Read Online Council of Kings by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
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ground the starter. The cars were only three or four hundred feet apart. Flames of a muzzle blast came from the enemy car. Then it vanished around a corner.
Bolan gave chase. He had to catch the man, learn his identity, kill him before he became more of a problem.
At first the route bothered Bolan. They had turned north on Sixtieth Street and then a few blocks later were on U.S. 80 North, a freeway heading east along the Columbia River. Bolan would not fire on a freeway even relatively clear of traffic. The chances of injuring passing motorists were too great. Besides, he was trying to figure the strategy of the man in the car ahead.
The odds would be two to one for a fight now, greater depending on how many Mafia soldiers were in the big Caddy. A showdown would suit Bolan just fine.
Ten miles clicked by. Bolan checked the gas gauge; almost full. He settled in behind the wheel, lulled by the rhythm of the windshield wipers.
At times the road was almost at the shore of the great Columbia, then a hundred yards inland, then back to the shore.
Ten minutes later the big car swerved toward a tourist attraction called Multnomah Falls. The vehicle careered across the empty parking lot to the far side. Bolan saw the soldiers bail out of the rig.
Perhaps they saw the Thunderbird. Bolan melted into the heavy brush just past the railing inside the lot.
He crouched behind a large flat-leaf cedar and watched one man run through the parking lot unprotected, then dart into the woods.
The silenced Beretta was ready, and Bolan's jacket was open for access to the Uzi and its fresh 32-round magazine.
A car whizzed by on the road, the song of the wet tires gaining and losing a semitone as it passed.
Ahead Bolan saw a branch moving. He could see maybe twenty feet through the misty darkness.
A shadowy figure ducked under the branch and approached him. Bolan lifted the machine pistol and triggered three rounds. The shadow yelped and toppled backward. The Executioner charged through the brush, and found a trail. A wooden sign, pointing right, read: TO NM FALL'S. The trail led away from the Mafia soldiers. Bolan followed it, climbing until he could see the parking lot. Faint lights, security fights, glowed at both ends.
Bolan watched the area, sectoring it the way he used to with night vision in Nam, watching for the smallest changes in shape or form. He saw something move. Someone was on the trail, coming after him. He stepped behind a big tree and waited, but the man seemed to know he was there and came no closer.
The Executioner ran thirty yards up the trail. Ahead he spotted a small stone bridge that spanned the creek below the cataract. He heard the pounding water. The falls were not wide, but were of great height. He had read about them in tourist brochures back at the hotel.
He stopped by the bridge and listened. Someone moved behind him. Bolan traveled thirty feet beyond the bridge and waited. For a minute he heard nothing unusual. Then he heard labored breathing and saw a man round the curve in the trail, racing toward the bridge.
The man held a handgun. Bolan fired twice. The Mafia goon spun around from the force of the 9mm parabellums, fell over the parapet of the small bridge, and screamed as he dropped twenty feet to the pool below. He floated for a moment, then drifted downstream.
A sign beyond the bridge indicated the trail continued to the top of the falls, but warned of a three-mile round trip.
Another sign said: PARKING LOT. Bolan deduced the trail was circular. Good. Now he had to discover how the Caddy. He doubted that either of the dead soldiers behind him had been the gunman who had fired at him from the car. They had been too careless.
Bolan neared the parking lot without seeing any movement. He crouched near a big tree and waited.
The roar of a big handgun took him by surprise, and as he dived he felt the bullet bum through the shoulder strap of his combat harness. It did not draw blood as it slammed past him
Bolan gave chase. He had to catch the man, learn his identity, kill him before he became more of a problem.
At first the route bothered Bolan. They had turned north on Sixtieth Street and then a few blocks later were on U.S. 80 North, a freeway heading east along the Columbia River. Bolan would not fire on a freeway even relatively clear of traffic. The chances of injuring passing motorists were too great. Besides, he was trying to figure the strategy of the man in the car ahead.
The odds would be two to one for a fight now, greater depending on how many Mafia soldiers were in the big Caddy. A showdown would suit Bolan just fine.
Ten miles clicked by. Bolan checked the gas gauge; almost full. He settled in behind the wheel, lulled by the rhythm of the windshield wipers.
At times the road was almost at the shore of the great Columbia, then a hundred yards inland, then back to the shore.
Ten minutes later the big car swerved toward a tourist attraction called Multnomah Falls. The vehicle careered across the empty parking lot to the far side. Bolan saw the soldiers bail out of the rig.
Perhaps they saw the Thunderbird. Bolan melted into the heavy brush just past the railing inside the lot.
He crouched behind a large flat-leaf cedar and watched one man run through the parking lot unprotected, then dart into the woods.
The silenced Beretta was ready, and Bolan's jacket was open for access to the Uzi and its fresh 32-round magazine.
A car whizzed by on the road, the song of the wet tires gaining and losing a semitone as it passed.
Ahead Bolan saw a branch moving. He could see maybe twenty feet through the misty darkness.
A shadowy figure ducked under the branch and approached him. Bolan lifted the machine pistol and triggered three rounds. The shadow yelped and toppled backward. The Executioner charged through the brush, and found a trail. A wooden sign, pointing right, read: TO NM FALL'S. The trail led away from the Mafia soldiers. Bolan followed it, climbing until he could see the parking lot. Faint lights, security fights, glowed at both ends.
Bolan watched the area, sectoring it the way he used to with night vision in Nam, watching for the smallest changes in shape or form. He saw something move. Someone was on the trail, coming after him. He stepped behind a big tree and waited, but the man seemed to know he was there and came no closer.
The Executioner ran thirty yards up the trail. Ahead he spotted a small stone bridge that spanned the creek below the cataract. He heard the pounding water. The falls were not wide, but were of great height. He had read about them in tourist brochures back at the hotel.
He stopped by the bridge and listened. Someone moved behind him. Bolan traveled thirty feet beyond the bridge and waited. For a minute he heard nothing unusual. Then he heard labored breathing and saw a man round the curve in the trail, racing toward the bridge.
The man held a handgun. Bolan fired twice. The Mafia goon spun around from the force of the 9mm parabellums, fell over the parapet of the small bridge, and screamed as he dropped twenty feet to the pool below. He floated for a moment, then drifted downstream.
A sign beyond the bridge indicated the trail continued to the top of the falls, but warned of a three-mile round trip.
Another sign said: PARKING LOT. Bolan deduced the trail was circular. Good. Now he had to discover how the Caddy. He doubted that either of the dead soldiers behind him had been the gunman who had fired at him from the car. They had been too careless.
Bolan neared the parking lot without seeing any movement. He crouched near a big tree and waited.
The roar of a big handgun took him by surprise, and as he dived he felt the bullet bum through the shoulder strap of his combat harness. It did not draw blood as it slammed past him
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