Nuclear Storm

Also, as Bolan had hoped, except for man with the hostage, he had a perfect line of sight on the other two killers.

He lined up his pistol on the farthest one and shot him in the head, then tracked the second one and put two into his chest as he was bringing around his submachine gun. Both bodies dropped to the floor before the sound of Bolan’s shots died away.

That left him and the lead hit man, who was using the woman as a shield. “Don’t move or she dies!”

Bolan was pretty sure he could take out the man without getting the woman killed, but movement near the attacker’s foot caught his attention. The Samoan, his chest stained red from his wounds, was pulling his bulk along in the hallway. He left a thick red trail behind him, but was almost close enough to grab the man. He just needed a few more seconds.

Bolan kept his pistol trained on the small part of the gunman’s face that he could see. “I don’t want anyone else to die, but I can’t let you take the doctor out of here either.”

“He’s not going anywhere.” The hit man was starting to aim his pistol at Bolan when the Samoan plunged a butterfly knife into his target’s foot. The man screamed and his pistol went off target as he shoved the woman away and turned to shoot his attacker. He never got the chance.

Bolan squeezed the trigger of his HK pistol once. The .40 caliber bullet cored the hit man’s head, spraying the people nearest to him with more bits of bone and brain matter as the corpse fell to the floor, causing a few screams and cries from several women.

The Executioner was moving before the body landed, walking to one of the men and grabbing his submachine gun, an oversized pistol with a second handle that he recognized as a Brugger & Thomet MP-9. Both of the covering gunmen were armed with the same weapon and carried a spare 30-round magazine. Bolan tucked the HK into the small of his back and grabbed everything, tucking the spares into the pockets of his suit jacket. Then he ran back to the couch and got the scientist on his feet.

“Time to go, sir.”

“If you say so.” Keeping one of the TMPs ready, Bolan had slung the other one over his shoulder and used his free hand to support Dae-jung as they headed for the door. The doctor pasted a smile on his face and addressed the group. “I thank you all for coming, and suggest that if you don’t want to be here when the police show up, you should leave immediately.”

“Two minutes after we’re gone.” Bolan added, seeing several of the guests edging toward the door. One look at him and the lethal-looking submachine gun in his hand, and they all stopped in their tracks.

Bolan kept moving the Korean toward the door, stepping around the motionless Samoan. Dae-jung gasped when he saw the huge body. “Felipo’s dead?”

“Afraid so. If it makes you feel any better, he died saving my life.” Bolan pushed the double doors open and used the one closest to the elevator as a shield, peeking around it to scout the hallway.

“Akira, what’s the security situation?”

“You sure stirred up a hornet’s nest, Striker—”

“I didn’t bring the guns to this party, but I’m damn sure gonna use them to clear the way out. What’s the best route to get to the garage?”

“They’re putting men on every elevator. Can you take the stairs?”

Bolan glanced at Dae-jung, whose head lolled on his shoulders as he stared at his rescuer. “Negative. Target is in no condition to run down fifty-four flights.”

“Then you’ll probably want to ambush the two guards coming out of the first car, and grab that one. They’ll be there in about fifteen seconds.”

“This job just keeps getting better and better,” Bolan gritted, hauling the scientist toward the elevator.

He’d just reached the alcove when he heard the soft chime indicating the car’s arrival. Bolan propped the doctor up against the wall. “Stay here.” The Korean waved at him weakly as Bolan ran into the alcove, passing the door to stand on the other side. He got there just as the doors opened and two security guards ran out, hands on their holstered pistols. Bolan stepped out and aimed his subgun at them. “Freeze!”

Both men whirled, then raised their hands when they saw Bolan had the drop on them. He pointed at the ground. “Lie on the ground, hands on your heads!”

The two men complied. “Better hurry, Striker—a lot more are coming.”

“Going as fast as I can.” Bolan ran over to them and removed their pistols, tossing them down the hallway. Grabbing Dae-jung, he hurried the man into the elevator, making sure the guards’ eyes were staring at the polished marble floor. Bolan stabbed the button for the garage. “I hope you’ve overridden all the security on this cage.”

“Of course. What did you think I’d been doing while you were rubbing elbows with the high and mighty? You should be reaching the lowest level in approximately twenty seconds.”

“Got it. Hey, are you all right?” he asked Dae-jung, who was leaning against the elevator wall, breathing rapidly. His face was pasty, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

“I don’t—I don’t feel so well.”

“Given how much booze you put away, I’m not surprised. We’re going to a vehicle in the garage, and from there to the airport, where a plane is waiting to take you back to the United States. Just a half hour or so, and we’ll be in the air.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You will soon enough.” The elevator dinged, and Bolan grabbed Dae-jung’s shoulder and supported him as they exited, walking out into a nondescript corridor. “What the hell, Akira? Where’s the garage?”

“Those elevators don’t go directly to the parking levels. You’ll need to turn right and go approximately forty yards. There will be a door marked like the one on your smartphone that should give you access to the garage level.”

Bolan began jogging down the hallway, half-carrying, half-dragging the semiconscious scientist along with him.

“Turn at the next door on your right.”

Bolan did so and was rewarded with the bare concrete minimalism of the hotel’s garage.

“The vehicle is on this level, Bay C halfway down the aisle, a green Toyota Harrier SUV,” Tokaido said.

“Good, I have a feeling I might need the room.” Bolan checked for any movement or active vehicles on the level before hauling Dae-jung out with him and crossing to the closest concrete pillar. He had just reached it when the roar of a motorcycle shattered the silence. The driver revved his engine, the echo making it almost impossible to tell where it was coming from.

Bolan looked around for a map, and saw he had reached Bay B. “Doctor, we have to go a little further to reach my car. You still with me?”

“I think so…unless I throw up first…” The Korean scientist’s face had taken on a gray pallor, and his eyes had become even more unfocused.

“It’s just a few more yards. Hang on a bit longer and then you can rest. Here we go.”

Still supporting the semiconscious man with his free hand, Bolan kept the MP-9 ready as they started to cross the next bay. The moment they passed the immaculate black Bentley on the other side, a bright light turned on, illuminating Bolan and his charge in its halogen light. Before he could blink or aim, the light leaped forward as the motorcycle shot straight for them, the helmeted driver extending a pistol to shoot as he zoomed by.

Chapter 3

If he’d been alone, Bolan would have moved to intercept the motorcyclist and take him out, but his first goal had to be protecting Dae-jung.

He whipped the other man around, shielding him with his body as he drove him to the floor. At the same time, he brought up the MP-9 and fired a burst in the bike’s general direction. Bolan wasn’t expecting to hit anything, but he figured the surprise of finding out his prey was armed might spoil the rider’s aim.

He was right. The gunman’s nerve broke as Bolan’s weapon spit rounds near him. Swerving, he almost lost control of his blue-and-white street bike, the back wheel fishtailing on the smooth concrete floor, but pulled it out at the last second and zoomed around the ramp. His pistol shots, however, went wild.

As soon as the biker was completely past, Bolan hauled Dae-jung to his feet. “We’ve got to move!” Even as he said that, however, another single headlight lit them both up, and the garage level reverberated with the roar of the motorcycle coming at them again.

Before Bolan could even think about crossing the few yards of empty space between them and the next lot, the biker was on them, his pistol spitting bullets.

Bolan did the only thing he could do—he heaved Dae-jung over the hood of the Bentley and dived after him, hoping they both would get to cover before any of the bullets found them. He heard the thunks as the lead punched through the fender of the luxury car they hid behind. As he landed on the concrete, Bolan caught a glimpse of a yellow-and-red motorcycle racing by, its rider snapping off a shot that smacked into the low concrete wall at the head of the row, just above Bolan’s head, showering him with dusts and rock chips.

“Are we there yet?” Dae-jung asked, looking around.

“Not quite.”

Two shooters! Bolan had to admire the relative neatness of the trap they were in. With both ends blocked, no matter how he tried to advance or retreat, Bolan and Dae-jung would always be facing one or both of the bikers. Even with his submachine gun, the bikes were fast and maneuverable in the enclosed space, canceling almost all of the advantage of a fully automatic weapon.

The bikes roared again, preparing to make another run-and-gun pass. Bolan glanced at the vehicle behind them, a Lexus luxury SUV with a relatively high ground clearance. His plan formed instantly.

“Doctor, I need you to hide under here for a bit.” Bolan shoved him under the SUV.

With a strained gasp, the Korean disappeared under the SUV. Bolan hit the ground as well, trying to figure out which biker would be coming for them first.

“What the hell’s going on?” Tokaido asked.

“I’ve got two trigger-happy motorcyclists trying to take us both out in the garage!” Bolan snapped. “They’ve got us pinned down in Bay B.”

“Oh, yeah, I see ’em. Looks like the one above you is about to make another pass.”

“You can see him? How far away is he?”

“Yeah, I’m hacked into the security cams. He’s about twenty yards from you. What does that have to—”

“Perfect! Hold on!” Bolan dropped to his stomach and crawled under the Lexus, bracing his MP-9 with both hands in front of him. The bike’s engine reached a high point as the rider gunned his throttle, then took off down the ramp.

Bolan gave him a two-count to get up to speed, then squeezed the trigger of his weapon, emptying the magazine. The biker drove straight into the stream of bullets, which chewed up his leg and punched into the bike’s engine. Losing control, he spun out and flipped off the street machine, which fell over and crashed into the far wall, pinning the biker between it and the cinder blocks. Bolan rolled out and took aim in case the shooter was coming up for more, but man’s body lay unmoving on the floor.

“One down. Where’s the other one?” Bolan asked while ejecting the empty magazine and reloading.

“At the bottom of the ramp on your six. He seems uncertain—he’s not moving forward yet.”

“Good. Let me know if he starts moving in the next three seconds.” Still keeping an eye on the downed rider, Bolan moved around the back of the Bentley, crouched and crept forward until he was next to the concrete barrier. There was a chain link fence on the end.

“He’s starting to move—now!”

Bolan took a deep breath, centered himself and steadied his hands on the MP-9. The racket from the motorcycle was deafening as it approached. He waited for one more heartbeat, then pivoted around the corner, leading with the submachine gun, every sense tracking where the biker would be as he approached.

The motorcycle was almost on top of him, the biker looking left, anticipating where he expected his victims to be. He was just starting to lower his pistol, clutched in his right hand and pointed at the ceiling, to aim. But the time he saw Bolan and tried to correct, it was too late.

Bolan sighted on the rider’s chest and fired a short burst. The dozen or so bullets chopped into the man’s rib cage, pulverizing his organs, one round ricocheting up under his helmet to burrow through his jaw and into his brain. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The cluster of bullets that had mangled his chest, heart and lungs had done more than enough damage to kill him. The brain shot just brought his death ninety seconds faster.

The man fell off his bike, which, unbalanced, wobbled off into crash to the concrete. Again Bolan was moving, jogging back to the SUV and pulling Dae-jung out from underneath it. The Korean lay motionless, and for a heart-stopping moment, Bolan thought a stray round had found him. Then he twitched and a gasping snort escaped from his lips. Saliva burbled at the corner of his mouth as the scientist snored loudly.

He’d passed out!

Shaking his head, Bolan got the scientist up into a fireman’s carry and walked to the next bay. Turning and walking halfway down, he saw the brake lights of a metallic-green SUV flash twice.

“Tell me you just did that, Akira.”

“You got it, Striker. I just unlocked your doors. Dump the drunk in the back and hit the road. Your flight out of the city just touched down at Changi. The window’s only open for one hour, so you best get going.”

Bolan opened the rear passenger door and dumped Dae-jung into the seat, taking a moment to secure him with a lap belt, then got in the driver’s seat and pushed the start button. “Assuming nothing else waylays us on the road, we should arrive at the airport with time to spare.”

He backed out and headed down the ramp, careful to avoid the wrecked cycles in the lane. There was a stop bar blocking the exit lane, but as Bolan accelerated toward it, it rose out of his way, and he exited onto Bayfront Avenue. The avenue would lead to Marina Square, and eventually to the East Coast Parkway, one of the main highways circling the city, which would take him to Changi Airport.

Bolan adjusted the driver’s seat and started to breath a little easier as he sped up to match traffic. He checked his rearview mirror but didn’t see any outward sign of a disturbance—no police cars or hotel security cordoning off the entryway, no riot police storming the place. Except for a nondescript panel delivery van approaching fast with its high beams on, it seemed they had gotten away without a trace.

The van suddenly sped up until it was right on the Toyota’s bumper, its high-beam headlights flooding the entire passenger compartment with light. Bolan flipped up the mirror to redirect the beams and moved over to another lane. The van stayed right with him. Seeing only light traffic ahead, Bolan gunned the engine, the SUV leaping forward. Caught by surprise, the van driver tried to catch up, his engine roaring as he pulled alongside Bolan’s vehicle. The window in the side door opened, and a man poked out a gun barrel, aiming at him.

The moment he saw the muzzle, Bolan wrenched the Harrier’s steering wheel hard left. The SUV slammed into the van, making it veer into another lane. Seeing a semi truck ahead of them, Bolan swerved right, narrowly missing the trailer. He pushed down on the gas pedal, seeing a sign that read Changi Airport: 4 Km.

“Just have to keep this sucker rolling for another couple miles.”

“Tell me you haven’t attracted more attention.” Tokaido’s voice was resigned.

Bolan checked his mirror—the van was still on his tail. “Must be the motorcycle jockeys’ backup. It looks big enough to hold two bikes. Hang on, they’re coming up again.”

The van was creeping up on the driver’s side once more. Bolan let it come, even setting the cruise control on the SUV to about eighty miles per hour and resting the loaded MP-9 in his lap. He checked his side mirror, watching the van inch closer to his Toyota. Although traffic on the highway was fairly heavy at this hour, Bolan couldn’t wait to find an empty spot to take out his pursuers. The other drivers would just have to take their chances.

“Just try not to attract any police,” Tokaido said. “Your current cargo would be very difficult to explain to the local constabulary.”

Bolan checked his mirrors again, gauging the distance. “Don’t worry, I have every intention of ending this as quickly as possible.”

The van surged forward, now only about ten yards away. A shadow appeared in the van’s side window again, and that was when Bolan made his move.

Holding the wheel steady with his left hand, he lowered the driver’s window, stuck out the MP-9, and emptied the magazine into the van’s windshield. The laminated safety glass was tough, but not designed to take that kind of abuse. It shattered into hundreds of tiny nuggets as the burst of fire chopped the heads and chests of the driver and front passenger into pâté.

With no one at the wheel, the van slewed to the left, cutting off a BMW as it careened hard into the concrete divider, sparks flying as its front fender crumpled under the impact. Bolan glanced back in time to see it flip onto its side, skidding down the road toward him. Increasing the gas, Bolan watched the van recede in his rearview mirror as the traffic began to slow and bottleneck behind it.

About a mile later, he reached the turnoff for the airport and took it. “Where am I going, Akira?”

“Follow the signs for T2 Boulevard, and keep bearing right. Your private jet is awaiting you at the second hangar.”

Bolan rounded one more turn and saw a sleek Gulfstream G650 jet waiting. “Well, at least I get to ride back in style.”

“You can thank the State Department for the ride. Word is they confiscated it from a drug smuggler in Bogotá, and Hal has the pull to use it, no questions asked.”

Bolan pulled up next to the hangar and turned off the engine.

Sliding out of the driver’s seat, Bolan opened the back passenger door and unbuckled his cargo, who was still snoring loudly. “Slept through the whole thing.”

Tossing the unconscious man over his shoulder, Bolan headed for the entry stairs to the jet.

“Good to see you, Mr. Cooper. I trust you had a pleasant time in Singapore?” The pilot grinned.

“What the hell’re you doing here, Jack?”

Jack Grimaldi pushed back the pilot’s cap on his head and grinned. “Well, Dragon Slayer is undergoing some upgrades to its flight computers, and Able and Phoenix are handling missions that don’t need my special talents, so when Hal said they needed someone to extract your ass out of Singapore, and that the someone would be piloting a brand-new Gulfstream, who was I to refuse?”

Bolan grinned at his long-time pilot and good friend’s enthusiasm. “Well, let me stow my package and let’s get out of here. I’m due a long rest after chasing this guy all over Southeast Asia for the past two weeks, and this flight’ll be a good start.”

“Aww, and here I thought you and I’d hit the town once you’d wrapped up your business.” Grimaldi followed Bolan up the steps, poking the limp Dae-jung. “Anyone I should know?”

“Only if you have a terrible interest in North Korea’s nuclear program.”

“Nah, I’ll leave that to the government types.” Grimaldi activated the door controls to seal the door and pressurize the interior as he headed to the cockpit while Bolan secured their passenger. As he sat Dae-jung in a plush, white leather captain’s chair, the scientist convulsed once, then hunched over and vomited—all over the carpet and Bolan’s shoes.

Staring at the mess, Bolan just shook his head. “Perfect.”

Chapter 4

Binoculars in hand, Park Ranger Sarah Dantlinger scanned the rocky terrain, searching for the slightest movement below as the Bell 206A JetRanger helicopter skimmed over Yellowstone National Park at one thousand feet. Beside her, pilot Mark Azoff kept the chopper straight and level as he perused the lush forest and grassy meadows on their left side.

“Got anything yet?” she asked over the intercom.

“Nope. You’re sure they’re out here somewhere?”

“That’s what ground said—five hikers on a day trip along Specimen Ridge. I just wish we’d had more information from their distress call.”

The two park rangers were looking for a family of five that had called in a patchy distress call on a cell phone. Since the call was too garbled to make out exactly what they were saying, headquarters had dispatched Dantlinger and Azoff in the Bell to locate the hikers and assess their situation.

Dantlinger continued scanning the area, her Zeiss binoculars making the parched meadows and forest leap into sharp relief below. She caught a black bear foraging for food to add to its winter bulk, and a fox that was there one moment and gone the next as the chopper’s clatter made it dart into the underbrush.

“Wait a minute! I got a trail!” Azoff slewed the Bell around so Dantlinger could get a look at the line of crushed grass that meandered across a field and petered out in some foothills. Following the line with her optics, Dantlinger saw a man waving his shirt over his head about one hundred yards away.

“Got ’em! Can you put it down here?”

“It looks all right from here, but that grass could be hiding a stump, branch, or rock—too dangerous to risk a full touchdown. I’m gonna have to hover and let you off.”

“Okay.”

Thirty seconds later, Dantlinger opened the door and stepped out onto the landing skid. Holding her flat-brimmed ranger’s hat in her hand, the wash from the rotors made her blink against the powerful wind. The ground was a few feet below, and she jumped carefully, ready to tuck and roll if she had to. Fortunately she landed on solid, level ground. Ducking as she sprinted away from the blurred blades spinning overhead, Dantlinger ran to the man, who hadn’t come out to meet her, but was waiting at the base of the hill.

“Thanks for coming. Hey, where’s he going?” the man asked as Azoff powered the chopper back into the air. He was only a few inches taller than Dantlinger’s five-feet-six-inches, with the beginnings of a pot belly. He was inappropriately dressed for the season, in khaki cargo pants, a T-shirt and the plaid, short-sleeved madras shirt he’d used as a signal. Despite the short autumn day, his face was pink from exposure to the sun.

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