Final judgment, p.8
Final Judgment, page 8
That was their mistake. Bolan slashed out with his big, upswept blade, cutting their hamstrings, dropping them in place like broken marionettes. As they fell, shocked, reeling from the pain and momentarily confused as to what had happened, they had no time to react. Bolan brought the knife up and down, stabbing the men in turn, driving his blade through the hollow of a throat, through an eye socket, through an abdomen. He worked like a well-oiled machine, silent and deadly, letting his knife speak for him.
Several neo-Nazis were concentrated at the end of the tunnel. Bolan realized the ambient light was increasing again. He was rising as he worked his way through the trench network. That meant he was getting closer to his goal. He used a side passage near him for cover as he pitched a high-explosive grenade at the cluster of enemy gunners.
The blast that followed ripped through the ranks of neo-Nazis. They broke and ran, finally. The ones who were still mobile fled in stark terror, running for their lives along the trench.
Bolan peered cautiously from his vantage. A large steel door blocked the passage leading forward. He checked his phone. He was at the very perimeter of Nitzche’s bunker now, a stone’s throw from the structure itself. His running, crawling, creeping gun battle had brought him to the old Nazi’s doorstep.
Sudden gunfire took him by surprise, because it was pointed in the wrong direction. His sense of hearing, which was much better than it had any right to be, considering his exposure to high decibels during combat, told him that farther along the trench-and-tunnel network, a new firefight was ongoing…and it didn’t involve him.
Lantern. They had finally found the action they were so eager to involve themselves in.
Bolan glanced at the steel door and then back through the trenches. He had told the Lantern operatives they would face death and destruction. He had made it clear they were out of their league. He had no obligation to save them.
But he couldn’t leave them. They weren’t bad people; they were merely misguided and in over their heads. They wanted to bring men like Nitzche to justice regardless of the legal system’s ability to do so…and what was Bolan if not an avatar of the very same ideal?
“Heaven save us from amateurs,” he muttered. Shouldering his M-4, he stalked down the trench, ready to acquire targets.
He was halfway there when the gunfire stopped. In the dim light of the trench he saw figures locked in personal combat, stabbing and punching and striking. The fight had devolved from weapons to hand-to-hand. He couldn’t tell, in this light, a camouflage uniform from a black one.
He let his rifle fall and drew his knife once more. Spinning it in his palm, he reversed it, locking his fingers around the handle in a clenched fist. In his other hand, he grasped his combat light, blinking the bright light on and off with the thumb cap switch, moving each time he illuminated his position. He worked methodically, pulling each knot of fighting men apart and driving his blade into the throat or chest of the neo-Nazi. He did this twice before a Lantern operative came at him blindly—the one named Malachi. Bolan threw a piston front-kick into the young man’s abdomen that left him retching on the floor of the trench.
When he got to Berwald, he paused. The leader had dispatched his opponent with a slash of his own blade. He and Bolan stood regarding each other, grasping their knives. Aaron held a long, thin, double-edged dagger, a Fairbairn-Sykes combat knife.
“Your move,” Bolan said.
Berwald collapsed against the trench wall. He was breathing heavily. The other Lanterns gathered around. Aaron looked wild-eyed in the dim light. The soldier realized then what was wrong. Of the Lantern contingent, only three had survived: Berwald, Malachi and the operative named Hershel. The trench was littered with bodies, as was the tunnel to which it connected.
Bolan reached out and offered the leader a hand up.
“Get away from me!” Berwald screamed in horror. “I saw! I saw what you did!”
Bolan stared. Had Berwald cracked? He didn’t have time for this. He turned to Malachi and Hershel, who looked shell-shocked. He reached out and grabbed Malachi by the collar, prepared to have to fight the man. Malachi simply looked at him, dumbfounded.
“Take care of him,” Bolan ordered. “Do you hear me? Malachi! See to your leader. Aaron needs you.”
“Y-yeah.” Malachi nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I will. Please…please don’t hurt me.”
Bolan released the man. “Stay here. Unless you want to see what’s left of your friends die.” The soldier turned to leave.
“Cooper,” Malachi called after him. “What makes you better than them? How can a man… How can a man kill like that and not become a monster? Not be a creature of hate?”
“Because if they put their guns down,” Bolan said, “I’d take them in. If I put my guns down, they’ll kill me. It’s Israel and its radical enemies all over again, kid. If the enemies of Israel laid down their arms tomorrow, the region would coexist in peace.”
“But if Israel surrendered her own military…” Malachi said softly.
“The streets would run red with blood in days.”
“I…I think I understand,” Malachi murmured.
“You’re starting to, kid,” Bolan said. “You’re starting to.”
Chapter 8
The steel door was as he had left it. Bolan checked the perimeter for obvious traps or sensors and, finding nothing, decided the direct approach was best.
The compact, remote-detonated charges were yet another toy designed by the specialists at Stony Man Farm, in this case by Cowboy Kissinger and Gadgets Schwarz in tandem. Kissinger had put together the payload, while the compact detonator was a piece of electronic wizardry designed by Schwarz. The charges had both a contact adhesive and, when charged, a powerful electromagnet. Bolan clicked the chargers and let two of the bombs adhere to the metal skin of the barrier. Then he retreated to the cover of the closest trench.
There was no sign of Berwald or his two surviving operatives.
Bolan pushed the switch on the remote detonator.
The explosion made his ears ring. A tornado of superheated air ripped past as the doors were blown clear, setting off some kind of alarm that reminded Bolan of mechanical school bells.
Through the smoke and debris marched the Executioner.
He was standing in a subbasement with a dirt floor. The walls were concrete; there were bare bulbs hanging from fixtures in the ceiling. Crude targets had been spray-painted on the walls. It was a makeshift shooting range. Bolan stepped closer to one of the targets and inhaled.
Blood.
He’d thought as much. The dark red stains blotching the concrete walls could be little else. His face dark with anger, Bolan kicked spent shells with his combat boots. Unlike those that now littered the maze of trenches beyond the bunker, these were old, many of them tarnished. There was no telling how many people Nitzche and his private army had killed here. Some of them might have been hostages from the courthouse. Bolan didn’t want to think just how many of those Nitzche had kidnapped might have suffered under the neo-Nazi’s cruelty.
The soldier found a concrete stairwell leading upward. There was no guard at the door. He emerged into a large room at ground level and was amazed by what he saw: pool tables and pinball machines; a full bar along one wall. A small stage, complete with stripper poles, dominated the opposite wall. Track lighting and even a karaoke machine had been set up here. It was a recreation room.
Opposite the stairs to the subbasement was a set of heavy wooden double doors. Bolan started for these.
The doors opened.
“Well, well, well,” Klaus Nitzche said. “It seems I owe you that five dollars after all, Indio. One of the fools survived.”
The old Nazi was dressed like a retired socialite, in silk pajamas, slippers and a smoking jacket. He held a carved ivory pipe in one hand.
He held an ornately engraved Luger pistol in the other.
Stony Man Farm’s intelligence files had included a workup—extracted with great difficulty, considering Nitzche’s discretion—of the old Nazi’s known associates. Bolan recognized the Uruguayan, who had traveled with Nitzche for some years. Known in the files only as Indio, the man was enormous and, if half the crimes attributed to him were true, an almost pathological killer, rumored to have murdered at least a dozen people with his bare hands and with knives.
Nitzche, guarded by Indio, was flanked by several of his camouflage-clad neo-Nazi thugs. The HN members fanned out to either side. There were more of them filing in behind Nitzche. They had been waiting, which explained the lack of guards in the lower level.
“He doesn’t have the look of one of Berwald’s scuttling rats,” Nitzche said, appraising Bolan. “He seems rather more…professional. Don’t you think?”
Indio’s expression hardened. His eyes locked on Bolan’s. “My leader,” he said quietly, “give me leave to kill this man. Now. While it can be done.”
“Eh?” Nitzche looked up at Indio. “Why, Indio, I’ve never seen that look on your face before. Do I detect a note of…?” Nitzche thought better of speaking the word, perhaps to prevent Indio from losing face in front of the other HN personnel. But Bolan and the old Nazi both knew the look on Indio’s face.
It was fear.
“Tell the men to shoot,” Indio urged. “Tell them to shoot now, my leader. Or let me do it. But don’t let that one leave this room.”
“What is the matter with you, Indio?” Nitzche appeared perplexed. “He can do nothing. We hold all the cards. Isn’t this what we’ve been waiting for? The night’s entertainment, come to our doorstep at last?”
Just then, another neo-Nazi rushed into the room, carrying a two-way radio and looking very pale. He came up behind Indio and spoke very quietly to the HN lieutenant. Indio nodded, never taking his eyes from Bolan.
“Sir,” said Indio to Nitzche. “Report from the trench network, sir. Our men report that we have lost nine of every ten men, sir.”
Nitzche turned red. He stared at Indio as if the man had just accused him of being Jewish. “Are you insane? Nine of ten would be—”
“More than you can afford to lose,” Bolan said. “And they’re all dead because of me.”
“Who are you?” Nitzche demanded.
“Matthew Cooper,” Bolan said. “Justice Department. Surrender now to my custody and nobody else has to die.”
Nitzche froze. His men stared at him. Finally, the old Nazi began to tremble. When he finally made a noise, it came out as a cackle.
The old man was literally shaking with laughter.
That was when Berwald, Malachi and Hershel burst in, pistols in their hands.
“Nobody move!” Berwald screamed. “We hereby place you under citizen’s arrest!”
Bolan started to move, but Indio had anticipated him, crossing the space and clamping one large hand around Hershel’s throat. He kicked Malachi and Berwald aside contemptuously, holding Hershel out before him like a shield.
“Draw a weapon, government man,” Indio roared, “and I will snap his neck.”
“Don’t hurt him,” Aaron Berwald said. He put his weapon on the floor. Malachi did the same.
The HN troops had all raised their automatic weapons. Bolan was covered by more guns than even he could outfight. He knew it and Indio knew it, too.
“Good boy,” the Uruguayan said.
There was an earsplitting crack.
Hershel’s corpse fell to the floor.
“No!” Berwald screamed, rushing forward.
Nitzche, still cackling, shot him three times. Berwald crumpled. When Indio drew a short, concealed bowie knife from his pocket and slashed Malachi across the throat, the last of the Lantern operatives barely reacted. He simply gurgled and died, folding where he stood.
Indio grinned. Some of his confidence was returning. He had just murdered two men this “Cooper” considered allies, and there had been no reprisal. He was emboldened. Bolan saw that in his eyes, in the way he carried himself.
“I would have given his father more credit,” Nitzche said. “Sending children to do the job of soldiers, to fight other soldiers. Of course we massacred them.”
“Just like I massacred your men,” Bolan said. He clenched his fists, feeling righteous wrath building inside him.
“No matter,” Nitzche said. “I will see to it that Mr. Berwald Sr. pays for the extreme difficulty he has caused me. Killing his son is just the start.”
“You’re scum, Nitzche,” Bolan said. “They might have been amateurs, but they were better men than you or any of your thugs.”
“Fool!” Nitzche said. “The United States government wishes to show me how strong it is, and so it sends one man! One man with delusions of his own strength!”
“I’m stronger than you,” Bolan said. “And your men know it.”
Nitzche’s face darkened. “No man challenges my strength. It is the constant of my life.”
“Your life,” Bolan told him, “is coming to an end. And they all know it. How much longer do you have, Klaus? You could have easily died in prison.”
“I will show you strength!” Nitzche roared. “Indio! Bring me that idiot Orwin.” He gestured to his men. “Lay down your guns, Cooper. You may keep your other weapons. We are going to have the evening’s promised entertainment, and my men are going to avenge themselves on you the way men of strength do.”
Bolan stepped to one of the pool tables. He unclipped the M-4 from its single point sling and placed it on the table. His Beretta and his Desert Eagle followed. When he turned, Indio had come back, pushing a thin, dark-haired man in a sweat-stained three-piece suit.
“Please, please, please don’t kill me,” Kevin Orwin begged. Bolan recognized him from the profile the Farm had sent to him before the courthouse operation. He was Nitzche’s attorney.
“This,” Nitzche said, “is a man of weakness. A sniveling coward, interested only in saving his own hide. Watch.” He turned to Orwin, who had of course heard every word just spoken. “Tell me, Kevin, if I gave you this pistol and asked you to shoot every one of your fellow hostages, would you do it? Such a demonstration of loyalty would ensure your freedom.”
“Y-yes sir, yes sir,” Orwin said from his knees. “Anything, Mr. Nitzche. Anything you say.”
“You see, Cooper?” Nitzche said with a sneer. “These are the men working for your government, for your vaunted justice system. Are these the creatures you believe you are defending? Are they the worms you serve? They are weak, and so are you.” He gestured with the Luger, offering it grip-first to Orwin, who looked up, hesitating.
“He’s nothing,” Bolan said. “Let him go. He’s not worth a bullet.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Nitzche replied. His crocodile smile turned to a grimace of shame. “I languished in a freezing cell for months while this idiot prattled on, pretending to be defending me. He was simply biding his time, collecting his pay. He is a tool of the state. He isn’t expected to bring about justice. He is there so your government may go through the motions, pay lip service to its ideals, while prosecuting great men such as myself.”
“No, sir, please, I’ll do anything you ask,” Orwin whined.
“Oh, do shut up,” Nitzche said. He shot Orwin once in the forehead, spraying the man’s brains over the tiled floor of the recreation room. Orwin stared up at the ceiling, his expression one of surprise and terror.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Bolan said darkly.
“He died as he lived,” Nitzche replied. “A worthless tub of guts.”
“And that’s how you show your strength?” Bolan asked. “By shooting unarmed men?”
“No,” Nitzche said. “This is how—by walking away while my men beat you to death. Come, Indio. The men have earned their amusement, especially in light of their…fallen brothers. We have much planning to discuss.”
“Sir, I was hoping…”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course. The court reporter. Yes, our business can wait, Indio.” He patted the giant on one thickly veined forearm. “You go and play, loyal Indio. You’ve earned it.”
“Are you certain you won’t reconsider?” Indio looked back at Bolan. “I would prefer he die immediately.”
“You worry too much, Indio,” Nitzche said. “I won’t deprive the men. It’s this or the shooting range and, frankly, I think this is the more fitting redress.”
“Yes, my leader,” Indio rumbled. He followed Nitzche from the room, but not before shooting one last death stare at Bolan.
The double doors locked behind them.
The neo-Nazis attacked.
They lowered their pistols and submachine guns, slinging them. From their belts and pockets they drew knives.
Bolan slid his combat dagger from its sheath.
“Well,” he said, “come on, then, if you’re coming.”
They charged.
The soldier bobbed and weaved, ducked and slipped. Blades came at him from every angle. He slapped at forearms and elbows, stabbing with short, sharp, digging motions, using his enemies’ body mechanics against them. For every move, there was a counter. For every arc of the human arm, there was a means of cutting, of stabbing, to intercept. Bolan was the most experienced knife fighter any of these men would ever face; he had drawn blades in life-and-death battle countless times during his war.
