Bolan had no choice. He'd have to get over the fence and close enough to the gatehouse to hear what was going on. If Glinkov hadn't yet taken the plant he would be stopped. If he already had... Well, Bolan didn't want to make odds on the outcome.
Pulling back into the trees, the Executioner followed the fence as he moved away from the gate.
Bolan checked for the next Jeep patrol. Moving tightly against the heavy wire, he noticed footprints. The snow had been trampled by several pairs of feet. Above his head, the concertina wire dangled uselessly where it had been severed.
Footprints on the inside of the fence moved in the direction of the guardhouse. He was too late. The plant had been taken. But the attackers hadn't bothered to repair the fence. That might mean they weren't expecting anyone, at least not so soon. They were cocky, all right, maybe just cocky enough to give Mack Bolan the edge he needed.
Vaulting the fence, Bolan landed lightly on the inside and moved swiftly toward the guardhouse.
Approaching from the rear, he flattened himself against the building. Pressing an ear against the wall, he could make out the hum of conversation, but the words were obscured. Moving toward a window, he kept an eye peeled for the patrol Jeeps. The engine noise would give him some warning, but his position was exposed. Directly beneath the window, Bolan could hear the conversation more clearly. Two men inside were playing cards. There was no way to tell whether they were legitimate guards unaware that their defenses had been breached or Glinkov's men relaxing just a little too soon. There was another window, and Bolan slipped along the rough wall to a spot directly beneath it. The window was lighted, but no sound came from within the small room.
Stretching to his full height alongside the window, Bolan strained to hear, but the room was silent. He'd have to chance a look. Inside, several men, bound and gagged, lay on the floor.
There was no blood visible, and they appeared unharmed. But there was no way to get them out without going through the front. It was too risky.
Bolan would have to try another tack.
Watching for the next patrol, Bolan sprinted along the fence, leaving the guardhouse behind. Just ahead was a stand of trees that approached the fence, creating a small gap through which the Jeep would have to pass.
Bolan headed for the trees, pulling at his Beretta while he ran. Once in the trees, he could watch, unseen, and nail the first Jeep that came along. Cutting down on the patrols would limit the possibility of discovery before he could get some help. He had to find Eli Cohen. The Jeep rumbled into view from the direction of the guardhouse.
Its two occupants seemed more concerned with their conversation than they were with surveillance. Bolan knew there were supposed to be four patrols. If Glinkov had kept to that practice, that meant eight men. There were several men in the guardhouse and probably several more elsewhere in the plant. It meant Glinkov had a substantial force at his command. Bolan didn't like the odds, but he knew he had no choice. The Jeep was rapidly approaching. The men continued their conversation. The Executioner set his Beretta for a three-shot burst and crouched among the trees to take aim at the driver. The Beretta whispered, and all three slugs punched through bone and brain. A spray of death's shadow flew from the driver's skull, raining on the passenger who flew forward as the Jeep careened into the trees.
Bolan moved swiftly, reaching the Jeep just as the second guard scrambled to his feet. A second burst from the Beretta slammed into the man's chest and found his heart. He fell like a tree, slamming his head into the frozen ground. His feet kicked spasmodically for a second and then he lay still.
Bolan wasted no time in celebration. Quickly he hoisted the dead man and tossed him into the rear of the Jeep. The driver was slumped forward over the wheel. The Executioner shoved him aside, slipping in to restart the stalled engine. He had to get the Jeep out of sight before the next patrol came along. The engine coughed reluctantly, then caught. Slamming the Jeep's transmission into reverse, Bolan gunned the engine and backed away from the trees. The radiator had been punctured by the impact with the trees, and a cloud of steam billowed around the struggling vehicle.
Sputtering and choking, the Jeep labored into the woods, back away from the fence. When Bolan was sure it was out of sight, he killed the engine. As he leaped from the Jeep he grabbed the passenger's Kalashnikov. He checked both corpses for ammo, and additional weapons. Three clips for the AK-47 and a pair of fragmentation grenades evened the odds. A little. The key was whether these guys would be missed. What he had so far seen suggested they wouldn't be. Two down, but Bolan knew he had a long way to go. Before he could make up his mind what to do next, he heard the roar of another Jeep. It was heading his way fast. It was too early for the next patrol. No one could have heard the suppressed fire of the Beretta. What the hell was going on? Moving silently toward the fence, Bolan spotted the Jeep hugging the fence and running flat out in his direction. Like its predecessor, it would have to pass through the narrow gap between the trees and fence. The Executioner resumed his former position, bracing for round two. The Jeep slowed suddenly, then veered into the trees. The driver was looking over his shoulder, as if expecting pursuit, or working against the clock. While Bolan watched, the Jeep roared into the trees, pushing far into the snow. The driver leaped from his seat as he killed the engine. He reached into the back seat, withdrawing an Ingram MAC-10. The man bent down, out of Bolan's sight for a moment, and when he straightened up, he threaded a sound suppressor onto the Ingram's snub nose.
Crouching low, the man moved back toward the fence, heading in Bolan's direction. Backing off, Bolan watched silently. The newcomer took the position Bolan had just relinquished. He dropped to one knee, examining the snow, then turned slowly, his eyes searching the trees. He had noticed signs of Bolan's presence. Before he could finish scanning the area, the sound of another Jeep filtered through the trees. It was some distance away and running at a crawl, probably the next patrol. The man turned his attention to the approaching vehicle, looking back to check the trees one more time. He edged forward, placing a small cluster of evergreens at his back, and slipped out of Bolan's sight.
He was about thirty feet away, too close for Bolan to risk moving. It appeared as if he was going to ambush the next Jeep, but why?
Before Bolan could answer that question, the headlights of the approaching Jeep stabbed through the darkness, scattering shadows across the snow where Bolan crouched. He couldn't see the newcomer, who hadn't made a sound since taking up his position. The Jeep was close now and had slowed to a near crawl.
Bolan could hear the guards discussing something. The Jeep stopped. The passenger dismounted and walked toward the front of the vehicle.
"Look here, Stan. Tracks. Somethin' went off into them trees."
"It's probably nothing. Somebody had to take a leak, I'll bet. Come on."
"You sure?"
"Hell, there ain't nobody here but us chickens, pal." The driver laughed. "Let's go."
The passenger turned to get back in the Jeep.
The cough of the Ingram caught him by surprise. The rain of .45 caliber hellfire stitched the driver across the chest, slamming him backward into the seat.
Bolan saw the second guard dive for cover.
Too late. The Ingram sought him out, catching him in midair. His body slammed sideways as the rapid fire shattered his ribs. He spun, hitting the ground in a roll and coming to rest against the fence.
The hidden man suddenly appeared, crossing behind the Jeep to reach the fallen man at the fence.