in a cloud of dust, casting its lights onto the ambush site littered with three bodies. As Bolan moved in a crouch through the woods to put distance between himself and the new arrivals, he heard the opening of a door followed by loud cursing in a thick brogue. A quick burst of automatic fire sliced through the trees at least fifty yards to his left. It was an obvious gesture of anger and frustration, and it reinforced Bolan’s earlier opinion that his opponents were deficient in both their training and discipline. This lack of professionalism would be a factor he’d leverage to his advantage when they finally clashed again, which was bound to happen sooner or later.
The SUV wasn’t able to follow him through the trees, but Bolan knew that the stand would eventually end and he’d find himself at the edge of a sheep pasture somewhere with no available cover. If the men in the vehicle were locals, they’d know the place where the woods ended, and that’s where they’d be waiting.
Crouching behind a thick tree, Bolan checked his watch for the time: 2:30 a.m. The summer equinox had occurred a scant two weeks earlier, which meant that, at this time of year, sunrise came quickly to the regions up around the fifty-fifth parallel. The area was at about the same latitude as Glasgow, where dawn would break around four-thirty. Bolan didn’t know how long it would take him to reach the tracks where he’d heard the trains rumbling, but he thought it would be to his advantage to get there before daybreak.
As he made his way through the woods, Bolan recalled the information contained in the second communiqué that had been delivered to the local CIA office and forwarded to the President. The Apprentices, a rogue splinter group claiming to be sponsored by the Orange Order, was demanding immediate disarmament of the IRA, and international recognition for the legitimacy of home rule in Belfast. Once and for all, they wanted the world—and especially the United States—to endorse the existence of two nations in Ireland and to formally declare that there was no chance the two would ever be united. Once and for all, they wanted to end the Irish conflict, and they were prepared to use terrorism to force the result.
They further said they were about to release a list of prominent Catholics, whose assassinations were being scheduled to occur until the process of IRA disarmament was complete. And, finally, they were threatening the United States with a domestic terrorist attack if their demands were not met by the end of July. That gave the CIA less than a month to find and destroy the people behind the plot.
It was an insane scenario, made viable by the global terrorism that had spread like a runaway cancer since the fateful assault on New York’s World Trade Center.
As Bolan pushed forward toward the sounds of distant trains, one thing was clear in his mind—any mission that prevented another terrorist attack on the United States was worth his involvement.
The Executioner had been deployed, and he was prepared to give as good as he got.
BOLAN ARRIVED AT THE TRAIN tracks as the first suggestions of predawn light were touching the eastern sky. He estimated he was eight or nine miles away from where he had left his car, but, luckily, the tracks were configured north to south. As long as he jumped a train going the right way, it would bring him closer to his transportation.
He paused at the edge of the woods and, while remaining concealed by the mulberry bushes that populated a narrow gully extending from the trees to the tracks, he reached into the pouch containing his night-vision goggles. With the coming dawn, ambient light was greatly increased and, with it, came maximum visibility.
The SUV that had attacked him at the ambush site was nowhere to be seen and a quick glance around the area explained why. This section of track was as inaccessible to wheeled vehicles as the woods had been. A rushing mountain stream cut through the hilly area to the north and rough outcroppings littered the terrain on the other side of the tracks for as far as Bolan could see.
He heard the sound of a slow freight train coming his way, the steady clack of wheels on the rails indicating a speed that could probably be jumped. Placing the goggles back into their 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
