Hostile Odds. Don Pendleton

Earl just a few hours before and the guy looked fine.

      Bolan cupped his hand to the door and peered inside; he saw a fleeting movement in back—something like two people struggling—and then descended from the narrow stoop and circled around back. He found a rear door marked for deliveries only and tried it. It opened without trouble. Bolan stuck his head into the semidark interior. He could hear angry voices inside, male voices, followed by a feminine yelp of pain.

      The Executioner kicked it into high gear, opening the door just enough to slip inside as he brought the Beretta into play. He left the door ajar enough to let the morning sunlight illuminate his way and moved through the storage room to a set of swing doors. He cracked one enough to see two men standing with their backs to him. They were holding the waitress in check, and Bolan arrived just in time to see a third man slap her across the face.

      Bolan shouldered through the swing doors and raised the Beretta. In a hard, cold voice he said, “Fun’s over, boys.”

      One of the pair holding the waitress turned and emitted a yelp of surprise. The other stupidly clawed for something in the front of his pants. Bolan didn’t bother to see what it was. He leveled the sound-suppressed pistol nearly point-blank at the man’s head and squeezed the trigger. The subsonic cartridge let out a report not much louder than a cough, and the thug’s head immediately disappeared in a crimson spray of bone and brain matter. A large chunk splattered the side of his cohort’s face.

      The second guy stumbled back and fumbled for his own weapon. The Executioner helped him along with a front kick that sent him reeling. The hood’s arms windmilled in an attempt to maintain his balance, but the momentum eventually got the better of him. He crashed into a side counter and brought a full plastic tray of silverware onto his head.

      The remaining assailant went for cover, and Bolan saw the glint of light on metal in his hand. Bolan rushed forward and pulled the waitress out of the way just in time to prevent her from being struck by any of the five wild shots the gunman sent in her direction. He shoved her not too gently through the swing doors as he leveled the Beretta 93-R in the enemy’s direction and snapped off a pair of shots to keep the guy’s head down.

      Bolan followed after the waitress and gestured toward the door as she recovered from his rough shove. “Head out the back.”

      “What the hell are you doing here?”

      “Later. Now go,” he ordered.

      She started to put her hands on her hips and stand there defiantly, but Bolan didn’t give her the chance to argue. He grabbed her arm and assisted her to the back, pushing her through the door with his bodyweight as he kept facing forward in anticipation the gunman would follow. The guy did just as Bolan predicted and burst through the swing doors. He leveled his Beretta and squeezed the trigger even as the gunman snapped off a shot of his own. The 9 mm round punched through the thug’s chest in a bloody spray, and the impact knocked him through the door. The shot he triggered went high above Bolan’s head and lodged in the wood frame of the doorway.

      The Executioner emerged into the narrow alleyway in time to see a black SUV round a corner and roar toward them.

      4

      “Move!”

      Bolan shoved the waitress away from the charging SUV and followed on her heels. They ran like hell and rounded the corner of the building in time to avoid being run down. Bolan heard the tires grind to a stop on the broken asphalt and crushed gravel of the alleyway, followed by the reports of automatic-weapons fire.

      Louise emitted a sudden cry and stumbled, but Bolan caught her before she fell and helped her along the sidewalk. They reached the cover of the building front and then raced across the street. Bolan released her arm when he sensed she regained her balance. He took the lead and commanded her to follow him to his car.

      As they climbed into the rental simultaneously and closed the doors, Bolan quipped, “Friends of yours?”

      “I thought about asking you the same question,” she shot back.

      Bolan bit off a reply as he peeled out to a side street, leaving hot rubber on the pavement. The SUV rolled up on their tail in no time flat. Bolan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then he glanced at the waitress. He didn’t fail to notice the very nice pair of legs that emerged from the skirt of her uniform. Not the legs of a middle-aged woman. From that distance he could also see there weren’t the usual facial wrinkles, which left him to deduce she wasn’t in her forties as he’d originally guessed.

      “That’s a good makeup job,” he said. “Your FBI contacts have real talent.”

      “You know who I am?” she asked, although she expressed only mild surprise.

      Bolan nodded. “I recognized you from the field office in Siskiyou County.”

      “I recognized you, too,” she said. “That’s why I’d hoped you poke around for a few days, get bored and leave.”

      “Funny way of showing it,” Bolan replied. “Think you can handle the wheel?”

      The back windows shattered under the impact of fresh autofire before she could answer. Glass shards rained onto the pair, but fortunately didn’t injure either of them. When Bolan did a closer inspection of his occupant, however, he noticed her bleeding from her right arm. She’d probably been grazed back at the restaurant when they were fleeing on foot.

      “I can do better than that,” she said. “Give me your gun.”

      “What?”

      “Your pistol.”

      Bolan shook his head curtly. “No dice.”

      “Listen, mister, I’m grateful for all your help, but this is FBI business.”

      “It’s my business,” Bolan said but on afterthought he decided to hand over his Beretta. “Okay, I’ll drive, you shoot.”

      “Such a gentleman,” she teased.

      She twisted until her knees were in the seat and faced rearward. Bolan could see her level the pistol, expertly using a modified Weaver’s grip, her forearms braced on the top edge of the seat to the right of the headrest. A moment later, she squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. She followed that with a second volley.

      Bolan watched in his rearview mirror as the SUV swerved to avoid the shots. The first volley left sparks on the grille but didn’t appear to have any effect. The latter triburst spiderwebbed the windshield, effectively blocking the driver’s field of vision, and Bolan noticed the passenger’s side spattered with red. Obviously one of the woman’s shots had scored. The Executioner decided to take advantage of the driver’s obscured sight. He rolled down the passenger’s side window and grabbed hold of his new ally as he slammed on the brakes and steered into the deserted oncoming lane.

      The SUV shot past them.

      Bolan snatched the pistol from the woman as he accelerated and ordered her to take cover. He came parallel with the SUV and thumbed the selector to 3-round bursts before squeezing the trigger. The slide ratcheted obediently—extracted one casing after another—as the warrior put three 9 mm Parabellum rounds in the driver. The SUV swerved off the road, jumped the curb and collided with a massive pine tree. Bolan didn’t even slow down when the engine ignited. They were more than two blocks away when they heard the rumble of an explosion.

      “Damn!” the waitress said. “Pretty nice work, mister!”

      “Not bad yourself,” Bolan replied. “Now, let’s find some place to talk.”

      THE PLACE ENDED UP being a forest preserve about sixteen miles outside Timber Vale. Bolan didn’t mind the drive. It gave both of them time to decompress while affording him the advantage to watch for tails. Once convinced no one followed, he turned onto a road indicated by his companion, stopped in a shaded area near a small lake and killed the engine.

      “You want to explain what happened back there?”