“Go.”
“The van has more hostiles unloading. I count four.”
“They coming my way?”
“Not if I can help it,” Grimaldi said.
“Clear. Thanks.”
With the Colt Commando leading the way, the lanky Stony Man pilot came up in a crouch and closed the distance between himself and the group of shooters. As he neared them, he heard snatches of muttered conversation. He recognized a couple of words as Russian. What the hell was going on? he wondered. What did the Russians have to do with this? Where they Russian mafiya?
One of the gunners gestured at the door leading from the garage into the apartment building. The others stood by, listening to his orders. Grimaldi listened just long enough to realize he’d garner no good information from them as long as they continued to speak Russian. He came up from the shadows, raised the Commando to his shoulder, the retractable buttstock snug against his body.
One of the hardmen saw him. The Russian simultaneously opened his mouth to shout a warning and brought up his hand, which clutched a submachine gun. Grimaldi triggered the Commando and unleashed a swarm of 5.56 mm rippers from the weapon that drilled into the guy’s chest. His target jerked in place for a moment under the onslaught of autofire. Grimaldi turned slightly and caught a second hardman under a withering hail of fiery death.
Simultaneously the man who’d been handing out orders moved into action. He spun in Grimaldi’s direction, dropped into a crouch and loosed a burst of autofire from an Uzi. The rounds hammered into the concrete just in front of Grimaldi. While the guy tried to improve his aim, the Stony Man pilot returned the favor with another burst from the Commando. The bullets sliced the air just past the man’s face. Though they missed flesh, the guy jerked back hard to get out of the line of fire, and the motion caused him to lose his balance and stumble back a couple of steps. In the same instant Grimaldi triggered his weapon again. The ensuing burst stitched across the guy’s torso, causing a trail of crimson geysers to explode from his chest before he collapsed to the ground.
Tires squealed, and Grimaldi responded by wheeling around toward the noise. The van was hurtling toward him, quickly gaining speed. The pilot dived sideways, throwing his body between a pair of cars. He grunted when his body hit the concrete, and bolts of pain shot out from his shoulder where it collided with the ground. The van roared by, just missing him.
Pulling himself to his feet, Grimaldi caught sight of the van. Brake lights glowed red and rubber squealed against concrete as the vehicle slowed. He rested the Commando on the roof of the parked car in front of him and tapped the trigger. The 5.56 mm slugs hammered into the van, sparking off its steel skin.
The weapon ran dry, and Grimaldi let the weapon hang on its strap while he replaced it with the Beretta 92 that rode in a shoulder holster. He raised the weapon and tried to draw a bead on the van. Before he could line up a good shot, the vehicle had turned a corner and was rolling down a ramp to a lower floor.
The pilot sprinted forward, but by the time he reached the ramp, the van had disappeared. He heard tires squealing from the floor below him. Whoever was driving obviously wanted to get the hell out of the garage and put some distance between themselves and the firefight.
Grimaldi ran to the nearest stairwell and sprinted down to the ground floor. Hitting the release bar on the door, he burst through the doorway, into another level of parking. He arrived in time to see the van hurtling out of the garage.
BOLAN GLIDED DOWN THE steps, the Beretta in a two-handed grip. A voice rose up from the floors below and the soldier froze, straining to hear. The voice definitely sounded female, and he guessed it was Gillen.
He had to descend another flight of steps before the voices gained more clarity.
“I told you,” he heard Gillen say, “I don’t know where Lang is.”
“And I told you, I don’t care. You’re coming with me.”
“Damn it!”
A sharp slapping sound reached Bolan’s ears. Gillen yelped in surprise and pain. Bolan felt his face and neck flush hot with anger and his jaw clenched tight. By now, he had moved about one floor above Gillen and her captor. He deliberately slowed his pace so he could monitor the situation without alarming the gunman and putting Gillen in greater danger. They were continuing to descend the stairwell.
The sound of someone pressing on a door’s release bar reached Bolan. He walked around the landing, spotted the man pushing open the door with one hand and motioning Gillen to go through it with the hand holding a gun. The Executioner stood fast for a couple of seconds to give Gillen enough time to pass through the door.
In the meantime, the big American locked the Beretta’s barrel on Gillen’s captor. Bolan cleared his throat.
The man spun, his pistol hunting for a target. Bolan tapped the Beretta’s trigger and a triburst lanced into the guy’s ribs, breaking bone and drilling into his torso. The hardman staggered back a step, hitting the wall behind him, then raised his weapon and snapped off a wild shot that sounded like a thunderclap in the cramped confines of the stairwell.
The Beretta sighed again. This time, the slugs punched into the man’s heart and killed him. His body slammed against the wall, leaving a crimson smear as it slid to the floor.
Bolan raced down the steps and was through the door in seconds. He found himself on the bottom floor of the garage. The sound of footfalls thudding against the concrete reached him. He looked forty-five degrees to the right and saw Gillen moving at a dead run to get away from him. Before he could call out to her, she stole a glance over her shoulder, saw him standing there and kicked the speed up another notch.
The soldier muttered a curse and raced after her. He couldn’t blame her for running. Despite his assurances that he was there to help, he was a complete stranger and she’d watched several people die violently at his hands in a short span of time. She’d also almost gotten kidnapped while under his “protection.”
So, no, he couldn’t blame her for running away. But it made his job much harder. The soldier poured on the speed to try to bridge the distance between them. He also holstered the Beretta, guessing that the sight of a gun wasn’t helping matters, either. He began to gain on her, the distance between them shrinking to about ten yards. He could hear her breathing, loud, but measured, as though she’d trained as a runner.
She turned right and ran for an exit. The turn cost her some speed and she took it wide, providing Bolan a chance to pivot and head after her diagonally. She stopped to pull open the door and he was able to close in on her, wrapping his arms around her upper body and pinning her arms against her.
“Let me go,” she shouted as she struggled.
“Gillen,” Bolan said, “I’m here to help.”
She continued to struggle. Raising her foot, she stomped down hard on the ground, just missing Bolan’s foot.
“Damn it. Stop!”
Sirens wailed in the distance. From his peripheral vision, Bolan saw someone approaching. He whipped his head around, anticipating trouble. He found Grimaldi walking toward them, the Colt Commando slung over his shoulder, a wide grin playing on his lips.
“Unhand her, knave,” Grimaldi said.
