Orange Alert

On the bridge above, the men standing next to the SUV searched for the source of gunfire but, before they could locate it, Bolan’s flatbed passed under their position and he became shielded from their weapons by the cargo strapped to the car behind him. Cursing, they scrambled to the other side of the bridge and watched the cars passing underneath. Two of the four opened fire with their Uzis, hosing the flatbeds with a steady stream of 9 mm rounds that sparked and whined as they ricocheted off the metal couplings and tracks.

Once he was beyond their position, Bolan quickly holstered his weapons and pulled himself out from under the railroad car. He peered around the edge of the bullet-riddled canvas in time to see four men dropping from the bridge onto the cargo-laden flatbed three down the line from his. The fixed wooden stocks on their Uzis told Bolan they were carrying older models, but even the earliest versions were formidable killing machines.

The men were obviously planning to work their way forward until they came to Bolan’s position. As he visualized his attackers working as a team, covering one another with a forward wall of lead while advancing up both sides of the cargo on each flatbed, Bolan knew there was a strong possibility they’d successfully reach him.

He scrambled to the other side of his car and peered around the corner. A hail of bullets ripped the canvas directly in front of his face, causing him to pull back out of their line of fire. But in the short seconds before he ducked behind cover, he had seen enough to know his pursuers were employing the exact tactic he suspected. One of them had already begun inching along the outside of their cargo load.

A trestle passed overhead, and Bolan began counting. Switching the fire selector on his Beretta to the 3-round burst mode, he reached around the side of the shredded tarp and pressed the trigger, exposing no more than his hand for a few seconds. The triburst forced the gunners to duck, giving him the seconds he needed to sneak another quick look. The man halfway up the side of the flatbed directly behind Bolan’s had been hit in the upper chest and was holding on for dear life to a rope laced across the cargo. Bolan fired another 3-round burst, and the man’s head exploded in a crimson bloom of brain matter and bone splinters that splashed onto the canvas tarp. As the man’s lifeless body slid to the ground, his legs fell at an angle onto the tracks where they were severed by the train’s heavy steel wheels as cleanly as if by a guillotine.

A return volley made Bolan pull back behind the cargo, but not before he saw the trestle pass over the end of their car. He had counted to thirty-two from the time the trestle passed over his head until he saw it clear the car where his attackers crouched. He lunged to the other side of his car and fired a few bursts down the left side of the train, reloaded, then jumped back to the right side and repeated the action. For the time being, his opponents were remaining behind the cover of their cargo.

Bolan leaped to his full standing position, grabbing a quick look across the top of the tarps. As he had expected, his movement was met with a blizzard of lead that forced him back down, but not before registering the angle at which one of the men was climbing onto the top of the cargo. With the same technique he had used for the assailant trying to rush the side of the flatbed, Bolan fired above the tarps without looking, thereby giving his foes the smallest target possible by only exposing his hand for the few seconds it took to press the Beretta’s trigger. The howls and shrieks of fury immediately reaching his ears told him he had found his mark. Stealing a quick glance over the tarp, he saw his opponent fall from the top of the cargo before the remaining two forced Bolan down with a spray of bullets.

Bolan fingered the remaining magazines in his combat belt while considering his options. By randomly firing quick bursts along the sides and over the top of the cargo loads without giving his enemies more than a second to return fire, Bolan knew he could keep them pinned down, preventing them from rushing his position. It was a classic Mexican standoff, but they had all the time in the world to wait until he ran out of ammo.

Holstering the Beretta, he unhooked an M-68 fragmentation grenade from his web belt and reached into the pouch containing the grappling hook he had used to jump the train. The thin cord was still knotted in place, cinched tight onto the hook by the strain of pulling him on board. While keeping a lookout for the next trestle that the train would pass under, Bolan tied the apple-shaped grenade to the cord’s free end, sliding the knot so the hook hung about three feet from the explosive. He set the fuse for slightly longer than thirty seconds, pulled the pin and held the grenade in his right hand while he drew the Beretta with his left.

Scrambling from side to side, he fired 3-round volleys first from the right side, then from the left, keeping his attackers crouched behind the canvas-covered freight loaded onto their flatbed. When the next trestle was passing over him, Bolan tossed the grappling hook above the rusted crossbeam. The grenade’s safety lever fell free as the hook looped around the trestle, leaving the M-68 dangling on the thin cord like a tiny piñata a few inches above the flatbed’s cargo.

Bolan continued firing on each side of the railroad car to keep his opponents in place while he counted the seconds. When he reached twenty-eight, he looked above the top edge of his tarp and saw that his timing was perfect. The dangling grenade exploded at the exact moment it fell between cars, its thunderous percussion blowing his two enemies from the train.

As the bridge holding the SUV faded into the distance, the Executioner leaned against the boxes of freight and reloaded his Beretta before holstering the weapon. The tracks were beginning to ascend, which meant they were approaching the mountains where he had left his car.

The twin locomotives slowed considerably to cope with the rising grade, giving Bolan ample opportunity to pick an ideal spot to disembark. He hit the ground running, his momentum quickly propelling him away from the train toward a heavily wooded ridge that rose steeply on both sides of the tracks. Having studied topographical maps of the surrounding area before coming in, he knew exactly where he was. Beyond the ridge he now faced, a treacherous coastal road wound up and over the mountains, eventually leading inland to Derry. His car was about a mile up that road.

Bolan leaned into the hillside, rapidly putting distance between himself and the train. As he ran through the woods, he pondered the threat posed by the men in the SUV. He had killed nine of their number, but, judging from their inferiority when engaged in combat, he doubted if they were actual members of the new splinter group threatening the United States. These men were most likely local hoodlums, hired by the Apprentices for the sole purpose of killing whomever came for Oxford’s remains.

Whether or not the survivors would try to find him to avenge their losses was an open question. If they feared they might be killed for failing, or, if payment was contingent on success, they could very well be scouring the roads at this moment, looking for their quarry.

When he came to the edge of the woods where the road began, Bolan dropped to one knee to get his bearings. Rather than proceed on the asphalt where he could be surprised by a vehicle coming around one of numerous blind corners, he decided he would remain about ten yards into the woods. Out of habit, he did a quick touch-check of his weapons before heading off.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the spot where his Land Rover sat, pulled safely off the road in one of the deep cutouts into the cliff. The vehicle was as Bolan had left it the evening before, a red dashboard light blinking a pattern that told him the car had remained untouched.

As he put the car into gear and pulled out of the cutout onto the road, he glanced at his watch. 6:00 a.m., and the sun was high in the sky.

The tires of the Land Rover gripped the weathered blacktop, propelling him upward on the twisty mountain road. Even with the surface dry and clean, going was dangerous. The asphalt hugged the side of the mountain like a ribbon pulled taut, with turns so tight that no more than a hundred feet of road was visible at any given time. To make matters worse, the grade was getting steeper, affording heart-stopping views over the side of the mountain where hundreds of feet below, surf crashed in a bluish green foam against the rocks.

It was during one of the jackknife turns that hung out over the water, giving Bolan a view of the road winding along the mountainside below him, that he saw the SUV. It was about a quarter of the way down the mountain, coming fast on a straight stretch before it turned out of sight to twist and meander before it would emerge on the road a little higher.

Not knowing if they had spotted him, Bolan increased his pressure on the gas pedal. The vehicle surged forward, spitting loose gravel off to the side. He was about five miles from the spot where the road turned inland. Once he got there, he’d be able to open up and leave his pursuers in the dust.

He rounded a curve, his back tires sliding into a fishtail. Bolan tapped lightly on the brakes to control the skid as a 90 mm rocket whizzed by ten feet in front of him. The projectile slammed into the hillside, sending an explosion of small boulders and dirt into the road. Bolan swerved to avoid the rockfall, his tires screaming as they lay heavy rubber tracks onto the tar while grabbing for traction.

The SUV was on a flat vista higher up the mountain than Bolan thought it would be, making him realize his enemies were in a faster vehicle than his. His original plan to speed away once the trail became level needed serious revision. Finding himself out on a flat track in front of a faster vehicle armed with rockets was not a scenario Bolan could allow to develop.

The road twisted out over the water, and Bolan touched the gas pedal to race around the exposed curve. As he did, he glanced to the cutout vista on the mountainside below. A man knelt next to the SUV, a 90 mm recoilless rifle resting on his shoulder. He fired, and a fireball flashed from the end of the tube. The sound reached Bolan’s ears a second later, only to be immediately swallowed by the eardrum-throbbing explosion occurring three feet behind his vehicle as his quick burst of speed whipped the Land Rover around the corner and out of sight.

With a faster vehicle and heavy armament, Bolan’s enemies held the upper hand. His mind racing, he hugged the edge of the mountain as he sped into a straightaway leading to another curve extending out over the water.

Bolan came through the curve, immediately after which the road turned sharply upward next to a large grotto. It was almost as deep as the one where he’d left the Land Rover the night before, and, as soon as he passed, Bolan stomped on the brakes. The vehicle skidded and shimmied to a spot just past the cutout. Bolan dumped the transmission into Reverse and pealed backward into the grotto, the hood of his vehicle extending a few feet onto the blacktop. If he went straight forward, he’d cross the road and go over the cliff.

Bolan put the car into Park, got out and slammed his shoulder into the side mirror, snapping it off. Using his combat knife, he cut the wires protruding from the mirror assembly and pulled it free.

The sound of the ocean crashing into the rocky shore hundreds of feet below could be heard when he ran into the middle of the road where he positioned the mirror. He sprinted back behind the curve and crouched next to the Land Rover and looked into the mirror’s reflection. It was placed correctly to give him a view around the corner of the road approaching the bend.

Bolan opened the driver’s door and, while kneeling next to the car and leaning in, wedged his combat knife between the accelerator and seat so that the gas pedal was pushed to the floor. As the engine raced, he pressed down on the brake with all his strength and shifted into Drive, holding the car’s horsepower in check with one arm. Keeping his eyes riveted to the reflection in the mirror he had placed in the middle of the road, he held steady while beads of sweat broke out across his brow.

The kill would be quick, one way or the other. The SUV would come tearing around the corner. If Bolan was fast enough, he’d release the Land Rover’s brake, allowing his vehicle to bolt from the cutout and crash into his pursuers as they came abreast, knocking them over the side. It was a desperate plan that required perfect timing.

The Land Rover lurched forward an inch, and Bolan pressed harder on the brake pedal, his muscles cramping under the strain. Drops of stinging sweat trickled into his eyes as he waited patiently for his enemies. Despite the agony that screamed from within his arm and shoulder, he willed himself to push harder, controlling the car that surged under his hands like an energy-charged Thoroughbred at the starting gate.

The SUV suddenly appeared in the mirror, coming fast around the curve. A split second later, it was in front of the grotto, its engine racing against the elevation. Bolan released the brake and fell backward as his vehicle surged forward, smashing into the SUV’s passenger side.

Shrieks of twisting metal and screaming tires filled the air. The Land Rover roared forward, pushing the SUV sideways. The vehicle’s driver reacted to the surprise crash by hitting his brakes, which had the effect of giving the Land Rover better leverage as it thrust forward, back tires spinning and smoking, propelling the vehicle toward the edge of the cliff.

When the entwined cars reached the brink, they balanced precariously above the void, as if deciding whether to go over the side. In the SUV’s backseat, two men, their faces reflecting the terror of their situation, began scrambling over each other in an attempt to find the door handle on the side not smashed by the Land Rover. But, before they could grasp it, the laws of physics intervened and the two vehicles plunged over the side, falling through the air for three or four long seconds before crashing onto the rocks below. There was a brief silence before both cars exploded, generating sound waves that merged and echoed as one across the Irish countryside.

Bolan rose from his position and peered over the edge. He was sweaty and breathing hard, but he had bested the enemy. Sliding his hand into his shirt pocket, he fingered Oxford’s molar and the three medals he had taken from the men at the ambush site.

He had won this particular battle, but the Executioner had no doubt that this war was just beginning.

3

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

Less than twenty-four hours after returning from Ireland, Mack Bolan sat with Hal Brognola at a conference table in the War Room, one level below Stony Man Farm. Also with them were Carmen Delahunt and Akira Tokaido—two-thirds of Aaron, the Bear, Kurtzman’s cybernetics team.

While waiting for the rest of the group to arrive, Bolan scanned his copy of the message Agent Steven Oxford had Morse-coded minutes before his death into the microchip implanted in his molar.

“Hot off the press,” Delahunt said, nodding toward the transcript. “Good job, Tokaido, decoding it before they even gave us the key.”

Tokaido shrugged while snapping his ever-present bubble gum. “No challenge,” he said while tonguing the pink wad into the space between his teeth and right cheek. He stared into space, head nodding slightly to the rock music blasting through his earbuds, and added, “CIA,” in a derisive tone that conveyed his disdain for what he considered inferior programming and encryption.

“This was their first mention of going after the CIA?” Bolan asked, without looking up from his reading.

“According to Oxford it was,” Brognola answered. “But let’s wait until the others get here.”

As if on cue, the doors to the elevator built into the corner of the room slid open on a silent cushion of air and an attractive woman, who Bolan judged to be in her early thirties, stepped out. She was about five foot nine with jet black hair that fell straight to her shoulders, framing an ivory-pure angelic face. An off-white silk blouse tucked into pleated black slacks hugged her slender curves in an attractive but not provocative way. The woman’s sparkling blue eyes swept quickly across the War Room, settling for a moment on Bolan before moving on to the others.

Aaron Kurtzman was right behind her, holding the door back with one hand for the woman to exit the elevator ahead of him while he gripped a cup of his lethally strong coffee with the other, ever the gentleman, despite being confined to a wheelchair.

Last off the elevator was Huntington Wethers, the distinguished-looking ex-UCLA professor whose academic approach to research was a perfect complement to Tokaido’s natural hacker skills and Delahunt’s methodical common-sense methods.

“Katey,” Brognola said, rising from his chair as the woman approached.

“That’s quite the confidentiality contract you’ve got, Hal. Twenty-five years in Leavenworth for even a minor violation? And the President endorsed it.” The woman shook her head in disbelief.

“It’s in the best interest of national security. Now, have you met everyone?” Brognola asked.