Fire Zone. Don Pendleton

close to the blaze for a long time. He wanted only to rescue the men trapped so he joined Buck and immediately regretted not putting on a jacket or a fire helmet. Tiny sparks landed on his arms and in his hair, burning holes and causing distracting pain. But he had put up with worse in his day. He began squashing the tiny fires in his clothing as if swatting mosquitos.

      â€œIt moved fast this way. We never saw it coming because the copter pilot said it was following a dirt road, not coming downhill toward us.”

      â€œThe wind changed direction,” Bolan said. He adjusted the face mask and respirator before plunging through the wall of fire. The fierce flames clawed at him like some wild animal, but he burst through and came out in a curiously empty area already burned clean of vegetation. Two of the firefighters were flat on the ground and not moving. Another sat, clutching his leg and uttering curses mostly about the fire. The other two worked to make contact using their walkie-talkies.

      â€œThe stream,” Bolan shouted, making himself heard over the roar of the fire. “Where is it?”

      â€œWe’ve got fire-resistant blankets. We can weather it. We’re only on the edge.” Buck did not sound confident. One of the unconscious men was the fire team leader, and there did not seem to be anyone left willing to make independent decisions.

      â€œThey won’t make it,” Bolan said. He rolled over the unconscious fire team leader, then hefted him up over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Bolan did not wait for the others but headed in the direction Buck had indicated earlier.

      He had hardly gone a dozen yards when he found a new wall of fire. Courage had less to do with his action than knowing this was his only chance to survive. Bolan put his head down and charged like a bull. He broke through the dancing flames and came out on the other side. If his luck had not held, he might have found himself in the midst of the raging fire rather than on scorched earth. Weaving through the blackened trees, he headed downhill with his burden and soon found the narrow but deep stream. He dropped his load into the middle of the water. Making sure the unconscious man’s head was propped above the surface, Bolan turned and started back to help the rest of the firefighters.

      He got only a few yards back uphill when he spotted four men stumbling along.

      â€œWhere’s Buck?”

      The lead firefighter shook his head. He tried to grab Bolan’s arm to stop him, but the warrior was not to be deterred so easily. He broke the grip and ran back. The wall of voracious flame he had breached before was gone now, moving on with a speed that amazed him. He swiped at his goggles, removing a thin sheen of soot that had kept him from seeing Buck limping along. The firefighter’s right leg refused to bear his weight. If he kept hopping that way, he would never get to safety.

      In a flash, Bolan got to the firefighter’s side and slipped an arm around him to lend some support.

      â€œYou’re some kind of madman,” Buck grated out. “Nobody’s paying you to look after me. Hell, they’re not even paying me that much. I’m a volunteer, like the rest of my team.”

      Bolan steered Buck off at an angle, goaded by the increasing heat at his back. They finally reached the creek and sloshed into it.

      â€œWhere’re the others? Where are they?”

      â€œGet down into the water,” Bolan ordered. He shoved Buck to a sitting position. “They’re a bit farther upstream.”

      â€œYou saved Lee? Lee Masterson?”

      Bolan immersed himself in the stream and felt every burn and blister on his body turn to ice as the water washed over him. He still had to use his respirator to breathe, but the fire now ran parallel to the stream.

      â€œWe’re gonna make it,” Buck said. “You saved me.”

      â€œYou’d have made it on your own.”

      â€œDon’t be so sure of that. I think my leg’s broken from a spill I took. If it turned into a compound break, there’s no way I could have made it to safety. Hell, I couldn’t have made it to the railroad tracks, much less here.”

      â€œRailroad?”

      â€œThere’s one that runs parallel to the stream, a mile farther downhill,” Buck said. “But what good’re train tracks? They’ve cleared the regular traffic just to be on the safe side. I wish we could get supplies sent by train.” Buck closed his eyes and choked back his pain. Talking kept his mind off his injury. “Even then, the higher-ups don’t like to depend on trains. The heat can actually melt the tracks and warp the rails. Then we’d have a derailment as well as a fire to deal with.”

      â€œClear the traffic? There was a train that came by recently?”

      Buck moaned softly as he clutched his leg.

      Bolan rummaged through the firefighter’s pack and found a morphine syringe. He expertly opened the ampule, then injected the drug directly into the injured leg.

      â€œBurns. Never had a shot like that before.”

      â€œYou’ll get sleepy in a minute. What about the train?”

      â€œTracks,” Buck said in a weak voice. “Don’t know the schedule but the boss said they had to get one out of the way ’fore we could move in equipment. Equipment. Need…” Buck drifted off to a troubled sleep, but the pain was bearable for him now, thanks to the narcotic.

      Bolan made sure Buck’s head would remain above the water, then yelled for the other firefighters. When he saw the bright yellow jacket with the orange stripes splashing downstream toward them, he knew Buck would be all right. The fire team leader had recovered and would provide needed guidance for the rest of his men.

      Bolan left before the fire team leader reached them to ask questions better left unanswered. He made his way in the direction Buck had indicated and saw the railroad tracks.

      This was how the mercenaries had gotten the heavy gold away from the area, with little risk they would be found out. Where did they ship it? Like a hunting dog on a scent, the Executioner went to the train tracks and began walking. His mission was just beginning.

      4

      The Executioner reached a switching juncture in the railroad tracks. From what he could tell, one went due west toward Oregon and the Pacific coast while the other angled to the southwest. If the mercenaries had loaded their stolen gold onto a train, it could have gone in either direction. It was time for him to get some help.

      Bolan fiddled with his satellite phone a bit and finally got a connection to Stony Man Farm. Kurtzman came online immediately.

      â€œGood to hear from you, Striker.”

      â€œThe gold was trucked to a railroad spur, loaded on a freight car and it’s on its way out of Idaho. Did it go west or southwest?”

      â€œWe’ve been looking into this,” Kurtzman responded. “All the fires preceding gold thefts were set near rail lines.”

      â€œThat’s how they get the gold away. Where do they take it?”

      â€œWe’re working on that.” Kurtzman sounded distant. Bolan knew he was juggling intel input from a half-dozen different sources. That didn’t make waiting any easier. He kept hiking along the tracks, choosing the line going to the southwest for no good reason other than it felt right. His survival instincts had been honed to perfection over the years, and he had learned to rely on his gut to find what others couldn’t.

      â€œThere’s a new fire,” Kurtzman said.

      â€œI almost got caught in it. They blew up the truck they used to move the gold from the mine to cover their tracks.”