Chain Reaction. Don Pendleton

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

       CHAPTER FORTY

       Copyright

       PROLOGUE

      The big Desert Eagle boomed as the black-clad woman fired twice. Her shots forced Mack Bolan to duck, giving her a few seconds to make a grab for the bag on the table. She caught hold of it in her left hand, pulling it with her as she fired again at Bolan before making a direct run for the window.

      The Executioner pushed upright, bringing his submachine gun into target acquisition.

      The woman had covered her face with her right arm as she hit the glass. It shattered as she burst through it, long legs powering her forward.

      Bolan’s finger stroked the trigger. The P-90 fired its remaining rounds before it locked on empty.

      The dark-clad figure twisted to one side as a single slug clipped her left arm. Her grip on the bag slackened and it fell free, hitting the frame of the window and dropping back inside the room.

      Then she was gone, in a shower of glass fragments and splintered window frame, landing outside. It seemed she was about to fall but with a supreme effort she righted herself and vanished from sight.

      By the time Bolan reached the window she was almost out of sight, dodging between the parked cars. Bolan had other priorities. If he hadn’t, he would have pursued her to find out who she was and the nature of her involvement with the criminal group he knew only as Hegre.

       CHAPTER ONE

      Jack “Boomer” Rafferty, six foot three and powerfully built, released a string of colorful curses as he worked the wheel of the massive diesel truck and swung it off Route N87. Dust boiled out from beneath the huge tires of the Kenworth “road train” truck as Rafferty took the rig along the soft shoulder, red dust clouding in its wake. Air brakes hissed as the assembly came to a halt. Rafferty pulled on the handbrake and sat back, still cursing to himself. He cracked open the door and hauled his bulk off the seat and out of the cab. As he hit the ground, he felt the blast of superheated air wrap around him. The forty-five-year-old Australian native, his exposed skin burned brown by constant exposure to the sun, still found the extremes of Australian weather challenging. Right now he was also frustrated by the double-blowout in a pair of his rig’s rear tires. He expressed his anger by kicking out at the offending wheels. Both tires on the right-hand set at the rear of his rig were flat, the side walls shredded. Rafferty had never seen the like of this damage before; blowouts were not unheard of, but the extent of the damage to the rubber gave him the impression that someone had deliberately tampered with the tires.

      “What the hell, Boomer?”

      Rafferty saw the face of his co-driver and partner peering at him from the cab window. Lou Douglas, a leaner, balding version of Rafferty, had a sour expression on his bearded face. He had been taking his turn in the sleeper unit behind the cab. Disturbed by the lack of motion, he had woken and was ready to challenge why the vehicle had stopped.

      “Problem, mate,” Rafferty said. “Couple of flats and they don’t look right to me.”

      Mumbling to himself, Douglas worked his way forward, then out of the cab. He followed Rafferty’s pointing finger, leaning over to peer at the shredded tires. He moved from one to the other, fingering the shredded rubber. When he turned from his inspection, his weathered face was creased by a disbelieving scowl.

      “Those aren’t regular bursts,” he said. “Christ, Boomer, those tires have been shot to ribbons. And I don’t think by accident.”

      Rafferty didn’t appear to be listening any longer. He had turned away and was staring skyward. His attention had been taken by the silver-and-blue helicopter swooping in low and landing on the road a couple of hundred yards behind the stalled rig. Red dust spiraled up from the rotor wash, briefly obscuring the helicopter and the men who had climbed out to move quickly in the direction of the rig and its operators.

      Four men.

      All armed.

      They moved to confront Rafferty and Douglas.

      Three of the newcomers were holding MP-5 submachine guns. The fourth carried a large, long barreled rifle with a telescopic sight unit attached. A powerful sniping rifle.

      The explanation as to how the tires had been shot out, Rafferty realized.

      “You’ve got be joking,” Douglas said, his face flushed with anger. “A heist?”

      One of the armed men laughed. “Never thought of it like that. Now just take it easy, boys, and we’ll be done in a minute.” He looked toward two of his crew. “Go fetch it. Then we can be out of here.”

      Rafferty raged on the inside, but he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do. Not with those autoweapons pointed at him and Douglas. He’d served his time in the Australian Army and he knew the sort of damage the weapons could do; he wasn’t about to risk his life for the cargo he was hauling. He wondered what these men were looking for.

      He watched the two walk the length of the train, counting off the container boxes until they reached the one they were looking for. A minute or two later he heard a soft crack of sound and spotted a plume of smoke at the rear of the container. He figured the sealed and secured doors had been breached.

      The leader of the hijackers smiled at Rafferty’s expression.

      “Working it out, smart boy? I like a man who thinks on his feet.”

      “What I can’t figure is what you want. That container is full of dry goods for stores in Alice. Nothing else.”

      Rafferty was referring to the town of Alice Springs. Set in the geographic center of Australia, in the Northern Territory, and known as The Alice, it lay around three hours’ drive from their present position and had been the truckers destination for this section of the journey.

      “Maybe I collect dry goods,” the man said.

      “Don’t bullshit me, mate,” Douglas snapped. “You figure we just fell off the turnip truck?”

      “Lou,” Rafferty said. “Just leave it.”

      “Do what your mate says.”

      Douglas stepped forward, brushing off his partner’s warning hand.

      “I’m not listening to this bastard,” he yelled.

      Douglas was known for his explosive temper and lack of caution under pressure. It had gotten him into trouble on a number of occasions.

      This time it got him more.

      “No,” Rafferty yelled, realizing what was about to happen.

      Douglas had taken only a few steps, raising his fists, when the MP-5 crackled. The burst was short, sending a volley of steel-jacketed 9 mm slugs into Douglas’s torso. The force of the burst stopped him in his tracks as the bullets cored into his lean body, shattering ribs and tearing through his heart and lungs. Douglas took a step back, eyes suddenly wide with shock. He lost coordination and dropped to the ground, clutching at his punctured chest. He squirmed in short movements before his body shut down. Blood trickled from his slack mouth.

      “People never learn,” the shooter said.

      Rafferty was frozen, staring between his dead partner and the man who had just murdered him.

      The two men who had opened the container appeared, hauling a battered metal box between them. It looked like a well-used tool box. They placed it on the ground.

      “That was all we wanted,” the shooter said. “Nothing else.”

      “What?”