Contagion Option. Don Pendleton

dismay as the remaining hardmen realized that they’d just killed one of their own. The Executioner took the time to reload, then leaped across the trio of corpses and took cover closer to the intersection where his enemy was hidden.

      One of the guards leaned out with a handgun to get a better shot at Bolan, but the shotgun roared again, its payload gouging out a generous chunk of flesh and bone. The gunner slumped lifelessly to the ground, dark eyes staring glassily at nothing.

      That was enough for the rifleman. Bolan heard the panicked sound of retreating feet. The soldier slung the shotgun and drew the Desert Eagle in one smooth motion as he hurled himself into the intersection. The fleeing rifleman heard the Executioner hit the corridor wall and tried to turn to bring his rifle to bear. Bolan triggered his .44 Magnum pistol first, a heavy slug smashing through the man’s shoulder, detonating the joint as if it were a grenade. It continued to plow through his neck and destroy vertebrae in its wake.

      The gunner’s corpse flopped, his head bouncing limply on the deck.

      The handgunner’s radio crackled on his belt and Bolan scooped it up. The captain was cursing in Italian, wondering where the hell his men were.

      “They’re all dead,” Bolan replied in Italian. “You’re welcome to join them.”

      He then hit the mute button on the radio and contacted Grimaldi. “Blind them. Anyone tries to get off the ship…”

      “I got it, Sarge,” the Stony Man pilot responded. “Nobody but you and the cargo are getting off the ship.”

      “I’ve got one messenger to send back to Thailand, too,” Bolan amended. “Give these flesh smugglers something to dream about while I’m gone.”

      “Dream, or scream?” Grimaldi asked.

      “Their choice,” Bolan replied. “Check their communications. It’s a mishmash of Italian and Oriental languages.”

      The Executioner relayed the radio frequency to his pilot.

      “Got it,” Grimaldi replied. “Oh, man. They’re burning up the airwaves. I guess when the shooting started, they put out the call for help.”

      “Help? To whom? They wouldn’t call the harbor patrol or the navy, there’d be too many questions to answer,” Bolan mused as he dumped his partially spent Desert Eagle magazine, feeding it a few loose rounds to top it off. He reloaded and stuffed some shells into the shotgun.

      “I don’t know. I’ve been listening on various frequencies and…radar contact, Sarge,” Grimaldi answered.

      “Radar contact?”

      “Yeah. Big and coming up under the water. It just showed up. It looks—”

      “A submarine,” Bolan growled, and he headed to the stairwell. He paused only long enough to grab the fallen gunman’s rifle and its spare ammo. He slung the weapon over his shoulder on the run, keeping the big Desert Eagle ready to greet anyone who appeared in the stairwell, trusting the shorter length of the handgun in such close quarters.

      “Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “I’m running an IFF radar check on it.”

      “Probably a Soviet-era sub,” Bolan said into his headset. He paused as he neared the top. “I don’t hear any welcoming crew topside…Jack?”

      “No, the entrance to the hold’s all clear,” Grimaldi informed him.

      “Keep hanging back and watch out for the submarine. It might have an antiaircraft gun. Soviet 12.7 is more than enough to damage Dragon Slayer,” Bolan stated.

      “I know that. Don’t worry, I have TOW missiles locked on the sub,” Grimaldi replied.

      “Cripple it and knock out its defenses if you can,” Bolan replied. “I want to be able to figure out what’s going on here. And that sub has all the answers I need.”

      “All right, Sarge. I’ll trust your instincts.”

      Bolan made it to the deck and transitioned to the dead pirate’s rifle, a Krinkov. A stubby, foot-long-barreled version of the classic AK-47, it was more of a submachine gun than a full-powered rifle, but even without the extra muzzle length, it packed an awesome amount of firepower, throwing .30-caliber slugs at 800 rounds per minute. With three spare magazines, the Executioner was able to hold off a small army.

      There was a shout up on the mast, and Bolan spotted three gunmen near the bridge. Their attention, however, was directed off the starboard rail. They had to have seen the submarine as it breached. Bolan shouldered the Krinkov, leveled his front sight and milked the stubby rifle’s trigger.

      One of the guards was swatted off the rail, his limp corpse dropping to the deck where he landed in a jumble of twisted limbs. Another collapsed, holding his gut, and Bolan realized that his aim was off. The short-barreled rifle wasn’t as accurate as a full-size AK-47, and that meant that he’d need to adjust his aim for targets as distant as the bridge sentries.

      The third one, uninjured, brought his weapon to bear and sprayed the deck next to the Executioner. In the shadows and darkness, he had only Bolan’s muzzle-flash to go on, and the soldier had already shifted position after his first burst. He held his aim high and ripped off another burst. He’d been intending to hit the smuggler in the stomach with the salvo, so he aimed at a spot just above the man’s head. Instead, bloody blossoms of gore flowered on the thug’s thighs and he crashed to the walkway. Bolan cursed, wishing he’d had an opportunity to get a feel for this Krinkov’s sights. He reloaded the stubby rifle, then slung it. Pulling the Desert Eagle, he charged toward the bridge.

      Bolan knew exactly where the big .44 Magnum pistol would put its bullets at any range out to 200 meters. He’d reserve the Krinkov for close-quarters mayhem.

      Bridge officers threw open the hatch to the command center and cut loose with their own handguns. The Executioner still had ten yards of deck before he reached the steps to the bridge, so he blasted away with a salvo of 240-grain hollowpoint rounds. The devastating slugs crashed into the chests and faces of the pair of officers, smashing the life from them with brutal force. One corpse slid down the steps toward him, but Bolan grabbed the railing, vaulted over the limp form and continued up the stairwell.

      Off the starboard bow, a powerful cannon opened up and Bolan hit the deck as shells smashed into the ship’s superstructure. Huge holes, larger than the soldier’s own fists, were punched through the bulkhead, and he knew that it had to be a 20 mm antiaircraft cannon from the submarine. Heartbeats later, a thunderous explosion sounded overboard.

      Jack Grimaldi and Dragon Slayer had the Executioner’s back, so Bolan continued on toward the bridge. Another blast resounded on the water as the ace Stony Man pilot slammed another TOW missile into the submarine, this one most likely directed at the screws of the sub. With Dragon Slayer’s computerized targeting systems, and a database of thousands of oceangoing craft, Grimaldi was able to target the enemy submersible where it was most vulnerable, leaving it bobbing and as helpless as a bathtub toy, rather than a deadly threat, or allowing it to escape into the Stygian depths of the ocean at night.

      “Sub’s crippled. You’re right, it’s Soviet design,” Grimaldi announced.

      “Black market, no doubt,” Bolan returned. He holstered the Desert Eagle, and brought up the Krinkov. He had no time to play with the remnants of the smuggler crew, so he emptied the full magazine into the bridge. A blast of 7.62 mm ComBloc slugs pierced sheet metal and blasted through the confined cabin. Screams of horror filled the air as Bolan reloaded and burned off a second magazine into the command center. He let the empty Krinkov drop to the deck and entered, his shotgun leading the way.

      As soon as his shadow fell across the door, a pistol cracked and Bolan ducked. He triggered his shotgun at the muzzle-flash and heard metal clatter on metal.

      Captain Tinopoulos glared at the Executioner, his chest and shoulder torn by the shotgun blast. Blood had splashed messily up into his beard, and his handgun lay where it had fallen.

      Bolan looked around at