Executioner 045 - Paramilitary Plot by Pendleton Don

Author:Pendleton, Don [Pendleton, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Crime, war, Action
Published: 2010-08-28T00:19:42+00:00

He raised his voice to make it heard above the roar of wind and engines. "When you're ready."

Grimaldi answered with a grin. "Next stop, ladies' lingerie and hell.. . . "

And the little helicopter nosed over, swooping down to run parallel beside the Warco Huey.

The gunner saw them coming, swiveling his big M-60 around to meet them, flame already stabbing from the muzzle.

Bolan stroked the trigger of his M-16, holding the sights on target and riding the recoil. He watched the swarm of tumblers impact on flesh and camouflage fabric, punching through to release a crimson tide. One moment the gunner was leaning over his weapon; the next, he was whipped around, spinning backward through the open cargo bay. In the heartbeat before he plunged on through, his weight propelled the M-60 into a full 180-degree turn. Lifeless fingers on the trigger stitched a line of hot steel-jackets across the inside of the cockpit, and then the lifeless form was airborne, spinning away in free-fall toward the trees below.

And something startling had happened to the Warco chopper. The M-60' s final burst had found a target in the cockpit, shearing through flesh, the controls, or both. The big ship was pitching and rolling, drifting, nosing over into a long downward spiral. As it heeled over, Bolan caught a glimpse through the open cargo bay—a fleeting look at Nicky Fusco, pressed back against his seat, mouth ovaled in a silent scream.

Jack Grimaldi was already doubling back when the Huey reached treetop level, bursting on through, shearing off the tops of tupelo on its way toward impact with the marshy ground.

Grimaldi circled over the crash scene, hovering, descending through a rising cloud of smoke, giving Bolan a ringside view of the wreckage.

The baby-blue Huey had gone down obliquely, snapping off the tail, its main cargo compartment tumbling the final thirty feet to earth. The two sections—tail and cockpit—lay intermingled in the vines and undergrowth, all twisted together and smoking. Bolan caught a glimpse of fire, spreading slowly in the tangled wreckage, and he knew that it was not enough.

He had to be absolutely certain, sure.

"Burn it, Jack," he said, his voice tight. Grimaldi hesitated, startled. "Huh?"

"The bug," Bolan told him quickly. "We have to stop it here."

Grimaldi stood the fighting chopper on its nose, engines screaming in protest, and now his hand was back on the firing controls. The rangefinder locked onto the stationary ground target. Grimaldi lightly touched the trigger mechanism.

Four hot ones rippled out of the helicopter's rocket pods, streaking earthward, and Jack was already taking them out of there as the marshland went to hell beneath their feet. A boiling mushroom of fire was pursuing them, the heat and shock wave thrusting them skyward and away.

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