Bolan set the UMP on the gantry rail, bracing it. Then he slowly unclipped several smoke grenades and two M84 stun grenades and set them down beside him, in a line. Five grenades would help to even the odds, if used correctly. But his targets were too clumped together. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, but Ackroyd was in the line of fire. Bolan needed to separate Ackroyd from his watchdogs. The Executioner swept his gaze across the warehouse, hunting. When he found what he was looking for, he crouch-walked across the gantry and removed one of a trio of throwing knives sheathed on his combat harness.
The flat, balanced blades were heavy enough not to result in bounce-back, but light enough that a man of Bolan’s strength could send them hurtling a great distance. The knives had been crafted by Stony Man’s own weaponsmith, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, according to Bolan’s specifications. While Bolan preferred his KA-BAR combat knife, there were times the lighter knives came in handy.
He took aim at the control panel for the conveyor belt. Then, with a whip-crack motion of one arm, the Executioner sent the blade spinning at the panel. It struck a wide button and with a grinding squeal, the conveyer belt rumbled into motion. Bolan quickly made his way back to his grenades. He stuck earplugs into his ears and placed a mouth guard between his teeth. Then he pulled a pair of tinted safety glasses from a pocket and put them on. Between the plugs and the glasses, he would be protected from his own handiwork.
Down below, the sudden activation of the conveyer had startled Ackroyd’s guards into motion. Sparrow peered out of the office, a cell phone in one hand. The three men who headed for the belt held their weapons loosely. An overconfident bunch, they clearly weren’t expecting an attack. Bolan clucked his tongue and gently lobbed a smoke grenade at the far-loading dock. Pulling the pin on a second, he dropped it from the gantry onto the moving conveyer belt. A second later, he sent the last wobbling through the air straight for the picnic tables. Then, snatching up the stun grenades in one hand, he dropped from the gantry to the top of the conveyer belt. He landed hard and bent his knees, propelling himself forward onto his belly. Lying flat, Bolan slid down the incline of the conveyer belt as the warehouse filled with smoke.
It was a risky maneuver, but it was the best one available to him. As the old maxim said, “when in doubt, attack.”
Bolan rode the belt between the two spreading clouds of smoke, his UMP at the ready. As he caught sight of the confused guards hurrying away from the picnic tables, he popped the pin on one of the M84s and sent the bomb hurtling at the small group.
The stun grenade emitted a blinding flash and a bang of 170 decibels—loud enough to cause temporary deafness and ringing in the ears. Despite his safety glasses, Bolan kept his eyes shut and covered his ears as the grenade went off. He didn’t open them until he’d rolled off the conveyer belt and hit the floor. Bolan raised his UMP as he came to his feet. He let off a short burst and the three men did a deathly jitterbug as the rounds shredded their bodies. Bolan spun toward the picnic tables and let off another burst, taking out a fourth gunman, who’d been running forward when the grenade had gone off.
Slowly, the Executioner stalked through the warehouse. The stun grenade should have flattened everyone, or at least disorientated them. A shape staggered through the smoke, clutching a rifle. Bolan waited for it to draw closer. One of the guards, coughing, obviously deafened. He stared blurrily at Bolan, and comprehension crept sluggishly into his gaze. He began to raise his weapon and Bolan put him down.
He stepped over the body and headed for Ackroyd, who was crouching beneath one of the picnic tables. Nearby, a gunman had flipped over another table and was using it as cover. When he caught sight of Bolan, he let loose a burst from his AR-15. Bolan reacted with almost-feline agility, darting to the side as bullets chewed the concrete floor. He twisted midsprint, spraying the overturned table. As he did so, he saw Ackroyd mouth something. The old man’s eyes were wide and full of warning.
More shots cut toward him from the other side of the building, and Bolan saw the seventh man crouched behind the conveyer belt. He’d obviously heard the gunfire and cut his smoke break short. The Executioner thumbed the pin out of the remaining M84 and sent the grenade sailing right at the seventh man with an underhand lob. Bolan threw himself flat. The stun grenade went off with a burst of pyrotechnics, igniting the gasoline fumes on the loading dock and triggering a fiery explosion.
The seventh man disintegrated in the blast and Bolan was sent skidding across the floor. The UMP clattered from his grip as he rolled across the concrete with bone-bruising velocity. His back smashed against one of the soda machines and it fell on top of him, pinning him to the floor. A moment later, the second toppled across the first and the ember of pain that had begun to flicker in the back of Bolan’s skull exploded into blazing incandescence. Fire alarms began to blare and somewhere above, the warehouse’s sprinkler system activated. Water splashed down in sheets, stinging Bolan’s eyes and face. Black, oily smoke mingled with the lighter variety from the M84s and Bolan began to cough. He shoved at one of the pop machines, trying to shift it. It rocked slightly, and the pressure on his legs eased. If he could raise it high enough, he might be able to slide his legs out. A sound caused Bolan to look up from his exertions.
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