Executioner - Tiger Stalk Part 11

"Home?" "Until we find a new warehouse, my home will also serve as my office." He had a new a.s.signment: to find and kill the American who'd come to rescue the negotiator.

His superiors wanted revenge for the valuable supplies the mercenary had destroyed. And until Chen did, he would be under a cloud of suspicion in Beijing. It was imperative he start the search immediately.

"You will have to work later tonight. There are plans to be made." "Regarding the diplomat?" "No, he is next. We must find the American who destroyed the valuable property that belonged to the Chinese people," Chen said coldly.

"This might interest you, Colonel," May Ling said, handing the gray-haired intelligence officer a sheet of paper.

Chen studied the doc.u.ment. "Where did you get this?" "One of our comrades works as a cleaning lady at the American Emba.s.sy.

In going through the files, she found that one of the officials was away on official business, but that his apartment was being used by somebody else." "The American, Mike Belasko!" Chen sounded triumphant. "Now we can eliminate this enemy of the people." "When?" "Tonight. Call our people and tell them we must meet." He shook his head. "This time I will lead them to make sure the task is successfully completed." Twelve men were deployed at the front and back of the building where Chen believed the American was hiding. He had gathered a truck and van to carry the men and their weapons discreetly to the area.

Now the van filled with five men waited in the rear, while the truck and seven heavily armed professionals sat at the curb in front.

Chen and May Ling waited in his Mercedes-Benz 500.

The American mercenary had to leave the building some time. Lights were on in the borrowed apartment, but they had been waiting an hour and he hadn't come out yet.

The Chinese colonel gestured for the driver of the truck to join him.

When the Sri Lankan professional did, Chen ordered, "Send somebody in to start a small fire outside his door."

Bolan had just finished cleaning his guns when he smelled smoke from the hallway. Grabbing the Desert Eagle, he loaded a fresh clip, then cautiously opened the door.

The corridor was empty, and there was more smoke than flames. Someone had spilled flammable liquid on the hall carpeting and set it afire.

Deliberately, the warrior suspected, but he didn't know who.

Grabbing some blankets from the bed, he threw them out into the hallway and smothered the fire. Then he gathered the rest of his weapons and loaded them. The Beretta's leather went on his left shoulder, while the rigid holster for the Desert Eagle was slipped onto the thick belt that snaked through his waistband loops.

Shrugging into the combat vest, heavy with magazine replacements and grenades, the soldier grabbed the sheathed combat blade and strapped it to his forearm.

Starting a fire was an old trick to flush out the enemy. He needed to know who was waiting for him to come out.

Digging into his carryall, he found his Zeiss binoculars and slung the powerful opticals around his neck.

He started to leave the apartment, then decided to call the local fire department. The confusion of their arrival would help him make his escape.

He picked up the canvas carryall in his left hand, then slipped out of the apartment and made his way to the roof, where he had a clear view of the ground below. As he studied the street in front, he saw a truck and a Mercedes-Benz parked at the curb, two vehicles he had never seen on the quiet side street before.

Even using the binoculars, it was hard to make out faces, but the couple in the Mercedes looked Oriental.

Moving across the roof, he looked down and saw a van, with several men standing next to it. All of them were Chinese.

He smiled coldly. Colonel Chen was coming for payment on the inventory he'd lost.

His own car, the red Nissan, was parked at the opposite end of the rear parking lot. Obviously none of the men knew it was his. No one seemed to be paying attention to it.

It was a safe bet that they were all armed and trained, and there was no point in waiting until they brought the war to him. He would have to take the initiative if he was going to survive.

The door to the roof suddenly opened, and a head popped out and looked around.

Chandra Sirindikha.

When she saw Bolan, she sighed in relief.

"You weren't in your apartment. When I saw all the smoke I thought you'd been shot. But I took a chance and came up here to look for you." The young woman was holding a 9 mm Heckler and Koch PSP autoloader.

"I didn't think communications clerks carried guns," he stated.

"When I couldn't reach you on the phone, I borrowed a pistol from the desk of one of the intelligence officers and raced over." She started to hand over the weapon.

"Keep it. It might come in handy when you're leaving." A stubborn expression crossed her face.

"I'm staying with you. You might need help." The woman was excess baggage at the moment, but it would be harder to convince her to leave than to let her stay.

He turned away from her and returned to the rear end of the roof. She followed him, whispering a question.

"How are we going to get out of this?" "Just watch," he said. "And keep quiet." Lifting the M16, he fitted a 40 mm fragmentation grenade on the M203 launcher, then rested the weapon on the ledge of the roof wall and carefully sighted at the spot between the van and the men standing next to it.

He launched the missile, then grabbed Sirindikha's hand and pulled her down.

"Cover your head with your hands," he ordered.

A reverberating explosion echoed across the rear parking lot, followed by several eruptions as the fuel tank blew and ammo detonated.

The acrid stench of burning gasoline and charred flesh rose and filled the air.

The young emba.s.sy clerk looked as if she was going to vomit, then shoved a fist into her mouth and swallowed the bile.

She stared at Bolan in horror. "Did you have to kill them that way?" "It was either that or die," Bolan replied.

He got to his feet and studied the scene through his binoculars. Except for some dents and scars from flying metal debris, his own car seemed to be intact. Nothing else was. Bits of metal and body parts were scattered across the yard.

The pa.s.sengers in the Mercedes-Benz were standing on the sidewalk. The lone survivor of the carnage raced out of an alley and headed for the well-dressed older man, spitting out a torrent of words.

Bolan saw the older man signal men from the truck. Four jumped from the rear and moved to his side. He pointed to the roof and issued orders.

Two raced back to the truck and returned with an RPG2 rocket launcher, fitted with a Type 50 HEAT rocket.

"Time to get out of here," Bolan announced.

Leaving through the building was tantamount to committing suicide.

Peering over the roof ledge, he saw a rusty metal ladder attached to the side of the building. He lifted the canvas bag and leaned over the ledge.

There was a small patch of gra.s.s near the bottom of the ladder. Bolan released the bag and watched it bounce on the soft area, then he surveyed the ground. n.o.body had come back to the rear of the building. Not yet.

Shouldering the M16, the big American gripped the Uzi in his right hand and climbed over the ledge and onto the top step.

"Follow me," he said to his companion, then began to work his way slowly down the steps.

Constantly peering into the darkness below, he searched for signs of the enemy coming for him. No one had yet.

He looked up and saw the emba.s.sy clerk descending above him. The heeled shoes she'd worn were not on her feet. Bolan gave her credit for common sense. He didn't need a woman with a broken neck right now.

Floor by floor he made his way to the ground, peering into every window he pa.s.sed to make sure a sniper wasn't hiding inside.

Finally he reached the last metal step, which preceded a six-foot drop to the ground. Swinging by his left hand, he looked around to make sure n.o.body was waiting, then let go and let his feet hit the ground.

Jumping up, he made a half circle, Uzi in front of him, to survey the area.

Still empty.

Sirindikha was still five steps up when he heard the familiar whistling sound.

"Jump!" he shouted.

Without hesitation the young woman released her hold and fell. Bolan caught her around the waist, then pulled her against the building.

The roof of the building disintegrated as the rocket tore through it.

Bricks and sandstone spun from the upper part of the apartment building at tornado speed.

They are dead," Chen announced to his secretary.

"Yes, no one could survive such an explosion," she agreed.

"Now we can resume our search for the missing American diplomat," he commented. "When he is dead, we can go on with our-was His comments were interrupted by the sound of squealing tires as a red Nissan sped out of the alley and swerved to avoid hitting the truck at the curb.

In fury the Chinese shouted orders. "Destroy that car!" Then he got into the Mercedes and waited impatiently for May Ling to jump in before roaring off in pursuit.

Sirindikha swerved around the large truck and jammed her foot on the accelerator. She was driving so Bolan would be free to target any pursuers.

"We'd better burn rubber," Bolan urged.

Through the rear window he could see the truck straining to close the gap between them. Two men sat in the cab: the driver and a wide-faced Mongol. A third man had climbed up from the rear of the vehicle onto the roof. Carrying a large weapon, he pulled himself forward until he was on the top of the cab.

Bolan saw him steady his body and lift the weapon to his shoulder. The Executioner couldn't make out the piece, but he suspected it was one of the Chinese-manufactured 7.62 mm light submachine guns.

Bolan worked his way to the back and smashed the rear windshield out with the b.u.t.t of his M16.

The Mongolian in the pa.s.senger seat of the truck shoved an automatic rifle out the window.

While the young woman guided the car in a high speed broken-field pattern to avoid the barrage of slugs from the two shooters, Bolan kept pumping lead from his a.s.sault rifle at the pursuing vehicle. Despite the hits he scored on the truck's front end with every round, he knew that even the powerful 5.56 mm rounds that he was firing would have difficulty destroying the radiator or engine of the large vehicle. And given their erratic path, it would be next to impossible for him to hit the tires of the truck.

Suddenly the searing light of a 40 mm incendiary grenade pitched from the truck exploded on the road between Bolan's vehicle and the pursuers, momentarily blinding him. Only the woman's sudden swerving prevented them from being overturned by the blast.

The Executioner had only a handful of rounds left in the M16. There was no time to change magazines.

He carefully aimed at the top of the truck and showered it with a burst of 5.56 mm lead. The rooftop rider suddenly released his hold on the submachine gun and grabbed for his face, rolling off into the road as he did.

Bolan pulled the M16 back inside and, with one hand, changed magazines.

Again he leaned the powerful a.s.sault weapon out of the window and aimed back at the pa.s.senger-side mirror of the pursuing truck. He heard the shriek of the shooter as lead ricocheted into the truck cab and burned into him.

Unmoved by the death of the man next to him, the truck driver kept pushing his vehicle closer.

Bolan unclipped a delay fragmentation grenade from his combat vest.

Pulling the pin on the bomb, he carefully rolled it back at the oncoming vehicle.

The ear-shattering explosion sent waves of steel fragments tearing through the floor of the front end of the truck, then the vehicle swerved off the road and ran into a ditch.

"Stop the car," Bolan ordered, "and get down behind it." Grabbing the fully loaded Uzi submachine gun, he shoved open the rear door and jumped outside as three bleeding a.s.sailants ran toward him, firing their weapons.

The soldier had no time to stop to take careful aim. He washed the kill zone in front of him with waves of 9 mm death, then watched as the trio crumpled to the ground, twitching before they lay still.

Bolan dived for cover as he heard the sound of an automatic weapon being fired in his direction.

One survivor had taken cover behind the destroyed truck.

Elbowing his way forward, the Executioner worked his way around to the right side of the stopped truck.

Pausing to snap a fresh magazine into the Uzi, he continued his crawling until he had a clear vision of the a.s.sailant.

It was the older, well-dressed man who seemed to be in charge, and he'd crept up from where the Mercedes was parked. In his hands was an American-made.45-caliber Ingram Model 10 SMG, rather than one of the Chinese weapons.

"Drop the gun, Chen," Bolan shouted.

The Chinese intelligence agent's response was a wave of heavy lead poured in the direction of the soldier's voice, but by then Bolan had moved five feet to the right.

He had given the Chinese colonel a chance to surrender. Time was up.

The big American stood and pumped lead into his fury-faced adversary.

Lead shredded the agent's impeccably tailored suit and chiseled holes in his chest and stomach.

Blood spurted through the large tears in his clothing, drenching him.

There was a clicking sound behind him; a hammer was being pulled back.

Slowly he turned. A handsome Chinese woman stood behind him, holding an American-made.357 Magnum Colt Python revolver.

"You die, American b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she yelled.

A pair of shots exploded, and the expression on the Chinese woman's face changed from hate to surprise. Then she lost all expression as she fell forward to the ground.

Chandra Sirindikha was holding the HandK pistol with both hands, staring in shock at the dead body on the ground near her.