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And then it ceased.
As swiftly as it had begun, the spinning, bruising tumble stopped. The vehicle lay on its left side. The creak of distorted metal and the sound of the wind penetrated their senses as they fought to push away the effects of the crash.
Bolan managed to hit the release button and free himself from his belt. He was on his side, pressed up against the driver’s door. He ached, and the side of his head was bloody from where he had banged against the window. He blinked his eyes a few times to get them back in focus. His attention was drawn to something above him.
It was Dukas, still caught in the restricting safety harness. In the pale light he could see the frustrated expression on her face.
“I can’t find the damn release,” she said.
Bolan sat up and reached between the tilted seats.
“Ready?”
He hit the button and Dukas slid from the harness and tumbled free. For a moment they were entangled, and in another place at another time Bolan might have enjoyed the contact. But their position left them vulnerable to attack, so any fleeting moment of closeness was abandoned instantly.
Dukas had the same thoughts and she hauled herself off him, ducking her head through the windshield gap, half falling as she pushed into the open, feeling her hands sink into the chill ooze of mud.
Bolan was close behind. He had spared a few seconds to search for the duffel bag holding his backup weapons, grabbing the handles and hauling the bag with him, then followed Dukas out of the Cherokee.
The cold rain hit him as he pushed to his feet, turning to see if his companion was safe. She was leaning against the vertical hood of the upturned Cherokee, checking the pistol he had given her earlier.
No need to remind her of the priorities, Bolan thought.
He took out the Beretta and made sure it was ready for use. He set it for single shots. He had two spare magazines for the weapon, plus the one already loaded. It would do. There wasn’t time to break out anything else. He checked the long slope they had come down. Headlights broke up the gloom, and he saw the dark figures clustered around the pursuit vehicles. The light faded just as quickly, and in that brief moment Bolan made his decision.
“Highway is in that direction,” he whispered. “We need to reach it if we can.”
Dukas nodded. Her face was slick with rain, her dark hair soaked.
Bolan touched her arm and pointed her in the direction they needed to go.
The ground underfoot was waterlogged and spongy. The mud clung to their feet and slowed them. The constant fall of sleet drove in at them. Bolan let Dukas pull ahead a few feet so he was able to keep her in sight. Bringing up the rear, he checked their back trail and saw the bouncing shafts of light from the pursuit vehicles as they headed slowly down the slope. They halted beside the overturned Cherokee, and Bolan could imagine the anger and frustration the crews would experience when they found it empty. Once they realized their quarry was still up and running they would pick up the chase again.
Up ahead Dukas lost her footing and went down on her hands and knees. Bolan reached her side and stood over her. About to offer a free hand to help, he was waved aside as she stood upright.
“I’m fine. Thanks for the gesture.” She pushed wet hair back from her mud-spattered face.
“Come on then,” he said.
They cut off across the muddy landscape, Bolan aware that the pair of vehicles would catch up with them soon enough. He was looking out for anything that might offer cover if the need arose, but there didn’t seem to be anything to break the unending stretch of relatively flat terrain.
The sudden crackle of autofire told them their pursuers were not waiting any longer. The shots were way off target.
“If those chase cars get in range, try for the tires. It should slow them. Put them on foot too,” he said.
“Seems reasonable,” Dukas answered without breaking her stride.
The first pursuit vehicle closed on them quickly and Bolan snapped out a single command.
“Down.”
Dukas dropped, splaying her body across the muddy earth, propping herself on her elbows, the pistol in a two-handed grip. The Executioner was down himself in the same breath, dropping the duffel bag beside him, the 93-R tracking the driver’s door.
The SUV was only yards from them, slowed almost to a stop as the occupants searched for their quarry.
“Did they see us?” Dukas asked above the hiss of the rain.
“Most likely didn’t,” Bolan answered. “Easy to miss us in these conditions.”
“What do we do?”
“Use it to our advantage. Start cutting down the odds. You go for that front tire. Now.”
She didn’t challenge his command, simply eased the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer around and stroked the trigger three times. The first shot missed. The next pair chunked into the tire, which blew with a soft sound. The SUV lurched to a stop.
Bolan hit the driver’s window with a pair of close shots, the glass imploding and the wheelman jerking in his seat as the 9 mm slugs hit home. Coming up on one knee Bolan triggered more shots at the SUV’s windows.
Confusion stalled the passengers and by the time they had overcome it, two were dead, another wounded, and the rest frantically pushed open the doors on the opposite side of the vehicle, tumbling clear. High ground clearance left them exposed, and Bolan laid his fire into the crouching figures, seeing one go down before the others broke apart.
“The other car’s coming,” Dukas warned.
“I see it,” Bolan said. “Start to back up, flat to the ground. And keep going. Take the bag with you.”
“What about—”
“Go.”
His tone warned her not to resist. Dukas wriggled away from her position, sliding her body through the greasy mud, dragging the duffel bag behind her. She had gone only a few yards when the stutter of a submachine gun sounded. She felt the impact as the line of slugs churned the earth. She continued to crawl, surprisingly calm despite the entirely new experience of being under hostile fire. There was something almost unreal about the situation, but she didn’t pause to question it. Later, if there was any later, she would.
Bolan had started to move in the opposite direction, working his way around to the rear of the stalled SUV. He was making his plan as he moved, aware of the ever-changing situation, using the confusion that had to have been present within the ranks of the opposition. They had been anticipating a run down of their quarry, not the opposite where the hunted became the hunter. Bolan’s strike against them had made them stop and reconsider. If he kept that feeling alive by taking the fight to them, rather than simply running, he might yet gain full advantage. It was worth the risk. Bolan had never lost a fight through quitting, and his warrior mentality always urged him forward, using superior thought and tactics.
He slithered his way through the mud, low to the ground, and he noticed that the gunfire had ceased. The targets had vanished and the gun crew was evaluating what to do next. They were in open country, the terrain unforgiving and the driving rain simply adding to the difficulty of locating their quarry. That was their problem. As Bolan got closer he saw figures silhouetted against their vehicles, with headlights still blazing. The enemy stood out clearly. It suggested that these men were not seasoned fighters in this kind of situation. He figured they were probably a hired gun crew from an urban background.
Bolan drew himself against the bulk of the vehicle and hauled himself up on one knee. Peering around the edge, he counted the opposition. Three close to the second car, a fourth standing off a few yards, cradling a submachine gun as he peered into the misty gloom.
“No way we’re going to find them out here,” one of the men said.
“Billingham said that it we don’t find ’em we don’t need to go back.”
Someone laughed nervously, then said, “What’s he going to do? Wipe us all out?”
“Now I know you never worked for him before, because that’s just what he will do.”
Bolan snapped in a fresh magazine and cocked the Beretta. He rose to his full height and stepped out from behind the SUV, his finger easing the selector switch to 3-round bursts.
He took out the SMG man first, the 9 mm bullets catching the guy in the chest as he turned to rejoin his three partners. The 93-R’s muzzle was already tracking in on the trio as the shot man went down. Bolan broke away from the SUV, moving in close as he triggered repeat bursts, the slugs ripping through clothing and into flesh, spinning his targets off their feet. They collided with one another as they toppled into the mud.
Bolan went directly to the SUV and opened the driver’s door. He slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine and swung the vehicle around, moving in the direction Dukas had been crawling. He braked and stepped out of the SUV.
“Erika? Over here,” he shouted.
In the beam of the lights he saw her mud-caked shape emerge from the mire, then haul herself toward him.
“Don’t,” she warned. “One crack and I’ll lose it.” She flicked mud from her face. “Can you believe women pay to have this stuff plastered over them to improve their looks?”
“In your case it looks like it’s working already,” Bolan said.
“Until I work that out I’ll consider it a compliment,” she said as she tramped by him. She yanked open the passenger door and dumped the duffel bag inside, then climbed into the SUV.
Bolan turned the vehicle in the direction of the distant highway, his mind working constantly. He needed to get them clear of this area, somewhere they could hole up temporarily and assess the events that had started when Erika Dukas had received a phone call from a friend sometime earlier that day.
2
Earlier that day—Falls Church, Virginia
Chill winds had been blowing from the north with a hint of snow in the fine rain misting the windshield of Erika Dukas’s 1965 Chevrolet Impala-SS. She drove steadily, aware of the gathering weariness that had started to impinge upon her being as she wound down. She had just finished a complicated translation for Carmen Delahunt at Stony Man Farm. The work had been intense, urgent. After handing over the completed transcript, she had logged out and had left the Farm, raising a hand to the blacksuit manning the exit gate. She had maneuvered the Impala along the quiet roads until she was able to pick up the main highway that would take her home.
Home was an apartment in Falls Church, Fairfax County. It wasn’t a long drive, but tiring on this gray winter afternoon. The constant rain didn’t help, the insistent sweep of the wipers across the windshield doing little to help her relax. She put on the radio and picked up some soft jazz. The car’s heater blew warm air around her feet. A couple of times Dukas had to blink her eyes. She was tired. She hadn’t been home for two days. The anticipation of a relaxing shower and bed filled her thoughts.
Once inside her apartment she switched on the lights, dropped her briefcase by the door and shrugged out of her coat. Making her way to the kitchenette, she filled the kettle with fresh water and clicked it on to boil. She spooned coffee into a mug, kicked off her shoes as she wandered across to her telephone and then checked her messages.
There were four.
One from her mother asking when she was going to visit.
A call from someone wanting to sell her insurance.
And two from a longtime girlfriend Dukas hadn’t spoken to for a while. The first was from the day before, the second from a few hours earlier.
The girl was Tira Malivik. And the first thing Dukas noticed was the fear in her voice. She couldn’t explain it any other way. Her friend was frightened of something, and she was reaching out for help.
Dukas snatched up the phone and hit the speed-dial button for Malivik’s cell number. She waited as it rang. Finally the call was answered.
“Tira? It’s me—Erika. I just got your message. What’s wrong?”
She could hear ragged breathing on the line and muted sounds in the background.
“Tira speak to me. I’m here. It’s going to be all right. Please, talk to me.”
“I think I’ve lost them for now. Jesus, Erika, they won’t give up. I don’t know what to do.”
“Who? Who’s after you?” Dukas asked.
“—want something. But I don’t have it. I sent it on—”
Her voice faded and Dukas thought her friend was going to put the phone down.
“Listen to me, Tira. I’m going to come and get you. Just tell me where—”
“No! I can’t do that. I’m sure they can hear. They’ll know. I can’t tell you where I am.”
“The police—”
“Uh-uh. I can’t trust anyone except you. Because you’re my friend. Erika, are you still my friend?”
“After what we’ve been through? Hey, I ate your cooking, remember? Just tell me where you want to meet,” Dukas said, hoping to calm her friend’s fear.
“One hour. At JR’s.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
ERIKA LOCKED THE CAR AND hurried to the closest elevator in the garage. She waited impatiently until the doors opened and she was able to step inside, punching the button for the Lower Level Food Court. She was reminded how many times she had made this very trip to meet her friend. Whenever they were able to arrange a get-together it was at Union Station, where they would indulge themselves at Johnny Rockets Diner. Ignoring all the diet rules, they indulged in burgers, fries and shakes, enjoying a brief respite from the cares of their daily routines, sharing news, gossip and girl talk.
But this visit had no fun time on its agenda. As the elevator slowed, Dukas was full of doubt and concern. She stepped out and headed for the diner, scanning the food court for her friend, and wondered just what it was her friend had gotten herself into. She patted the inside pocket of her jacket, just to confirm her cell phone was still there.
She spotted Tira Malivik through the main window of the diner, sitting in their usual booth. They made eye contact and waved in recognition. Avoiding the press of people milling around the area, Dukas reached the door and pushed her way through. Immediately the familiar odors of food and coffee assailed her senses. There was a hum of voices and background music.
A vivacious, dark-haired young woman with striking good looks, Tira Malivik had undergone a dramatic change. As Dukas slid into the booth across from her she noticed the dark shadows beneath Malivik’s eyes, the haggard expression on her face. Her usually shining hair was limp and tangled, and it looked as if she had been sleeping in her clothes. When she reached across to grasp Erika’s hands, Malivik was shaking.
“What’s wrong? And don’t even suggest it’s nothing,” Dukas said.
“I wish I could lie about it.”
Before they could continue a smiling waitress came over. They ordered two large black coffees. As soon as the waitress left, Dukas turned back to her friend.
“Tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”
Dukas listened without interruption, except for when the coffee arrived, and by the time Malivik had finished, the Stony Man translator knew what she had to do.
“Your uncle Lec? Where is he now? And what about this package he sent you?”
“He asked me to get it somewhere safe. Out of the reach of the people looking for him.”
“And did you?”
Malivik nodded, a ghost of a smile briefly edging her pale lips.
“Did he tell you what was in this package?”
“Not directly. He just said it contained information these people do not want exposed. If it is, a number of important individuals are going to go to jail, or worse.”
“Where are these people?” Dukas asked.
“Some in Bosnia. Others here in the States.”
“So you have no idea what the information actually is?”
