Executioner 054 - Mountain Rampage

  A deadly volley chewed at the barracks near Bolan

  The Executioner responded in kind. He fired the PPS 41 subgun from his hip. A stream of 7.62mm rounds ripped into the exposed enemy.

  But what Bolan saw as he stepped out from cover spelled big trouble.

  Two of the surviving enemy were armed with AK-47s. Others were crouched with grenades in their fists, about to pull the pins.

  "Hold your fire!" Bolan yelled. "Don't shoot me!" The enemy did not reply. Nor did they lob the grenades. Bolan had bought a few seconds.

  "I'm going to throw out my gun," he called. "I surrender!"

  Also available from Gold Eagle Books, publishers of the Executioner series:

  Mack Bolan's

  ABLE TEAM

  #1 Tower of Terror

  #2 The Hostaged Island

  #3 Texas Showdown

  #4 Amazon Slaughter

  Mack Bolan's

  PHOENIX FORCE

  #1 Argentine Deadline

  #2 Guerrilla Games

  #3 Atlantic Scramble

  #4 Tigers of Justice

  Dedicated to the quest of Lynn Standerwick, 25, who is seeking her fighter-pilot father. He was last seen parachuting from his crippled F-4 over Laos in 1971. Lynn joined former Green Beret Lt. Col. James "Bo" Gritz in his secret invasion of Indochina to rescue her father and other unaccounted-for Americans who the U.S. government insists are dead. The mission was unsuccessful, but Lynn can proudly be ranked among Those Who Dare.

  First edition June 1983

  First published in Australia September 1984

  ISBN 0-373-61054-8

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to

  E. Richard Churchill for his contributions to this work.

  Copyright (c) 1983 by Worldwide Library.

  Philippine copyright 1983, Australian copyright 1983,

  New Zealand copyright 1983.

  Scanned By CrazyAl 2011

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 118 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Gold Eagle trademark, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word WORLDWIDE in which the letter "o" is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library.

  Printed in Australia by

  The Dominion Press—Hedges & Bell, Victoria 3130.

  PROLOGUE

  COLORADO STATE TROOPER Larry Bennett drove off the main highway. Once on the winding, less traveled mountain road he reduced his speed. It was the sort of morning more suited to spotting mule deer than to writing citations.

  The trooper's eye was drawn to a pair of cars parked on the opposite side of the road ahead of him. A man wearing shorts and sports shirt waved frantically to attract the trooper's attention.

  Bennett hit both lights and siren.

  He twisted the cruiser in a tight U-turn to pull in behind the halted cars.

  "Thank God you're here." The man let the words pour out before Bennett could leave his cruiser. "Fred—he's my brother-in-law—he damned near ran a guy down. We were driving along the road—Fred was in front of me—when this guy comes busting out of the woods and into the road. Fred turned his Ford sideways to avoid him. I almost got the guy with my right fender."

  Bennett held up his hand. "Easy," he said. "Just slow down a bit." He moved toward the knot of people clustered at the highway's edge.

  "He's wearing pretty good clothing but it's all torn it up," the man went on. "I think he's spaced out on drugs. He keeps yelling about robots and people running into walls till they die. Must be one hell of a bad trip."

  Bennett saw the man huddled on the road-side. He noted with disgust that spittle sprayed from the guy's lips as he shook his head from side to side. Bloody saliva dribbled down his chin from a tongue that had been chewed. Angry red grooves scored his cheeks.

  At first Bennett blamed tree branches for the marks. Then he realized the man had clawed his own face in his torment.

  But it was his eyes that most affected the trooper. Wild, crazed, darting, they were filled with terror.

  A pretty woman, about Bennett's age, looked at the trooper. In her hand she held a handkerchief stained with the bloody froth she had cleaned from the man's chin and throat.

  "He's afraid of wolves," she said. "He keeps telling us about wolves eating people." Her eyes showed deep concern for the tormented man on the gravel beside her. Calm serenity shone from her features. Just like Bennett's nurse in Nam.

  The trooper froze. Nam. The man's eyes, his disjointed attempts to communicate. He was like the corporal in the bed beside Bennett in the field hospital, the guy a patrol picked up after the VC had played their games with him.

  "He's not on drugs," the trooper said. "Help me get him into the cruiser."

  "Shouldn't he have an ambulance?" the woman asked.

  "No time. He's dying. Give me a hand."

  Minutes later, Larry Bennett was pushing the white cruiser through turns, driving with one hand as he clutched the mike with the other to issue frantic requests. The dispatcher, no stranger to mountain tragedy, relayed Bennett's needs without comment.

  "It's the lost hiker we got the missing report on last Monday," Bennett concluded.

  "Wrong location. You're forty miles too far north," came the reply.

  "Believe me. It's the same guy. How many hikers have custom boots with the right heel built up an extra inch and a half? It's the same guy."

  Then he was gunning down the highway with both hands on the wheel, his lights and siren giving him the driving room.

  It was Nam again. Bennett began to pray to the God of all tormented men everywhere.

  In the cruiser's rear seat, a man wrestled with inner terrors and, with darting eyes, watched for the wolves he knew lurked close by.

  MINUTES SHORT OF TWO that afternoon, Trooper Bennett's radio came to life.

  "That guy you delivered to the hospital this morning."

  "Right."

  "He died about half an hour ago. Thought you'd want to know."

  1

  MACK BOLAN halted in mid-stride. The big warrior's keen senses warned him he was no longer alone. On all sides were the rocks and broken forest of Colorado's high country. A mile ahead lay the target of his soft probe. Seven rugged mountain miles behind him was the site where Jack Grimaldi, flying a military chopper, had dropped the big man just after sunrise.

  "Stay hard, Sarge," Grimaldi had said, repeating their customary parting words.

  Bolan had raised a loose fist, thumb extended toward the sky. Then, without a backward glance, he moved from the drop site toward the heliground that awaited him.

  Bolan now stood motionless. In battle black, he blended into the tree-cast shadows. He heard the sound of a boot scuffing on stone. At more than ten thousand feet above sea level, in the rarefied air, far from the noise of city and civilization, sounds carried, sights and smells were clearer.

  Moving only his head, the Executioner faced toward the sound's source. A figure three hundred yards away caught his attention. A second figure came briefly into view before vani
shing into a stand of lodgepole pines. Three greyhounds ranged ahead of the pair.

  Bolan, on higher ground, knew he was safe from discovery by the dogs because the morning breeze was rising along the mountain slopes.

  Satisfied that the rifle-toting pair were not an immediate problem, Bolan took his 10x50 binoculars from their case, moved silently a half-dozen yards before resting his elbows on a rock outcrop, and began a careful survey of the area between him and the site of his soft probe.

  Bolan was no stranger to Colorado. During his earlier self-declared war on the Mafia he had visited the Centennial State long enough to let Colorado's crime lords know they were not beyond the Executioner's reach. By the time he had left Colorado he had made his point. In spades.

  Now the big guy was back. The ramblings of a tormented hiker had set things in motion. That, along with an almost incredible rumor, had brought Bolan to the Colorado high country.

  His eyes swept the open valley. Nothing about the peaceful scene suggested it was the site of experiments aimed at the control of a nation's people. Nothing, that is, except a dying man's screams and maybe a couple of hundred missing people.

  Satisfied that the actual site matched the mental image he had formed from the aerial photos and survey maps, Bolan returned his attention to the pair and their dogs. The glasses brought them into focus whenever they appeared between the trees. Booted, jean-clad, both wore denim jackets. One wore a battered felt hat with a low crown and wide brim while the other, in command of the dogs, was bareheaded.

  For the moment Bolan gave his attention to the second person. Slim, moving with grace, she had long golden hair that fell almost to the middle of her back. For the second time in half a minute she halted.

  Bolan looked at her older, weathered partner. The man gestured with his rifle. The woman came to his side. Slowly the two continued, their path taking them farther from Bolan.

  They were tracking something.

  Again Bolan's battle senses brought him to full alert. He let the Bausch & Lomb binoculars hang from their leather thong as he brought his M-1 with its Smith & Wesson scope into position. Below him, a third figure came into view. Seconds later, another stalker appeared fifty yards to that man's right.

  Both men wore combat boots shined to a dull luster; their tailored fatigues were creased, starched and immaculate, and they wore boxed fatigue hats. Right, one question answered. The area was patrolled. And from the looks of the pair, the patrol was professional.

  The old man and the woman and their dogs were unaware that now they were being followed. Slowly they tracked whatever spoor drew them on. The trio of greyhounds ranged ahead, unaware of any danger.

  With practiced fingers, Bolan took inventory of the tools and weapons of war he carried. Spare clips and ammo for the AutoMag and the 9mm silenced Beretta nestled securely in their usual places.

  The big silver .44 AutoMag with its full load of 240-grain messengers of death hung low on one hip. The Beretta 93-R was on the other, in its special holster, ready to deal whispered death. Grenades, plastique in waxed paper wrapping, electronic detonators and a radio-control sender were in place on his webbing, along with the medical field kit and insulated carbon-steel wire cutters. The combat gear was completed with a pair of piano-wire garrotes, and a thin stiletto with twin edges that put a razor to shame.

  He was ready. As ready as he would ever be.

  You prepared as well as you could and tried to cover every possible angle. But you knew you could never foresee all the problems. Play it by ear. Use past experience as a base. Evaluate every situation as it unfolds. Take no stupid chances but remain willing to live to the limit. Yes, and even beyond. That was all a man could do.

  With skills honed razor sharp during his two previous wars, in Vietnam and in America, the warrior moved forward. Bolan was well aware his soft probe could turn hard in a single heartbeat.

  Ahead, the drama he anticipated was played out with savage intensity. The pair in battle dress closed in on the old man and the woman. A command cut through the mountain air.

  The man, woman and their three grey-hounds turned, taken by surprise. One of the auto-carbines erupted, sending a hail of whining .22 sizzlers ripping into the dogs.

  Bolan's eyes iced over at the brutality. His mind stored the fact that only one of the two on patrol fired—his fire accurate and devastating.

  The other man covered the hunter and woman with easy confidence. If these two indicated the capability of the men guarding the secluded hardsite that was Bolan's goal, his mission would not be easy. But he was committed to it, and that meant he had to hold back now.

  At a spoken command, the captured pair glanced at each other. They lowered their rifles to the ground, then stepped back. From his vantage point, Bolan saw the man stare steadily at his captors. The woman's attention was on her savaged greyhounds.

  One of the patrolling pair stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the captives. His words were too quiet for Bolan to hear. The old man's head rose, his shoulders squared.

  In the blinking of an eye, the barrel of the autocarbine slashed across the short space between the two. The old man staggered from the force of the blow to the side of his head. But he did not go down. He pulled himself erect. Deliberately he reset his hat.

  The woman stepped forward to intervene. The second of the pair of uniformed men closed in on her. The barrel of his weapon drove deep into her belly. Even as she sagged forward, hands clawing for the barrel, the man in fatigues reversed the weapon. In an easy, practiced move, he slammed the butt into the small of her back.

  Bolan's jaw hardened as the woman sank to the ground. Her companion moved to assist her, but a carbine barrel blocked his way. Without a glance in the direction of the man who had just pistol-whipped him, the old fellow brushed the barrel aside. The sweep of his hand said it all. Fearless for his own safety, the old guy showed nothing but contempt for the pair in their spotless uniforms.

  With his back turned to the two, the old man in the worn blue jacket helped the woman to her feet. For seconds she clung to him. Then slowly, deliberately, she straightened. Bolan knew what it cost her to do so. He also knew the physical effort and sheer will it took for the woman to let her hands hang free at her sides.

  Another command was given. Neither captive gave evidence of having heard. An auto-carbine's barrel prodded the woman's bruised kidneys. The old man, protecting her, pulled her back.

  One of the patrolling pair gathered the rifles while his partner gestured the captives ahead with a motion of his weapon. The silent parade made its way slowly toward lower ground where the open valley floor nestled at slightly less than ten thousand feet.

  The captives walked close to each other. From time to time the old man reached out to touch the woman. It was a comforting gesture. The woman walked with her head high, back straight, her every movement full of defiance.

  Once certain of the path the group was taking, Mack Bolan set his own course parallel to theirs.

  Minutes later, Bolan halted just short of the wooded area. Ahead, a third man in fatigues leaned against the back of a Jeep CJ-5. Conversation drifted to Bolan. Though the words were indistinct, the meaning was clear. The two captives were directed to a point a dozen yards from the CJ-5 and told to sit on the ground. After handcuffing the man's wrist to the woman's ankle, the patrol members gathered at the front of the vehicle.

  The three hardguys were evidently used to having things go their way. Mission accomplished, they were relaxing.

  Between Bolan and the CJ-5 a rock outcrop loomed. Without hesitation, using the outcrop for cover, the big guy left the sheltering trees and crossed the open space, reaching the rocky protection.

  Silently he left the M-1 and its night scope leaning against the boulder. Then he rounded the outcrop and began crossing the thirty or so yards that remained between him and the CJ-5.

  Three pairs of hard eyes watched him.

  "Hi," Bolan said. The guns holst
ered at his waist were clearly visible as he stepped forward.

  Bolan was moving in for a closer look here. He needed some information. He would give them just enough time to provide it before his soft probe turned hard.

  "I seem to have lost my way."

  One of the three, the hardguy who had remained at the Jeep, slipped a weapon from the driver's seat and approached Bolan. He carried the Remington 1100 Magnum autoloader with casual confidence.

  Behind him, the other two took up positions on either side of the CJ-5.

  Bolan noted the weapons the pair carried. As he had suspected, they were American Arms 180 autocarbines. The circular magazine that topped each gun held one hundred seventy-seven lethal .22 long-rifle zingers when the magazine was full to capacity. Three mutilated greyhound bodies had absorbed a portion of the hot lead from one magazine.

  Bolan knew both weapons were of the selective-fire variety, supposedly restricted to use by law-enforcement officers. And he knew both weapons were ready to spew their deadly little sizzlers into his body at the touch of eager fingers.

  "You're lost all right, buddy." The muzzle of the autoloading Remington 12-gauge lifted in a silent threat.

  So much for the outside chance that the hardsite was less sinister than intel had led Stony Man to believe.

  These men's weaponry and their spit-and-polish appearance bespoke training and professionalism. The Laser-Lok beam sights on the autocarbines were not necessary for an informal roadblock established to keep the curious out of a secluded mountain retreat. Armed killer patrols were not necessary to secure the perimeter of a harmless hideaway.

  "I wonder if you can help me get straightened out?" Bolan asked. The warrior in black was narrowing the distance between himself and the cold-eyed trio.

  "We'll be happy to straighten you out," said the dog killer on the far side of the CJ-5.

  Bolan continued to advance slowly, steadily. He had seen enough.

  "I've got a map here a buddy drew for me," he said. Bolan glanced down as though to locate the map in one of his many slit pockets.