Executioner - Blood Circle Part 18

Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova was an agent of Russian Military Intelligence.

"Who else was with them?"

"They met the Muslim leader, Sarcev, in the bar. They spoke late into the night."

Baibakov cracked his ma.s.sive knuckles and stretched lazily. "Very well. Get your men together. Tomorrow we go hunting."

His smile turned feral. "Tomorrow we go into sniper alley."

Jack Grimaldi stopped the handcart with a thump and wiped his brow. "They don't pay me enough to carry all of your equipment around."

Bolan closed the door of their hotel room behind him. "Did you get everything on the list?"

Grimaldi grinned. "You tell me."

Bolan opened up a long case and took out his rifle. He couldn't match Baibakov's .50caliber rifle. The Executioner could carry and use such a weapon, but not with the inhuman ease that the giant waved his around. At thirty pounds, it was just too heavy for a normal human to use in a running firefight. He needed to stay mobile, but he still needed to match the giant's power and range if he could. The.378 Weatherby Magnum was an old friend, and probably as close as he was going to get. The rifle threw a 300-grain bullet at nearly three thousand feet per second. It was a rifle that would stop an elephant.

Unfortunately Igor Baibakov had a rifle that would stop an armored fighting vehicle.

The soldier worked the bolt on the rifle. The action was tuned and as smooth as gla.s.s, and the armored variable-power scope was zeroed in precisely to his specifications. The Executioner checked the rest of his equipment. A new .44 Magnum Desert Eagle pistol lay in its box. Bolan knew the weapon had been broken in and tuned at the Farm. Two boxes of conical, steel-core armor-piercing hand loads lay next to the gleaming automatic, and with luck they would pierce Russian t.i.tanium body armor if things got down to spitting distance.

The Executioner unpacked his body armor, though no body armor on earth would stop a .50caliber heavy-machine-gun bullet. Then again, Bolan doubted Baibakov would be alone. The soldier checked the sets of personal radios and headsets, his offensive and defensive grenades and knives. He looked up as Grimaldi began to take out his own weapons and armor.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Grimaldi made a show of looking hurt. "You know, I tried to blow up this Baibakov kook in Arizona, but he refused to stay dead. I'm still kind of irked about that."

"Are you cleared for this?"

The pilot shrugged. "I'm not specifically uncleared, and my orders were to transport your equipment." The pilot held up an M-4 Ranger carbine and glanced pointedly at the .378 Weatherby rifle. "Can you fight with both of these at the same time?"

Bolan knew where this was going. "No, I can't."

Grimaldi smiled victoriously. "Good, then I stay with my mission and transport this for you."

"Get suited up. It'll be dawn in an hour. We go out at first light."

Both men turned at a knock on the door. Bolan c.o.c.ked the Desert Eagle. "Yeah?"

A heavily accented voice spoke in English. "It is Captain Milan Grohar. May I come in?"

Bolan nodded at Grimaldi, and the pilot flattened himself along the door frame and turned the k.n.o.b. "It's open."

The tall thin Serb commander came into the room and raised an eyebrow at the carbine Grimaldi covered him with. "I have some news for you." Bolan unc.o.c.ked the Desert Eagle. "What is it?"

"Baibakov is here."

"I know that."

Grohar sighed. "He knows you are here, as well. Everyone knows the American is here, and the Russian woman. You have made little attempt to conceal yourselves."

"That's right." Bolan stared at the Serb levelly. "Can you tell me where Baibakov is, Captain?"

"Yes. He is in a cabin in the foothills north of here. He has three men and the woman, Madchen Krstic, with him. I believe they will begin to recruit more men into the Red Falcons soon." He met Bolan's gaze pointedly. "But I believe he intends to kill you first. It will give him more status, and I believe it is a personal thing between the two of you now."

"That sounds about right."

Grohar took a map out of his pocket. "I have marked the coordinates of the cabin on this map. I believe you must act quickly. He will be coming for you soon."

As Bolan took the map, Grohar sighed heavily. "There are few Serbian troops in the area. I will see what I can do to keep it so." The captain's face hardened. "Constantine Markov was a friend of mine, and a good comrade. Igor Baibakov is a psychopath, and he is not needed in this war. I hope that you kill him. I hope you survive."

The Serb turned and walked out the door. Grimaldi looked at Bolan quizzically. "You think it's a trap?"

Bolan shook his head. "No. He gave us good information on the Red Falcons before. But it really doesn't matter if it is. Baibakov will be there one way or the other. He won't be able to resist the chance to kill me with his own hands."

23.

Dawn began to creep through the gray clouds over Sarajevo as Bolan climbed into a small green panel van outside of the Holiday Inn. They left out the back and placed Do Not Disturb signs on their doors, and with luck no one would know they had left for several hours. Valentina Svarzkova sat in the vehicle wearing dark tan fatigues under a Russian t.i.tanium armor vest. Her blond hair was pulled back into a single braid. A dark tan beret with no branch or unit insignia covered her head. A Dragunov sniper rifle stood up between her knees, and her 9 mm CZ-75 pistol was strapped over her armor. Bolan knew the AK-47 bayonet and a tiny PSM a.s.sa.s.sination pistol were concealed somewhere on her person, as well.

Viado Sarcev sat next to her in plain khaki field pants and a dark green sweater. He carried his AKM rifle, and his 9 mm Egyptian Tokarev pistol and a hunting knife were attached to his belt. The range-finding binoculars Bolan had given him were in a leather case on his belt.

Jack Grimaldi climbed in behind Bolan toting the M-4 carbine and a pair of binoculars, as well. He grinned at everyone in the van. "Morning!"

Svarzkova looked up in mild surprise. "Jack."

Sarcev looked at Bolan. "I thought you said three."

Bolan shrugged. "Officially he's just my spear carrier."

The militiaman chose not to pursue the matter. "Ah. I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Jack."

The Executioner glanced at the contents of the van. Seven crates of AK-47 rifles and ammunition sat stacked against the side of the van, as well as four crates of RPG-7 rockets. Bolan nodded in satisfaction. "Good. That should be enough."

Sarcev frowned. "It was like pulling teeth to get these. The Muslim militia cannot afford to waste weapons like this."

I'll see to it that you get double back." He looked up front. "Who's our driver?"

"He's my cousin Lazio. He drives like an insane person."

A young man with impossibly curly brown hair and wire-rim gla.s.ses grinned enthusiastically and held up an Uzi. "h.e.l.lo!"

"He knows what he has to do?"

The little man nodded. "Oh, yes. He volunteered."

The Russian's gaze narrowed. "You have changed the plan?"

Bolan unfolded the map and put a finger on the mark Grohar had made. "Baibakov is supposed to be here. We're going to drive up into the hills in this van. When we get close, we're jumping out. Lazio is going to keep going. Baibakov has to have sentries posted. When they shoot at the van, Lazio is going to abandon s.h.i.+p and run for it. The Red Falcons will find a van full of weapons. While they investigate it, we hit them."

Svarzkova frowned. "This is not a good plan for Lazio."

Bolan nodded. It wasn't. But the Muslims in Sarajevo would sacrifice much to see the big Russian dead. "He volunteered for this job, just like we did." Bolan took out a radio and a headset for each member of the team. "Everyone ready?"

The woman nodded. "Let us do this thing."

The van wound through the hills outside Sarajevo and climbed steadily toward the mountains. They were about one and a half miles from Baibakov's lair. Once they rounded the hill they were climbing, the cabin would have a view of the road. As they pa.s.sed through a thick patch of forest, Bolan spoke to Sarcev. "Tell Lazio to slow it down."

The militia leader spoke rapidly in Slovene, and the van slowed to a momentary crawl.

Bolan stood. "Tell Lazio to get out at the first sign of contact."

He nodded as Bolan opened the back door. "Let's go."

The Executioner jumped out of the van, and Svarzkova and Grimaldi followed him. A second later Sarcev leaped out, and Lazlo gunned the engine and pulled away up the hill. The Stony Man pilot blew out a breath of steam in the cold air. "I don't envy the boy's chances."

Bolan glanced at his watch. "We've got about a mile or so to cover, and it's all uphill. Let's move."

Bolan and Grimaldi walked to one side of the road while Svarzkova and Sarcev took the other. They climbed steadily upward into the forested hills. The snow wasn't deep, but it was mushy and slick and made for slippery going.

The team froze as a thunderclap split the mountain air. The report of the .50caliber rifle was unmistakable. Tires screamed, and there was a sudden breaking of gla.s.s and rending of metal. The van had crashed. Bolan spoke quietly into his radio mike. "All right, double time, let's move it."

More shots from smaller-caliber weapons rang out as Bolan led his team to the edge of the hillside. The soldier raised the Weatherby rifle and sighted up the road with his scope.

One thousand yards up the road the van was piled into a tree. Steam hissed up out of the smashed radiator, and the back door was open. Bolan scanned the area with his scope, but Lazio was nowhere to be seen. Sarcev knelt by the side of the road with the lieutenant and peered at Bolan. The Executioner held up a fist and whispered into his mike. "Hang back and cover me. I'm moving forward."

Bolan crept closer through the underbrush with Grimaldi behind him. He reached an outcropping on the side of the hill and waited. The mountain thundered again with the report of the big .50, and the Executioner whipped the Weatherby to his shoulder and swung the scope in the direction of the muzzle-flash. He traversed his view and suddenly saw the yellow blast of the Barrett as it fired again, downslope past the van.

It appeared Lazio was still among the living.

Through his scope Bolan saw the long heavy barrel of a Barrett .50 sliding back into a camouflaged hide. The Executioner put his cross hairs in the middle of the camouflaged screen and fired.

The Weatherby bucked against his shoulder as he worked the bolt rapidly for a second shot. A rifle cracked up on the hillside above, and Bolan crouched behind the rocks as a bullet whipped through the branches overhead.

Svarzkova's Dragunov answered with three quick rounds. Bolan glanced at Grimaldi. "Did we get a hit?"

The pilot shrugged. "I couldn't tell. The blind moveda"you hit it. But I don't know if you hit the man behind it."

Bolan moved higher along the outcropping. "I'm going to fire a shot. Why don't you lob a grenade on whatever fires back."

Grimaldi flicked up the ladder sight on the M-203 and nodded his readiness. Bolan popped over the outcropping and fired at the blind again. Rifles cracked up on the hillside as he ducked down and Grimaldi popped up a few yards below him. The M-203 thumped, and a moment later a 40 mm grenade detonated on the hillside.

The Executioner broke cover and ran through the trees, Grimaldi's carbine snarling in a long burst of covering fire.

The soldier threw himself into a fold in the hillside. "Svarzkova! You and Viado move forward. We'll cover you."

The Russian agent's voice came back across the radio. "Exactly so!"

Bolan moved to the top of the fold as Grimaldi's weapon opened up again. Higher on the hill a weapon returned fire. The Executioner searched through his scope and found a man in fatigues crouched behind a stump. His head and shoulders were exposed, and the soldier put his cross hairs in the middle of the man's head.

The Weatherby rifle roared, and the man toppled away from the stump with his head in red ruin. Bolan slid back down into the fold and moved into a thicket. A moment later the Barrett boomed again, and rocks and dirt exploded from the lip of the fold. Bolan's eyes narrowed.

The shot wasn't even close.

The big .50 roared again, and Bolan raised his rifle and peered through the scope. The Barrett was still firing from the same position. The soldier sighted carefully and saw the barrel of the weapon sag as he was about to fire.

Baibakov hadn't moved from his position, and his firing was erratic. The Russian was wounded or he was playing possum.

Bolan moved toward the position and suddenly froze. A figure was moving through the trees ahead. The Executioner raised his scope and sighted. It was a man, armed with an AK-74 rifle, a 30 mm grenade launcher mounted beneath the barrel. Svarzkova's weapon barked at a target higher up on the hill, and the Red Falcon raised his grenade launcher high to arc in a grenade.

Bolan put the Weatherby's cross hairs on his chest and pulled the trigger.

The 300-grain bullet smashed the man backward like a sledgehammer and hurled him to the ground. Bolan crouched and waited for an answering shot, but nothing came. He spoke into his radio. "Svarzkova, did you hit anything?"

"I have one man down on the hill."

Bolan calculated. He had two down, both Red Falcons. If Grohar's intelligence was still current, that left Baibakov and the woman. Bolan aimed up at the .50's hide. The barrel still stuck out of the screen.

"I have two down, and a possible wounded up on the other side of the hill. Hold your positions and keep a look out for the woman. I'm moving in to take a look."

Bolan moved from cover to cover up the hill.

Grimaldi spoke. "No movement, Mack. We have you covered."

"Acknowledged." At one hundred yards Bolan slung the Weatherby and drew his Desert Eagle. He flicked off the safety and began to swing wide to flank the hide as he crept in. The hide was a screen of camouflage fabric and brush between two large rocks. Bolan froze at a small movement at twenty-five yards. The barrel of the .50 had moved slightly. He swung around wider and he heard a noise.

It was a wheeze of pain.

Bolan moved behind the hide, the muzzle of the .44 Magnum pistol preceding him. He came around the rock and leveled the huge pistol. The Executioner's eyes flared.

A dark-haired woman lay on her back with her left shoulder hunched away from her at an ugly angle. The Weatherby Magnum round had shattered Madchen Krstic's shoulder, and she was bleeding profusely. She looked up at Bolan through dazed eyes, and the Executioner's blood froze with instinctive certainty.

Baibakov had flanked them.

Bolan spoke rapidly into his mike. "Krstic is down, Baibakov is still at large, repeat Baibakov is still-"

The Barrett .50 boomed down by the road, and Bolan could hear it through his earpiece, as well. A man cried out, and Svarzkova swore in Russian. The soldier broke into a headlong sprint down the hill as the confrontation came across his earpiece.

There was a clattering noise, and Svarzkova called Baibakov a coward in Russian. A smaller clatter followed, and Bolan could hear Baibakov's booming laugh. Svarzkova spoke in a voice tight with rage, and the Executioner knew enough Russian to understand what was happening.

Baibakov had gotten the drop on Sarcev and Svarzkova, and the militia leader was either down or dead. The giant had made the woman drop her rifle and pistol, and she had drawn her knife. Her voice was a hiss over the radio link. She was daring Baibakov to kill her in close combat.