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The Executioner®
Firestorm
Don Pendleton’s
Special thanks and acknowledgment to
Tim Tresslar for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Prologue
He was sure his heart would explode.
Javier Montesinos thrashed his way through the latticework of vines and branches that covered the jungle floor. Greens and browns rushed at him in a kaleidoscopic flurry. He sucked for air, felt it burn the insides of his overtaxed lungs. Blood thundered in his ears and his arms pumped wildly at his sides as he tried to gain distance from the monster on his trail.
The sound of an engine’s growl intermingled with the crash of branches and foliage being ripped from the ground, snapped and crushed beneath something big. Motorcycle engines whined, the insistent buzzing nearly swallowed up by the unseen vehicle’s thunder.
Montesinos wanted to stop, wanted to rest, to hide.
He could do none of these things.
He could only run. He needed to escape, to call Maria and let her know what’d gone down. That they were coming for her.
A motorcycle’s whine grew louder. The CIA agent tightened his grip on the Uzi he carried, but kept his pace steady. He’d stolen the weapon from one of the camp’s guards, snapping the man’s neck in return.
He’d covered a couple more yards when something hurtled from the brush. In a blur of black and silver, it shot past him into a large clearing that lay just ahead.
The driver whipped the motorcycle into a J-turn and brought it around 180 degrees. The biker paused, the black shield that covered his face locked on the exhausted agent. He revved the engine, but kept the bike stationary. One hand drifted from the handlebars and slid for a pistol clipped to his belt.
Montesinos jerked to a halt. His chest heaved as he sucked greedily at the exhaust-tainted air. He felt light-headed and the sudden stop caused him to stumble. He caught himself and raised the Uzi. He knew the magazine was nearly empty, depleted by his spraying his pursuers with volleys of gunfire.
The agent heard the rumbling of the big machine as it closed in from behind.
In the instant that he pulled the trigger, the motorcycle blasted forth and bore down on him. The gun chugging out a line of fire, he thrust himself sideways, narrowly escaping the bike’s onslaught. When he struck the ground, he ignored the sharp ends of branches that poked into his body. He focused on his target.
Steel-jacketed slugs struck the frame and sparked against the metal, etching a line along the vehicle’s side. The bullets punched through the rider’s leather boots. An anguished cry exploded from the man on the motorcycle. Frenzied by the sudden onslaught of pain, he twisted the handlebars more than ninety degrees and turned the front wheel into a brake.
Montesinos watched as the bike’s rear tire rocketed off the ground until the vehicle toppled over. The force launched the driver from the bike and sent him airborne. When he struck the ground, his shooting hand broke the fall, and the impact snapped bone, eliciting another cry from the wounded man.
Montesinos hauled himself to his feet. His breath still ragged, as much from rage as exhaustion, he lumbered across the clearing toward the downed biker, who scrambled to unsheathe the pistol holstered on his hip. The Uzi barked again and a tightly grouped burst pounded through the rider’s face shield and into his skull.
The Uzi’s clip emptied, Montesinos hurled it aside.
The whine of additional motorcycles swelled in his ears. He whipped his head left, spotted three of them crashing from different directions through the trees and brush that ringed the clearing. He knelt next to the dead man and snagged the handgun still holstered on his hip. It was a .50-caliber Desert Eagle.
Crouched behind the motorcycle, he waited for the riders to close in, rather than chance a long-distance shot through a web of tree limbs and other obstacles.
The nearest reached a point about fifteen yards away. A figure seated on the back of the motorcycle pointed a black object at him. A heartbeat later it began to spit flame. Bullets whizzed out from the forest, buzzing past him like unseen insects.
At about ten yards, the Desert Eagle thundered three times. The driver jerked as a round drilled into his torso. Suddenly flaccid arms detached from the handgrips and the bullet’s velocity pushed the driver into the second rider who was scrambling to shove the corpse from his bike and get hold of the handgrips. The second motorcycle launched into a zigzag pattern, apparently to evade any further shots.
Montesinos rose, shoved the Desert Eagle into the waistband of his torn blue jeans and grabbed the handlebar of the fallen motorcycle that lay before him.
But before he could straddle the machine, he saw a big black vehicle lumbering toward him, pushing down small trees, crushing greenery.
He muttered
