False Front by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2013-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

He saw all four men while still in midair. And he saw the two hostages, as well.

Before his feet hit the ground the Executioner’s brain had registered the entire scene in front of him and created a plan for dealing with it. It was a psychological phenomena that sometimes occurred during life-threatening situations; an intense reaction to threat in which the mind shuts out all superfluous details and focuses solely on the task at hand.

That task being to survive.

It was just as Taboada had indicated—two Tigers on the right, two on the left, with a small wooden table roughly halfway between them. As warriors have done since time began during battle stress, the Executioner’s brain registered every detail. On the table, next to the lantern illuminating the barn, was a black sat phone. One of the men on the left sat in a straight-backed wooden chair to the side of a table, a newspaper held up and open in front of his face. On the table itself rested an old oil lamp, the flame flickering eerily behind the smoky glass.

The first burst of fire from the Executioner’s sound-suppressed Calico left the barrel as his feet hit the ground and he felt them sink almost ankle-deep in mud. The 9 mm hollow-point rounds shredded the newspaper the terrorist held in front of him, drilling on through the news to splatter the man’s chest, throat and face. The terrorist flew up out of his chair and struck the rotten wood of the wall, collapsing to the muddy floor as newspaper-confetti fluttered in the air and settled over his body.

The Executioner swung the Calico back toward the left, where the man who had opened the door for Taboada was wiping down an AK-47 with an oily rag. The Tiger in the ribbed undershirt had barely had time to look up since the Executioner’s appearance and now his hands froze on the Soviet-made rifle.

Bolan triggered another burst of near-silent rounds. At least one hit the rifle’s action and the loud sound of the semi-jacketed slug meeting steel made far more noise than the sound-suppressed explosion that had started the bullet along its path. The AK-47 went spinning out of the gunner’s hands as more 9 mm slugs followed it.

But the man who had come to the door still sat frozen. He showed no reaction at all and had it not been for the tiny red spots that now popped out on the white undershirt, Bolan might have thought he’d missed. For a second or two, the terrorist just looked back at the Executioner with hatred flooding his eyes.

Bolan’s mind continued to race with the superspeed that came only during a duel with death, when the blood sent chemicals to the brain that allowed it to think at a rate far beyond normal. At least five holes had appeared between the Tiger’s belt buckle and collarbone, but the man still seemed to have had no reaction to them. It happened sometimes, Bolan realized as he brought the Calico down and prepared to fire again.

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