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?”

“Perhaps I can help you with something?” the officer asked, pushing back his cap.

The soldier was armed with a .45 Colt automatic pistol, while his partner inside the kiosk was cradling an M16 assault rifle with an old-fashioned M203 grenade launcher attached underneath. On top of the kiosk, a small radar dish never stopped spinning in its endless search for incoming enemy planes.

“No, sorry, I need to see the base commander,” Greene repeated, trying to sound apologetic.

Warily, the guard looked over the men and women in the eight police cars. Aside from the fact that they were all Caucasians, he wasn’t suspicious in the least. Mexico did things differently than most countries, not better or worse, just different, so while this seemed like a lot of police to send to a military base for any reason, it wasn’t unusual. More than likely somebody important was arriving at the base, and they were here to escort him to someplace else, like Mexico City for example.

“You have papers?” the lieutenant asked at last.

Greene grinned. “Of course!” He passed over a clipboard stuffed with documents.

The officer gave the sheaf of expertly forged papers only a cursory glance, then nodded to the soldiers inside the kiosk. One of them threw a switch, and the steel barricade that blocked entry onto the base slowly descended into the ground with the sound of working hydraulic pumps.

When the way was clear, Greene took back the forged documents, got back behind the wheel.

Driving onto the base, the members of Daylight smiled and nodded at the hundreds of soldiers going about their daily routines. Some were policing a grassy field, marching in formation, hauling away garbage, or yawning and scratching while standing in line at the galley. The smells wafting from the numerous air vents of the cinder-block structure were tantalizing.

“Any chance we could grab a bite?” a terrorist asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“Can’t see why not,” a driver said with a dismissive shrug. “But only afterward, I mean. You know...”

“Yeah, sure. No problem, mate.”

Parking directly in front of the base commander’s office, Greene got out once more, noticing that the other police cars were dutifully parking at strategic points around the sprawling base: the fuel depot, barracks, galley, armory.

Sauntering inside alone, Greene introduced himself to the young corporal at the reception desk, and was briskly escorted into the private office of General Juan Dias.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir!” Greene said, giving a crisp salute.

“At ease, Captain.” The general returned the salute, then offered a hand. They shook. “Way out here on the front line Azules is nowhere near as formal as back in the capital.”

“Good to know.” Greene smiled, gesturing at a chair.

The general nodded, and the billionaire took a seat. “I’m sure that you can guess why I’m here.”

“Some VIP is arriving unannounced at our airfield, and you’re here to escort them back to the capital.”

“Exactly, sir! Your reputation precedes you, sir.”

“Thanks. Now stop blowing smoke up my ass and tell me why you’re really here?”

Greene shrugged. “Honestly, we’re just here for the VIP. Some congressman from the United States wants to get a reputation for being tough on drugs. Same old, same old.”

“Fair enough, then. Cigar?”

“Thank you!” Greene lit a match, and let all of the sulfur burn off before applying the flame to the tobacco. “Magnificent!”

“Of course! Only the best here. We don’t share the crazy American’s trade embargo with our brothers in Cuba.”

“Obviously!” Greene sighed, savoring the thick rich smoke.

“So tell me about your latest kill?” Greene questioned.

Removing his own cigar, the general laughed. “You heard about that, eh? It was our biggest haul ever in drugs and hardware. Nineteen tons of heroin, and six more helicopters. Six!” Turning slightly at an angle, Dias looked out the window at the airfield. “This gives me a combined total of nine helicopters, eighteen assorted gunships and one submarine.”

“No! Really?”

“Honest to God. Plus more Hummers, trucks and APCs than I can remember.”

“Wow. You are a credit to our nation, sir,” Greene said, gesturing with his cigar.

General Dias shrugged. “It is my job.” But his tone said something different.

Glancing about as if to make sure they were alone in the office, Greene pulled a small black box from his pocket. “Now, this is something you may find very interesting,” he said, working the controls. A light flashed green on the box, then changed to red.

“What is it?” Dias asked, puffing away contentedly. “Some new form of radar jammer?”

“Oh, no, sir, something much more simple than that,” Greene replied, pressing the light.

Instantly, the box burst open and something lanced across the desk to wrap around the general’s neck.

“This is my own invention,” Greene boasted. “A new form of limpet mine designed to take out a moving torpedo. Watch what happens next, eh?”

Fighting to breathe, Dias clawed for the alarm switch on the intercom. But the linked segments of metal around his neck rapidly tightened until blood began to ooze out from underneath, and he dropped to the desk, his face purple, his eyes bulging.

“The more advanced version has explosive charges included,” Greene said, puffing contentedly on the cigar. “But I need this to be done quietly. Sorry about that.”

Shuddering, the general rolled over and went still. A moment later, there was a soft crack as his spine was crushed.

Saluting the general for a job well done, Greene went to the window. He smiled at the sight of the police cars parked at different locations across the military base, his people standing in a cluster on the grassy field reserved for drills and marches.

Here we go, he thought.

Changing the settings on the transmitter, Greene waited until the red light turned white, then he pressed it again and ducked.

The entire base rocked to the hammering concussion of all eight police cars exploding, their cargoes of dynamite and plastic explosives combining into a devil’s brew of annihilation. To the few survivors, the cars had seemed to simply vanish in a deafening fireball, the blast spreading out to flatten buildings, and send hundreds of soldiers flying high into the air in tattered pieces.

Even before the blast completely died away, the members of Daylight removed their earplugs and surged into action. Using their police revolvers to gun down any unharmed soldiers, the terrorists quickly reached the armory and upgraded to M16 assault rifles, M203 grenade launchers, Armbrust rocket launchers and flamethrowers.

Now the terrorists did a fast sweep of the burning base, ruthlessly exterminating anybody found alive. Some of the soldiers tried to fight back, others ran and a few begged for mercy, but it made no difference. The white supremacists of Daylight removed the Mexican soldiers with brutal efficiency.

Striding out of the main office, Greene headed for the airfield firing his 10 mm Falcon Magnum at several scurrying military officers. The unarmed men died bloody, still trying to escape. An older sergeant managed to get his pistol out, and Greene coldly emptied the entire magazine into the man, the 10 mm Magnum rounds blowing gaping holes.

Still smoking the cigar, Greene sauntered onto the tarmac and paused to reload. Several of his people were already at the airfield, the only section of the base that hadn’t been damaged in any way by the booby trapped police cars.

“Report!” Greene demanded, around the cigar.

“The executions are done,” Layne reported, easing a fresh clip into his exhausted weapon. The Barrett XM-25 rifle was a recent acquisition and fired 25 mm shells. At short range, the shells punched through the chest of a man, and at long range the chemical warhead detonated with enough force to blow the victim to hamburger.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Greene muttered, holstering the revolver. “Miss LoMonaco, if you were hiding from an invasion force such as ours, where would you go?”

Scratching the treble-clef tattoo on the inside of her wrist, the woman paused in thought. “Grease pit in the garage with a car parked on top,” LoMonaco said at last. “Or inside the water tank on top of the roof, or inside an oven in the galley kitchen.”

Pleased at the quick response, Greene smiled. “Take twenty men and check those locations. We need to be sure there are no survivors.”

“Not a problem,” LoMonaco said, resting the warm barrel of the Neostead shotgun on a shoulder and starting forward.

“Alpha Team, follow LoMonaco!” Layne bellowed, and a squad of armed men surged after the diminutive beauty.

The garage proved to be empty, as did the water tank, and the ovens. But checking the freezer, LoMonaco found a suspiciously large pile of frozen beef in the corner. “Surrender or die!” she yelled, working the pump action on the weapon.

“Please, I surrender!” a young private replied, scrambling into view with both hands raised. “Please, don’t shoot, I’m just the cook!”

Amused, LoMonaco burst into laughter. “Sorry, but I saw that movie.” She blew the head off the cringing teenager.

Heading back to the airfield, LoMonaco had a strange smile on her face, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. The other members of Daylight noticed that, but said nothing, deciding that discretion was the better part of keeping lead out of their heads.

“All clear, Mr. Greene,” LoMonaco reported, pulling a fat Cuban cigar from a pocket and applying the flame from a butane lighter to the tip.

“Excellent! Thank you, Samantha,” Greene said, and went to join the others on the busy tarmac. “How is it going, Victor?”

With one boot resting on a crate of air-to-air missiles, Layne looked up from a clipboard. “Perfectly, sir! We now have eight Apache gunships, fully fueled and armed. Plus four Cobras and ten Black Hawks.”

“Are all the Blackhawks transports?” Greene asked as a man handed him an M249 Minimi machine gun.

“No, sir. Five are transport, four are being packed with spare fuel and munitions, and one is a mobile medical bay.”

“Any radar defusers?”

“Yes, sir. Plus radio jammers.”

“Excellent,” Greene said around his cigar. “Most excellent. My compliments, Victor!”

“It was your plan, sir,” the man said with a shrug. “By the way, how did the limpet function?”

“Perfectly!”

Somewhere across the base, a man screamed, an assault rifle chattered, and a burning building started to collapse in ragged stages, thick black clouds of smoke rising high into the morning sky.

“Now what about all of those F-14 jetfighters?” LoMonaco asked, brushing back a loose strand of hair. The action left a streak of blood across her face.

“Nobody in Daylight can fly a jet aside from the two of us. They only know helicopters,” Greene growled. “Besides, a jet would only get in the way of the next mission. Low and slow is the key, not death-from-above as the Americans like to boast.”

“Such a shame.” LoMonaco sighed, looking longingly at the nearby hangar, a sleek F-14 Tomcat sitting in the entranceway fueled and ready to go.

Unexpectedly, a bright flash erupted from the roof of the base library, and a fiery dart lanced across the decimated base to slam directly into the Tomcat. The multimillion-dollar jetfighter thunderously exploded inside the hangar, the spreading fireball set off the next jetfighter and the next. The entire airfield was hammered by a long series of strident detonations that continued for an obscene length of time.

When the last roiling blast finally dissipated, Greene rose from the tarmac to scowl in open hatred at the smoking ruin of the hangar. All of the planes were gone, totally destroyed, the smoldering rubble spread out for as far as he could see.

“What the fuck was that?” Layne loudly demanded, working his jaw to try to clear his ringing ears.