Read Online Appointment in Kabul by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online
Authors: Don Pendleton
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the car.
"Bolan, you take the wheel, okay?" Lansdale called. He moved to the passenger side where Katrina waited. "If you drive like you shoot, we're already home."
"With pleasure," Bolan grunted.
He angled in behind the steering wheel of the Tatra, popping the clutch to get them out of there while Katrina and Lansdale bustled to climb in the passenger side.
At the corner of the cross street, the first of the Russian pursuit vehicles screamed into the intersection, a BTR-40 armored job, its turret machine gunner blazing wide open in a full arc that riddled the night.
Projectiles zinged and clipped around the Tatra.
Then Bolan heard the ugly sound of a 7.62mm slug impacting with living flesh.
He swung his head sideways as Lansdale gurgled out a sharp cry of pain and surprise and tumbled against the car, bracing himself against the roof, while Katrina Mozzhechkov reacted with no wasted movement to reach in and position Lansdale into the back seat. Lansdale continued to make gurgling, pain-racked sounds as he collapsed into the Tatra. The machine gunner aboard the armored car at the intersection tracked his line of fire back toward the Tatra, the heavy hammering of his weapon piercing the night. More Soviet troops rounded the corner and commenced rushing after the little bucket of bolts that had already goosed forward like a bat out of hell. Lansdale was bleeding over everything; the guy could only have seconds left, Bolan realized when he saw the wound; the slug had caught Lansdale in the back and cored right on through. Lansdale was hemorrhaging badly from the nose and mouth. Katrina had tumbled into the car from the momentum of their takeoff with a practiced grip on the M-16. She unleashed a burst at the pursuers, but before she or Bolan could see if it did any good, Bolan executed a two-wheeled turn out of that street in the direction they had come, one block over.
He palmed the wheel again, playing the gears, the Tatra fishtailing madly, tires shrieking across pavement to almost drown out the tumult of Soviets continuing to close in much too damn fast. He angled out of the turn along a passageway between private residences, a walkway not meant for vehicles. He knew the pursuing military vehicles would not fit through.
The little car whizzed between a row of darkened houses, across a courtyard deserted at this hour, and shot into the next parallel street over. Bolan veered into the street without slowing, then accelerated more in another shift of direction-right into the path of an eight-wheeled BTR-6 armored personnel carrier.
The troop transport vehicle was lumbering along, prepared to intercept at the next street if Bolan had kept to the roadway. The driver of the personnel carrier had not expected the quarry to come rocketing past him at this point. His reflexes came a heartbeat too slow and the personnel carrier lurched to the curb, jarring the raydoviki being carried, hindering their reaction at the sight of the speeding automobile.
Bolan coaxed a round from Big Thunder out the Tatra's window and saw the head of the personnel carrier's driver explode as the car streaked by.
Katrina harnmered off a burst from the passenger seat beside Bolan, keeping heads of Soviet troopers down behind the armor of the personnel carrier. She rode the recoil of the M-16 until the magazine ran dry and by that time they had passed the personnel carrier. The small car squealed into another almost ninety-degree turn as Bolan angled ever steadily away from the ruckus that already spread outward from the Soviet HQ base.
He piloted the car along somewhat the same route of his penetration into the nighttime city. After they crossed Huzkisar Way he risked a look back at Lansdale, already knowing what he would find.
From the sound of the impacting bullet and the silence from the back seat since Katrina had piled Lansdale into the car, Bolan knew the brave CIA agent was dead.
Katrina turned around, too. She reached around to touch her
"Bolan, you take the wheel, okay?" Lansdale called. He moved to the passenger side where Katrina waited. "If you drive like you shoot, we're already home."
"With pleasure," Bolan grunted.
He angled in behind the steering wheel of the Tatra, popping the clutch to get them out of there while Katrina and Lansdale bustled to climb in the passenger side.
At the corner of the cross street, the first of the Russian pursuit vehicles screamed into the intersection, a BTR-40 armored job, its turret machine gunner blazing wide open in a full arc that riddled the night.
Projectiles zinged and clipped around the Tatra.
Then Bolan heard the ugly sound of a 7.62mm slug impacting with living flesh.
He swung his head sideways as Lansdale gurgled out a sharp cry of pain and surprise and tumbled against the car, bracing himself against the roof, while Katrina Mozzhechkov reacted with no wasted movement to reach in and position Lansdale into the back seat. Lansdale continued to make gurgling, pain-racked sounds as he collapsed into the Tatra. The machine gunner aboard the armored car at the intersection tracked his line of fire back toward the Tatra, the heavy hammering of his weapon piercing the night. More Soviet troops rounded the corner and commenced rushing after the little bucket of bolts that had already goosed forward like a bat out of hell. Lansdale was bleeding over everything; the guy could only have seconds left, Bolan realized when he saw the wound; the slug had caught Lansdale in the back and cored right on through. Lansdale was hemorrhaging badly from the nose and mouth. Katrina had tumbled into the car from the momentum of their takeoff with a practiced grip on the M-16. She unleashed a burst at the pursuers, but before she or Bolan could see if it did any good, Bolan executed a two-wheeled turn out of that street in the direction they had come, one block over.
He palmed the wheel again, playing the gears, the Tatra fishtailing madly, tires shrieking across pavement to almost drown out the tumult of Soviets continuing to close in much too damn fast. He angled out of the turn along a passageway between private residences, a walkway not meant for vehicles. He knew the pursuing military vehicles would not fit through.
The little car whizzed between a row of darkened houses, across a courtyard deserted at this hour, and shot into the next parallel street over. Bolan veered into the street without slowing, then accelerated more in another shift of direction-right into the path of an eight-wheeled BTR-6 armored personnel carrier.
The troop transport vehicle was lumbering along, prepared to intercept at the next street if Bolan had kept to the roadway. The driver of the personnel carrier had not expected the quarry to come rocketing past him at this point. His reflexes came a heartbeat too slow and the personnel carrier lurched to the curb, jarring the raydoviki being carried, hindering their reaction at the sight of the speeding automobile.
Bolan coaxed a round from Big Thunder out the Tatra's window and saw the head of the personnel carrier's driver explode as the car streaked by.
Katrina harnmered off a burst from the passenger seat beside Bolan, keeping heads of Soviet troopers down behind the armor of the personnel carrier. She rode the recoil of the M-16 until the magazine ran dry and by that time they had passed the personnel carrier. The small car squealed into another almost ninety-degree turn as Bolan angled ever steadily away from the ruckus that already spread outward from the Soviet HQ base.
He piloted the car along somewhat the same route of his penetration into the nighttime city. After they crossed Huzkisar Way he risked a look back at Lansdale, already knowing what he would find.
From the sound of the impacting bullet and the silence from the back seat since Katrina had piled Lansdale into the car, Bolan knew the brave CIA agent was dead.
Katrina turned around, too. She reached around to touch her
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