Executioner - Blood Circle Part 19

Bolan flew down the hillside with the Desert Eagle in his hand. "Jack, where are you?"

The pilot spoke breathlessly across the mike. "In-bound, Sarge!" A small pistol barked rapidly down by the road, and the giant's roar of rage echoed across the hills. Svarzkova cried out across the radio.

Bolan's feet crunched onto the gravel of the road as he ran to the Russian agent's position. "Svarzkova! Report!" The woman's strained voice came across the radio. "I am injured."

Grimaldi burst out across the road and ran to the rocks where Svarzkova and Sarcev had positioned themselves. The pilot's voice was tense on the radio. "Sarge, we have trouble."

Bolan rounded the rocks and skidded to a halt. Grimaldi knelt beside Sarcev. The little Bosnian writhed on the ground while the pilot applied a tourniquet. A .50caliber bullet had taken his left arm off at the elbow. Grimaldi jerked his head while he tied off Sarcev's arm with a field dressing. "Look after the woman!"

Bolan turned. Svarzkova sat with her back against the boulders. In one hand she still held the little PSM a.s.sa.s.sination pistol. Her other hand rested on her right leg.

Baibakov's entrenching tool was sunk halfway through her thigh.

The Executioner knelt beside Svarzkova and holstered his pistol. Her face was as white as a sheet as she looked up at Bolan. "I hit him. I hit him several times. I think I hurt him."

Bolan nodded. The little PSM fired a tiny .22-caliber bullet with a sliding steel jacket. It had almost no stopping power. It had been designed to do one thing, and that was penetrate body armor. Bolan smiled at her while he broke out a field dressing. "How did you manage to get him to go for his shovel?"

"I dropped my rifle and pistol like he ordered. I think he wanted to use me as a hostage." Svarzkova smiled up at him tremblingly. "So I drew my knife and appealed to his insanity. He liked that. He drew the entrenching tool, and when he did so, I drew my PSM and shot him. I tried to shoot him as many times as I could, but I was sitting down. Then he was gone."

Bolan looked at her leg. The entrenching tool would have to come out. "This is going to hurt like h.e.l.l."

Svarzkova gasped and cried out as Bolan pulled the blade out of her thigh. He clamped his hand over the wound and ripped the field dressing open with his teeth. "Good girl. Lift your leg up."

He wrapped the bandage around her leg and tightened it over the dressing, nodding in satisfaction as he reapplied pressure. "The femoral artery is still intact. I think you're going to live."

Svarzkova grabbed Bolan's arm with a palsied hand. "Then get him."

The soldier looked over at Grimaldi and Sarcev. The pilot had gotten the tourniquet on and was elevating the limb. "How is he?"

"There's no way they'll ever sew his arm back on, but the veins have collapsed and the bleeding is under control. He's in shock, but I think he'll live. Go get the son of a b.i.t.c.h before he disappears. I'll keep these two breathing."

Bolan rose. Baibakov's Barrett rifle lay by the edge of the rocks where he had dropped it. He scanned the weapon quickly and saw blood on the action. Baibakov had been hit. The Executioner unslung the Weatherby and moved into the trees. The giant's trail wasn't hard to follow. He left huge boot prints in the thin snow, and he was making no effort to hide his movement. He was headed for the Serb positions deeper in the hills.

The Executioner broke into a run.

Occasional drops of blood left red stains in the snow as Bolan trailed the giant. Unless his injuries slowed him down, Baibakov would outdistance him. He had the lead, and the stride of a giant. The soldier decided to take a cue from Svarzkova and appeal to the man's insanity. The Executioner roared at the top of his lungs.

"Baibakov!"

The giant's name echoed across the hillside. Bolan moved slowly through the silent forest, pausing when he saw a long flat patch of rock ahead. The rock table rose out of the snow a few inches and was roughly fifteen yards long and five yards wide. The trail broke at the rock. Bolan peered through the trees. Baibakov had either gone on, or he was flanking him.

Bolan set down the Weatherby and drew his Desert Eagle. Thin morning mist moved slowly through the trees. All else was still. He took the .44 Magnum pistol in a two-handed grip. It was too still. The Executioner scanned his surroundings. Fifteen yards to his left there was a dense thicket. Bolan let his gaze swing over and past it.

The Executioner suddenly shifted to put a tree between himself and the thicket.

"Baibakov!"

The Russian exploded out of the thicket. A scalp wound had turned his face into a mask of blood, and he roared like an animal as he charged forward. A 9 mm Stechkin machine pistol snarled and spit fire in his hand. Bolan put the Desert Eagle's front sight onto the giant's chest and fired.

Bark splintered and flew as Baibakov's extended burst tore up the tree trunk Bolan was using for cover. The Executioner ignored the bullets streaming at him and continued to fire. The Desert Eagle bucked and recoiled in his hands, and he could see the bullets striking Baibakov, but the giant continued to charge toward him.

The Executioner raised his aim for a head shot.

Baibakov flung his spent pistol, and the Executioner had to dodge to one side to keep from being brained. His head shot was spoiled, and the Russian was on him.

Bolan fired his last round, and a pair of huge hands slammed into his chest, driving him backward into the snow. As he came up, he threw the pistol at his adversary, but the giant let the gun bounce off his armored chest and drove his boot into Bolan's chest. The blow bounced off the Executioner's ceramic armor, but the force of it sent him sprawling, and the half-drawn Beretta 93-R pistol spun out of his hand. Bolan rolled again with the force of the blow, and his hand went to his belt. His fighting knife rasped out of its sheath with a steely ring.

Baibakov stood wide legged in the snow like a figure out of a nightmare. His huge teeth grinned through the blood covering his face, and steam rose off his ma.s.sive form. He reached behind his back and drew a long double-edged fighting knife as Bolan came up out of his crouch.

His voice grated happily. "Come."

Bolan flung his knife at the giant's face.

Baibakov instinctively raised his hand to block, and the Executioner moved. He took three strides and dived for the Weatherby rifle where it lay in the snow. The Russian was almost on top of the soldier as he whipped the rifle up between them and squeezed the trigger.

The Weatherby roared as Bolan shot Baibakov point-blank in the stomach. The man's knife sank through the Kevlar fabric of Bolan's body armor and crunched to a halt on the ceramic trauma plate. The two fighters looked into each other's eyes as the barrel of the Weatherby held them apart. The giant's mouth worked, but no sound came out. No body armor on earth would stop a .378 Magnum round at point-blank range, and even the inhuman strength of Igor Baibakov couldn't withstand nearly three tons of muzzle energy tearing through his vitals.

As the Russian shakingly tried to pull his knife out of Bolan's armor, the soldier flicked the Weatherby's bolt and shot Baibakov a second time.

The giant shuddered and collapsed on top of the muzzle like a tent pole. Bolan dragged his knees up and shoved the man off him with both feet. The Executioner stood and stared down at Baibakov's blood-covered face. The Russian was dead.

The Executioner whirled at the crunch of a boot and worked the Weatherby's bolt as he brought the rifle to his shoulder.

Lazio stood five yards away with a length of tree branch in both hands. The left lens of his gla.s.ses was cracked, and his left eyebrow was split and bleeding down his face. He stared at the muzzle of the rifle nervously and spoke in broken English. "You fought on ground. I was to be hitting him. But he is dead now. You kill him first." Bolan lowered the rifle. "Well, thanks anyway." Lazio nodded earnestly. "You are welcome."

"Are you all right?"

Lazio grinned. "Big rifle shoot van engine. Van crash into tree. Van kaput. My face-" the young man slapped his hands together forcefully "-meet windshield. I get out. I run." Bolan nodded and smiled. "You have done well."

"Thank you." Lazio looked at Baibakov's body. "Giant is surely dead?"

"Yes. The giant is dead."

Lazio nodded. "Good."

EPILOGUE.

Valentina Svarzkova looked up from her hospital bed as Bolan walked in. Her leg was elevated, and her thigh was bandaged to her knee. She was pale, but she beamed as he handed her a bouquet of flowers.

"How are you?"

"The food here in this hospital is worse than Russia."

Bolan nodded in satisfaction. As long as Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova's number-one priority was still her stomach, she was all right.

"I can have them fly you in some millet gruel and salted herring if you like."

The Russian agent scowled. "That is not amusing."

"You're right. There's nothing amusing about millet gruel and salted herring." Bolan grinned. "How's your leg?"

Svarzkova looked down at her bandaged thigh ruefully. "I am to retain full use of my leg. I am also to retain an immensely large scar."

Bolan shrugged. "Scars are s.e.xy."

Svarzkova blushed to the roots of her hair. She looked down at her flowers rather than meet Bolan's gaze. "You are very nice." She suddenly looked up and grinned at Bolan. "Did you know, when I was in training as a field agent, the political officers told us America Special Forces troops were all drug addicts and killers of babies?"

Bolan nodded. "Yeah, well, we're not perfect."

Svarzkova giggled and looked down at her flowers again. Her face slowly sombered. "How is Viado?"

"He's two doors down from you. Once his wound has healed over, we're going to have him flown to Germany to be fitted for a mechanical prosthesis. The U.S. government will foot the bill. It's the least we can do to repay him."

Svarzkova nodded. "Yes. He is a very brave man." She frowned. "What about the woman, Madchen?"

"She's going to live. She's in the hands of United Nations troops now. When she's recovered, I believe they intend to try her for war crimes."

"What will become of Ramzin?"

Bolan sighed. "We keep our bargains. When his wounds are healed, he will be returned to Russia. Then he's your problem."

Svarzkova leaned back into her pillows. "Well, at least Baibakov is dead."

"I couldn't have done it without you."

The Russian agent sat up again. "Then you owe me."

Bolan folded his arms across his chest. "I suppose I do."

Svarzkova's eyes went cunning. "Then get me some real food."

The Executioner grinned. "That I can do."

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