Oblivion Pact

Redoubling his efforts, Bolan sprinted across the field, zigzagging randomly to throw off the sniper’s aim. The big rifle boomed twice more, but hit nothing.

Reaching the rear fire door to the factory, Bolan checked the wax seal he had placed on the lintel. It was intact, meaning that nobody had gained entrance to the factory since his last visit, or at least, not through this door.

As Bolan forced open the metal door, he struggled to remember if there were other doors, but the information eluded him. Closing the fire door, the soldier threw the heavy bolt he had installed only that afternoon, then turned and started directly for the stairs to the second level. There was an access ladder up there, and—

In a thunderclap of ripping steel, the fire door exploded off its hinges.

Taking refuge behind a concrete pillar, Bolan watched as the door rattled about the rows of hulking machinery until finally coming to a rest in a pool of moonlight streaming in through a skylight. The fire door was deeply dented in the middle, the hinges and deadbolt only tattered remains of twisted metal. Unfortunately, that meant the sniper was a professional. He had a variety of bullets for the big-bore weapon, including blunt-nosed rounds perfect for smashing open doors or knocking down brick walls.

Changing direction, Bolan lumbered to the elevated control room. The office was dark, the air thick with dust, but the talcum powder he had spread across the floor was undisturbed. Going to a fuse box, he quickly screwed in a couple of the old-fashioned fuses, then threw the main switch.

None of the overhead lights came on, that would have been suicide, but about half of the cement machinery squealed into operation; stampers loudly banging, degreasers hissing steam, and a long snaking conveyor belt squealing in protest at its decades-long slumber being so rudely disturbed.

Easing open the door, Bolan slid out on his belly and crawled directly under a large piece of machinery. The air down there smelled of grease, rust, dust and petrified mouse droppings. Staying perfectly still, Bolan waited until somebody came into view. From this angle he couldn’t see his face, so the instant he had a good view of the sniper’s feet he fired the Desert Eagle.

The man’s shoe exploded into tattered leather, and he screamed, falling to the dirty floor and grabbing his mutilated foot with both hands in an effort to staunch the blood.

Moving to another dark machine, Bolan fired fast three times at a support leg. The booming .50-caliber rounds from the Desert Eagle ricocheted off the steel, and the man cried out, then went silent.

One down, and an unknown number to go, Bolan noted with little satisfaction. He had been ambushed like a rank amateur! But the soldier tried to move past that. This wasn’t the time nor the place for recriminations. Stay cool, stay sharp, kill on sight, live another day.

Rising slowly upward in the shadowy darkness between two hulking machines of unknown purpose, Bolan tried to move again as he studied the rattling, clanking factory. Smoke was rising from one of the distant machines, and he had no idea if that was just years of accumulated dust burning off the hot metal, or if the factory was on fire. Then he went stiff at a soft mewling noise, followed by crying.

Remaining still, he tried to track the noise when the source came into view. Tied to the conveyor belt was a woman dressed in dirty rags. She was struggling to get free, but clearly making no progress.

His only guess was that Kegan had grabbed some homeless person and dragged them along as a bargaining chip. Only now her status had abruptly changed to bait. Bolan had no idea where the convoluted belt went, or how Kegan had gained access, but since this was a cement factory, the chance of it ending at a pile of feather pillows was roughly zero to the power of ten.

“Surrender, feeb! Only I can save her!” Kegan boasted, firing short bursts from his weapon about randomly.

Bolan said nothing. Feeb? So he thought Bolan was an FBI agent, eh? Interesting.

Just then, a light flickered into life on the distant ceiling. Aiming and firing in a single motion, Bolan blew out the fluorescent tube, then darted back under the machine before the rain of glass shards arrived.

“Oh, you’re fast!” Kegan yelled from somewhere, the words echoing among the machines. “But I’ve got ten guys and you’re all alone!” He paused as if waiting for a response. When none came, he continued, “How about a deal? Tell me who you work for, and I’ll let you leave, alive and unharmed!”

Bullshit, he’d be shot on sight, Bolan knew, but that wasn’t the Executioner’s main concern at the moment. The woman on the belt was slowly heading away, and Bolan had to get close, even though he knew in advance it was a trap. But he couldn’t allow a noncombatant to die in his place.

Searching around on the filthy floor with a bare hand, Bolan found a couple of large bolts that had worked their way free from the machines. Holstering the Desert Eagle, Bolan pulled out his last grenade, yanked out the pin, then dropped one of the bolts, and threw the other.

“Grenade!” a man bellowed, and Bolan heard the sound of people running.

Releasing the handle on the grenade, he now threw it ahead of them, then scrambled onto the conveyor belt and started sprinting.

As he ducked under a steam pipe, the grenade violently exploded. A chemical thunderclap of brilliant light filled the entire factory, and Bolan heard several men shout in pain and surprise, their voices fading away into eternity.

When the conveyor belt took an unexpected dip, Bolan nearly lost his footing, and he dropped flat to hold on to the tattered leather strip with both hands. Some of the staples holding the belt together were coming loose, and he got cut and slashed, but the punctures were only flesh wounds and he ignored them.

Suddenly, the whimpering increased, and there she was, only a yard away, moving in the opposite direction. The blasted belt had reversed course somewhere! Diving forward, Bolan grabbed an overhead pipe and felt it start to give as he swung forward. It broke free just as he let go, and Bolan landed on the conveyor belt just as the pipe loudly crashed to the floor, closely followed by a rain of assorted metallic debris.

Instantly, gunfire strobed the darkness, hot lead ricocheting off the machines at that location. But Bolan was already far away, and steadily accelerating. Going to the prisoner, the soldier punched her in the temple to expertly knock her unconscious and stop the crying. He felt sure she’d rather have a throbbing headache, and live, than die.

Running his hands over her body, he was surprised to find her so healthy and well-fed. Suspicious, he drew a knife and slashed away her clothing until she was down to her bra and panties. That was when he found a slim Remington .32 pistol taped under a breast. She was a fake!

Pocketing the gun, Bolan eased off the rumbling leather belt and back into the darkness.

Moving away from the sporadic gunfire, the soldier headed back to the second floor, and started up the ladder for the roof. Whoever the woman was, he felt no pity or remorse. Obviously she worked for Kegan and deserved whatever kind of cruel justice was offered by the grinding gears of the ancient rattling machine.

Reaching the skylight, Bolan checked to make sure the wax seals were still in place, then pushed open the now-lubricated hinges and stepped into a cool refreshing breeze. Heading directly for the emergency pack, Bolan sent off the signal for an emergency evac, took a few grenades, and the spare Beretta, then went back to the open skylight.

Below there was only darkness and the rumbling machines. Then a woman screamed in mortal agony, the cries becoming high-pitched as the machines took on a lower tone. The conveyor belt stopped, but the screaming continued.

Pulling the pin on an antipersonnel grenade, Bolan tossed it in that direction. Before it even landed, he pulled the pin on three Willy Peter grenades and tossed them about the interior of the factory—then he moved back fast.

At the first blast the female’s screaming thankfully ceased as the spray of shrapnel zinged about madly off the walls and machines. Two more voices shrieked, then the incendiary grenades ignited, and the entire factory flashed as an inferno of incandescent chemicals spread outward, blanketing everything they touched with deadly white phosphorous.

As a hellish blaze began to swiftly grow, a side door burst open and out staggered a coughing man. Immediately, Bolan recognized him as Kegan. Drawing and aiming the Beretta in a single move, the soldier emptied the machine pistol in prolonged bursts. The hail of 9 mm hollowpoint rounds slammed Kegan to the ground, ripping into the man until he collapsed to the roof.

“Debt paid in full,” Bolan growled, reloading the Beretta.

The roof was starting to get warm under his feet, and Bolan was considering a jump toward a pool of stagnant water when a deep throb sounded in the starry night sky. Bolan looked up to see a Bell Huey helicopter heading his way.

“Taxi!” he shouted with a wave, then put two fingers into his mouth and sharply whistled.

Swinging about, the helicopter landed a couple of yards away, and Bolan yanked open the side hatch to half step, half fall into the passenger seat.

“Tough day at the office, Sarge?” Jack Grimaldi asked, smiling behind his visor.

“Nothing special,” Bolan replied, buckling a seat belt around his bloody clothing.

Laughing in reply, the Stony Man pilot pulled back on the control yoke, and the helicopter lifted off the roof of the burning factory. It disappeared into the night only moments before the local fire department arrived, closely followed by a brace of ambulances and a heavily armed SWAT team.

CHAPTER THREE

Mexico

A long conga line of police cars drove along the mountainous road, their lights flashing, but the sirens oddly silent.

The backbone of the USA–Mexico combined antidrug effort, Firebase Azules, was a heavily fortified Mexican military base situated on top of a low hill that gave it a commanding view of the surrounding valley and the distant mountains. Concrete K-rails surrounded the entire base to deter suicide bombers from driving a truck loaded with explosive onto the base. Past the rails was a hurricane fence made completely out of barbed wire and topped with deadly coils of concertina wire, the endless coils of razor blades glittering in the early morning sunlight.

Grim soldiers stood in concrete guard towers, smoking, drinking coffee or polishing their M16 assault rifles. Security cameras constantly swept the perimeter, radar scanned the air and sonar probed the nearby river.

The United States of America and Mexico had signed a mutually beneficial treaty many years ago: the US supplied Mexico with military ordnance to help the nation’s endless fight against the drug lords that kept coming up from South America. The best of the best went to Azules.

Only recently, a submarine had been stopped off the Atlantic coast, and 180 million dollars’ worth of cocaine had been found. The crew was in jail, the cocaine destroyed at a special incinerator and the Mexican navy got a slightly used diesel submarine. All things considered, a pretty good day for the Federal Border Patrol.

Slowing down at the maze of K-rails, the police cars proceeded slowly over the expanse of speed bumps and hidden land mines. Stopping a short distance from a fortified guard kiosk, Dalton Greene turned off the engine of the stolen police car, and climbed outside. The billionaire was now wearing the regulation uniform of the Mexico police, including sidearms, sunglasses and wristwatch. A spray tan had darkened his skin to something more appropriate to a Caucasian living below the Rio Grande. The only subtle difference was the Threat-Level-Five body armor he wore under the uniform.

“Good morning, Lieutenant!” Greene hailed in flawless Spanish. “Is the base commander available?”