package behind just to be sure.
Bolan got to his feet and raced back to the entrance opposite the formerly concealed door. Using the wall as cover, he aimed around the corner and simply shot the mine.
The explosion rocked the room, decimating the books and knickknacks on the shelves in the judge’s chambers. The smoke was still swirling as Bolan burst through it.
The court was a shambles. The explosion at the chambers’ door had done only minor damage, but the terrorists had trashed the place while waiting with the hostages. Whatever wasn’t nailed down had been turned over and even shredded. Law books and court records were strewed everywhere. The American flag had been torn to rags, its pole thrust through the seal on the wall behind the judge’s bench.
There were several bodies.
A couple were bailiffs, their guns missing from their holsters. One had been shot. The other had been stabbed repeatedly by someone who obviously enjoyed his work.
No one opposed Bolan. The courtroom was empty. The entire building vibrated under the buffeting of the helicopter overhead, which would be only a couple yards above his position right now. He felt it as much as heard it.
More mines had been stashed in the stairwell leading up to the balcony, but this time the soldier was ready for them. He skirted the stairs on one side until the steps were chest height, then lifted himself up over the railing, well out of the effective kill zone of the explosives. He hit the stone steps and climbed them two at a time. The balcony was clear of weaponry. A set of double doors took him to a small anteroom.
The sentry stationed within was pressed against the wall opposite the door. As he leveled his sawed-off shotgun, Bolan swiveled, bringing up the M-4.
The shotgun roared, the impact slamming into Bolan’s gut like a hammer blow. Air rushed from his lungs, and he went down, landing on his back, hard.
The gunman was standing between Bolan and the ladder to the roof. Behind the shotgunner’s head, the soldier could see the metal hatch. It was closed.
Then all he could see was the barrel of the shotgun. The neo-Nazi racked the pump action.
“Bye-bye, asshole.”
Chapter 3
Black spots swam in Bolan’s vision. He ignored the pain, ignored the burning in his chest, ignored his inability to take in air. Instead, he snapped his feet out and together, creating a scissors that collided with the shotgunner’s lead ankle.
Bone snapped.
The gunner screamed and folded, collapsing to one knee as the stark white bone of a compound fracture jutted through the flesh of his leg and a rip in his pant leg. Bolan pushed himself to a sitting position, grabbed the butt of his combat dagger, yanked it free of its scabbard and rammed the curved tip through the neo-Nazi’s neck. The blade penetrated up and through, lodging inside his skull, killing him.
Bolan could still hear the helicopter, which was practically on top of him, over the courthouse roof. Just beyond that closed hatch.
“G-Force to Striker!” His transceiver sounded again. “Sarge, we have a big problem here. Washington Metro has scrambled a D.C. MPD chopper to protect the cargo helicopter they’re bringing in for the evacuation. The MPD is blocking me. Repeat, Sarge, the Metropolitan Police Department is protecting the cargo chopper! It’s a Boeing Model 234 Long Range. If the authorities let them fly loose, they could be six hundred miles away before they need to refuel!”
Bolan tried to speak, but his breath caught in his throat. He focused on short, shallow breaths. The tension was bad, but he thought it was starting to ease.
He focused on his body, lying very still. Carefully, he moved his hands to his stomach, probing. He found his canvas war bag instead. The fabric was shredded. Magazines and other pieces of equipment were spilling out.
Sitting up, Bolan assessed the damage. Every breath still felt like fire, but they were coming more easily now. A double O buckshot pellet spilled out of his war bag, followed by another. He realized then what had happened. As his body had turned, the sturdy canvas war bag had shifted in front of him. The heavy shot had punched him with all the force of the close-range blast, but the gear in the bag had absorbed some of its energy. The result was a badly bruised abdomen for Bolan—and some items dented and destroyed—but no serious damage that he could detect. With some difficulty he pulled the long, wide strap free from around his neck and over his shoulder. The canvas bag would keep.
Pushing to his hands and knees, he dragged himself to the dead sentry, gripped the hilt of his knife with one hand and pushed against the dead man’s forehead with the other. The blade finally came free. Bolan wiped it against the man’s battle dress uniform before resheathing it.
He hit the steps of the ladder and grunted as ripples of pain rushed through him. He would be feeling that close call for a while. It didn’t matter now; he had no time to worry.
Shoving the hatch open with his shoulder, Bolan risked a look.
Bullets tore into the roof to either side of him. He let himself fall, crashing heavily to the floor below, slowing his descent only by gripping the ladder’s uprights with his knees as he slid down. Catching his shoulder at an imperfect angle, he cracked his head and swore as his teeth rattled.
The gunners above ripped the hatch up and chased him with automatic fire from their micro-Uzis. The opening hatch admitted a small tornado of wind churned up by the cargo helicopter. The neo-Nazis were visible briefly in silhouette against the sky. There were no hostages nearby.
Rolling to dodge the bullets, Bolan yanked a grenade from his web gear, jerked out the pin and counted. The neo-Nazis were just moving to close the access hatch when, as if thrusting a shot put in the Olympics, the Executioner heaved his grenade through the opening. He continued his roll as the explosion rattled the metal hatch in its frame, buckling it. Plaster dust and fragments of concrete pelted his arms while he covered his head from the debris.
“Jack,” said Bolan, his ears ringing. “G-Force, come in.”
There was no response.
He reached up and touched his ear. The earbud transceiver was gone. It had to have been dislodged during his fall. If Grimaldi was still speaking to him, Bolan’s hearing was too far gone at the moment to perceive it.
The only option was the ladder, then the roof. Grimaldi would have to look after things in the air as best he could; there was no way for the soldier to ask for help or suggest options.
The noise of the chopper above was changing pitch, growing more powerful. The craft was lifting off.
Bolan hit the ladder, pausing when the steel structure creaked and groaned, obviously loosened in its mounts by the explosion. The soldier kept going, again putting his shoulder against the hatch, this time straining with all his might against the bent, hot metal. He finally succeeded in dislodging the cover, and pushed through, hitting the roof of the courthouse amid the gritty windstorm that was the big helicopter’s rotor wash.
The chopper was hovering three feet off the roof, its doors open. When the neo-Nazis saw Bolan and, more importantly, his modified M-4 carbine, they opened up on him from the chopper with their Kalashnikovs. The soldier took cover behind the only object close enough and strong enough to save him: a large external air-conditioning unit squatting
