Monthly Archives: March 2016

Excerpt from “Blood Heat Zero” (The Executioner) by Don Pendleton ~~Hollowpoint death bringers~~

picture-Executioner-BloodHeatZero-PendletonHe noticed the Renault panel truck not because it lacked lettering along its sides, not even because it was new and carried Reykjavik license plates. But because of a slight hesitation in its approach, a momentary pause in the even note of the engine as it drew abreast. As if the driver was satisfying himself that he had arrived in the right street, at the correct address.
Or that the person he was passing was the one he sought. Bolan had the impression of heavyset men – he couldn’t tell their numbers – crowded into the truck. Men dressed in anonymous gray. Then it accelerated, sped up a slight rise and vanished into the dip beyond.
The Executioner continued his unhurried pace. But the zipper of the plastic holdall was open now and his right hand was already inside, wrapped around the pistol grip of the G-11.
He saw the panel truck slewed across the road at the bottom of the depression as he breasted the rise. There was no other traffic in sight. Two men were crouched behind the hood. Two more were running for clumps of stone at each side of the road. A fifth appeared between the open rear doors of the truck. All of them were armed with submachine guns.
Bolan didn’t wait for them to fire first. Maybe they had orders to simply get the drop on him and bring him in alive for questioning. At any rate the SMGs did not open up the moment his head and shoulders appeared in view.
The Executioner flung himself to the side of the roadway, finger tight around the Heckler & Koch’s trigger. Fired from inside the plastic suitcase, the gun spewed out a blaze of death that ripped through the fifty yards separating Bolan from the truck so quickly that the killers behind the hood died before they had a chance to shoot. The diminutive 4.7mm rounds drilled through metal, mangled pipes and hoses and wiring, and cored through human flesh. A cloud of blood sprayed through the air as the hardmen fell.
By the time the three others opened fire, Bolan was prone on the hill, his body shielded by the stone heaps.
Flame spurted from between the truck’s open rear doors. Hollowpoint death bringers scuffed the tarmac at the roadside and whistled through the coarse grass above the ditch.
Bolan jerked the G-11 from the carryall, snuffed out the smouldering edges where the gun’s muzzle-flashes had melted the plastic, and fired again.
He stitched a double line of destruction hip-high across the doors. The gunner crumpled to the ground, with northern daylight showing through his skull.
Two hitmen remained in the ditches.
Bolan dropped the case, leaped to his feet and sprinted across to the far side of the road with the H&K.
A stream of slugs struck sparks from the granite chips in the pavement as he ran. But the gunman on the far side had revealed his position. Flattening himself behind the opposite stone pile, Bolan hammered another burst low down through the moorland sedge. Small clods of earth fountained into the air and spattered the roadside. He heard a strangled scream. In the far ditch something flopped briefly among the grasses and then lay still. There were no more shots from that side of the highway.
Four down and one to go. Bolan crawled stealthily along the depression, inching his way downhill in the hope of seeing the last killer before he had a chance to fire. Figuring he could finish it with a single blast, the guy stood upright with a grenade in his hand.
He hadn’t reckoned with Bolan’s split-second reactions – or the G11’s rate of fire. Bolan caught him with the full force of a half-second burst when he arm was still drawn back to throw. The bomber collapsed into a huddle of blood-stained rags. The grenade flew from his hand and exploded harmlessly on the upland turf near the truck. Shattered glass tinkled to the roadway.


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