259 Nightfire by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

Bolan sprinted back around the outside of the perimeter wall, to the break on the west side. He paused there just long enough to make sure no one had stepped out of the rancho into the inner courtyard. He dashed to the side of the building, then turned left, toward the rear entrance. Stopping at the corner, he re-clipped the MAC-10 to the lanyard around his neck. He took a mini-grappling hook from a pouch on his harness and uncoiled its thin nylon rope at his feet. Bolan swung the hook around his head, working up some speed, then launched it almost straight up. The weighted claw head arced over the roof near the back corner of the rancho, landing with a soft thud. He tightened up on the line, dragging the grappling hook over the inside of the roof's raised lip until its sharp spines caught and sank in.

The Executioner tested the hook's set twice, pulling with all his weight. Satisfied that it would hold him, he started to climb the rope hand over hand. When he came level with the second-floor balcony, he used his booted soles to edge his way around the corner. Pushing off hard, he stepped onto the rail and released the cord. He ducked under the palm awning, and as he dropped softly to the balcony floor, the stubby Ingram already back in his hands.

Ten feet from the rail, under the overhang of the awning and the building's roof, the rear balcony had four tall archways evenly spaced along its length. They had no doors. Bolan moved to the nearest entrance. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the deep shade. While he waited, he listened hard. He could hear a television or radio. The sound was muffled, but very close. When his eyes adjusted, he could see that the balcony opened onto a long corridor with a tiled floor. The hallway offered access to four doors along this side of the rancho.

The Executioner crossed the corridor and put his back to the facing wall. The noise was coming from the corner room. It sounded like a baseball game. There were other voices, too, all male. Arguing in Spanish.

He had no idea how many drug soldiers were on the other side of the arched door. And he didn't care. Five or twenty-five, it didn't matter. However many of the opposition there were, he was going through the doorway and over them.

A sudden wave of cheers exploded from the TV. The announcer said, "That one's going, going, gone! That puppy's a four-bagger, folks, it's out of here!"

There were loud whistles and groans from the men on the other side of the door.

The door's handle wasn't a knob, but a thumb latch with a curved, wrought-iron grip. Bolan took it in his left hand and, in a single, smoothly flowing motion, lifted the latch, shoved the door inward and jumped over the threshold. He came to rest on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, with the sound-suppressed submachine gun braced in both hands.

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