as he reached behind his head and yanked the burning armor off of his body and threw it away from himself. Then he rolled to his knees and shoved his hands in the snow.

The stream of fire had shifted to Bolan's left, and he could hear gunfire coming from the road. He flexed his hands. They were blistered, but he could use them. The M-4 lay to one side in a small puddle of flame. Bolan took a deep breath, scooped up two handfuls of snow and packed one against his arm and one on the back of his neck. He climbed to his feet and gingerly drew his Beretta.

Over the roar of the fire Bolan could hear the Jeep moving toward the Arlington Bridge, and it was leaving a wall of fire behind it. His neck and hands throbbed. His radio had been ripped away with his armor and web gear, and they lay in a smoldering heap to one side. The Executioner moved toward the road.

Flames soared toward the sky as dozens of trees burned like giant torches, and he gave them a wide berth as he kept to the darkness. He reached the road and saw people firing down the street. The rear sedan was a burning hulk, and the Jeep had disappeared. Ramzin lay on the ground, and Svarzkova knelt over him. Grimaldi whipped around, his .45 MAC-10 submachine gun in hand as he heard Bolan's footsteps.

"Sarge!" Grimaldi ran forward. "We thought you were burned alive."

Bolan shook his head. "I was, but I managed not to be burned dead. How's Ramzin?"

"He took a burst through the legs, and his artery is cut. He needs a hospital, now."

Bolan nodded. "Have you checked on the senator?"

Grimaldi whipped his head back toward the limo. "No, not yet. Baibakov came out of the trees pulling the fire-breathing-dragon routine. We shot at him, but he didn't stop." The pilot jerked a thumb at the burning hulk of the rear escort car. "He burned the other sedan on his way out."

Bolan sighed. "Radio a chopper in for Ramzin and alert the authorities. I'm going to go check on Senator McCain."

He stopped by Svarzkova, who was applying direct pressure to Ramzin's legs. He had taken a rifle bullet through each thigh, and he lay in an expansive pool of blood. She grimaced as she looked up at Bolan. Blood dripped over her mashed lips and chin from a gash across her broken nose. Unless she had plastic surgery, she would be scarred for life. "Grimaldi is calling in a Medevac. How is he?"

Svarzkova snorted and spit blood from her mouth. "I have stopped the bleeding, but Major Ramzin will require a hospital. His left femoral artery is severed. He has lost much blood and gone into shock."

Bolan nodded. "How are you?"

The woman smiled crookedly. "Part of the Jeep came through the window and hit me in my face." She shrugged. "Other than that I am well. Your air bags work wonderfully. Agent Weitz is fine. We killed two Red Falcons, as well as the rocket crew in the Jeep. I believe the forest on the other side of the road is cleared."

"I'm going to dig out the senator and see if there are any blankets in the limo." Svarzkova nodded and turned her attention back to Ramzin.

SAC Koontz and one of his agents were yanking on the limousine's crumpled pa.s.senger door. The Secret Service agent who drove was sitting against the burned fender clutching a broken arm. Koontz and his man heaved again. The door appeared to be jammed tight. Bolan went up to the shattered window and raised his voice. "Senator McCain, are you all right?"

A m.u.f.fled voice replied. Bolan grimaced as he gripped the door frame with his blistered hands and braced his foot against the car body. He nodded tiredly at Koontz and his agent. "On three."

The soldier counted, and they heaved their weight against the wedged door. It yanked free, and a small flood of sand and broken window gla.s.s poured onto the road. Most of the outer Sandbags had ruptured under the withering fire of the ambush. Luckily they had barricaded Senator McCain six bags deep. The improvised field fortification had collapsed on the senator and the agent guarding her under the attack, but it had kept them alive. Bolan began to haul out sandbags and hand them to Koontz.

Senator McCain's face suddenly appeared.

Bolan smiled at her. "Well, h.e.l.lo there. How are we doing?"

McCain tried to shake the sand off of her face. "I have a Secret Service agent pinned on top of me."

"We'll have you out in a second." Bolan pulled more bags off the top of the pile, and it suddenly heaved.

Koontz's man rose up off the woman. "Sorry, Senator."

"Not a problem." She looked past Bolan at the forest fire. "What happened?"

He shrugged. "We were ambushed. We broke it. Baibakov covered his tail with a flamethrower."

McCain blinked as Bolan and the agent helped her out of the limo. "Was anyone hurt?"

Bolan nodded. "Ramzin got shot up pretty bad, though he should live. The driver's arm is broken, and Svarzkova got her face pushed around a bit. How are you?"

The senator shivered and brushed sand off of her sleeves. "Well, the agent dived on top of me when the car was. .h.i.t, then the car lurched to a halt and the sandbags collapsed on us. After that, all I could hear was gunfire and explosions." The woman shivered again. "I could feel the bullets. .h.i.tting the sandbags. But I think I'm okay."

Bolan elbowed one of the sandbags. They had lined the floor of the limo with the bags in the parking garage, then picked up the senator outside. Once she was inside and behind tinted windows, she and the Secret Service agent had built a rolling field fortification around themselves. "Three feet of sand is about the best bullet stop in the world. Making a little fort for you inside of the limousine was the best I could come up with on short notice."

"Well, your plan seems to have worked, thank you."

Grimaldi grinned behind Bolan. "Thank the nice boys at Andrew's Air Force Base. When I told the officer of the day I needed thirty sandbags in half an hour, he had two squads of airmen shoveling away within minutes."

Senator McCain smiled wanly. "I'll write them a letter of appreciation." She stared again at the burning trees. Sirens began to wail in the distance. "So what now?"