Cutting Edge, page 2
part #139 of The Executioner Series
Bolan raced back into the ranch house and down the hall to the front door. As he exited onto the front porch, he was greeted by a burst of fire from the first wave of reinforcements. Diving through the now-shredded porch screen, he hit the ground on his left shoulder, rolled, then ducked behind the cover of the concrete steps. A Cadillac Seville skidded to a halt not ten feet away.
The driver was no fool. He threw the transmission into reverse and angled the car, the Caddie's mammoth engine block separating him from Bolan as he got out on the opposite side.
But the man in the passenger seat sat exposed like a sacrificial lamb. Bolan saw the realization spread across the hood's face. His tight mouth widened into a silent O as he desperately brought up both hands in a futile attempt to block the parabellums that ripped through his fingers and into his face.
A dozen more cartel vehicles approached in a storm of dust. The warrior had only moments before he'd be surrounded by countless gunners, better armed than he. and lusting for revenge.
The driver of the Cadillac hadn't fired a shot and — seemed content to ride out the standoff until assistance arrived. Bolan knew that in less than a minute the convoy would navigate the pit-ridden road and be on him.
Rising from behind the steps, the Executioner showered the remainder of his final magazine over the hood of the Cadillac, carefully avoiding the car itself. He dropped the empty weapon and ripped the Beretta from his waistband as he rolled forward and under the Caddie. He came to rest beneath the car, on his stomach, the 93-R clutched in a two-handed grip and aimed at the exposed legs of the driver.
Firing low, Bolan caught the guy with a 3-round burst to the ankles, knocking his feet from under him and sending him sprawling and screaming to the dirt.
Dust flew into the Executioner's nose and eyes as the Beretta spit a second burst through the man's head.
The warrior slid from beneath the Caddie and dived into the open door next to the dead man. The engine was still running, and he slammed the transmission into drive, cutting a hard U toward the oncoming cavalry.
The Caddie didn't have the speed he would have liked, but it would have to do. It was the only game in town.
Bolan forced himself to drive slowly toward the convoy, the near-empty Beretta held tightly in his left hand and concealed beneath the car window. He would be relying on surprise and the hope that the arriving gunmen had been too far away to see the details of what had actually transpired in front of the house.
It worked. Recognizing the Cadillac, the driver of the lead vehicle slowed as Bolan approached, his face concealed behind the sun visor. With his left thumb, the Executioner flipped the Beretta's safety to semiauto to conserve his remaining ammo.
Bolan pulled casually off the road and alongside the first car as if to speak to the driver. Inching slowly to a crawl, he raised the Beretta as the other driver came to a halt.
He saw the shock in the man's eyes as the angle of view changed, and the Executioner's face was revealed behind the sun visor.
Bolan squeezed lightly on the trigger and the 93-R spit two 9 mm projectiles into the surprised Mexican's forehead, forming a second set of eyes above the brows.
Dirt and gravel showered the vehicles as Bolan floored the accelerator. As he passed the second, idling car, he snapped a shot into the left front tire. By the time he'd reached the third vehicle in the line, the surprised occupants had had time to react. Bolan took out another front tire, then ducked beneath the rush of lead that blew over him, shattering the windshield and sending shards of glass stinging into his skin.
Cutting the wheel hard to the right, the Executioner fired a round into the tire of the next car, then set off across the pasture. Cactus flew from the Caddie's bumper, the pieces exploding across the hood and in through the open windshield.
In the rearview mirror, he counted eight remaining Jeeps, station wagons and luxury cars. And if the vehicles he'd already encountered were any indication, each would contain at least two well-armed gunmen.
A hard smile crossed Bolan's lips as he watched in the mirror. As he'd hoped, the enemy was dividing. Two Jeeps and one station wagon pulled from the road in pursuit as the remaining operable vehicles continued toward the ranch house to investigate.
Three cars.
How many men?
Bolan caught sight of the canyon at the last minute. Stomping hard on the Caddie's brake pedal, he jerked the wheel to the left, skidding to a 180-degree stop through a whirlwind of dirt and disintegrating cactus. The dead body next to him bobbed furiously against the restraint of the seat belt, launching drops of blood against what was left of the windshield.
By the time the vehicle had come to a full stop, inches from the sixty-foot drop, the lead Jeep was no more than two-hundred yards away.
Bolan twisted the ignition key, trying vainly to ignite the stalled engine before leaping from the vehicle and racing toward the canyon.
The first wave of gunfire drove puffs of sand and dirt into the air around the Executioner's legs as he zigzagged toward the lip of the canyon. Ten yards from the edge, he plunged headfirst to the ground, rolling onto his back to face the Jeep as he slid.
The vehicle slowed as it neared the rim, and from where he lay, Bolan squinted down the barrel of the Beretta. In the distance he could see the other Jeep, followed closely by the station wagon.
The warrior rested the Beretta's front sight on the chest of the man riding shotgun as he attempted to level an Ingram MAC-11. Tugging gently on the trigger, the Executioner's next to last shot blew through the man's ragged T-shirt, exploding the heart beneath.
The driver had his hands full as he urged the Jeep over the pasture's rugged terrain, but he twisted sideways in his seat and reached for something behind him.
The Beretta barked its final round, which entered the driver's head near his left ear and exited near the right, half the man's head following in its wake.
Bolan was on his feet and running toward the vehicle before the body had slumped in the seat, blood soaked legs trapped beneath the dashboard. Prying the Ingram from the passenger's death grip, he turned toward the second Jeep and cut a figure eight from passenger to driver as return fire sang past his head.
The driver fell forward on the accelerator, which rocketed the 4×4 toward the canyon wall. Two gunners leaped from the back seat and fired as Bolan dived over the first vehicle. The Jeep continued its death march to the canyon and plummeted over the edge, exploding on impact.
The Executioner drilled two rounds each into the men on the ground before hearing the dull metal thud as the Ingram's bolt locked open. Dropping the useless piece of iron, he leaned over the driver of the vehicle and saw what the man had been reaching for in the seconds before his death — an Ithaca. Four rounds, five, max. If one was already chambered.
There was no time to check.
Bolan wished fleetingly for the Desert Eagle, the mammoth .44 Magnum that he'd left in the hotel room in Nuevo Laredo. Then pushing such unproductive intrusions from his mind, he racked the slide of the Ithaca. A red-cased deer slug fell uselessly from the bottom of the weapon as the station wagon skidded to a halt twenty yards away.
The Executioner ducked under the Jeep and rolled to his right, firing as he rounded the vehicle's rear wheel. He felt the reassuring recoil against his shoulder as a 12-gauge slug tore through the station wagon's hood amid a deluge of water from the radiator.
He rolled back left, taking cover once more and pumping another slug into the Ithaca's chamber. Automatic fire kept him in place until he heard the distinctive sound of an empty M-16 magazine ejecting. Rolling to his right this time, Bolan sent a slug smashing into the face of the driver as he attempted to force a fresh clip into the weapon.
Suddenly aware that he was now alone, the last gunner vaulted from the station wagon and ran back toward the ranch house. Bolan let him go.
The warrior wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Dropping the shotgun into the back seat of the lead Jeep, he walked slowly around the vehicle, opened the door and pulled the lifeless driver from behind the wheel.
It was then that he smelled the gasoline and saw the bullet hole through which the pungent fluid dripped before settling in a pool on the ground.
One Jeep with a hole in the gas tank. One station wagon with a demolished radiator. And his third means of transportation still on fire at the bottom of the canyon.
Bolan shielded his eyes with his hand as he peered across the pasture at the tiny figures scurrying around the ranch house. They'd had more than enough time to assess the situation and would now be setting off to assist in Bolan's pursuit.
It was a good twenty-mile walk to Nuevo Laredo, a long walk, Bolan thought, through canyons, cactus and desert.
The Executioner smiled wearily as he made his way down the steep wall of the canyon toward the burning Jeep and the rugged, confusing terrain beyond.
A long walk, maybe. A shorter run.
He heard the first vehicle halt overhead. It looked like he'd have company.
2
Bolan held the empty Beretta in his hand as he dashed toward the nearest thicket of shrubs. Left unsecured in his waistband, there was too great a chance that the gun could drop out as he ran.
And even round-dry, the 93-R was never useless.
He passed the burning vehicle, the stench of simmering flesh rank in his nostrils, and took cover behind the thatch of crisp, dry shrubbery.
Overhead two armed men walked to the edge of the canyon and peered down at the smoke and fire below, then turned back and disappeared.
Bolan quickly appraised his surroundings. The terrain between here and Nuevo Laredo typified the Mexico-Texas border. Periodically there would be a stretch of wooded area in which concealment and even cover from rifle fire would be no problem. But for the most part, he was facing a mixture of tangled dwarf trees and grasslands, trying to survive in what was otherwise open desert. The grasslands would provide little concealment once he left the ravine.
The desert would provide none at all.
The ravine appeared to be a semidry bed through which a river had once flowed. Bolan glanced over his shoulder. He needed to make it up the steep slope to the other side before pursuit started down. He had to put as much distance as possible between his empty Beretta and the assault rifle and machine pistol he'd just seen on the ridge.
Bolan moved quietly from cover and made his way up the red clay of the ravine wall. He was halfway to the top when the damp earth kicked into the air next to him. A split second later he heard the explosion of the assault rifle across the ravine.
More shots rang out as the warrior scrambled to the top and zigzagged toward a stand of trees in the distance. One round sliced the heel from his shoe as he ran, the force of the round knocking him forward. Bolan fell into a shoulder roll and was back on his feet, disappearing into the trees.
He stopped and peered back through the branches. The same two men had started down the embankment.
The Executioner took off across the rugged terrain. There was no way of telling how far the trees extended. Water was present below the surface of this semidesert country, but only sporadically did it rise close enough to the surface to support vegetation.
As he ran, he could see no break in the trees. He'd have cover for a while, but eventually the Executioner knew he'd be faced with more wide open prairie and desert.
He needed another battle plan. Fast.
Bolan ran as best he could, dodging limbs and making his way over rock and dehydrated shrubs. Slowing as he neared a dry creek bed, he heard his two pursuers crushing brittle twigs beneath their feet somewhere close behind.
As the warrior raced toward the creek bed, he found what he was looking for. A four-foot-long depression in the earth had eroded against the far bank. Stooping to where the water had once run, Bolan felt dry dirt on the surface. He dug down an inch with his fingers and came upon the same damp clay he'd encountered in the riverbed. Quickly he rubbed the red mud over his khaki slacks and brown pullover shirt, reaching down for more soil to cover his face and neck.
As the two men neared, the Executioner lifted a large branch from the ground and tossed it into the creek bed. Then he removed the heelless shoe from his foot and tossed it onto the other side of the creek bed before curling into the depression and pulling the branch over him.
The shoe would serve double duty — completely out of place in the wooded surroundings, it should catch the men's eyes the moment they neared the creek bed, diverting their attention from Bolan's hastily created camouflage. It should also lead them to believe that he'd lost the shoe as he sprinted through the trees, leading them past him.
Bolan watched through the twigs and dried leaves as the two men approached. The man with the machine pistol was about forty, his hair graying at the temples. As he neared, Bolan saw that the weapon was actually a barrel-shortened, French MAT submachine gun. His younger partner gripped a 5.56 mm SA 80 with a SUSAT sight mounted over the barrel. With its 4x magnification, the assault rifle could easily drop the Executioner on the open desert.
The two gunners halted as they approached the creek. "He won't get far now, Oswaldo," the younger man said in rapid Spanish. "Not in this country." He pointed over the creek bed at the shoe.
The older man frowned, scanning the area up and down the creek. "Don't be so sure. This man knows what he's doing. He might be hiding."
The other man laughed. "You're getting old, and you think like an old man. You're tired, so you think he must be also and has stopped to rest. No, this man has run on, and he has lost a shoe." The young man jumped over the creek bed.
"With age comes wisdom," Oswaldo replied. "I'll check here." He moved out of Bolan's field of vision, and the Executioner heard more twigs crackle as the gunner searched the area.
Bolan waited almost fifteen minutes while the Mexican made his way from tree to tree before returning to poke along the creek bed with a sharpened stick. As he approached, the Executioner shifted his grip to the Beretta's barrel.
Oswaldo held the MAT with his right hand as he shoved the stick through the leaves over Bolan, its point stabbing into the earth mere inches from the Executioner's side.
Bolan grasped the end of the stick and held on, making it appear the sharp point was caught in mud.
The cartel man tugged gently, then jerked harder to loosen the probe.
Bolan rose like a ghost from the grave, letting the Mexican's man's own inertia assist him to his feet. He rapped the butt of the 93-R under the man's chin as he ascended.
Oswaldo's head snapped back as Bolan caught the barrel of the MAT and brought the Beretta around in an arc, crushing the gunner's windpipe. He wrenched the machine pistol away as the man fell to the ground, sputtering for air in his death throes.
The Executioner slung the MAT around his neck and bent forward, pulling an extra magazine from the back pocket of the corpse's pants. He found a large Buck folding knife on the man's belt, which he stuck into his waistband before moving on.
After crossing the creek, he pried the heel from his good shoe before stepping back into the one oh the ground. He shifted his weight from side to side. His balance was better, but the heelless soles wouldn't last long over the rough terrain of northern Mexico.
Bolan followed broken limbs and occasional footprints in the dried leaves as he stalked the young gunner. He moved cautiously, fully aware that the kill range of the SA 80 far outdistanced the subgun in his hands.
He had to get inside the range of the assault rifle without being spotted first. Like a stocky prizefighter inside the reach of his longer-armed opponent, Bolan had to first pass through the danger zone to be effective.
Far ahead Bolan spotted a clearing through the trees. First he detected only movement, then, as he moved closer, a light blue color foreign to the surroundings came into focus.
The Executioner slowed his pace even more, careful to step over and around the dried debris in his path. Fifty yards from the clearing he dropped to the ground and crawled to cover behind a large rock at the edge of the trees.
The man in the blue work shirt sat astride a fallen tree. The SA 80 leaned against the trunk as he guided a gold coke spoon to his nose. Bolan let him fill both nostrils before he rose and walked into the clearing.
The Mexican dived for the assault rifle just as Bolan stitched a 9 mm pattern up his torso from belt to neck. Walking cautiously forward, he knell beside the body. The coke spoon was still gripped in the fingers of the man's right hand.
Bolan unlaced the brown work boots from the dead man's feet and slid into them. A little tight, but they'd get him back to Nuevo Laredo with nothing worse than blisters.
Hoisting the SA 80, he walked out of the clearing.
Bolan reached the outskirts of Nuevo Laredo by nightfall. He had carried both the MAT and SA 80 as he made his way back toward town, discarding them finally when the threat of being spotted by local citizens became of greater concern than the cartel.
He didn't need some frightened farmer calling the federates. Gringos with automatic weapons were not smiled upon by the Mexican authorities.
Bolan had kept to the bush as much as possible, paralleling Highway 85 until he'd been forced into the open again. Even then he had stayed as far from the road as he could.
Earlier in the day he'd recognized several vehicles belonging to cartel henchmen as they roared down the highway toward town. But as he neared the city lights, Bolan had seen no similar traffic for hours. When an ancient, rattling flatbed truck appeared on the horizon heading north, the Executioner rose to the road and flagged it down.
He still had to get through town, and a mud-covered American would attract less attention in the cab of a truck than he would walking in off the prairie.
The warrior rubbed what dirt he could from his face as the truck slowed to a halt. He swung himself up and into the cab, joining a gray-haired, mustachioed man, two chickens and a one-eyed dog. The truck had been old before Bolan was born; the man and dog seemed to predate it.
