Season of Slaughter by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2013-09-09T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Executioner’s first target was the driver of the lead car, who was still busy trying to figure out what was going on with the guy in charge of the quarry. From his vantage point in the space between the trailer and the sharp slope that formed a wall of mossy soil around the edge of the quarry, he was all but invisible until he moved. He looked right at Bolan rising from the shadows, and his eyes bugged out like hard-boiled eggs. The militiaman’s mouth started to work as his hands clawed desperately at the pistol in his waistband. For all his speed, he wasn’t quick enough as the 3-round burst from the Beretta caught him high in the chest, subsonic slugs chewing up through his breastbone until the last shot smashed through his windpipe.

The quarry boss jerked backward, shouting in surprise as the man in front of him detonated in a spray of crimson. He was still stepping back when Bolan’s second burst smashed into the base of his skull. Black hair flew as the rounds slammed in. The impact of the trio of bullets spun him around, and Bolan watched the quarry boss’s forehead flap like a flag where his burst blew an exit cavity through his brainpan.

Two down, too many to go, the Executioner reminded himself as he switched the Beretta to single shot and took the driver’s shotgun rider through the heart with a single round. The man staggered, staying on his feet as his brain didn’t quite process his cardiac pump being torn in two, so the Executioner punched another shot through the man’s open mouth. Doubly dead, the AHC fighter tumbled backward to learn the final fate of his soul.

Even with a silenced weapon, the sudden dropping of three men in midconversation caught the attention of the two shotgunners at the front gate. At the boss’s final shout, they suddenly burst into Bolan’s line of sight from the mouth of the quarry, shotguns still aimed at the ground as they raced to investigate.

“Good God!” one of them cried out as he saw the gory head wounds on all three of Bolan’s first targets.

That was the last prayer the gunner for the AHC ever spoke as Bolan stepped to within two yards of his head. From only a few feet away, the Executioner punched a single 9 mm hollowpoint right through the guy’s temple, brains erupting in a volcano of gore on the other side. He gripped the dead man by the collar with his other hand, yanking him in tight as the second shotgunner screamed in shock from being sprayed with brains and blood.

He brought up his pumpgun, firing blindly and hammering out three rounds of buckshot. If it hadn’t been for his human shield, Bolan would have been the final recipient of twenty-seven .36-caliber pellets. Instead, the buck lodged in dead flesh, only one pellet passing through soft viscera to clip Bolan just under his ribs, slicing skin before dancing off into the night.

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