Executioner - Blood Circle Part 4

The doorway opened into a large main room with a fireplace. Crates and boxes littered the floor. Several couches formed a half circle in front of the hearth, and three men had risen from them. One defender looked at Bolan with a snarl as he racked the bolt of his AK47. The weapon's muzzle rose, and the Executioner drilled a 3-round burst into the man's chest. He then put the carbine's front sight on the second man as a handgun barked in rapid semiautomatic fire. Bolan felt the wind of the bullets' pa.s.sage and heard their supersonic cracks as they flew over his head high and to the left. The carbine cut loose, and the man fell backward to the floor.

Markov's AK74 ripped into life, and the third man shuddered as the Russian's burst tore through him. Sarcev's men piled through the door as the Executioner moved deeper into the chalet. Feet thundered on the second floor, and Bolan whirled on the stairs. Two armed men appeared suddenly on the landing, and Bolan fired the M203 up the staircase. The defensive munition was literally a 40 mm shotgun sh.e.l.l, and as its shot spread, the staircase formed a natural killing zone. Twenty-seven lead buckshot filled the air in a pattern the size of a coffee table. The two men staggered and fell in the withering storm of lead and tumbled down the stairs in a heap.

The Russian moved past Bolan toward an open side door. He tossed a hand grenade around the corner, and the house shuddered as the deadly bomb detonated. He went around the doorjamb with his rifle spraying on full automatic. Bolan headed up the stairs, two of Sarcev's men following him. The Executioner vaulted the corpses and hit the landing in a crouch. Smoke was starting to fill the upstairs; the RPG7 warheads had set something on fire. Bolan heard more shooting downstairs as he moved down the hallway.

Sarcev's voice spoke in his earpiece. "Three men on front balcony with rifles!"

"Take them out!"

Bolan roared at the two Bosnians behind him as he hit the floor. "Down!"

They didn't speak English, but the meaning was very clear. They hit the ground as Sarcev's light machine gunner poured fire into the second-story balcony from outside. The rapid booming of semiautomatic fire from the sniper rifles thundered over the ripping snarl of the machine gun. Heavy bullets tore through the chalet's walls and flew through the air over Bolan's and the Bosnians' heads.

Sarcev spoke rapidly across the radio link. "Two down! One retreated back into house!"

Bolan took a p.r.o.ne rifle position on his elbows as a door down the hall kicked outward. A man came out, spraying with an automatic rifle on full auto. Bullets flew overhead, then the weapon suddenly fell silent as Bolan cut him down. The Executioner rose and spoke into his mike. "Third man down, Any activity on the sides or rear?"

The militia leader conferred with his flanking teams. "No movement. No one has tried to escape from sides or rear. Smoke is coming out of both windows."

Bolan nodded to himself, The smoke was getting thicker, and he had to crouch to keep his head out of it. He moved down the hallway and kicked open the far door. The room was fully ablaze. One man lay on the floor in a huge pool of blood. Shrapnel from an RPG7 warhead had torn him apart. Bolan jerked his head at the door down the other side of the hall. Sarcov's men ran down the hall and kicked the door, leaping back as flame swelled out of the burning room. One of the men looked back at Bolan and held up two fingers, then drew his thumb across his neck. Two men were already dead inside. The Executioner squinted against the smoke. The upstairs was getting very hot, and an orange glow suffused the smoke.

"Viado, anything?"

The little Bosnian spoke rapidly. "No! No movement! Roof is on fire!"

Bolan nodded. "Markov, the second floor is clear. What do you have?"

The Russian's voice was dour. "First floor clear. No Baibakov. No Cebej."

Bolan grimaced and jerked his thumb at the stairway. The militiamen hit the stairs at a run.

On the first floor Markov had smashed open a crate and was rummaging through it. The box appeared to be filled with folding-stock AK47 rifles. Sarcev's men were stripping the dead Serbs of their weapons, but when they saw what the Russian had found they began to smash open crates, as well.

Bolan glanced around the room. Smoke was beginning to fill the air downstairs. His face hardened. Above the hearth was a banner with a stylized falcon painted in red, its talons and beak dripping blood. Bolan's eyebrows rose as he spotted a row of suitcases along the far wall. He turned to the Russian.

"Markov, check the bodies for any kind of papers or identification."

The man nodded and bent over one of the bodies. Bolan cut open one of the suitcases with his knife. Clothes and personal effects spilled out. He went down the line of cases and discovered they were all the same. Bolan's eyes narrowed. Baibakov and Cebej were already gone. Only a skeleton crew remained at the chalet. Their weapons were crated for travel, and their suitcases were packed. The Red Falcons were moving out. Bolan turned to Markov. "Anything?"

The Russian handed Bolan several envelopes, his face grim. "Yes. Each man had one of these."

The Executioner's gaze narrowed as he examined the envelopesa"each one contained a plane ticket. The flight left Sarajevo International Airport and had a stopover in Paris. The flight's final destination was New York City and the plane left in two hours.

Bolan spoke into his microphone. "Viado, have your men ready to leave in one minute. Leave the heavy weapons behind." The Bosnian's voice sounded confused. "But why? We-"

The Executioner's voice rang out in the unmistakable tone of command. "We move outa"now!"

6.

The old Mercedes truck tore through the streets of Sarajevo. The gears shrieked and groaned as Bolan downshifted around a corner and headed toward the airport. Beside him Sarcev gripped the dashboard with white knuckles. Constantine Markov and the rest of the militiamen hung on for dear life in the back. They had abandoned their light machine gun and the RPG7 rocket launchers. Bolan had only allowed them enough time to grab as many magazines for their rifles as they could carry from the burning chalet, then they had raced down the Mountainside for the truck.

Bolan's face tightened as he looked at his watch. They had still used up too much time. It was too late to get to his room to try to set up something over the satellite link. Even if there had been time, Cebej would have to be expecting to hear from his men back at the chalet. When he didn't, he would know something was wrong, and he and Baibakov would fade into the sheltering darkness of the hills behind Serb lines. The only chance was to try to intercept them at the airport before they did.

The Executioner stepped on the accelerator, and the old truck vibrated as its engine roared into the red-line. A triangle of lights blinked overhead as a plane came into final approach. The road opened, and they were on the approach to the airport. Bolan pushed the accelerator all the way down and held it there. He kept his eyes on the gate and spoke to Sarcev.

"What kind of troops man the perimeter gates to the landing field?"

"British soldiers guard the gates, I believe."

British troops guarding the gate to the Sarajevo airport would be unlikely to admit a truck full of armed Bosnian militiamen led by a Russian mercenary and a heavily armed American with a press pa.s.s.

"What kind of security will there be on the field itself?"

Sarcev stared ahead at the gate with mounting alarm. A soldier in a forest-camouflage parka had stepped out of the shack and was staring at the lights rushing toward him. The man wore the red beret of a British paratrooper, and his hand was resting casually on the pistol grip of the SA80 a.s.sault rifle slung across his chest. "On the field, security is the responsibility of the Bosnian military police."

"Do you have any pull with them?"

Sarcev almost smiled. "I am known to them."

Bolan nodded with satisfaction. "Good. Hold on."

The truck's ancient engine was roaring in protest. A second paratrooper stepped out of the gate shack and began yelling into a hand-held radio. The first soldier suddenly whipped his a.s.sault rifle around on its sling and brought it up to his shoulder.

Bolan's face remained focused. "Tell your men to hit the floor!"

The militia leader began to shout in Slovene at the top of his lungs.

The paratrooper stood unflinchingly in the truck's headlights. Fire spit out of the muzzle of his rifle as he fired a warning burst into the air. The trooper grimaced into the glare of the oncoming lights and pointed the muzzle straight at the truck. Bolan slid down in the driver's seat with only his eyes showing over the dashboard. Sarcev did a duck and cover into the seat well.

With a loud smacking noise, cracks suddenly spider-webbed the windshield a foot above Bolan's head. The smacking came in a rapid patter, and the windshield blew apart in a shower of gla.s.s shards. Freezing air roared into the cab, and the sound of gunfire was suddenly very clear. Bullets spanged off of the truck's hood, and the hollow barking of a handgun broke out as the second paratrooper started to discharge his pistol at the truck's wheels.

The falling gate came apart like kindling as the truck barreled through it unhindered. Rifle fire chattered behind them as Bolan took the truck out onto the field. "Make a head count, see if anyone was. .h.i.t!"

Sarcev shouted back into the truck bed, and someone shouted back. He rose up in his seat and looked around the field. "Nicholas was. .h.i.t in the shoulder but he will live. The Russian is applying a field dressing."

Bolan squinted against the rushing wind in the cab and nodded. The one thing he had feared in this mission was getting into a firefight with NATO peacekeeping troops. He'd just have to let the State Department sort it out. "Which way to the terminal?"

The militia leader grimaced at the ticket he held in his hand. "I have never entered the airport from this position, but I believe you should follow that plane."

The truck turned sluggishly to the right on its punctured tires and followed the plane they had seen coming in as it taxied toward the terminal lights. The Executioner calculated quickly as he pa.s.sed a series of small plane hangars. Grohar's informant had said Cebej and Baibakov had been with at least twenty men at the chalet. In the attack he and Sarcev's men had taken down eleven of the Red Falcons. That left Cebej, Krstic and Baibakov in the airport with well over half a squad of men. Cebej, Krstic, and the big Russian would be easy enough to recognize, but the rest of their men would be faces in the crowd until they opened fire. If Cebej was even half the leader he was described to be, he would have his men spread out, and if he didn't, Baibakov would make sure of it.

Bolan's gaze narrowed. The possibility of innocent casualties was extremely high. The only option would be to try to take Baibakov and Cebej by surprise, and hope the rest of the Red Falcons would surrender with the death of their leaders. Bolan let out a slow breath. It was not an ideal situation.

Sarcev seemed to be reading the Executioner's mind. "How do you wish to do this?"

The brakes screamed, and the truck nearly went up on two wheels as Bolan brought the ancient Mercedes to a fishtailing halt.

An armored vehicle had pulled out in front of them from one of the small aircraft shelters. Its tracks ground against the tarmac and threw up sparks as it halted in Bolan's path. From the armored vehicle's tank-like cha.s.sis rose a turret mounting four quad-mounted 23 mm antiaircraft cannons with a small targeting radar dish behind. All four gaping muzzles of the automatic cannons were locked on the truck and seemed to be staring directly at Bolan and Sarcev. A searchlight blazed into life and flooded the truck's cab with a blinding glare.

Bolan turned to his companion. "They're flying a Bosnian flag from their antenna. Maybe you should go out and talk to them."

Sarcev swallowed. He obviously didn't like the idea of stepping out of the cab, but the little man had no illusions about what four 23 mm automatic cannons would do to the old diesel truck when they opened fire. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Perhaps that would be best."

A jeep with a heavy machine gun mounted on the back was racing up from the terminal to block the truck's retreat. Sarcev pushed open his door and shouted in Slovene. A hatch popped open on the antiaircraft vehicle, and a helmeted head popped up. The man shouted back an angry command. The militia leader left his rifle by his seat and slowly slid out of the cab. He placed his hands over his head and walked forward. He and the vehicle commander began a rapid exchange.

Markov's voice hissed from the back of the truck. "What is happening?"

Bolan didn't turn his head. "The Bosnian military police have a ZSU-23 armored antiaircraft vehicle pointed at us."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Viado is talking to them."

The Russian spent a moment mulling that over. "How is he doing?"

Bolan shrugged slightly as he watched the jeep pull up behind them in his side mirror and train its heavy machine gun on the back of the truck. "They haven't started firing yet."

Sarcev turned and walked back to the truck and waved at Bolan. The Executioner glanced at the cannons, then jumped out of the cab. "What's the situation?"

"The lieutenant wishes to know how they can be of a.s.sistance."

"Ask him if he can find out exactly which terminal we want and if he can get us to it quietly."

The militia leader walked back to the vehicle and handed up one of the Red Falcons' confiscated tickets. The vehicle commander glanced at it and pointed toward the terminal. A twin-engine jet was parked at the ramp. "He says it is that one, and that he can have it arranged. Is there anything else?"

Bolan nodded. "Yes. Tell him not to let that plane take off under any circ.u.mstances."

Sarcev spoke to the lieutenant, and the man grinned as he leaned forward and patted the barrel of one of his 23 mm automatic cannons.

"The lieutenant says that will not be a problem."

The Executioner slid out of the baggage drop into the terminal and he tugged a blue cap low over his face. A matching baggage handler's jacket covered his armored vest. He had abandoned the M-4 carbine, and the Beretta was strapped to his chest with the sound suppressor attached. Behind him Sarcev carried an AK-74 rifle with its stock folded in a flight bag, and his Tokarev pistol was under his belt. Bolan glanced across the waiting area.

Markov and two militiamen were dressed in coveralls and manhandling a baggage cart loaded with boxes. Three more men stood by the loading gate with appropriated suitcases. A tone chimed over the intercom, followed by an announcement in three languages that the flight to Paris would be leaving in ten minutes. Bolan looked around the waiting area. At least twenty-five people sat or stood in groups, and more were coming in as departure time drew near. Cebej and his people could hide in the airport until their flight left, but they would have to come through here. Baibakov would be almost impossible to miss. At least one or two of their men would already be at the gate watching, but they would be watching for police or military activity. Not a.s.sa.s.sins.

Sarcev leaned against a pillar and lit a cigarette. He looked like any other bored laborer on a break as he offered one to Bolan. "They will come soon."

The big American took the cigarette and stuck it behind his ear. He kept the matches in his hand. "Any minute." He looked over at Markov. The Russian's hand slid under his coverall, and he scratched his ribs. His hand stayed in place, and Bolan knew his fingers were resting on the grips of his 9 mm Stechicin machine pistol. His eyes slid left toward the main terminal. Bolan took the cigarette Sarcev had given him and turned to light it.

Branko Cebej was thirty yards away and walking straight at him.

Bolan's gaze went swiftly around the terminal. Everyone had seen his signal. Five men flanked Cebej as he walked toward the gate. All six men wore civilian clothes, and none of them carried any visible weapons. The militiamen began to rest their hands casually on top of their suitcases or flight bags. Bolan surveyed the boarding area again. At least two or three of Cebej's men were unaccounted for, as well as Krstic and Baibakov. The Executioner calculated and he could only come up with one viable option. He couldn't depend on the Bosnian militia to hold the plane for long, and he couldn't depend on Interpol to pick up Cebej in Paris. The French had very tricky extradition laws, and Cebej wasn't currently a wanted man. If it came to a standoff, peacekeeping troops would be called in, and Cebej and his men would most likely be escorted back behind Serb lines to avoid an incident. The Executioner's face hardened. He couldn't allow Branko Cebej to board that plane.

The Executioner moved forward, and Sarcev put a hand in his flight bag as he moved off to the big American's left. Bolan's fingers slid under his jacket and curled around the grips of his Beretta.

"Branko!" A voice shouted from behind, and Bolan whirled. One of Sarcev's men knelt over his flight bag and was drawing his rifle. A tall man in a gray sport coat stood a few steps behind him with a pistol in his hand. The sudden roar of the gun was deafening as he shot the Bosnian in the back and shouted again. "Branko!" People began shouting and screaming at the sound of the gunshot.

Bolan ripped the Beretta 93-R from its holster. The plan had just gone to h.e.l.l. Constantine Markov had his machine pistol out, and the Stechkin chattered as he put a burst into the Red Falcon's chest. "Get Cebej!"

The Red Falcons had thrown themselves in front of their leader and were drawing and firing handguns in all directions. Sarcev had his rifle out and sprayed it into the air on full automatic as he roared at the top of his lungs. Some people dropped to the ground at his order in their language. Others stood and screamed or started to run. Bolan put the Beretta's front sight on the man in front of Cebej and squeezed the trigger.

The Red Falcon dropped as the 3-round burst hammered him to the floor. Two of the men beside Cebej began to fire their pistols at Bolan as fast as they could pull the triggers, and bullets shrieked off the wall behind him as he dropped to one knee. His second burst snapped one of the Red Falcons' head back, and he fell with his face in a red ruin. The other man staggered as Sarcev put a round into him from his rifle, and his second shot put the man down.

The terminal was filled with the sound of screaming. Someone had pulled the fire alarm, and a bell clanged and a siren howled. Cebej and his two men retreated into the running mobs.

Markov moved forward, flanked by two militiamen. Gunfire erupted from behind them, and one of the men went down. Markov and Bolan whirled at the same time. A man stood behind the checkin desk firing a pistol. They both put bursts into him at the same time, and he flew backward into the departure monitor. Two militiamen by the loading gate opened fire, as well, and the Red Falcon and the checkin desk shuddered and came apart as they held down their triggers. The terrorist sagged forward across the battered counter as the Bosnians' rifles ran dry.

Bolan whirled again. Cebej was retreating into the main terminal. More shots rang out as he moved forward, and the Executioner's face tightened. Markov was. .h.i.t. One of the people who had dropped to the floor at Sarcev's order was a Red Falcon. He shouted his defiance as he fired his pistol from the floor and shot the Russian in the side. Markov staggered and tried to bring his weapon around. The last Bosnian with him was already down.

The Executioner put a burst into the p.r.o.ne terrorist's back, then a second as he twisted under the impact. Sarcev continued forward, jockeying for a shot at Cebej, but the crowd interfered. He continued to scream for people to get down, but his was only one voice in a mob of screaming people and wailing alarms.

Bolan and Sarcev ran low through the crowd. The two remaining militiamen joined them. The Executioner summoned the layout of the airport to his mind and turned to Sarcev. "Tell your men to go right and cut off any escape toward the gates. If Cebej can get onto the field, he could slip through the fence. The only route I want to leave him is through you and me and the military police outside."

The little Bosnian spoke rapidly to his men. They nodded and ran full tilt toward the row of loading gates. Bolan spotted Cebej in the crowd. He and his men were heading toward the pa.s.senger gates. They halted as they saw the lights and sirens of the military vehicles and began to move toward the loading gates. Sarcev's men had taken position behind a pair of pillars and fired their rifles overhead as they spotted Cebej moving toward them in the crowd.

Bolan and his companion moved forward, and the three Red Falcons moved back. They suddenly broke and raced backward. They crashed through the door of the duty-free shop and hit the floor behind the counters.

Bolan crouched behind a row of chairs and turned to Sarcev. "Get on the radio and see if there's a back way out of the duty-free shop."

The man reached into his flight bag and pulled out the hand-held radio the lieutenant had given him. He spoke for several moments and then looked up from the radio. "The lieutenant wishes to know what is happening."

The Executioner could imagine the lieutenant's situation. The British would be screaming about truckloads of armed troops bursting through their checkpoints. The plan had been to quickly and quietly neutralize the Red Falcons' leaders. From outside it probably sounded as if World War III had just started.

"Tell him we have the remaining Red Falcons trapped in the duty-free shop. Tell him to keep his men in position."

Sarcev spoke into the radio again, then sat listening for a moment. "He says there is a back storeroom, but there is no back entrance. It is a dead end. He says he is sending in his men."

Bolan nodded. "Tell him we have wounded in the loading gate, and to bring in a squad of his men. Tell them to take flanking positions on the duty-free shop."

Much of the screaming had subsided to moans and sobs. Except for those still cowering on the floor, most of the civilians had fled the scene. Remarkably enough, so far there had been no major casualties. Bolan glanced toward the loading gate. There had been casualties, though. Markov and three militiamen lay on the floor. A civilian was bending over Markov. None of Sarcev's men appeared to be moving. Bosnian military-police units were coming in through the loading ramp.

Bolan turned as a chair crashed outward through the duty free shop's window. A woman's voice screamed pleadingly in French, and a deeper voice shouted in English. "I have hostages! Stay back or I will kill them!"

The Executioner slipped a fresh magazine into the Beretta 93-R as the lieutenant and five of his men came up to his position. They all wore dark blue commando sweaters and fatigues, and all of them carried AK-47 rifles. Five more of his men moved to join Sarcev's men on the flank. Dozens more military policemen guarded the entrance to the main terminal.

Bolan took a flash-stun grenade from his belt. "Viado, I need to get close. Tell the lieutenant I need a diversion to keep their heads down."

The two Bosnians conferred briefly, and Sarcev nodded. "He says go on three."

The lieutenant spoke a command into his radio, then held up three fingers. He dropped them one at a time. On three he sliced his hand through the air and shouted a command.