burst and the three men did a deathly jitterbug as the rounds shredded their bodies. Bolan spun toward the picnic tables and let off another burst, taking out a fourth gunman, who’d been running forward when the grenade had gone off.
Slowly, the Executioner stalked through the warehouse. The stun grenade should have flattened everyone, or at least disorientated them. A shape staggered through the smoke, clutching a rifle. Bolan waited for it to draw closer. One of the guards, coughing, obviously deafened. He stared blurrily at Bolan, and comprehension crept sluggishly into his gaze. He began to raise his weapon and Bolan put him down.
He stepped over the body and headed for Ackroyd, who was crouching beneath one of the picnic tables. Nearby, a gunman had flipped over another table and was using it as cover. When he caught sight of Bolan, he let loose a burst from his AR-15. Bolan reacted with almost-feline agility, darting to the side as bullets chewed the concrete floor. He twisted midsprint, spraying the overturned table. As he did so, he saw Ackroyd mouth something. The old man’s eyes were wide and full of warning.
More shots cut toward him from the other side of the building, and Bolan saw the seventh man crouched behind the conveyer belt. He’d obviously heard the gunfire and cut his smoke break short. The Executioner thumbed the pin out of the remaining M84 and sent the grenade sailing right at the seventh man with an underhand lob. Bolan threw himself flat. The stun grenade went off with a burst of pyrotechnics, igniting the gasoline fumes on the loading dock and triggering a fiery explosion.
The seventh man disintegrated in the blast and Bolan was sent skidding across the floor. The UMP clattered from his grip as he rolled across the concrete with bone-bruising velocity. His back smashed against one of the soda machines and it fell on top of him, pinning him to the floor. A moment later, the second toppled across the first and the ember of pain that had begun to flicker in the back of Bolan’s skull exploded into blazing incandescence. Fire alarms began to blare and somewhere above, the warehouse’s sprinkler system activated. Water splashed down in sheets, stinging Bolan’s eyes and face. Black, oily smoke mingled with the lighter variety from the M84s and Bolan began to cough. He shoved at one of the pop machines, trying to shift it. It rocked slightly, and the pressure on his legs eased. If he could raise it high enough, he might be able to slide his legs out. A sound caused Bolan to look up from his exertions.
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