Zero option, p.17
Zero Option, page 17
His team nodded in agreement. Under Chosan’s directions they moved out, pushing deeper into the mountainous terrain.
Enemy territory.
“I STILL CAN’T believe it,” Jackson Byrde grumbled. “That engine is only six weeks old. And it breaks down the minute we hit rough ground.”
Valens didn’t answer. She was in no mood for her partner’s muttering. It was over an hour since they had abandoned their SUV. They were tramping through the undulating terrain, through brush and trees, over ground that was soaked underfoot from the continuing rain. It was wet and cold, the wind striking down through the canopy of branches.
They were at least equipped for the territory. They both wore heavy waterproof coats over their clothes, which consisted of combat-style pants and shirts and they had heavy-soled boots on their feet. Long peaked caps were pulled down over their heads. Each carried a personal communicator so they would be able to stay in contact if separated. Both agents were armed with their Beretta Model 92 pistols. Byrde was carrying a powerful flashlight.
“When they do this in the movies the search party has a dozen agents, choppers and searchlights,” Byrde went on.
“Jesus Christ, Jackson, just shut the hell up.”
Byrde grinned in the darkness. Right now Valens was in fighting mode. If they came across anyone now, they would be in deep trouble.
He was about to make a facetious reply when he threw up a hand to stop Valens.
“What?” she whispered above the rattle of the rain on the foliage.
Byrde waited until she was alongside, then indicated the Bell 430 helicopter standing in a clearing beyond the fringe of trees concealing them. Despite the cross hatch of shadows, they could see a single occupant sitting inside the cabin.
“Something you see every day out here I guess,” Valens said.
“Sure. Right next to the flying-pig circus. Here, grab hold of this.”
Byrde thrust the flash into Valens’s hand and opened his coat to ease out his pistol.
“I’ll work my way around to the other side. When I’m ready, I’ll give you a call.”
Valens nodded and saw her partner vanish into the gloom. She worked her way along the tree line until she was level with the helicopter cabin, then settled down to wait. Byrde called in less than five minutes, his whispered words bringing a smile to Valens’s lips. She transferred the flash to her left hand and pulled out her own weapon.
“Set,” she said into her comm unit.
“Go!” Byrde replied.
Valens stepped out of the trees and ran across to the helicopter. As she reached the rain-streaked cabin window, she caught a glimpse of Byrde on the other side.
Valens raised the flash and tapped on the Plexiglas canopy. Byrde did the same on his side of the cabin.
The young Chinese pilot reacted sharply, leaning forward to flick switches, panic driving his actions.
Valens reached out to grab the handle and open the cabin door. She leaned in and showed him the Beretta.
“Not advisable, sir. Would you please raise your hands and sit back, away from the controls.”
Byrde had opened the door on his side.
“Do it. You understand what she said.”
The Chinese pilot did what he was ordered. Whatever else he might have been, foolish wasn’t it. He raised his hands and clasped them on top of his head.
Five minutes later the pilot was handcuffed to the frame of one of the rear seats. Valens stood watch over him while Byrde checked the map again.
“Looks like we’re on track. Up that way.”
“Let’s go,” Valens said.
MACK BOLAN and Joshua Riba were closing on the lodge when the Apache reached out to touch the Executioner’s arm.
“Somebody coming up behind,” he warned. “I make a couple of people.”
Bolan and Riba were on foot, having left the Laredo back down the trail to avoid being heard.
They were both armed with weapons they brought from the Hercules. Bolan had a 9 mm Uzi and wore the big Desert Eagle holstered on his hip, with the Beretta 93-R in a shoulder rig. In addition to his Colt .45 handgun, Riba had an M-4 carbine. He carried extra magazines in the pockets of a combat vest he had donned over the dark shirt he had changed into.
They had been nearing the lodge when Riba had picked up the sound of movement close by.
Bolan turned at the man’s warning. He eased back into the undergrowth, the Uzi tracking the source of the sound.
Two figures, clad in heavy waterproof coats and peaked caps, stepped out of the shadows. The one in the lead had a flashlight.
The moment he saw them, Bolan felt a sense of ease wash over him. From their appearance and the way they were moving through the trees, he realized they were neither from Senator Stahl’s camp nor from any other opposition force.
When a patch of light fell across the second of the two figures and revealed the female he had seen in the photograph Brognola had supplied, Bolan identified them as Byrde and Valens, the two Zero security agents.
“Hold it,” he said and stepped up to one side and slightly behind the pair. “We’re friendly.”
Claire Valens responded sharply. “We’ll be the judges of that.”
She turned to face the Executioner, ignoring the Uzi aimed at her, and coolly looked him over.
“Wearing that getup doesn’t suggest friendly to me.”
“Appearances can be deceptive, Agent Valens.”
“How the hell—?” Byrde said.
“My contact told me about you. He said you were on a similar assignment.”
Valens stepped in closer, green eyes searching Bolan’s.
“Your contact? Who the hell is your contact?”
Bolan admired her strength. Claire Valens, he decided, would be a young woman to stand up to.
“Let’s just say we’re all working to keep Doug Buchanan and Saul Kaplan alive, which isn’t going to happen if we stand around here all night talking.”
“It might make us easy targets,” Riba suggested.
“I’m with him,” Byrde stated.
“I don’t want to make an issue,” Bolan said. “You’re looking for Buchanan because there’s a threat to his life from out of country, headed by Chosan Xiang. Right? I’m looking for him because there’s a threat from within the U.S.”
“Threat? Because the government wants him back on the program?” Valens failed to conceal her disbelief.
“Specifically Senator Eric Stahl. The man wants Zero for his own purposes. And he has a partner. Colonel Orin Stengard.”
“Proof?”
“I can give you that,” Bolan said. “But not right now.”
“Just who are you doing this for?”
“Friends who got caught up in it is part of the reason.”
“What’s the other?”
Riba raised a hand. “Equal job opportunities. Helping out Native Americans.”
Bolan turned to go.
“Hey, you can’t just leave….”
Bolan glanced at Valens. “Watch me.”
He slipped away into the surrounding foliage, Riba close behind.
Valens glanced at her partner. Byrde shrugged.
“What the hell.”
CAL RYAN’S SIGNAL went out to his team. He had received acknowledgment from them all, confirming they were in position.
“Let’s go. And remember we need them both alive.” He meant Buchanan and Kaplan. An advance check by one of Ryan’s team had confirmed that both men were inside the lodge. It had meant a great deal to Cal Ryan. Too much had been going wrong lately. He needed a successful outcome. If not for himself, at least for Colonel Stengard. The colonel was the one man Ryan didn’t want to disappoint. He had too much respect for his former commander. Ryan had less respect for Stahl. The politician was—a politician. Too much for himself, with little real respect for those around him. Respect was something earned as far as Ryan was concerned, and Colonel Stengard had won his through the way he commanded his men, mainly in the thick of battle, where he showed why he was the kind of leader Stahl would never be if he lived to be an old man.
Ryan pushed away from cover and led the way across the clearing, moving in on the lodge.
THERE WAS a moment of confusion as Chosan’s men realized they weren’t alone in the lodge’s vicinity. They had moved forward, heading directly for the lodge’s front entrance, when one of them called out a warning, turning his Uzi toward the other armed figures converging on the lodge.
Chosan spun, seeing the armed men breaking into the open. He yelled to his men to defend themselves. There was no time to wonder who these men were. The newcomers had seen Chosan’s team and were taking their own evasive action.
THE CRACKLE of gunfire reached Doug Buchanan, yanking him out of his stupor. He sat upright, reaching out for the shotgun resting beside him as Kaplan came running through from the kitchen.
“Armed men outside, Doug. Coming out of the trees.”
A window smashed as a stray bullet shattered the glass.
“Stay away from the windows,” Buchanan cautioned.
Buchanan moved across the room and pressed against the wall beside the main window, peering out.
He saw dark figures milling around on the open ground, saw the stab of flame as guns fired, and quickly realized that there were two groups firing at each other.
But who?
And why?
ONE OF RYAN’S MEN went down with a groan, struck by autofire. The whine and snap of bullets were all around. Ryan had identified the small group, five of them, who had come into view, and who were now close to the lodge. They had the advantage of being close to the building, allowing them a degree of cover he and his team didn’t have.
The exchange of fire had destroyed the stillness around the lodge. Men were yelling, weapons firing. Bullets drilled into the timber frame of the lodge as Ryan’s men fired back at the other group. There was a great deal of weaponry firing as the opposing sides simply fired for effect, each side attempting to gain the advantage while securing safe cover.
The darkness and the driving rain did little to help. It hampered visibility, and the wet ground did nothing to accommodate swift movement. One of Chosan’s men went down on his knees as his feet went from beneath him. He struggled to regain his balance, and in that moment of indecision he was cut down by a sustained burst from one of Ryan’s men. The shot man fell back across the ground, his chest glistening red.
CHOSAN SAW his man go down. He signaled for his team to fall back and gain the cover of the lodge. They obeyed and crouched in the deeper shadow at the base of the wall, returning fire as they did. One of Ryan’s men went down, clutching at a shattered leg.
Turning, Chosan saw a short flight of wooden steps leading to a door. He moved forward, going up the steps, raised a booted foot and drove it against the door. He felt something snap and repeated the kick. The door burst open, swinging in with a crash.
“Inside. Quickly,” Chosan yelled.
Two of his men went in, Uzis tracking ahead. Chosan followed. The remaining Chinese stayed outside, trading shots with the opposition, giving Chosan and his men time to do what they needed inside the lodge.
BOLAN HEARD the crackle of autofire.
“We too late?” Riba asked.
“Time we found out,” Bolan growled and plunged ahead, heading down the slope that brought them to the lodge from the opposite side to the lake.
He made out dark figures in the clearing on the lake side of the lodge.
The gunfire increased; voices were raised in anger.
The end wall of the lodge contained a window. As Bolan cut across the ground toward it, he made out light in the room beyond. He slammed against the wall to one side of the window and then slid along so he could peer in through the glass.
He was looking in on the large living room: log fire, armchairs, and a tall figure wielding a shotgun peering out of the larger window that faced the lake.
A second man came into the room. Lean, with graying hair. He was yelling to the first man, pointing back the way he had come.
The first man turned from the window and Bolan saw his face.
It was Doug Buchanan.
Both men turned as something attracted their attention, Buchanan raising the shotgun.
Bolan moved back from the window, raised his arms to cover his face and ran at the window. He crashed against the frame, taking the whole of the window with him as he went through, glass flying in all directions as Bolan hit the floor on his feet, dropping to a crouch, the Uzi coming on line.
Beyond Buchanan and Kaplan moving figures came into view. Men carrying weapons.
“Major Buchanan, hit the floor,” Bolan yelled.
To his credit Buchanan responded fast, reaching out to grab Kaplan and pulling him down, too.
Two of Chosan’s men burst from the kitchen, Uzis seeking targets.
Bolan, already on-line, pushed his own Uzi forward, finger stroking the trigger. He cut down the nearest man with a withering burst to his lower body, the 9 mm slugs puncturing organs and punching out a bloody mass as they severed the target’s spine. The Chinese toppled facedown on the floor, screaming.
The follow-up man triggered his Uzi in a pure reflex action to his companion’s demise. The spray of 9 mm rounds went over Kaplan’s head and struck the far wall of the living room.
Bolan was bringing around his Uzi when the savage boom of Buchanan’s shotgun rocked the room. The charge, up close and personal, took away the target’s right arm and a large chunk of his shoulder, blowing bloody spray into Chosan’s face as he brought up short behind his injured man. The stricken Chinese fell to his knees, staring at the great raw wound where his arm had been. Blood was pulsed from the severed flesh.
Chosan Xiang wiped blood from his eyes, raising his Uzi as he braced himself for the shot that would, if nothing else, kill the man he had come all this way to find. In that brief moment he felt he would at least achieve that part of his mission.
It never happened.
In the scant moments before he pulled the trigger Chosan sensed a presence close by. He swiveled his eyes and caught a glimpse of a tall, black-haired man with a huge revolver in his hand.
“No way, you son of a bitch,” Joshua Riba said and fired.
The .45 bullet took Chosan in the side of the skull. The Chinese felt as if he had been slapped hard. His head rocked and everything went silent, then it felt as if a great pressure was building up inside his skull. In the last second before death Chosan felt as if his head were about to explode. Then the bullet emerged on the opposite side, taking a large chunk of bone with it and a portion of his brain that spattered against the wall.
Riba had entered the lodge through one of the rear windows, Valens and Byrde behind him. They fanned out across the room.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Byrde said. “There are more out front.”
“I’ll lay odds they’re Senator Stahl’s hired guns,” Bolan said.
“What the hell is going on, Joshua?” Buchanan demanded, recognizing one friendly face among the group.
“We figure the Chinese were the same people who organized the hit on the New Mexican facility.”
“So what has Stahl got to do with this?”
“He wants you alive, Doug,” Bolan said, “so he can gain control of Zero and use it as a lever to get him into the White House. The man has a power complex, and he’ll do whatever it takes.”
“It’s true, Doug,” Riba said. “I’ve learned enough the past couple of days to agree with this man. Stahl is in bed with Colonel Orin Stengard. They’re planning a takeover. But it all depends on them getting their hands on Zero. You’re the only man who can get them access.”
“You remember me, Major Buchanan?” Valens asked as she stepped forward. “Byrde and I were the security team at Zero. We’ve been looking for you, as well. To get you back to safety and away from anyone who wants to harm you.”
Bolan had eased away from the group, checking out the front window. He could see the dark shapes in the clearing outside. They had formed a skirmish line, covering the lodge, and though he was unable to see any others, he knew that the place would be surrounded.
The Executioner calculated the odds of them all walking out alive if they put up any kind of resistance. The armed force out there was strong, and they had the advantage. Rushing out with all guns blazing might appear the heroic thing to do, but Mack Bolan hadn’t survived for as long as he had by being foolish. He moved back, turning to look at the five people occupying the lodge. After all that had happened, he didn’t want to see any of them get hurt.
Riba glanced around and saw Bolan watching the group. He sensed Bolan’s mood, quickly got the feeling that if they put up any kind of resistance the men outside wouldn’t hesitate to cut them all down if the need arose. The only ones who were safe at the present moment were Doug Buchanan and Saul Kaplan.
“No running for cover?” he asked softly.
Valens heard the question and was quick enough to pick up Bolan’s shake of his head. She felt a comment rising to her lips but held it back, because she could tell by the look in his eyes that he hated the thought of surrender, yet at the same time there was nothing else they could do at this moment in time—if they wanted to stay alive.
Bolan could see the armed team moving toward the lodge, weapons up and ready. He glanced back over his shoulder, seeing Doug Buchanan and Saul Kaplan standing together. The brief firefight had taken its toll. Buchanan’s effort had left him disoriented, staring around the room as if he had no idea where he was. The shotgun he had put to such good use had slipped from his fingers and lay at his feet. Kaplan looked like an old man, his face deathly white from shock. He had most probably never been witness to sudden, violent death before. If there was further action of any kind, Kaplan would be more of a victim than anyone else.
Riba, Byrde and the feisty Claire Valens would fight to the last—of that Bolan had no doubt. But the outcome would be the same. The opposition carried superior firepower, and they had the numbers, too. If Bolan had been on his own, he might have fought back, concerned that he was only putting his own life on the line. He looked again at the slowly advancing assault team and made a swift decision.
