Oblivion Pact. Don Pendleton

life. A soldier simply had to decide what was more important, a few more minutes of life, or dying with dignity. And hopefully taking a couple of the bastards with you straight to hell! he thought.

      Suddenly, there was a flash of bright light on top of the elevated roadway, and a fiery dart lanced across the field to slam into the smashed motorcycle. The explosion threw chunks of burning bike far and wide.

      Diving to the side, Bolan rolled through the reeking mud trying to get far away from his point of arrival, then started crawling deeper into the gooey marsh until he reached scummy water. Pausing to catch his breath, Bolan felt his ribs grind and wondered if he had a full break. The body armor had saved his life, but now it was deadweight, and he reluctantly cut it free.

      Moving with speed, he holstered the Desert Eagle and did a quick check for any further damage, then dug out the small medical kit behind his back. Thankfully it was still intact, and Bolan shot himself full of painkillers, just enough to dull the pain without impairing his judgment. Then wrapped duct tape around his muddy chest. For about the next hour, he’d feel fine, then all bets were off.

      Struggling to recall the details of the airport, Bolan glanced at the starry sky to get his bearings, then headed due north, away from the airport. That would be another trap.

      Finding a culvert, Bolan sloshed through the dirty water, disturbing countless frogs and huge clouds of buzzing insects. He may have been stung once or twice, but the painkillers were doing their job, and he felt nothing. There was only a sort of throbbing in his limbs from the combination of drugs coursing through his veins.

      The culvert fed into the Ohio River, but bypassing that, Bolan continued northward until he encountered an old abandoned cement factory. It was quite possibly one of the worst locations he had ever found for making a last stand, but the huge feeder towers made an excellent landmark. Now he turned sharply west, wading through fields of debris and garbage, rats constantly underfoot, until he spotted a small squat building set alongside the river.

      As Bolan stumbled for the ancient factory, there came unbidden into his mind the adage: to achieve success plan for failure. He thought that was Ben Franklin, but couldn’t be sure at the moment. However, it was absolutely true. Bolan laid out a plan for battle with extreme care, and no matter how perfect it seemed, he always memorized an escape route. On the roof of the cement factory was a duffel bag full of food, medical supplies, weapons and a cell phone. Everything he needed to keep breathing, and to call for an immediate evac. Just a few more yards, is all, he thought, almost there...

      The boom of a long-range sniper rifle echoed across the landscape, and Bolan felt something hot briefly tug on his wet shirt. Damn, that was close! From the sound he could tell it was a .50-caliber rifle, and those were very bad news. Even the worst one he knew about still had a range of a quarter mile, and the best easily tripled that. As long as he was outside, he was in range for the hidden sniper. Only one answer to that problem.

      Redoubling his efforts, Bolan sprinted across the field, zigzagging randomly to throw off the sniper’s aim. The big rifle boomed twice more, but hit nothing.

      Reaching the rear fire door to the factory, Bolan checked the wax seal he had placed on the lintel. It was intact, meaning that nobody had gained entrance to the factory since his last visit, or at least, not through this door.

      As Bolan forced open the metal door, he struggled to remember if there were other doors, but the information eluded him. Closing the fire door, the soldier threw the heavy bolt he had installed only that afternoon, then turned and started directly for the stairs to the second level. There was an access ladder up there, and—

      In a thunderclap of ripping steel, the fire door exploded off its hinges.

      Taking refuge behind a concrete pillar, Bolan watched as the door rattled about the rows of hulking machinery until finally coming to a rest in a pool of moonlight streaming in through a skylight. The fire door was deeply dented in the middle, the hinges and deadbolt only tattered remains of twisted metal. Unfortunately, that meant the sniper was a professional. He had a variety of bullets for the big-bore weapon, including blunt-nosed rounds perfect for smashing open doors or knocking down brick walls.

      Changing direction, Bolan lumbered to the elevated control room. The office was dark, the air thick with dust, but the talcum powder he had spread across the floor was undisturbed. Going to a fuse box, he quickly screwed in a couple of the old-fashioned fuses, then threw the main switch.

      None of the overhead lights came on, that would have been suicide, but about half of the cement machinery squealed into operation; stampers loudly banging, degreasers hissing steam, and a long snaking conveyor belt squealing in protest at its decades-long slumber being so rudely disturbed.

      Easing open the door, Bolan slid out on his belly and crawled directly under a large piece of machinery. The air down there smelled of grease, rust, dust and petrified mouse droppings. Staying perfectly still, Bolan waited until somebody came into view. From this angle he couldn’t see his face, so the instant he had a good view of the sniper’s feet he fired the Desert Eagle.

      The man’s shoe exploded into tattered leather, and he screamed, falling to the dirty floor and grabbing his mutilated foot with both hands in an effort to staunch the blood.

      Moving to another dark machine, Bolan fired fast three times at a support leg. The booming .50-caliber rounds from the Desert Eagle ricocheted off the steel, and the man cried out, then went silent.

      One down, and an unknown number to go, Bolan noted with little satisfaction. He had been ambushed like a rank amateur! But the soldier tried to move past that. This wasn’t the time nor the place for recriminations. Stay cool, stay sharp, kill on sight, live another day.

      Rising slowly upward in the shadowy darkness between two hulking machines of unknown purpose, Bolan tried to move again as he studied the rattling, clanking factory. Smoke was rising from one of the distant machines, and he had no idea if that was just years of accumulated dust burning off the hot metal, or if the factory was on fire. Then he went stiff at a soft mewling noise, followed by crying.

      Remaining still, he tried to track the noise when the source came into view. Tied to the conveyor belt was a woman dressed in dirty rags. She was struggling to get free, but clearly making no progress.

      His only guess was that Kegan had grabbed some homeless person and dragged them along as a bargaining chip. Only now her status had abruptly changed to bait. Bolan had no idea where the convoluted belt went, or how Kegan had gained access, but since this was a cement factory, the chance of it ending at a pile of feather pillows was roughly zero to the power of ten.

      “Surrender, feeb! Only I can save her!” Kegan boasted, firing short bursts from his weapon about randomly.

      Bolan said nothing. Feeb? So he thought Bolan was an FBI agent, eh? Interesting.

      Just then, a light flickered into life on the distant ceiling. Aiming and firing in a single motion, Bolan blew out the fluorescent tube, then darted back under the machine before the rain of glass shards arrived.

      “Oh, you’re fast!” Kegan yelled from somewhere, the words echoing among the machines. “But I’ve got ten guys and you’re all alone!” He paused as if waiting for a response. When none came, he continued, “How about a deal? Tell me who you work for, and I’ll let you leave, alive and unharmed!”

      Bullshit, he’d be shot on sight, Bolan knew, but that wasn’t the Executioner’s main concern at the moment. The woman on the belt was slowly heading away, and Bolan had to get close, even though he knew in advance it was a trap. But he couldn’t allow a noncombatant to die in his place.

      Searching around on the filthy floor with a bare hand, Bolan found a couple of large bolts that had worked their way free from the machines. Holstering the Desert Eagle, Bolan pulled out his last grenade, yanked out the pin, then dropped one of the bolts, and threw the other.

      “Grenade!” a man bellowed, and Bolan heard the sound of people running.

      Releasing the handle on the grenade, he now threw it ahead of them, then scrambled onto the conveyor belt and started sprinting.