a row of burned-out buildings—drooping heaps of exposed steel, shattered windows and charred brick. The alley had come to an end. Bolan braked hard, steered left. The big tires screamed in protest as the SUV spun 180 degrees before finally coming to rest. The stench of burning rubber and the roar of approaching motorcycle engines filled the SUV’s interior as Bolan regrouped.
Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he backed onto a nearby curb, then cut the wheel right to straighten the vehicle. Thumbing the electric window’s switch, the warrior grabbed the MP-5’s pistol grip, hefted the weapon and jammed it through the open window. Bolan pushed the stock into his shoulder and steadied the weapon. Rytova had opened her own window and aimed the Beretta’s muzzle ahead.
The motorcyclists emerged from the alley, weapons spitting flame and lead as they raced their way to Bolan’s position. Two more motorcycles approached the Jeep from either side.
The Executioner triggered the subgun, sweeping the muzzle across the alley and hosing down the approaching bikers. Return fire smacked into the windshield and burned past Bolan’s arm as he continued laying down sustained blasts of hellfire. Hot shell casings from the MP-5 flew, and bounced across the windshield and hood. Gunsmoke swirled in Bolan’s face, stung his eyes.
The night burst into thunder and flames as a round from Bolan’s subgun ignited one of the motorcycles’ fuel tanks, the resulting blaze immolating the driver in a spontaneous funeral pyre.
Bolan’s peripheral gaze caught another of his original pursuers bearing down on the Jeep. Before he could react, Rytova unloaded a 3-shot burst from the Beretta. The Parabellum rounds pounded into the man’s chest, and his dead fingers simultaneously released the SMG and the handlebars. The rider fell backward from his two-wheeler while momentum carried the bike onward until it collided with a wall.
The soldier took down two more bikers with the MP-5 before it locked dry. In the same instant, Rytova’s weapon ran empty. Bolan extracted two more 20-round magazines for the Beretta and tossed them to Rytova. He reloaded his own weapon. Just as he prepared to resume fire, the remaining attackers turned nearly in unison and fled.
Bolan and Rytova shared confused looks.
“They ran?” Rytova asked.
A sinking feeling told Bolan otherwise.
“More like a strategic retreat,” he said. “That can only mean something bad for us.”
The beating of helicopter blades in the distance told the Executioner he was right.
3
A sleek black chopper, its landing lights extinguished, crested the jagged skyline of burned-out buildings that walled in Bolan and Rytova and darted toward its quarry. The craft’s handlers had ignited searchlights and locked the Jeep under a white glare. Rotor wash kicked up dirt and debris and swirled it about the street. The thrumming noise of the blades and motors threatened to drown out all other sound.
Bolan was already popping open his door. “Get out,” he yelled.
He watched as the helicopter closed in on the Jeep. Gunfire blossomed from the helicopter’s machine guns, and bullets chewed a path leading straight toward Rytova’s side of the vehicle. Stepping from her door would only hasten her death, Bolan realized. The woman froze for a moment as the chopper, which Bolan recognized as Russian-made, sliced its way toward them.
Reaching across the driver’s seat, he grabbed her arm and dragged her toward him. His touch broke her paralysis, and she began moving under her own steam to escape the vehicle. Just as she came free, a swarm of bullets thrashed the Jeep, first denting and eventually shredding the vehicle’s outer skin.
Bolan knew what was coming next. Rotor wash smacked against him like an invisible fist, threatening to knock him off balance. Pushing Rytova ahead of him, he fired up at the helicopter. Slugs from the MP-5 danced across the helicopter’s exterior but were no more effective than pelting an elephant with grains of sand.
Cutting across the street, Bolan tried to gain some combat stretch from the warbird. The telltale whoosh of a missile sounded over his shoulder. Glancing back, Bolan saw the weapon drill into the Jeep. Orange and yellow flames exploded upward from the strike point and rolled through the vehicle.
Bolan shoved Rytova hard into the alley from which they had emerged only moments before. With a gasp, she disappeared into the dark space.
Shock waves smacked into Bolan’s back, knocking him facefirst to the ground. He felt the MP-5 slip from his grasp as he went down. Landing in the dirt, Bolan felt solid walls of hellish heat pass over him. A door from the Jeep cut the air a foot above his head before burying itself in a nearby wall.
He gasped to regain the breath stolen from him by the explosion. Even with the greediest pulls, he captured only bits of the superheated air. His ears rang, drowning out all other sound.
As he tried to collect himself, Bolan saw the big predator turn on its nose, seeking him out. More autofire erupted from above. Bullets pounded a trail toward him as he struggled to crawl or roll away.
But even if he did, what then? He had the Desert Eagle, the Colt Python, a combat knife and two stun grenades, hardly enough arsenal to stop an air assault. Even the lost MP-5 would have done little for him.
Slender fingers dug under the straps of his web gear and tugged. Bolan looked up, saw Rytova trying to drag him from the kill zone, grimacing as she did. The effort of yanking his 200-plus-pound frame to safety was agonizing for the injured woman.
Bolan willed muscles to move and, with Rytova’s help, he came to his feet and the pair disappeared again into the alley just as a fresh barrage of gunfire rained from the helicopter and dug into the twin structures making up the corridor. Fire from the Jeep had spread to the already shattered structures near it.
Rytova, who had recovered the MP-5, handed the weapon back to Bolan. Maybe his gut had been right about the enigmatic woman.
Thick smoke rolled into the alley as Bolan and Rytova looked for an escape route. Each building stood four stories, but had no ground-level windows or fire escapes. Bolan noticed a wooden door to his left. Moving to the door, he tried the handle, but found it locked.
The helicopter flew over the alley. Wash from the blades cut through the heavy gray smoke and a searchlight scrambled over the walls and ground, scouring the area for signs of Bolan and Rytova.
Fisting the Desert Eagle, the soldier fired three rounds into the door’s handle and an accompanying dead-bolt lock. The rounds shattered both mechanisms, allowing the heavy wooden slab door to swing open.
The pair disappeared inside the building.
Holstering the pistol, Bolan raised the MP-5 and turned on a flashlight affixed to the front of his weapon. Running the white beam of light around the room, he saw a pair of deep porcelain sinks, a stainless-steel refrigerator and a stove, all of them weathered. The room smelled of boiled cabbage, fish and dish soap.
“A restaurant,” Rytova said.
Bolan nodded, instantly realizing the gesture was impossible to see in the darkened room.
“Keep moving,” he said. “More than likely they’re going to sink a couple of missiles in this place and burn it to the ground. We need to get the hell out of here before they do.”
Rytova
