Part 4 (1/2)

The doorway opened into a large main room with a fireplace. Crates and boxes littered the floor. Several couches formed a half circle in front of the hearth, and three men had risen from them. One defender looked at Bolan with a snarl as he racked the bolt of his AK47. The weapon's muzzle rose, and the Executioner drilled a 3-round burst into the man's chest. He then put the carbine's front sight on the second man as a handgun barked in rapid semiautomatic fire. Bolan felt the wind of the bullets' pa.s.sage and heard their supersonic cracks as they flew over his head high and to the left. The carbine cut loose, and the man fell backward to the floor.

Markov's AK74 ripped into life, and the third man shuddered as the Russian's burst tore through him. Sarcev's men piled through the door as the Executioner moved deeper into the chalet. Feet thundered on the second floor, and Bolan whirled on the stairs. Two armed men appeared suddenly on the landing, and Bolan fired the M203 up the staircase. The defensive munition was literally a 40 mm shotgun sh.e.l.l, and as its shot spread, the staircase formed a natural killing zone. Twenty-seven lead buckshot filled the air in a pattern the size of a coffee table. The two men staggered and fell in the withering storm of lead and tumbled down the stairs in a heap.

The Russian moved past Bolan toward an open side door. He tossed a hand grenade around the corner, and the house shuddered as the deadly bomb detonated. He went around the doorjamb with his rifle spraying on full automatic. Bolan headed up the stairs, two of Sarcev's men following him. The Executioner vaulted the corpses and hit the landing in a crouch. Smoke was starting to fill the upstairs; the RPG7 warheads had set something on fire. Bolan heard more shooting downstairs as he moved down the hallway.

Sarcev's voice spoke in his earpiece. ”Three men on front balcony with rifles!”

”Take them out!”

Bolan roared at the two Bosnians behind him as he hit the floor. ”Down!”

They didn't speak English, but the meaning was very clear. They hit the ground as Sarcev's light machine gunner poured fire into the second-story balcony from outside. The rapid booming of semiautomatic fire from the sniper rifles thundered over the ripping snarl of the machine gun. Heavy bullets tore through the chalet's walls and flew through the air over Bolan's and the Bosnians' heads.

Sarcev spoke rapidly across the radio link. ”Two down! One retreated back into house!”

Bolan took a p.r.o.ne rifle position on his elbows as a door down the hall kicked outward. A man came out, spraying with an automatic rifle on full auto. Bullets flew overhead, then the weapon suddenly fell silent as Bolan cut him down. The Executioner rose and spoke into his mike. ”Third man down, Any activity on the sides or rear?”

The militia leader conferred with his flanking teams. ”No movement. No one has tried to escape from sides or rear. Smoke is coming out of both windows.”

Bolan nodded to himself, The smoke was getting thicker, and he had to crouch to keep his head out of it. He moved down the hallway and kicked open the far door. The room was fully ablaze. One man lay on the floor in a huge pool of blood. Shrapnel from an RPG7 warhead had torn him apart. Bolan jerked his head at the door down the other side of the hall. Sarcov's men ran down the hall and kicked the door, leaping back as flame swelled out of the burning room. One of the men looked back at Bolan and held up two fingers, then drew his thumb across his neck. Two men were already dead inside. The Executioner squinted against the smoke. The upstairs was getting very hot, and an orange glow suffused the smoke.

”Viado, anything?”

The little Bosnian spoke rapidly. ”No! No movement! Roof is on fire!”

Bolan nodded. ”Markov, the second floor is clear. What do you have?”

The Russian's voice was dour. ”First floor clear. No Baibakov. No Cebej.”

Bolan grimaced and jerked his thumb at the stairway. The militiamen hit the stairs at a run.

On the first floor Markov had smashed open a crate and was rummaging through it. The box appeared to be filled with folding-stock AK47 rifles. Sarcev's men were stripping the dead Serbs of their weapons, but when they saw what the Russian had found they began to smash open crates, as well.

Bolan glanced around the room. Smoke was beginning to fill the air downstairs. His face hardened. Above the hearth was a banner with a stylized falcon painted in red, its talons and beak dripping blood. Bolan's eyebrows rose as he spotted a row of suitcases along the far wall. He turned to the Russian.

”Markov, check the bodies for any kind of papers or identification.”

The man nodded and bent over one of the bodies. Bolan cut open one of the suitcases with his knife. Clothes and personal effects spilled out. He went down the line of cases and discovered they were all the same. Bolan's eyes narrowed. Baibakov and Cebej were already gone. Only a skeleton crew remained at the chalet. Their weapons were crated for travel, and their suitcases were packed. The Red Falcons were moving out. Bolan turned to Markov. ”Anything?”

The Russian handed Bolan several envelopes, his face grim. ”Yes. Each man had one of these.”

The Executioner's gaze narrowed as he examined the envelopesa”each one contained a plane ticket. The flight left Sarajevo International Airport and had a stopover in Paris. The flight's final destination was New York City and the plane left in two hours.

Bolan spoke into his microphone. ”Viado, have your men ready to leave in one minute. Leave the heavy weapons behind.” The Bosnian's voice sounded confused. ”But why? We-”

The Executioner's voice rang out in the unmistakable tone of command. ”We move outa”now!”

6.

The old Mercedes truck tore through the streets of Sarajevo. The gears shrieked and groaned as Bolan downs.h.i.+fted around a corner and headed toward the airport. Beside him Sarcev gripped the dashboard with white knuckles. Constantine Markov and the rest of the militiamen hung on for dear life in the back. They had abandoned their light machine gun and the RPG7 rocket launchers. Bolan had only allowed them enough time to grab as many magazines for their rifles as they could carry from the burning chalet, then they had raced down the Mountainside for the truck.

Bolan's face tightened as he looked at his watch. They had still used up too much time. It was too late to get to his room to try to set up something over the satellite link. Even if there had been time, Cebej would have to be expecting to hear from his men back at the chalet. When he didn't, he would know something was wrong, and he and Baibakov would fade into the sheltering darkness of the hills behind Serb lines. The only chance was to try to intercept them at the airport before they did.

The Executioner stepped on the accelerator, and the old truck vibrated as its engine roared into the red-line. A triangle of lights blinked overhead as a plane came into final approach. The road opened, and they were on the approach to the airport. Bolan pushed the accelerator all the way down and held it there. He kept his eyes on the gate and spoke to Sarcev.

”What kind of troops man the perimeter gates to the landing field?”

”British soldiers guard the gates, I believe.”

British troops guarding the gate to the Sarajevo airport would be unlikely to admit a truck full of armed Bosnian militiamen led by a Russian mercenary and a heavily armed American with a press pa.s.s.

”What kind of security will there be on the field itself?”

Sarcev stared ahead at the gate with mounting alarm. A soldier in a forest-camouflage parka had stepped out of the shack and was staring at the lights rus.h.i.+ng toward him. The man wore the red beret of a British paratrooper, and his hand was resting casually on the pistol grip of the SA80 a.s.sault rifle slung across his chest. ”On the field, security is the responsibility of the Bosnian military police.”

”Do you have any pull with them?”

Sarcev almost smiled. ”I am known to them.”

Bolan nodded with satisfaction. ”Good. Hold on.”

The truck's ancient engine was roaring in protest. A second paratrooper stepped out of the gate shack and began yelling into a hand-held radio. The first soldier suddenly whipped his a.s.sault rifle around on its sling and brought it up to his shoulder.

Bolan's face remained focused. ”Tell your men to hit the floor!”

The militia leader began to shout in Slovene at the top of his lungs.

The paratrooper stood unflinchingly in the truck's headlights. Fire spit out of the muzzle of his rifle as he fired a warning burst into the air. The trooper grimaced into the glare of the oncoming lights and pointed the muzzle straight at the truck. Bolan slid down in the driver's seat with only his eyes showing over the dashboard. Sarcev did a duck and cover into the seat well.

With a loud smacking noise, cracks suddenly spider-webbed the winds.h.i.+eld a foot above Bolan's head. The smacking came in a rapid patter, and the winds.h.i.+eld blew apart in a shower of gla.s.s shards. Freezing air roared into the cab, and the sound of gunfire was suddenly very clear. Bullets spanged off of the truck's hood, and the hollow barking of a handgun broke out as the second paratrooper started to discharge his pistol at the truck's wheels.

The falling gate came apart like kindling as the truck barreled through it unhindered. Rifle fire chattered behind them as Bolan took the truck out onto the field. ”Make a head count, see if anyone was. .h.i.t!”

Sarcev shouted back into the truck bed, and someone shouted back. He rose up in his seat and looked around the field. ”Nicholas was. .h.i.t in the shoulder but he will live. The Russian is applying a field dressing.”

Bolan squinted against the rus.h.i.+ng wind in the cab and nodded. The one thing he had feared in this mission was getting into a firefight with NATO peacekeeping troops. He'd just have to let the State Department sort it out. ”Which way to the terminal?”

The militia leader grimaced at the ticket he held in his hand. ”I have never entered the airport from this position, but I believe you should follow that plane.”

The truck turned sluggishly to the right on its punctured tires and followed the plane they had seen coming in as it taxied toward the terminal lights. The Executioner calculated quickly as he pa.s.sed a series of small plane hangars. Grohar's informant had said Cebej and Baibakov had been with at least twenty men at the chalet. In the attack he and Sarcev's men had taken down eleven of the Red Falcons. That left Cebej, Krstic and Baibakov in the airport with well over half a squad of men. Cebej, Krstic, and the big Russian would be easy enough to recognize, but the rest of their men would be faces in the crowd until they opened fire. If Cebej was even half the leader he was described to be, he would have his men spread out, and if he didn't, Baibakov would make sure of it.

Bolan's gaze narrowed. The possibility of innocent casualties was extremely high. The only option would be to try to take Baibakov and Cebej by surprise, and hope the rest of the Red Falcons would surrender with the death of their leaders. Bolan let out a slow breath. It was not an ideal situation.

Sarcev seemed to be reading the Executioner's mind. ”How do you wish to do this?”

The brakes screamed, and the truck nearly went up on two wheels as Bolan brought the ancient Mercedes to a fishtailing halt.