Orange Alert. Don Pendleton

pouch, he headed down the gully to a concealed spot close to the tracks.

      The train came around a curve and into sight, going faster than Bolan had originally judged. He remained motionless as the double locomotives reached his position and sailed past at about thirty miles per hour—a little too quick for him to attempt a clean jump.

      Remaining hidden under the cover of bushes that grew along the tracks to heights of more than six feet, Bolan opened the pouch on his web belt, which held a grappling hook and a length of special cord developed for its strength. Thin and waxy, the lightweight fiber looked like braided strands of dental floss and, although it had a texture so fine a twenty-foot length could be folded to fit into a shirt pocket, it was stronger than the nylon rope used by mountaineers.

      Bolan knotted his titanium grappling hook to the cord, and, while judging the feel of the hook’s weight by letting it swing slightly on a few feet of slack, he eyed the passing freight cars for the right opportunity.

      More than two dozen boxcars had already passed. A series of double-length flatbeds holding tarp-shrouded cargo came into view. As the cars drew closer, Bolan’s eyes searched for possible catching points on the heavy ropes that were lashed across the gray canvas tarps and fastened to metal cleats running along the outside edge of the flatbeds.

      Bolan gave the knot a final tug, stepped out from behind the bush and began to run alongside the train. When the first of the flatbeds with the covered freight passed, he increased his speed while whirling the hook over his head like a rodeo cowboy. As he reached a full sprint, he zeroed in on one of the tarp’s restraining ropes and let it fly. The grappling hook caught at the very top of the tarp on his first attempt, yanking him up and onward as he tightened his hold on the cord. With the muscles in his shoulders and forearms straining, he jumped and pulled with all his strength, his feet clearing the edge of the moving car with inches to spare. Drawing himself forward on the line, he quickly reeled in the slack and freed the hook, putting it back into its pouch on his web belt.

      The tracks were level and in good shape, giving the train a smooth, steady ride. Holding on to the slick surface of the canvas tarp, Bolan moved to the front of the flatbed where there was space for him to sit and rest. He reached a clear spot and settled onto the pitted deck with his back resting against the covered cargo as dawn painted the Irish countryside in crisp morning light.

      The terrain was changing, morphing from the barren hostility of the moors to pastures that stretched green and fertile under the rising sun. A rust-flaked trestle came into view up ahead, its blistered surface glowing fiery red in the early light. The structure was a remnant from previous years when trains on this run were used for more than simply transporting freight, but its presence made Bolan consider the safety of his position. As he passed under the trestle’s crossbeam, he reasoned that with pastures there would be crossroads, and with the crossroads there would be bridges above the tracks. Unlike the rusting trestle he had just passed under, a bridge could hold an SUV.

      Bolan thought his pursuers not only would have known where his escape route from the ambush site would take him, they also would have considered what his options would be once he reached the tracks. As he checked to make sure that both his Desert Eagle and the Beretta were ready for action, he wondered if hopping the train was too obvious.

      He calculated he had about fifteen minutes until the tracks began ascending into the mountains along the coast. At that point, he’d get off and walk the rest of the way to his car.

      THE SUV’S HIGH PROFILE made it visible from afar. It was sitting on a narrow bridge spanning the tracks, illuminated by the angled rays of the morning sun as if it was on stage. The four men armed with Uzi machine pistols standing in pairs on each side of the vehicle were facing into the sun, putting them at a distinct disadvantage.

      Bolan inched to the forward edge of the flatbed and looked around the corner of the cargo loaded onto the car in front of him. Next to the tracks below the SUV, men stood on each side of the passing train, both armed with AK-47s. At the current speed, Bolan estimated he’d be next to them in about three minutes and he’d be exposed for a clean shot from above as well as from both sides.

      His eyes darted around the flatbed for a place for him to hide. Even if he got under the tarp, he didn’t know if there would be something he could get behind to afford cover from gunfire, but he certainly couldn’t stay where he was.

      Pulling his combat knife from its sheath, he sliced the closest restraining rope. The freed corner of the tarp flapped up, exposing the bottom half of wooden crates stacked so tightly and neatly against one another there wasn’t room for a mouse to crawl between.

      As he put the knife away, the Executioner leaned back and looked down, viewing the heavy coupling mechanism linking his car with the one in front. There was a wide space between the clamp and the beginning of his flatbed. With less than a minute and a half remaining before he’d pass under the bridge, Bolan decided the coupler was his only chance for getting past the SUV.

      He lowered himself onto the rod between cars, held on tightly to the greasy coupler and slid himself under the flatbed. At first, he thought he’d have to hold his legs up to keep his heels from dragging on the tracks, but once he got under the cargo deck, he discovered there was a beam running across the car about a foot below the flatbed’s underside. Bolan slid his legs into the space and found he could balance himself faceup, mere inches below the flatbed’s deck. And, although he felt pinned in this position, the supporting beam allowed him free use of both hands.

      As the train neared the bridge, he wiped his greasy hands on the front of his shirt before drawing his Beretta from its shoulder leather. With his other hand, he pulled the Desert Eagle from his hip holster.

      The flapping tarp caught the attention of the men on both sides of the track. Thinking that Bolan was hiding under the canvas, they began spraying the cargo with gunfire, the cracking of 7.62 mm rounds masked by the sound of the train. With their eyes focused on their target, they stitched holes across the tarp in a crisscrossing pattern from corner to corner, never seeing the man suspended in the dark shadows beneath the railroad car.

      As he passed between them, Bolan fired with both hands, his weapons spitting death. The rifleman on the right side was hit inches above his belt with three of the Beretta’s 9 mm parabellum rounds. They shoved him backward, his rifle sending a spray of bullets wildly into the air as his finger froze in a death grip on the AK-47’s trigger until the magazine was spent and the bolt clicked onto an open chamber. As he stumbled under weak knees into a sitting position, he dropped his weapon, never knowing the origin of the rounds that were ending his life. With a short low scream that turned quickly into a hard grunt, the gunner fell onto his back while clutching his guts in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood that surged warm and steaming into his hands.

      The man on the left was dispatched by two heavy rounds that roared within a millisecond of each other from the mouth of Bolan’s Desert Eagle. The steel-jacketed rounds caught the guy midchest, tossing him like a rag doll into the brush alongside the tracks where he landed on his back, arms outstretched.

      On the bridge above, the men standing next to the SUV searched for the source of gunfire but, before they could locate it, Bolan’s flatbed passed under their position and he became shielded from their weapons by the cargo strapped to the car behind him. Cursing, they scrambled to the other side of the bridge and watched the cars passing underneath. Two of the four opened fire with their Uzis, hosing the flatbeds with a steady stream of 9 mm rounds that sparked and whined as they ricocheted off the metal couplings and tracks.

      Once he was beyond their position, Bolan quickly holstered his weapons and pulled himself out from under the railroad car. He peered around the edge of the bullet-riddled canvas in time to see four men dropping from the bridge onto the cargo-laden flatbed three down the line from his. The fixed wooden stocks on their Uzis told Bolan they were carrying older models, but even the earliest versions were formidable killing machines.

      The men were obviously planning to work their way forward until they came to Bolan’s position. As he visualized his attackers working as a team, covering one another with a forward wall of lead while advancing up both sides of the cargo on each flatbed, Bolan knew there