Executioner 050 - Brothers In Blood by Pendleton Don

Author:Pendleton, Don [Pendleton, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Action, Adventure
Published: 2010-10-13T02:44:08+00:00

9

Motorized travel was strictly prohibited on this trail of the Nez Perce National Forest.

Right now, the penalty for violation of that rule was execution.

If the third rider in the file of motorcycles had done much biking before, it was on city pavement. The trail carved into the side of the slope was washboard dirt studded with half-exposed rocks and crossed with tree roots like speed bumps. Instead of finding a rhythm to ride out the roughness, the guy was fighting the trail every foot of the way, twisting furiously at the handlebars, alternately gunning the engine and tromping on the brakes, spewing dirt and acrid exhaust fumes and angry obscenities into the sweet spring air.

He had just crested a little rise and was perhaps a hundred feet above the river, when Mack Bolan stepped out from behind a twisted juniper, directly in front of him.

The biker had time to look up and that gave Bolan his target. He was carrying a five-foot deadfall branch of heavy larch.

Bolan swung the branch into the guy's Adam's apple like a home-run hitter going for the upper decks.

The wood cracked sharply and one end flew off into the shadows as the guy flopped over on his back. The bike sputtered on and out from under him before toppling angrily to the ground.

The biker opened his mouth and made raspy sounds. His voice box and windpipe were both crushed. Bolan could read the man's foreknowledge of his fate in his horrified eyes: two or three minutes of impotent airless agony before the mercy of suffocation.

Bolan rolled the guy over on one side, knelt behind him as he drew the Buck knife on his left hip. Case-hardened steel carved a gash through skin and neck muscle and jugular vein, and the all-forgiving blessedness of death banished pain forever.

Bolan wiped the knife clean on the guy's woollen shirt. On the gunner's hip in custom leather was an Ingram M-11 machine pistol, the square-cut full-automatic smaller than a service .45.

Bolan dropped out the clip and saw that it was fully loaded with steel-jacketed .380 shorties.

He reseated the magazine and tucked the little room-broom inside his wet-suit jacket.

The shadows were lengthening more rapidly now; full dark was minutes away. But the sky had been cloudless all day and the moon had already climbed into the eastern sky. It would be a clear bright night.

The guy's bike was a Honda Trail 90 that looked brand-new, the excess injection-molded rubber on the deep-tread all-terrain tires still sticking out from the sidewalls like chin whiskers. Bolan righted the machine, kicked it back to life and mounted up.

The trail had left the riverside several miles back to climb to this ridge. Just below Bolan's present position was a series of switchbacks ending on a bench, and below that a little sandy bar on the right bank, the site of the Guth outfitting cabin that he and Johnny had passed earlier before putting in. Bolan stopped the bike on the ledge-like bench, set it on its kickstand but left the little engine puttering.

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