Death Run by Don Pendleton

flashbangs from his utility belt, pulled the pin, and tossed the bomb toward the van. The movement caught the attention of some of the armed men, but Bolan had the element of surprise on his side. The men simply weren't expecting to be attacked by a black-clad soldier in a Santa Cruz warehouse. Before they could get their minds around what they'd witnessed the M-84 flashbang went off. Bolan shouldered the P90 and rushed into the building while the people inside were still incapacitated from the grenade. Four of the gunmen stood to the left of the van and Bolan sprayed them with a burst of full autofire from the little FN submachine gun. One man fell to the floor, where he remained, motionless. The van took off out the door while the other three dived behind the forklift for cover.
    Bolan blasted a short burst into each of the two gunmen on the right of the van, sending multiple rounds directly into the centers of each man's mass. If the rounds didn't hit their hearts, they punched through their spines or other major organs because both men fell, dead or dying.
    By this time, the men from the first group had regained their senses and started firing at Bolan. He leaped behind a large crate and crawled around the edge until he reached a point from which he could see where the shots were coming from. The men behind the forklift fired blindly, holding their rifles above the forklift and pulling the triggers without aiming. Their shots went wild, posing a greater threat to the soldier when they ricocheted off something than they did as fired. But the forklift driver had a clear shot at Bolan. He raised a Glock pistol and took direct aim at the Executioner. The man fired and a bullet hit the pavement inches from Bolan's head, sending sharp fragments of concrete into his face.
    Bolan snap aimed the P90 and sent a burst into the forklift driver's face. The 5.7 mm bullets were something of a compromise; they were designed to penetrate most soft body armor but in return they lacked the expansion needed to create a large wound channel. But that didn't matter when they penetrated the forklift driver's head. The bullets entered his face, leaving marks that looked like an angry case of chicken pox, and exited through holes that weren't much larger than the entrance holes. But they did their intended job, scrambling the man's reptilian brain stem on their way through.
    The whole firefight had lasted less than two minutes, and in that time the driver of the van had started his engine and dropped the transmission into gear. He gunned the engine and the van roared toward the door. Bolan tried to get a shot off after him but return fire from behind the forklift kept him pinned down behind the crate.
    It appeared that only three people behind the forklift were firing. Bolan's initial blast must have wounded one of the men more severely than he'd originally thought. He needed to take out all three of them so he could pursue the van, which almost certainly contained the plutonium. Bolan pulled the pin on one of the M-67 fragmentation grenades, counted off three seconds, and hurled the grenade to the far side of the forklift. It exploded before it even hit the ground, shredding all three gunmen in a blast of razor wire.
    More gunfire came from the front of the building. The two guards he'd left there had positioned themselves behind a couple of cement-filled steel pipes protruding from the concrete floor, where they were supposed to prevent truck drivers from hitting the tracks for the large overhead doors. Judging from the multicolored paint streaks on the metal pipes, they'd served that purpose more than once. Both men opened fire on the soldier's position. Neither could get a good shot off at Bolan, but in return Bolan was unable to get a clean shot off at either of them.
    Not that he needed to kill either of them; what he really needed to do was stop the van carrying the plutonium. He looked at the back door, trying to judge if he could make it