Four hardmen, wearing trench coats over suits, were there ahead of him. They picked out the condo's number, huddled briefly, then fanned out to take up their positions. Two disappeared around the back, the others killing time until their backup men were in position, smoking, whispering between themselves. A minute passed, then two, and Bolan watched them grind their cigarettes to ashes on the sidewalk, fanning back their coats to free the automatic weapons bolstered in shoulder rigs.
The hardware banished any fleeting thought that these might be detectives setting up a bust. The pincer movement was a classic, crashing in the front while snipers waited to annihilate the target fleeing through another exit, and if nothing else, the soldier knew that someone else was interested in DeVries. No time to ponder the apparent contradiction of a hit upon the man who was cooperating in a major frame. DeVries might be demanding bigger bucks, or suffering the pangs of conscience. At the bottom line he was expendable, and someone had decided it was time to break the chain, remove a crucial link before it could be followed backward to the source of Hal Brognola's troubles.
They were on the doorstep now, one reaching up to jab the bell when Bolan moved, the sleek Beretta filling his hand. Split-second timing was required, and if he blew it there would be no hope of any answers from DeVries.
An endless moment passed while the gunners waited for an answer to the doorbell. The soldier had already covered half the distance, fading in and out of shadows as he ran. With twenty yards between them, Bolan saw the gunners tense, their weapons rising in response to something he could neither see nor hear.
And instead of opening, the door was sprouting chest-high bullet holes, the shooters desperately recoiling, dodging lead and flying splinters. They recovered swiftly, like professionals, the taller of them stepping up and kicking at the door. The impact shattered its lock, opening the way. His partner loosed a short precision burst to clear the entryway, and they were inside before the soldier could react effectively.
He broke for cover, sprinting for the stoop, aware of new activity around him. Cautious faces peered through the curtains of surrounding condos, porch lights winked on, dispelling darkness in an instant. Sharp, staccato gunfire echoed through the open doorway, coupled with a crash of broken glass.
Too late.
The message hammered in Mack Bolan's brain before he cleared the concrete steps, before he reached the doorway and plunged inside.
But he would never know for sure until he tried, until he saw it for himself.
If he survived that long.
15
He came upon the hit team from behind, and even so he almost lost the advantage of surprise. With twenty feet between them, someone in the living room began returning fire, big .45 rounds gouging plaster from the pastel walls. The shooters scrambled backward, crouching, and the nearest of them caught a glimpse of Bolan from the corner of his eye.
He barked a warning, swiveling to bring his Uzi up, the muzzle winking fire at point-blank range. Excellent timing and the shooter's haste were all that saved Mack Bolan's life, a belly slide on blue shag carpeting removing him from the initial line of fire. He heard the parabellums slicing air above his head, impacting on the walls, and he was angling with the Beretta, making target acquisition as the hit man started to correct his aim.
The first round from the 93-R ripped through the gunner's chest and rocked him backward on his heels. The Uzi's snout drifted upward, bringing down a rain of plaster dust as 750 rounds per minute chewed up the ceiling. Bolan's second round bored in beneath the shooter's chin and snapped his head back, opening a jagged keyhole in his skull.
The second gunner was already ducking as the body fell across his line of fire, and Bolan took advantage of the momentary distraction, rolling clear before the automatic rounds came ripping in, peeling ragged strips of carpet back and pulverizing the concrete beneath. He triggered three quick rounds from the Beretta, saw his target jerk, colliding with the wall, rebounding in an awkward pirouette that ended in a sprawl. He didn't have to check for vital signs to know the guy was as dead as hell.
From the direction of the living room he heard male voices hoarse with tension, calling to the dead.
"Zito! Eddie! What the hell?"
On his feet and closing, Bolan left them guessing as he stepped across the leaking corpses of their comrades. He holstered the hot Beretta, then stooped to retrieve the Uzi from his first kill, picking up an Ingram MAC-11 as he passed the second lifeless body. Both weapons were primed and a quick check told him he had sufficient ammo to meet the challenge. He cleared the doorway, searching for another target.
They were waiting for him in the shambles of the parlor, shattered sliding windows open on the night behind them, curtains stirring with the breeze. He was aware of someone stretched out on the carpet to his right, but there was no time now for sizing up the casualties.
Shooters three and four were stationed twenty feet apart, prepared to close the hallway with a lethal cross fire from their automatic weapons at a moment's notice. It was a professional defensive stance that fairly guaranteed survival for at least one member of the team; if any unexpected enemy appeared, he would be forced to choose one target or the other while the odd man out was free to cut him down.
The soldier read their purpose at a glance, together with the heartbeat's indecision in their faces as he cleared the doorway in a crouch. They had been waiting for an answer from their silent partners, still not understanding, when the Executioner unloaded on them with his captured weapons, raking left and right together in a blazing double arc of death.
The Uzi ran its remaining rounds in rapid-fire and swept the starboard gunner off his feet as parabellum slugs ripped his chest to shreds. The impact blew him backward, through the shattered sliding windows, shrouded in the bloody curtains as they ripped free of their moorings and followed him outside.
On Bolan's left, the MAC-11 cut a lethal figure eight between the final gunner's throat and knees, .380 stingers slamming home with enough force to knock him backward in a sloppy somersault.
Bolan dropped the Uzi, tossed the Ingram after it and was turning toward the nearest corpse when furtive movement behind the sofa captured his attention. Bolan hit a combat crouch, the Beretta filling his fist and searching for a target. His finger tightened around the trigger, hesitating only when the numbers failed to jibe.
Four gunners, all of them accounted for. The ventilated body at his feet would be DeVries, already silenced for eternity. He should have been alone among the dead.
"One chance," he snapped. "Throw out your weapon. Let me see those hands."
A woman's voice came back at him from somewhere in the suburbs of hysteria.
"I haven't got a weapon, dammit!"
"Stand," he ordered her, prepared for anything. "And make it easy."
Recognition hit Mack Bolan first, but Susan Landry wasn't far behind. Her mouth hung open for a moment, wide eyes rising from the muzzle of his weapon to the face that she had seen most recently in Texas.
He holstered the Beretta, one swift glance assuring him that she was still intact before he crouched beside DeVries. He didn't need to take the nonexistent pulse, but Bolan did it anyway, and cursed the circumstances that had robbed him of the opportunity to question Hal's accuser.
Susan was beside him now, recovered well enough from her initial shock to make her mind and mouth coordinate.