Free Death Run by Don Pendleton Page A

seldom took shots at much longer ranges than that, and if he needed to do so, he knew how to compensate for any caliber of rifle that he might be called upon to use.
    The little rifle held fifty rounds of ammunition, and Bolan had four loaded magazines in his jacket, two in the front vest pocket designed to hold a water bladder and one in each inside vest pocket. The unusual design of the rifle placed the clear plastic box magazine on top of the barrel, under the optical platform. Since the gun was of the bullpup design, the receiver was in the rear of the gun, at the back of the buttstock, so it wasn't much longer than his Beretta 93-R when the sound-suppressor was attached.
    Once again he wore the experimental lightweight armored vest that Kissinger had developed under his riding suit. Underneath that he wore his skintight blacksuit. The vest would stop the 5.56 mm rounds fired by the SAR-21 rifles from Singapore and most other common rifle calibers he'd likely run across, but it wouldn't stop the rounds in his P90. The steel-cored rounds would penetrate forty-eight layers of Kevlar when fired from a weapon like the P90. He didn't know if the gang bangers guarding the warehouse would be wearing body armor, but if they were, the soldier was prepared.
    Bolan rode to Santa Cruz on Highway One, noting that there were people milling around the warehouse when he rode past Fair Avenue. Traffic was heavy and he moved slowly, allowing him to get a good look at the building. The sun was just starting to set; in another hour it would be dark enough to make his move. The soldier rode up the Coast Highway until he got to Laguna Road, then he hung a right. He hadn't gone a hundred yards before he saw a sign that read Road Ends 50 Feet. That should have put the road's terminal point just around an upcoming curve, but Bolan's GPS showed that the road continued after the turn.
    Bolan rounded the curve and found himself in some sort of trashy commune. Old, rusty cars lined both sides of the road; some of them looked drivable, others were just decomposing relics. The cars were parked so tightly on the road that they left just enough room to squeeze through with a motorcycle. Shacks and run-down buildings sat in what appeared to be a cow pasture on the right side of the road, and a few assorted outbuildings in various states of decrepitude littered the hill on the soldier's left. Some of the buildings were clearly abandoned — Bolan could see clean through them because they were missing so many boards and windows — but others showed signs of life inside, a flicker of light behind a dirty window or fresh tracks leading up to the door. Abandoned boats and camper trailers were strewn about the property, keeping the derelict cars, trucks and tractors company.
    Contrary to what the sign said, the road continued beyond the flotsam and jetsam that comprised the place. At least it continued in unpaved form. Laguna Road turned into a two-lane dirt trail that curved parallel to Highway One, finally dissecting it when Highway One curved toward the east and wound its way back to Santa Cruz. It didn't look like much of a road, but Bolan was riding the world's biggest trail bike so he continued onward, riding back down the road until it reconnected with Highway One.
    Bolan took his time, and when he returned to Santa Cruz, it was dark enough to begin his mission. He turned right on Mission Street, a block west of the Fair Avenue warehouse, then turned left on the next street, parking half a block from the warehouse. He hid his motorcycle behind a semi-truck that was parked along the street and took off his riding suit, revealing the blacksuit underneath. He put the extra magazines for the P90 in pouches snapped on his vest and clipped a couple of M-67 fragmentation grenades and a couple of M-84 flashbangs to his utility belt. He crept between buildings toward the warehouse, jumping fences and avoiding guard dogs along the way. In his left hand he held his