shoulder, ruining his sport coat and shirt. Beneath the shredded material, the Executioner felt the heat. It was much like a bad sunburn.
Bolan didn’t let the close call slow him. Rolling to his side, he came up on his belly with the MP-5 gripped in his right hand. Using his left to raise his chest off the ground and give the 30-round magazine room for clearance, he fired again.
Three more RBCD slugs took out another dark man with a beard.
Bolan rolled again as more AK rounds struck the tarmac where he had been a second earlier. These new attackers were better shots. He’d have to keep moving.
Squeezing the trigger once more, the Executioner dropped yet another shooter. This time, the Executioner rolled back the other way, to the spot where he’d fired first toward the terminal. Using the same one-handed grip, he downed another pair of gunners before the MP-5 bolt locked back, empty.
Dropping the dry subgun, Bolan drew his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The roar of the big handgun was thunderous.
Bolan watched the force of the huge hollowpoint round knock an oncoming attacker back two steps, then throw him to the ground on his back. Another squeeze of the trigger blew off the top half of another man’s head. Then, suddenly, gunfire sounded from behind the men running toward him.
And the attackers started falling to the ground without the Executioner even pulling the trigger.
Bolan looked past the men in green and saw that finally the airport police had intervened. He downed the final man coming from the terminal with another .44 Magnum slug, then rose to his feet, sprinting toward the Learjet.
If his MP-5 had run dry, Grimaldi’s was bound to have done the same by now. And the pilot—whose primary job was to fly airplanes rather than get into gunfights—usually carried only a Smith & Wesson Model 66 with a two-and-a-half-inch barrel.
And six .357 Magnum bullets weren’t going to last long in a fight like this one.
Dropping to the ground as soon as he reached the Learjet, Bolan rolled under the plane in time to see Grimaldi swing the cylinder out of his wheelgun, reach into the pocket of his faded leather bomber jacket and produce a speedloader. Bolan fired at a man not ten yards away as the pilot calmly and steadily refreshed his revolver with another six rounds.
The Executioner’s .44 Magnum round caught the man in the chest, just left of center, and squarely in the heart. He twirled a full circle, then dropped his AK-47 and fell to the ground.
Only three men were left now, but they were close. Swinging the Desert Eagle to the side, Bolan pulled back on the trigger and sent another 240-grain .44 Magnum slug into the skull of the nearest man.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw a deadly grin on the face of his pilot as Grimaldi shot the next man in the gut with his S&W. The knees of the man in green buckled, and the attacker knelt on the tarmac, one hand pushing against his lower abdomen in an attempt to keep his intestines inside.
Grimaldi fired again, and this time his Magnum hollowpoint round struck higher. The kneeling man flew backward as the 125-grain bullet expanded inside him.
Only one gunner remained, and Bolan watched him drop his rifle and throw up his hands as he realized he was alone. Fear fell across his face like a suddenly raging rainstorm.
Bolan was pleased. It would be good to have at least one man still alive to question. He wanted to know who these men were.
Just as importantly, he wanted to know how they knew he was coming. And when.
But it was not to be.
The fear on their adversary’s face suddenly disappeared. He reached behind his back and seized a Russian Tokarev pistol. He raised the weapon, aiming it at the Executioner.
Bolan and Grimaldi fired simultaneously.
Both rounds struck within an inch of each other, destroying the man’s heart, as well as their chances of finding out who he was. And who he represented.
By now, several airport security officers had arrived at the plane, and one had squirmed under the Learjet’s belly to join them.
Bolan turned his head and looked at the man with contempt. What had taken them so long to enter the foray? Cowardliness? Laziness? A lack of discipline, perhaps?
Whatever the reason, the airport cops had been of little help. Bolan and Grimaldi had taken out ninety percent of the attackers themselves. But there was another possibility. Could the Khartoum airport cops have been in league with these men, whoever they were? It would help explain how all of the men had gotten their AK-47s, Uzis, pistols and other weapons through the metal detectors and other security controls around the airport’s perimeter.
The Executioner made a mental note not to trust the police—at least not the ones at the airport. Maybe none of the Sudanese National Police, for that matter.
Now, with the battle finally over for real, Bolan, Grimaldi and the security cop all rose to their feet.
“I am Captain Makkah,” the man in the blue uniform said. “You are the American we were told was coming?”
Bolan nodded.
“Then please accept my apology for the way you were welcomed. As well as my apology for the fact that these men somehow got onto the premises. And the tardiness of my men in coming to your aid.”
“Who are they?” the Executioner asked.
Makkah shrugged. “My guess is that they are Ethiopians. Either regular army or CUD rebels. Both wear these unmarked fatigues when they illegally enter our country.”
Bolan frowned. “But we’re in Khartoum,” he said. “I was told the civil war in Ethiopia had crossed into Sudan. But this far away from the border?”
Makkah shrugged again. “With these greenies, which is what we call both sides since they remain unmarked, you never know.” He coughed into a closed fist, then said, “Please, then.” He turned back toward the Learjet. “I think your craft will need some repair work.”
The Executioner took a step back and looked at the plane. The wild shots of the attacking greenies had left holes up and down the plane. He looked at Grimaldi.
The pilot nodded sadly.
Makkah leaned down, yelling under the plane. “Sergeant Hara!” he shouted. “Come forward!”
A chubby black man with sergeant’s stripes on the upper arms of his blue uniform blouse crawled awkwardly under the plane, then rose to his feet. “Yes, sir!” he said, offering a stiff salute.
“See to it that this plane is checked out completely.” Makkah turned toward Grimaldi. “You are the pilot, I assume.”
Grimaldi had already started walking the length of the plane, checking the damage. He nodded.
“Please feel free to accompany the sergeant and assist our mechanics in evaluating and repairing the damage,” the captain said. “And, of course, all work will be paid for by the airport.”
Bolan studied the man closely. He still didn’t trust him. “What’s CUD stand for?” he asked.
