Chain Reaction. Don Pendleton

be deceiving.

      “No walking through walls?” Mitchell said. “I’m disappointed, Cooper.”

      Bolan set his distance and drew back his right leg, then launched a powerful kick that planted his boot over the lock. Wood splintered. The door flew open, crashing against the inside wall. Bolan went through, breaking to the right. Mitchell copied his move, going left. They both swept the empty room. Nothing save dust and scattered detritus.

      Beyond the room they heard voices raised in anger.

      “We disturbed someone,” Mitchell said.

      They crossed the room and went through the door on the far side, which revealed a wide passage with stairs to one side.

      “Shooter,” Mitchell yelled as a moving shape emerged from the shadows ahead.

      A slim guy in shirtsleeves opened up with a squat SMG, a line of slugs punching into the wall to one side. He seemed to fire more for effect than to seek a definite target. Bolan turned and cut loose with the Beretta, catching the guy in the side. The shooter slammed against the far wall, clutching his side as blood began to soak his shirt. Bolan put a triburst in the gunner’s skull. The guy sagged to his knees, then toppled over.

      Mitchell caught sight of a second shooter, taking a side step to avoid his falling partner. She took advantage of the man’s hesitation, leaning out from behind Bolan. She settled her aim without hesitation and punched a pair of .40-caliber slugs in the guy. Chest high, over the heart, the solid impact of the slugs knocked the target off his feet. He took an awkward fall, slamming to the floor on his face and rolling against the wall, his body in spasm just before he died.

      A shadow materialized along the passage, weapon up and firing. The burst of autofire came close. Bolan held his ground, the enemy fire bypassing him as he raised the Beretta and triggered a burst. The distant figure staggered as slugs ripped into his body. He refused to go down until Mitchell fired a .40-caliber round through his throat. This time he dropped without a sound.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      “Cover me,” Bolan said as he dropped the exhausted magazine and rammed home a fresh one from his pouch. As he activated the 93-R, he felt the heat from Mitchell’s close fired Glock as she took down a second gunner emerging from an open door. The .40-caliber slugs ripped into the target’s chest. He dropped his weapon. They moved in unison, clearing the foot of the stairs and aiming for the door the shooters had come from.

      Mitchell turned to check the stairs, scanning the shadowed landing. As Bolan cleared the doorway, he found a large room spread out in front of him. The large windows looked out on the front of the house and the pair of parked vehicles. Bolan took in the room at a glance and what he saw was imprinted on his vision like a vivid snapshot.

      A half-naked figure was strapped to a wooden chair, the exposed chest and torso a mass of bloody wounds. Enough blood had been spilled to soak the man’s pants to midthigh. His head was thrown back, his throat slashed wide and bloody. Bolan’s gaze dropped to the bound man’s bare feet. Most of the toes on the left foot were gone, leaving ragged and bloody stumps. The blood was dry, indicating that the man had been dead for some time.

      Mitchell had remained at the entrance to the room, keeping a lookout for any interference. She took a quick look inside, saw the bound man and Bolan heard the shocked gasp when she recognized the victim.

      “It’s Jake Bermann.”

      “Mitchell, don’t lose it. Not now,” Bolan snapped.

      Her face registered surprise as she looked beyond Bolan to the farthest reaches of the shadowed room. Her Glock arced to one side, finger closing on the trigger.

      “Down,” she yelled, stepping in through the doorway.

      Bolan dropped to a crouch, turning.

      A pistol fired, the shot going over Bolan’s head.

      Mitchell’s Glock cracked twice, flame spouting in the shadowed room.

      As Bolan came around, he saw an armed man jerk as Mitchell’s .40-caliber slugs hit. The target cried out in pain as he fell back, the weapon clutched in his sagging right hand firing a shot into the floor. Light from the closest window set him in clear sight.

      “It’s Brewster,” Mitchell said.

      Bolan crossed the room in long strides, the 93-R trained solidly on the hunched-over figure. Brewster was on his knees, clutching his midsection. His Glock hung from his fingers, loose and presenting no threat. Bolan took it from the man, holstering his Beretta and holding the Glock.

      Brewster, moaning, moved so he could sit awkwardly, still clutching himself. Blood soaked through his shirt in a continuous flood, turning his shirt and pants a glistening red.

      “I’m calling this in,” Mitchell said.

      Bolan handed her his cell phone and she keyed in a number. Standing at the doorway, she stared at Brewster as she raised her phone.

      “SAC Duncan, this is Agent Mitchell. We have located Agent Bermann, sir. He’s dead. And we have Brewster. He tried to shoot us. It was Brewster who gave us up to Hegre. He’s down. We have the situation under control. Yes, sir, Cooper is with me. We need backup at the location you gave me. You can send in the troops now. Yes, sir, we’ll stand fast.”

      Bolan saw the spread of blood as it pooled under Brewster’s slumped body. He grabbed cushions off armchairs pushed to one side of the room and laid Brewster down with one of the cushions under his head. The man stared up at Bolan. His face was sickly white and glistening with sweat.

      “He’s in a bad way,” Bolan said over his shoulder.

      “Good,” Mitchell snapped back. “Don’t expect any kind of help from me, Cooper. You see what they did to Jake?”

      Her voice rose in anger. “You see what they did, Brewster. To one of your own. And Ray.”

      “What did they want from him?” Bolan asked.

      “Information,” Brewster said. “Hegre was concerned the FBI was getting too close and starting to unravel how it worked.”

      Blood trickled from Brewster’s mouth, frothy and constant.

      “You were helping them?”

      Brewster nodded. Life was slipping away. His hands covering the bullet wounds in his body were wet with blood.

      “They offered so much money,” he said, his voice weakening. “A million. It seemed so easy at the time. I took it because I was greedy. No other word for it. I was living above my means, seeing all kinds of perps with money coming out of their pockets. I was risking my life for nothing while they had it all.” Brewster began to cough up more blood. His face twisted in a spasm, then formed a crooked smile. “When Hegre made the offer, I just couldn’t refuse. You know the funny part? I never got the chance to spend any of it.”

      “Where’s the woman?” Bolan asked. “Delaware?”

      Brewster’s head moved from side to side. “Lise? She moves around. She’s hard to pin down.” He fixed his gaze on Bolan. “She wants you, Cooper. You killed Rackham, burned her with a bullet and wrecked their Korean deal. She will come after you.”

      “I’ll try not to lose too much sleep over that.”

      Behind Bolan, Mitchell’s Glock cracked once—twice.

      “Incoming,” she called, and Bolan moved to her side. He saw shooters moving along the hallway, weapons up.

      Bolan snapped up the Glock and started to lay down offensive fire. As the Executioner drove the shooters back, Mitchell ejected her empty magazine, reloaded and brought her weapon back online. Together they covered the hallway with a powerful curtain of .40-caliber fire. Two men went down, one screaming wildly.

      Retreat