Death Run (16 page)

Unfortunately those odds had gotten much worse since the van full of more BNG members arrived. In addition to bin Osman, six Filipinos had exited the van, meaning the soldier was now facing twenty-five-to-one odds.

The three men closest to him had bunched up fairly close together. Two sat on an old bus seat smoking cigarettes and another sat on a chair right beside them. He could take out all three in a fraction of a second. Next he would aim for the men standing in the center of the room, where most of the Filipinos had gathered. Then he'd shoot at the men on the other side of the van. He figured he could take out twelve or thirteen men before they even realized they were under attack, but only if his timing was perfect.

The Executioner knew it was time to act when he saw the walk-in door beside the overhead door open. It could only be Hadad coming back to report that he'd killed the sentries. As soon as he saw the doorknob start to turn, he fired at the three men closest to him. Several of the men farther away heard the popping of his Beretta and turned to see what had happened. At that moment Hadad burst through the door and began shouting about all the sentries being dead.

Bolan took the opportunity to draw a bead on one of the Filipinos standing in the center of the room, near the cargo van, and in quick succession he shot down three of the gangbangers, along with Hadad, whose head the soldier blew apart in midsentence. At that point everyone left standing ran for cover, drawing their weapons as they ran, but the Executioner was able to pick off four more of them before they'd found a decent hiding spot.

In the confusion no one seemed to have located his hide and several men hadn't chosen locations that provided cover from him. He saw the spiked hair of one of the BNG members poking up from behind a wooden work bench. Just enough of the skull showed to make it worth taking a shot. Bolan aimed just millimeters above the top of the workbench and squeezed the trigger. The man's scalp flew off the top of his head, spiked hairdo and all, along with a four-inch section of his skull and a fair-sized chunk of his brain.

Another man had found a better hiding spot, but his left arm protruded from the corner of the cardboard box that he hid behind. Using the man's arm as a starting point, Bolan estimated where the man's center of mass was and fired three rounds into that area. His estimate must have been sound, because the arm dropped to the ground and didn't move.

The slide of his Beretta locked open and Bolan reached for another magazine. The time for stealth was over so the soldier replaced the empty magazine with one loaded with high-power ammunition. Then he removed the Desert Eagle from his leg holster. He had to find a new spot soon or they'd figure out where he was and blow him to pieces right through the wooden crate. He set the selector on the Beretta to tri-burst and blasted suppression fire with both guns as he dove for the rear bumper of a Toyota Tacoma parked along the wall to his left.

The remaining men opened up at the area where they'd just seen him, but Bolan moved around to the front of the truck where the engine block would provide better cover than the sheet metal bodywork. He reloaded his handguns on the fly, and lay down on the ground behind the front wheel. He looked around the tire and saw the lower torsos of two men crouched behind the white cargo van, firing toward the rear of the Tacoma. With two quick shots Bolan put a .44 Magnum round from his Desert Eagle into the groins of each man, shattering their pelvises and most likely ensuring that if they did live, they would not sire any children. Both men fell behind the van where Bolan couldn't see them.

His shots attracted the attention of the BNG members who had taken cover near the door and they began firing at his position with their SAR-21s. The air around him filled with flying 5.56 mm bullets, ricocheting around the truck. Sooner or later a stray round was going to hit him. Bolan estimated that there were six to eight men in the area, but what really interested him was the object behind which one of the men hid — the oxygen and acetylene tanks of an acetylene torch. Bolan pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade, counted to three and lobbed it at the tanks.

Even though he was behind the Toyota pickup, Bolan felt the fireball roll over him, singing his hair and eyebrows. The men in that corner of the room fared much worse. The man behind the tank had virtually disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a grease spot on the cement floor, and the two men nearest him lay on the ground bleeding out from great rifts in their torsos and limbs that were missing completely.

Three men had caught fire and ran around like human matchsticks. Three other men seemed to have escaped harm from the explosion, but they ran out to the middle of the room, right into Bolan's field of fire. Three quick shots from the Desert Eagle put them down, and another three ended the suffering of the flaming men.

As quickly as the firefight had started, it ended. Bolan checked all corners of the room, but it was empty, except for Anderson, who remained tied up in the center of the room. The fireball had singed his hair and burned his eyebrows off, but he seemed relatively unscathed. Otherwise all that remained were dead Saudis and Filipinos. He saw no sign of Botros or bin Osman. Nor did he see any sign of Maurstad. He'd been counting on rescuing Maurstad so he could find out where the bomb was located and learn how to disarm it.

Bolan heard an engine start up outside and a vehicle roar away.

He had to catch the men and rescue Maurstad, but he couldn't leave Anderson and the Maurstad girl tied up in a burning barn. He cut the ropes holding Anderson, tore off his duct-tape gag and asked the young man, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I have to get that cocksucker."

"You mean Botros?"

"Yeah, I know he killed my brother." Anderson ran to the low-rider pickup and started to pull his bike out of the box. "Help me get this out," he said, "and I'll follow them to see where they go."

Bolan went to help the young racer. "I'll help you on one condition," he said.

"What condition?"

"When they get wherever they're going, you call me before you go after them."

"Fuck that," Anderson said.

"I mean it. You want to get these guys, right?"

"Damned right I do."

"Then we'll get them together. Alone you don't stand a chance."

"How will I call you?" Bolan gave him his cell phone number. "Where will you be?" Anderson asked.

"I'll be as close behind you as possible," Bolan said. "But first I have to take care of someone."

Anderson checked over his bike to make sure it was road-worthy after the crash, grabbed his helmet from inside the Mitsubishi and tore out of the building through the walk-in door, which was still open.

Mareebeth Maurstad heard the gunshots from the main building. Then she heard the explosion and now she could hear the sound of a raging fire. She'd been trying to break through her bonds for nearly two days with no luck, but she continued to work them. Then a large shadow appeared in the doorway. This is it, she thought. This is when I'm going to die.

The large man approached her with a long knife in his hands and bent over her. He sliced the knife downward and she held her breath, waiting for it to sink into her flesh. But instead of cutting her, it cut the ropes holding her feet. Then it cut the ropes holding her hands.

It was the tall soldier who had killed the man she thought was going to rape her.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I think so. What about my father?"

"I think he's all right," the man said, "but he's been taken away with the men who had you kidnapped."

"What about my mother?" The man remained silent. "Is she all right?"

"She's dead," the man replied.

The girl felt the wind rush from her lungs, as if she'd just been punched in the gut. The big man was already talking on his cell phone, telling someone named Bear to get a helicopter here as soon as possible. While he spoke, she tried to run into the burning barn to see her mother, but the big man stopped her before she could get through.

He hung up the phone and said, "You can't go in there. We have to get out of here before this whole place goes up in flames." He led the girl out of the building and they jogged along the road away from the buildings while the flames grew higher and higher behind them. After they'd gone a ways the man walked off the road and pulled some brush aside, revealing a motorcycle. He rolled it out on the road and turned on the ignition key. When he turned the key, the motorcycle's lights came on.

The man looked up at the sky and the girl saw a helicopter flying in from over the hills to the east. It landed on the road in front of the motorcycle. The big soldier put his hand on the girl's shoulder and ushered her toward the helicopter. When he helped her climb inside, she marveled at the gentleness of his touch. She had witnessed these hands take a human life with more ease than most people display opening a jar of peanut butter, yet when they lifted her up into the helicopter they displayed a tenderness completely at odds with their rough texture.

What the girl didn't know was that the act of killing can engender a respect for the sanctity of life. The Executioner put more effort into saving lives than taking them. When he had to kill, he only did so to protect innocents like her.

"You'll save my daddy, right?" the girl asked.

"I'll try my best," the soldier said. He wished he could be more positive, but he couldn't lie to her; her father was in terrible danger and there were no guarantees. Then the helicopter rose into the air and the big man and his motorcycle faded into the night.

After the helicopter left, Bolan stripped out of his fatigues and put on his blacksuit. He topped off his magazines and put his weapons into their respective holsters and sheaths, then put on his riding suit over his gear. He was just about to put on his helmet when the phone vibrated in his vest pocket.

It was Anderson. "They've gone to their garages at the track," he said.

"Sit tight," Bolan told him. "I'll be there in half an hour."

Traffic was almost nonexistent and Bolan rode the bike harder than he had ever ridden a motorcycle on public streets, slowing only to ride through populated areas. He averaged over a hundred miles an hour and arrived at Laguna Seca in a little over twenty minutes. He found Anderson near the garage area twenty-five minutes after he'd put away his cell phone.

"There's a bunch of them in there," Anderson said when Bolan parked his bike. "I've counted at least six guys going into the garages and none of them have come back out. What are we going to do?"

Bolan surveyed the situation. Even though it was the middle of the night, the entire place was alive with activity — motorcycle engines revved in garages, people came and went, delivering parts and other supplies, air wrenches spun away, various tools banged and clanged away. It was the night before the big race and motorcycles were being rebuilt, their engines overhauled, their wheels being covered with new race rubber. This activity would continue through the night right up until the next afternoon's race.

"Is there a back way into the garage complex?" Bolan asked.

"Yeah, there are back doors to all the garages. It's a long way around to the back, but we can take a shortcut through the Ducati garages. Follow me."

Bolan and Anderson jogged over to the Ducati garage complex and went inside.

"Where've you been all day?" a man asked Anderson. "And what happened to your eyebrows?"

"Let's talk later," Anderson said. "I've got to do something."

"You've got to get your ass to bed," the man said. "What the hell? Are you on drugs or something?"

"Look, man," Anderson said, "you're my manager and I love you like a brother, but you have to believe me — this is important. Have I ever lied to you or let you down before?"

"Never."

"I'm not my brother. I know he broke your heart when you managed him, but I'm not him. Please believe me when I tell you that this is a matter of life or death."

"Who's your friend?" the manager asked. "You know you're not supposed to let anyone in here the night before a race."

"It's important," Anderson reiterated. "You're just going to have to trust me."

Anderson and Bolan jogged out the back of the Ducati garage complex and broke into a run until they reached the Free Flow complex. The door was locked.

"Stand back," Bolan said. He pulled a gun with a sound suppressor screwed to the end and fired into the lock. Anderson was surprised at how loud the gun was — in the movies they just coughed a bit. Still, there was so much background noise around the garage area that no one would have noticed the shot.

"Stay here," Bolan told Anderson just before he kicked open the door. While the door swung open he lurched to the side in case someone took a shot at them. When no bullets flew through the door he glanced around the corner. The area immediately behind the door was empty and unlit, but Bolan could see lights on in the area where Botros had set up his office.

The Executioner checked to make sure that Anderson wasn't following him and entered the building. A couple of men appeared in the doorway separating the storage area in the back of the garage from the main part of the complex. Bolan ducked behind some boxes and watched them head back to the door. The first man looked at the destroyed lock and said something to his partner in Arabic, but before the man had a chance to process his partner's words, Bolan fired a round into the back of his head. The man who'd examined the door reached for a gun but his hand hadn't yet touched the grip sticking out of the waistband of his pants before the Executioner punched a round through his forehead.

Bolan spun toward a noise he heard coming from the doorway and fired at a figure that had appeared, dropping the man to the ground. He moved along the wall until he reached the doorway and glanced around the corner. Before he could see anything a hand grabbed his neck and spun him around through the door, right into a roundhouse punch that would have dropped him, had the hand around his neck not been holding him up. Two other men came into what was suddenly a very fuzzy picture for the soldier. Each man grabbed an arm and slammed Bolan up against the doorframe. The man who had hit the soldier began to pummel him.