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“Good hunting,” the big Fed said.
“Thanks.” Bolan had closed the connection, determined to get in position and get to work as soon as possible. Only moments later, he had heard the thrumming of rotor blades. That would be Jack Grimaldi and a helicopter.
The helicopter was a gunship. A care package, bearing the modified M-16 rifle and Bolan’s war bag of munitions, had been aboard.
Now, only hours later, the soldier’s boots were on the ground behind enemy-held territory.
He checked his smartphone’s files, which Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, Barbara Price, had uploaded to his phone while he was in transit to D.C. The layout of the building was simple enough. The construction was very solid—concrete, stone, marble, and reinforcements where applicable. These walls would be more resistant to gunfire than many; a pistol bullet would travel through most interior walls and even some exterior ones in a traditionally framed building. Bolan knew, too, that the sound of his steps would be amplified. He moved carefully, heel to toe, his combat boots as quiet as he could make them on the marble floors.
At the top of the stairwell he found the first claymore-style mine.
It was a few generations removed from the old Vietnam-era claymores, but the device’s purpose was obvious enough. Written in German across the front of the mine were words that roughly translated to “front toward enemy.” Bolan had picked up enough foreign languages through the years that he could tell that much. The mine had an amber LED that blinked once per second.
Bolan shrugged, reached down and turned it around to face the other way.
He moved to the side of the metal fire door, pressed himself against the wall and rapped quietly on the reinforced glass window. “Help!” he said quietly, hoping he was still loud enough to be heard on the other side. “I’ve cut myself! I think I’m bleeding out!”
The response was almost immediate. Another man in camouflage fatigues pushed the door open. His hand was still on the door lever when Bolan reached out, locking his wrist between thumb and index finger. He pulled sharply.
The surprised neo-Nazi had no time to cry out, no time to resist. He made a strange grunting cry as his brain tried to process his sudden freefall through space. Then he landed on his neck in the stairwell below. There was a sickening crunch as vertebrae snapped. The rattle of air escaping his lungs was paced by his evacuating bowels.
Bolan scanned the corpse but saw no weapon. He was holding the door open to prevent it from slamming back into place, where it would lock once more. Sticking his head through the opening, he saw another Kalashnikov leaning upright against the wall.
Amateurs, Bolan thought. He gave this weapon the same disassembly treatment he had given the previous one, separating the bolt from the assault rifle and tossing the component onto the corpse of the rifle’s former owner. He left the weapon itself at the top of the stairwell, behind the door, where it couldn’t be seen by casual observers from the other side.
There were two more claymore-style mines here. He picked them up, checked them, and simply flicked the switches on their electronic detonators. The amber LEDs switched off. He tucked the mines into his war bag.
Moving smoothly down the hall, checking the floor plan on his phone, Bolan caught a glimpse of movement around the corner of the corridor ahead. He ducked into an alcove that housed a trio of pay phones and a water fountain. Waiting, he heard footsteps. There were two men.
“South stairwell,” one of them said. “I say again, south stairwell, this is Rover Two. Come in.”
Bolan knew the stairwell where he’d made his entry faced south. No doubt these HN thugs were checking on their sentry posts—and getting no response from the pair Bolan had just sent to whatever hate-drenched Valhalla these neo-Nazis thought awaited them. When there was no response, the pair would raise an alarm. Bolan’s element of surprise would evaporate.
Well, he’d known that would happen.
Quietly, the soldier popped the retaining snap on his leather shoulder holster, covering the sound with the flesh of his thumb. The Beretta 93-R machine pistol filled his hand as if custom molded to it. He flicked the selector switch to Single as the snout of the attached suppressor cleared leather. There would be a time and place for his own assault rifle, suspended from his harness on its single-point sling, but right now, he wanted quiet.
Bolan leaned out of the alcove as the pair of neo-Nazi terrorists walked past his position. They were perhaps two yards away when he extended the Beretta, lined up his sights on the head of the man with the walkie-talkie and squeezed the trigger.
The two-way radio was soaked in blood when it hit the marble floor. The corpse stood for the briefest of moments before its knees gave way and it toppled. The other sentry, whose AK was slung over his shoulder, slowly turned. The side of his face was speckled crimson.
“Call out and you’re dead,” Bolan warned. “Put the rifle on the floor.”
“You shot him from behind,” the man hissed. Shock and rage twisted his face. His eyes were wide and bloodshot.
“Does that offend your sense of honor?” Bolan asked quietly. “A terrorist holding innocent people hostage, desperate to free an old hatemonger with the torture and death of countless innocent people on his hands? You’re upset that I didn’t follow the rules?”
“Coward,” the sentry said. His hand started to creep across his chest. He was going to try for the rifle. “Race traitor.”
“You know what I hate most about neo-Nazis?” Bolan asked, his voice calm, just the barest hint above a whisper. “You’re always convinced you’re the smartest people in the room. You think you’ve got it all figured out, and anybody who doesn’t agree with your hateful simpleton’s logic must be a sellout to the bogeymen you fear.”
“Zionist Jew-lover—” the neo-Nazi started to shout.
“Shut up,” Bolan said, and shot him in the throat.
The sentry hit the marble. His hands went to his throat. Trying and failing to stem the flow from the wound that had choked off his words, he stared up at Bolan, then bled out.
Chapter 2
Bolan made more than one circuit of the middle level of the courthouse, which opened onto a stairwell leading down to the main gallery, the doors of which were closed and chained from the outside. Four armed, camouflage-clad sentries stood with Kalashnikovs at the ready at the bottom of the semicircular stairs.
Within, Nitzche and the rest of his HN gunmen—those not detailed to secure the structure itself—would be passing the time however it suited them. Even through the thick walls of the courthouse, Bolan could hear the bullhorn-amplified shouts of hostage negotiators coming from behind the police cordon. Brognola and the Farm had provided a comprehensive report outlining what was known of the initial terrorist capture of the building. It showed an above-average level of military awareness that was reflected in the sentries’ cross-patrol communication.
Bolan had no respect for neo-Nazis, but this bunch had more training than was usual, probably because Nitzche had been calling the shots while building the organization to serve him as a private army. That meant the danger they represented to Bolan, and the resistance they could offer, was correspondingly greater than other groups of white supremacists he had faced. Nitzche was, according to their files, a strong and intelligent leader. Such an individual made all the difference when rallying followers like these.
It was time to start chipping away at the opposition.
Before Bolan moved back into the corridor, he positioned his captured remote-detonation mines. Then he circled around to the access stairs that led to the rear of the court. There was a second stairway inside the court itself, accessing a balcony observation level that connected, in turn, to the roof. These were used by reporters and people who attended the proceedings, and were far more public than the stairs at the rear.
The back steps were adjacent to the judge’s chambers and were, according to the plans and information sent to Bolan, used by the presiding judge if he wished to make a discreet exit to the second-floor offices.
Predictably, this access was mined, but none of the weapons bore antitamper switches, such as mercury triggers designed to detonate the device when it was disturbed. Such measures would have made short work of the counteroperation Bolan was running. His adversaries were trained, he decided, but they weren’t that trained. He permitted himself a wry smile as he repositioned two more of the mines at the edge of the access stairs.
The neo-Nazis probably thought an assault on the building would be loud and obvious. So they’d have plenty of warning. Nitzche’s people had likely planned to use the mines as a first-wave defense. They would have been effective, too, had it come to that. Brognola and the President had been correct to think one man could do what a coordinated and overwhelming use of force could not.
Such operations always entailed heavy losses. Bolan’s acceptable percentage of noncombatant deaths was zero, but there were other counterterror operatives who didn’t feel that way. Russian special forces had several times demonstrated that, and painfully, in one case putting down a high-profile hostage standoff using anesthetic gas. They had gassed the target building and then swept through it, checking the unconscious occupants and shooting the terrorists in the head. The tactic was brutal, efficient and very, very final.
The only problem was that the powerful gas used had caused overdose deaths in some of the civilians. Conventional force operations traditionally fared little better, even when simultaneous and coordinated guerrilla tactics were used. No, in this case, the Executioner was the hostages’ best hope of walking out of court alive.
Bolan intended to see that they did, every last one of them.
He was counting on the fact that, as much as they blustered about killing their captives, the neo-Nazis needed those human shields. The hostages were the only reason the building hadn’t been taken and cleared using overwhelming force. Even when the gunfire started, the terrorists would be reluctant to start shooting their only leverage. They would fear coming face-to-face with SWAT or military guns with nothing standing between them and righteous bullets.
That would be all the delay Bolan needed.
The rear door to the judge’s chambers was almost hidden, flush with the wall and paneled to match it. Through the door, he could hear voices.
“—a problem,” said the first man. “Several sentries aren’t reporting.”
“Try them again,” said the second man.
“I have. No good.”
Bolan placed the last of his stolen claymore-style mines in front of the concealed door. He backed away down the corridor, using the corner of the hallway to shield himself. He was exposed to either side, and was very aware that there were more neo-Nazi sentries patrolling the building. There was no helping that. When the bullets started to fly, he would rely on his training, his experience and the simple luck that had sustained him for years. When the Universe finally saw fit to put him down, he would be moving forward to meet it.
He drew both his pistols, covering either direction.
Time to go to work.
“SWAT! SWAT!” Bolan bellowed. “They’re everywhere! Blow the mines!” He pointed his Desert Eagle around the corner and pumped several rounds into the concealed doorway. The .44 Magnum hand cannon was deafening in the enclosed space.
The shouts of alarm from within the judge’s chambers were cut short by the splintering of wood and the scream of hot metal shrapnel. The claymore at the doorway had been triggered, shattering the barrier itself. Bolan’s ears began ringing from the concussion, but as with so many things, he would simply have to endure it. It was, he knew, nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t suffer significant and permanent hearing loss after so many years of firefights.
He thrust his pistols back in their holsters and brought up the M-4, charging the smoking crater where the chambers door had been. Blood stained the ragged opening and coated the floor beyond; the claymore had caught at least one of the terrorists inside. Bolan triggered a short burst of 5.56 mm rounds before vaulting through the doorway.
He almost took a bayonet in the face.
As he entered the room, his senses registered a flash picture of the terrain he faced. The judge’s desk was flanked by heavy upholstered chairs, one of which had been overturned. The desk itself was pocked from shrapnel, and everything on top had been shredded. Opposite this were smaller chairs, obviously intended for guests conferring in chambers. They had been knocked over and one was split in two, near the body of the sentry whose blood decorated the blown door. Another corpse was lying, broken and still, near what Bolan knew was the entrance to the courtroom. This door was bolted from within.
The Executioner processed all of this in an instant, from long habit. As the AK bayonet—a heavy, clip-point blade, like a sturdy bowie knife—sliced through the air toward his eyes, he brought up the barrel of the M-4 and sidestepped. He was able to catch and guide the blade around and to the side, ducking it neatly, placing himself on the outside of the knifer’s swing. Bolan immediately reversed his weapon and slammed the retractable butt into the bridge of the attacker’s nose.
The neo-Nazi was wild-eyed and bleeding from several deep gouges in his scalp and neck. The neck wound pulsed. The sentry was dying on his feet but didn’t know it. Pale with shock and blood loss, he screamed as he tried for another blind, overhand stab. There was no technique here; there was only desperation and rage.
Bolan didn’t try to meet the knife. He sidestepped again, crossing the opponent’s body, moving out of range. As he went, he brought up his opposite leg in a soccer-style kick. The sole of his combat boot crushed the neo-Nazi’s knee joint and the man collapsed, screaming.
The soldier let his rifle fall to the end of its sling. He grabbed the attacker’s knife arm, twisted, and torqued the man to the left, tying him up. In the same fluid motion he drove the captured arm in and down.
The bayonet buried itself in the neo-Nazi’s stomach.
Bolan dropped to one knee as he shoved in the blade, using his enemy’s arm as a lever. His eyes locked with the terrorist’s.
“You bastard…” the man said.
“‘And then some,’” Bolan told him, ripping the knife across the neo-Nazi’s gut. Blood splashed from his abdomen as it erupted from his mouth. Bolan finished him with a tight elbow across the face, snapping his head back, knocking him flat.
Covered in gore, the soldier pushed himself to his feet and sprinted to the courtroom door. Screams and shouts came from the other side. Some were those of hostages, voicing their fear. Others were the terrorists, throwing confused orders to one another, terrified that the moment had come and the police outside were storming the building.
That’s when Bolan heard the chopper.
“Sarge!” Grimaldi’s voice sounded in his earbud transceiver. “We’ve got a problem!”
“Jack?” Bolan asked. “Is that you?”
“Negative, Sarge, negative,” Grimaldi responded. “The locals have—”
The hollow, metallic clatter of Kalashnikovs on full automatic cut off Grimaldi’s words. The commotion had drawn more of the sentries. Evidently Bolan’s trick with the mines hadn’t caught them all, nor had he realistically expected it would.
They came on without caution, without a plan, without apparent fear. Bolan raised the M-4 and ripped off several measured bursts, meeting the charge. Several of the neo-Nazis who attempted to breach the judge’s chambers were already bloody. They might have caught shrapnel from the claymores or simply have been nearby when their comrades did. The suicidal charge they now mounted was a symptom of Bolan’s turnabout. He had transformed the predators into prey, so swiftly and unexpectedly that they had reacted with ferocity.
Bolan shot out one man’s knees, dropping him to the floor, then pumped a burst of fire into the chest of the next terrorist. Two more gunners appeared hard on the heels of their comrades, and Bolan drilled each in the head with well-placed fire as he aimed through his carbine’s optics.
“Say again, Jack, say again,” Bolan said. He didn’t have time to hear Grimaldi’s reply before the courtroom door behind him was thrown open. The gunmen leaning through the opening held micro-Uzi submachine guns.
Bolan hit the deck.
The swarm of 9 mm rounds scorched the air where he had been standing. With nowhere to go, the soldier rolled sideways, out of the line of fire, until he slammed into the shrapnel-riddled wooden desk. He almost didn’t fit with his web gear, but he managed to shove himself under it and through to the other side.
The gunmen were on the move now, pushing into the room and looking for a better angle. They immediately lined up the desk and started firing on it. The heavy oak, which had already suffered extensively, groaned under the onslaught. A round tore the floor near Bolan’s left boot. Another burned a furrow in his calf, lightly grazing him. His teeth clenched as the pain bore into him.
Under the gunfire and the ever-louder sound of the chopper, he could feel vibrations in the floor. Footsteps―a lot of them. The occupants of the courtroom were being moved. The helicopter overhead sounded as if it was practically on top of the roof…which it would be, if it were to serve as Nitzche’s means of escape.
“—something screwed up out here, Sarge,” Grimaldi’s voice said into his ear, dotted with static and almost drowned out by the nearby gunfire.
“I need an ID on that chopper!” Bolan shouted. “Jack, intercept! Intercept!”
The desk stopped shaking for a moment.
A grenade skittered across the floor and brushed Bolan’s boot.
He would never clear the desk and get beyond the blast radius in time. Instead, Bolan stretched for all he was worth, wrenching something in his shoulder. His fingers found the bomb and he whipped his arm up at the elbow, tossing the deadly steel egg over the desk and back at his attackers.
The explosion had enough force to shove the desk against the wall, pinning him under it. His ears, already ringing, were rattled by the blast. He bit his lip and tasted the coppery tang of blood.
“Sarge, do you read me?” Grimaldi was saying. “Sarge! The locals are telling me to hold at a one-mile perimeter. They’ve got some FBI hostage negotiator on-site who’s cleared a cargo chopper for the terrorists.”
“That wasn’t the play,” Bolan said. He checked his M-4 while crouched under the desk. “Who cleared that?”
“I can’t get confirmation,” Grimaldi said. “Sarge, you want me to take out the chopper?”
“Who’s flying it?”
“No official word,” the pilot replied, “but my guess would be either law enforcement or civilian volunteers.”
“Innocents, in other words.”
“Yeah.”
Bolan swore under his breath. “Break the airspace cordon. Block that chopper. Threaten to shoot it down if you have to, but don’t fire on it. We’ve got to cut off Nitzche’s escape route.”
“You got it, Sarge.”
On his back, Bolan got his legs under the desk, then heaved, shoving the heavy piece of furniture across the floor. He wasted no time as he used the desk to cover his move back to his feet. He moved toward the doorway to the courthouse, the M-4 leading the way.
He met no resistance, which told him the courthouse had already been emptied. When Bolan began the dive to the doorway, he went low, extending his arms to keep the M-4 in firing position as he landed painfully on his stomach.
At the last minute he pushed right and slammed into the wall next to the door. He’d caught a glimpse of another remote claymore mine sitting in the opening, a trap set by the gunmen he’d taken down. They had fought a delaying action, giving their leader and his hostages time to get to the roof, and they had left a little explosive package behind just to be sure.
Bolan got to his feet and raced back to the entrance opposite the formerly concealed door. Using the wall as cover, he aimed around the corner and simply shot the mine.
The explosion rocked the room, decimating the books and knickknacks on the shelves in the judge’s chambers. The smoke was still swirling as Bolan burst through it.
The court was a shambles. The explosion at the chambers’ door had done only minor damage, but the terrorists had trashed the place while waiting with the hostages. Whatever wasn’t nailed down had been turned over and even shredded. Law books and court records were strewed everywhere. The American flag had been torn to rags, its pole thrust through the seal on the wall behind the judge’s bench.
There were several bodies.
A couple were bailiffs, their guns missing from their holsters. One had been shot. The other had been stabbed repeatedly by someone who obviously enjoyed his work.
No one opposed Bolan. The courtroom was empty. The entire building vibrated under the buffeting of the helicopter overhead, which would be only a couple yards above his position right now. He felt it as much as heard it.
