Shock Waves(50)

He could not.

He would die first, if that was what it took.

But no way would he die alone.





21




Mack Bolan had kept his distance from the lighted swimming-pool area, circling warily around the flagstone patio, homing in on the French doors that would give him access to the manor and the men inside. He had set the Uzi on automatic mode, prepared to lay down cover fire in case he should be spotted prematurely by a roving sentry.

And the Executioner had covered half the distance to the house before it happened.

Deviating from his rounds, a gunner suddenly appeared on Bolan's flank, emerging from the shadows into the misty pool light, one hand tugging at his fly, the other making sure his shirttail was tucked in. The guy had obviously had a call of nature, but his face was registering grim surprise and another kind of message as he spotted Bolan focusing upon the little stutter gun he held.

The guy was good, you had to give him that. Within a heartbeats time he let the zipper go and scrambled for his holstered side arm, finding it and almost clearing leather in the time allowed.

But almost was not quite good enough to keep the guy alive.

Mack Bolan crouched and swung out his stubby chopper, tightening into the squeeze as he made target requisition. The Uzi stuttered and half a dozen parabellum manglers hissed across the surface of the pool in search of flesh and bone.

The gunner did a jerky little dance before he folded, wallowing beside the pool in his own blood slick. His dying spasms brought him to the brink, and as Mack Bolan watched, the carcass toppled over, disappearing into the deep end.

The gunfire had attracted other sentries, and he heard them in the darkness, converging on him, startled voices calling back and forth behind the bungalows, among the trees, beyond the house. The nearest were at Bolan's back, and he was swiveling to meet them when the first dark form materialized, stepping from shadow near the bungalow once occupied by Sally Palmer and her mark.

Carrying a shotgun, the guard didn't bother aiming it once he had the black-clad warrior in view. The pump gun roared, and Bolan dodged a gust of buckshot, toppling a metal picnic table, wincing as an errant pellet burned across his thigh. The sound of the table hitting the ground rang in his ears, and a second blast in rapid-fire destroyed the brightly striped umbrella.

The warrior wriggled on his stomach, Uzi probing out ahead of him, intent on getting clear before the gunner and his cronies had a better chance to find their range. Perforated by the shotgun blasts, the table was a flimsy shield at best, and it would not stand up to any concentrated smallarms fire.

He found an opening and pegged a short burst at the sniper, missing him by a few feet, but it was still enough to drive him back and give Bolan time to move. As he jumped up and broke from cover, he tossed a frag grenade, winding up the pitch and letting fly by instinct, all the while on the run.

He did not have to mark the progress of his high-explosive egg to know that it was flying true. Experience and practice had prepared him for the move. The soldier was a dozen yards away and sliding behind another table — this one built of redwood — when the night was torn apart by smoky thunder.

Bolan's ears, ringing from the blast, picked up strangled screams and the twanging sound of shrapnel overhead. His eyes searched the darkness for other human targets. Three of them were closing on his left, another two were about to outflank him on the right. He would be surrounded unless he broke the circle and finally made it to the manor house.

A blazing figure eight of Uzi fire caught two of his assailants on the left, and drove their comrade under cover on the far side of the swimming pool. With a half turn to the right, Bolan brought the others under fire, rewarded by a muffled gasp as one of them had both legs cut from under him and collapsed across the line of fire, dead before he could scream.

His partner, doing a flying shoulder roll, lost his carbine, coming up behind a chaise longue empty-handed and digging for the pistol on his hip. The Executioner squeezed off another burst, his parabeilum manglers chewing through the plastic and aluminum construction of the deck chair, boring through the gunner's chest, blowing him backward. As blood sputtered from his chest, his boot heels drummed on the deck for a second, then stopped.

The survivors had worked out Bolan's range by now, and another pair of guns had joined them, sniping from the darkness, bullets chipping at his redwood barricade. Another moment, and the hostiles would have enough gunners to rush him, sacrificing their lives to overwhelm him with their numbers and finish Bolan off.

He had to move, and there was only one way left to go.

The house.

The Uzi spit out a ragged burst that raked the patio with flying death, and Bolan fed a brand-new magazine into the pistol grip. A fresh grenade in his hand, he brought his legs up, gathering his strength for what would be the final run to cover — or instant death.