Read Online Council of Kings by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Don Pendleton
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Uzi and hosed a double S pattern around the winking flashes of the handgun. A scream followed the roar of the chattergun. Then all was silent.
Crouching, the nightfighter ran toward the rest rooms. There was a Closed sign on the Women's. Inside, Charleen Granger was slumped in a locked cubicle, her eyes puffed up and closed and her lips swollen, obviously from a brutal beating. But that torture had only made her talk, not killed her. A small-caliber weapon had delivered the death blow. Ugly black powder burns surrounded a small purple hole on her forehead.
To Mack Bolan, the place stank of Vietnam. He had his own reasons for thinking so.
He came out running. He moved from cover to cover as he worked toward his car.
The rain began again, a sudden downpour that instantly saturated him. He knew it would ease up soon and drizzle the rest of the night. As Bolan stopped behind a Douglas fir to survey the terrain ahead, he heard a stick break thirty yards to his left, from within the thick woods.
He stayed by the tree. Nothing stirred. He heard distant sirens. A shadow deep in the gloom of the woods moved. There was no sound.
Bolan stared into the blackness. Someone in there was stalking him. The Executioner dashed to the next large tree. A shot rang out. The flash was larger than a normal handgun's. He felt the heavy slug whir by. Bolan cocked the hammer of Big Thunder. He glared into the darkness where he had seen the flash.
He could not find the gunman.
He evaluated his position. Police on the way. A tough opponent tracking him. His car parked where the police would soon find it. He had to get his wheels away.
Bolan ran in the opposite direction to the gunman, counting on the huge tree to mask his retreat.
Hard running brought him to the Thunderbird. He opened it, started it and gunned it down the hill without headlights.
Beyond the first curves he hit the lights and took a round through the side window. He swerved, then roared on.
The road was crooked and steep. A man could run to the bottom as fast as another could drive. The gunman would attempt to go cross-country and intercept him where the road straightened at the entrance to the park. The Executioner accommodated him. He switched off the lights again, rolling through the now-misty rain. He judged where the runner would emerge from the brush, and stopped nearby.
Bolan sprang from the car, quietly closed the door to kill the interior light that penetrated the darkness like a million-watt beacon, and crouched as he ran to the edge of the wooded section that extended down the rear of Mount Tabor Park. He paused and listened to sounds as someone ran through the brush above, then the sounds stopped.
The Executioner held his breath.
Nothing.
A horn honked a block over. A killdeer flushed from a wet perch, sounded a plaintive cry and flew away.
There! Above in the timber a shadow slid from one big fir to the next, then was gone. The man seemed like an expert.
Until he slipped. The crash was loud, less than fifty feet from Bolan.
With the silenced Beretta he sent two 3-round bursts toward the sound target, but heard no response. He moved silently to the other side of the tree. He was at the edge of the woods, the attacker twenty yards within. There was, no cover behind them for fifty yards to the street.
No sound came from the woods. Town noises intruded. Then Bolan rose as he heard something fall ten feet away.
Grenade.
He lunged behind the tree as the bomb shattered the night. The light was brilliant, and he shut his eyes and put a hand over them. There was a shattering explosion.
Stun grenade, he guessed, turning so he could hear anyone approaching. He heard footsteps retreating.
As his sight returned to normal, he spotted a figure running for the roadway. A black Cadillac emerged from the mist and met the runner. The car started a three-point turn, reversing to complete the maneuver. At that moment Bolan had reached his Thunderbird below. He leaped in,
Crouching, the nightfighter ran toward the rest rooms. There was a Closed sign on the Women's. Inside, Charleen Granger was slumped in a locked cubicle, her eyes puffed up and closed and her lips swollen, obviously from a brutal beating. But that torture had only made her talk, not killed her. A small-caliber weapon had delivered the death blow. Ugly black powder burns surrounded a small purple hole on her forehead.
To Mack Bolan, the place stank of Vietnam. He had his own reasons for thinking so.
He came out running. He moved from cover to cover as he worked toward his car.
The rain began again, a sudden downpour that instantly saturated him. He knew it would ease up soon and drizzle the rest of the night. As Bolan stopped behind a Douglas fir to survey the terrain ahead, he heard a stick break thirty yards to his left, from within the thick woods.
He stayed by the tree. Nothing stirred. He heard distant sirens. A shadow deep in the gloom of the woods moved. There was no sound.
Bolan stared into the blackness. Someone in there was stalking him. The Executioner dashed to the next large tree. A shot rang out. The flash was larger than a normal handgun's. He felt the heavy slug whir by. Bolan cocked the hammer of Big Thunder. He glared into the darkness where he had seen the flash.
He could not find the gunman.
He evaluated his position. Police on the way. A tough opponent tracking him. His car parked where the police would soon find it. He had to get his wheels away.
Bolan ran in the opposite direction to the gunman, counting on the huge tree to mask his retreat.
Hard running brought him to the Thunderbird. He opened it, started it and gunned it down the hill without headlights.
Beyond the first curves he hit the lights and took a round through the side window. He swerved, then roared on.
The road was crooked and steep. A man could run to the bottom as fast as another could drive. The gunman would attempt to go cross-country and intercept him where the road straightened at the entrance to the park. The Executioner accommodated him. He switched off the lights again, rolling through the now-misty rain. He judged where the runner would emerge from the brush, and stopped nearby.
Bolan sprang from the car, quietly closed the door to kill the interior light that penetrated the darkness like a million-watt beacon, and crouched as he ran to the edge of the wooded section that extended down the rear of Mount Tabor Park. He paused and listened to sounds as someone ran through the brush above, then the sounds stopped.
The Executioner held his breath.
Nothing.
A horn honked a block over. A killdeer flushed from a wet perch, sounded a plaintive cry and flew away.
There! Above in the timber a shadow slid from one big fir to the next, then was gone. The man seemed like an expert.
Until he slipped. The crash was loud, less than fifty feet from Bolan.
With the silenced Beretta he sent two 3-round bursts toward the sound target, but heard no response. He moved silently to the other side of the tree. He was at the edge of the woods, the attacker twenty yards within. There was, no cover behind them for fifty yards to the street.
No sound came from the woods. Town noises intruded. Then Bolan rose as he heard something fall ten feet away.
Grenade.
He lunged behind the tree as the bomb shattered the night. The light was brilliant, and he shut his eyes and put a hand over them. There was a shattering explosion.
Stun grenade, he guessed, turning so he could hear anyone approaching. He heard footsteps retreating.
As his sight returned to normal, he spotted a figure running for the roadway. A black Cadillac emerged from the mist and met the runner. The car started a three-point turn, reversing to complete the maneuver. At that moment Bolan had reached his Thunderbird below. He leaped in,
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