Doomsday Disciples

17

Trooping down the stairs behind his rag-tag entourage, Nguyen Van Minh smelled the smoke of battle. Outside, the heavy-metal racket of automatic weapons grew louder and closer, mounting in ferocity.

As his party reached the ground floor, waiting for directions, the broad front doors burst open. A dazed and bloodied gunner stumbled in, shouting incoherently, his voice a rasping bark. Tommy Booth reached the man before he took a dozen steps, spun him hard and marched him back outside. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them with a sound of grim finality.

Minh was moving when a line of bullets stitched across the doors, puncturing the heavy wood and ricocheting off the walls and floor inside. An explosion rocked the mansion, shattering the front windows, filling the entryway with a storm of fractured glass.

The front was inaccessible. Minh wasted no time replotting his course. Snapping at his "elders" and taking Mitchell Carter by the elbow, urging him along, he began herding them along a corridor that led to the rear of the house. To freedom.

The situation was obviously worse than he dared imagine. This was not a simple raid or infiltration — it was full-scale invasion, a frontal assault on his home. A gnawing ache in his stomach told him it was disaster.

He was reminded of the 1968 Tet offensive when he had organized a raid against the U.S. Embassy in Saigon. That was another time, another war. He had fought beside the victors then, half a world away.

This time, Minh was on the inside, under siege. In spite of himself, he felt the stirrings of claustrophobia, which drove soldiers mad with fear, provoked them into fruitless, suicidal action. He could feel it, yes, but with great effort, he controlled it.

There was still a chance. He had the senator, a potent trump card, and he would not surrender under any circumstances. He would never know the shame of capture, the humiliation of a show trial before a jury of self-satisfied Americans. It was unthinkable.

Escape was a problem, certainly. There was no time to wail for the yacht. The captain and crew were on their own, and he dismissed them from his thoughts. It might be possible to plan another rendezvous, if they escaped intact, but the hope was slim at best. Minh hoped the captain would be wise enough to dump the woman if he was attacked.

In any case, she was no longer his problem.

Smoke and clouds of tear gas filled the house behind them as they hurried through the formal dining room and kitchen, Minh bringing up the rear. Another ringing blast shook the walls and ceiling, rattling dishes in the cupboards overhead. A crystal chandelier smashed to smithereens in the corridor they had vacated only moments earlier.

His party reached a back door and bulled through, the gunners leading the way, testing the night for danger. Emerging into smoky darkness, Minh was stricken by a scene of chaos — flashlights sweeping through the fog; excited, confused voices shouting; automatic weapons crackling in the distance. Around the cluster of bungalows, reserved for members of the Devotees, his disciples milled in various stages of undress, some weeping, others shouting, trying to be heard above the din. Half a dozen "elders," hopelessly outnumbered, were struggling to herd them back inside the cottages.

Minh's limousine was waiting with a driver at the wheel, engine idling and rear doors perched open. He was moving toward the car, prodding Carter and the hostages ahead of him, when a cry went up from someone in the crowd of his assembled followers. A shrill voice called out to him, pleading for help, an explanation.

Minh turned in time to see the ranks of his disciples waver, break. They surged toward the limousine, jostling each other in the crush. One of his "elders" was knocked down and trampled by the herd, the others struck blindly, trying to diffuse or divert the charge.

In another moment they would be upon him, clinging to him, blocking his escape. Minh nodded to the nearest gunner in his entourage and the hardman smiled in recognition of the silent order.

The "elder" swung his submachine gun up, bracing elbows on the roof of the limousine as he quickly sighted down the barrel. Minh heard spent cartridges rattle on the body of his car as the gunner tracked his weapon in a blazing arc.

Across the lawn, hollowpoints ripped into flesh, thinning out the front ranks of his panicked followers. Minh watched them twitching, falling, bodies sprouting holes as if by magic. Despite the darkness, he could see a young woman with her breast shot away, an overweight youth kneeling, both hands clutching his open abdomen. Then the ranks broke, wheeling back around, survivors retreating toward the safety of the bungalows. The gunner slowly released the trigger.

Out of nowhere, Culp's attorney exploded into action, throwing himself on the gunner's back. Shouting, swinging wildly, he bounced the "elder" off a fender, madly pummeling his head and shoulders. The outburst was so unexpected, Minh stood for a moment, shocked into a deep freeze.

His bodyguard swiftly recovered, fending off his smaller, inexperienced assailant. Lashing out with the muzzle of his weapon, he drove the little lawyer back a pace, keeping him at arm's length.

It was enough. A second "elder" swung his riot gun up and into firing range. A single charge of buckshot took the lawyer chest high and lifted him off his feet, slamming him against the side of the house. As he slid to the ground, the wall became streaked with gaudy, abstract patterns of blood.

The senator stood gaping at his side, but a choppy gesture from the shotgun persuaded him to quickly climb into the car. Mitchell Carter moved to follow him, but Minh raised an arm to block his path.

There was a Browning 9mm automatic pistol in his fist.

Carter glanced from the weapon to Minh's face and saw his death written in Minh's eyes. He broke away, biting off a sob as he turned toward the house, knowing he would never make it to safety.

The first slug took Carter in the cheek, ripping bone and cartilage through his nose. The impact spun him around. There he was met by two more bullets that punched bloody holes between his shoulder blades.

Finished with the work of waste disposal, Minh found his seat beside Michael Culp and barked an order to the driver. The limousine lurched forward, running flat out across a smoking landscape that was something out of Dante.

Minh settled back in the seat and closed his eyes, trying to blot out the sights, sounds and smell of a life's dream shooting up in flames.

Gunners emerged from the house as Bolan raced across the broad expanse of lawn, one man shouting orders and struggling to organize his troops. In another moment they would cut the warrior off.

But they didn't have a moment.

Bolan swept the porch with a stream of tumblers, chopping through the ranks, toppling a handful of men and putting the rest to flight. He followed up the lead with a blazing high-explosive round; the front steps erupted into flying chunks of stone and tumbling bodies.

He neared the littered steps, homing in on the broad front doors. Twenty paces out, he fed the M-203 a can of high explosives, dropping to a crouch as he sighted on the target, squeezing off.

The doors blew open with a smoky thunderclap, one flying off its hinges, clattering across the marble floor inside. Bolan quickly loaded a canister of tear gas and let it fly through the yawning doors. In an instant, thick, choking clouds rolled out to meet him.

Shouting, cursing came from inside as gunners searched for a target and battled for their next breath. Bolan was about to join them when bullets started eating the steps around him, spraying shards of lead and shattered stone.

The warrior spun to face his enemies, covering his flank. Half a dozen "elders" approached on the run, firing as they ran, searching for the range and finding it. Bolan tracked the nearest "elder" with his autorifle, squeezing off a short burst, watching as the target twisted and toppled in an awkward sprawl.

The other guns sought cover, dodging to escape the line of fire. Bolan took advantage of the momentary disarray, probing with controlled bursts of fire from his M-16. One by one, the hostile guns fell silent and failed to answer the challenge from Bolan's stuttering weapon.

An eerie, ringing silence fell across the battlefield. Bolan scanned the lawn, picking out the huddled, lifeless figures scattered there. Behind him, smoke mingled with the tear-gas fumes as the manor house began to burn. Inside, the shouting now took on a note of panic.

Bolan straightened and turned toward the house when the sound of a screaming engine reached his ears. A black limousine shot around the side of the house, tires crying into the curve. There was no time to intercept, but he did catch a glimpse of Minh, leaning back against the rear seat.

The bastard was doing it. He was escaping. There was still a chance...

Bolan raced down the steps and in a moment reached a waiting Lincoln parked in front. The "elders" were regrouping, closing in as he reached the car, but there was no time to face them or answer the oncoming fire. He had to follow Minh or lose it all. He had come too far and spilled too much blood to let it go without a chase.

He wrenched the driver's door open and slid behind the wheel, offering a silent prayer to the Universe as he reached for the ignition switch.

The keys were gone. Of course.

It was the ultimate in long shots, counting on luck to see him through.

He gambled, sure, wagering heavily against the odds, and he crapped out.

A bullet whispered past his ear, taking out a jagged section of the windshield as it exited. Other rounds were coming in, smashing safety glass and punching through the bodywork, the hostile fire increasing intensity as gunners found their target.

Bolan quit the Lincoln, moving in a crouch and firing at the muzzle flashes as he backed around the car. The autorifle emptied out, and he ditched the empty magazine, reloading in a single fluid motion and never breaking stride in his retreat toward the mansion. He returned the hostile fire selectively, refusing to spend his ammunition in an aimless spray.

He reached the corner of the house and ducked around it, briefly out of sight from his pursuers. Bullets raked the wall where he had stood a heartbeat earlier, spraying chips of stone.

Bolan paused and caught his breath. He recognized the danger he was in — cut off, surrounded by the enemy while his enemy slipped away. He knew the bitter taste of failure and realized he could very easily die here, his mission unfulfilled.

Above the din of battle, he heard another sound — that of an engine, drawing closer. Bolan turned to find a crew wagon bearing down on him, gaining speed, two dim faces gaping through the windshield.

The troops saw their leader cut and run, deserting them. They were now bailing out as best they could, leaving any stragglers to their fate.

Bolan snapped his rifle up, making target acquisition even as he squeezed the trigger, stroking out a three-round burst. The Caddy's windshield misted over with a spiderweb design. The driver's head snapped back, driven by the force of impact, his face dissolving in a crimson mask.

A dead foot missed the accelerator pedal and found the brake in a spastic reflex action. The Cadillac pulled hard right, rocking to a halt. Bolan heard the engine choke. Splutter. Die.

Beside the driver, his companion slid over, jerking at the door handle and finally opening it. With a desperate shove, he dumped the lifeless body in the drive and took its place, pumping the accelerator and twisting the ignition key. The engine groaned, nearly turning over, then died again.

Bolan fired another burst, and the milky glass window imploded, blinding his assailant. Hot steel-jackets took the "elder's" head off in a spray of mangled flesh and bone fragments.

In his dying spasm, the gunner's hands froze on the steering wheel. Bolan pried him loose, dragged the headless body out and left it draped across the other corpse. He got behind the wheel, sliding on the blood-slick upholstery.

The flooded engine took its time, resisting ignition. Bolan kept grinding at it as his enemies appeared around the corner of the house, edging into range. They spotted him, swinging automatic weapons onto target as he fought to get the motor running.

Bolan drew the silver AutoMag and thrust it through the open windshield, allowing a heartbeat for target acquisition before squeezing the trigger. He dropped the point man in his tracks. Another round drove the others back out of sight as they scrambled for a safe haven.

The engine finally caught, coughing to life. Bolan cranked the steering wheel around, putting the Caddy back on course, gathering speed along the curving drive. A spattering of lead raked his flank as he passed the crouching gunners. Then he was running free, and in hot pursuit of Minh.

Hoping, yeah, that the game had not already been lost.