Blood Heat Zero by Don Pendleton

life jacket or flotation vest, could survive in that hellhole of stormy water, even if by some miracle he survived the dizzying drop.
    Bolan dug the half paddle that remained to him feverishly into the current, striving to turn the kayak and face back upstream. But the little craft was becoming waterlogged. Low in the water, it was difficult to maneuver.
    And now that the Russians had outdistanced Bjornstrom, all their firepower was concentrated on the canoe.
    The chatter of the outboard rose to a crescendo as the new helmsman pulled out maximum power to combat the manic force of the river sucking him toward the murderous cataract. The most he could do was steady the raft while the two gunners, one Uzi and one Skorpion, spat hate in Bolan's direction. Even so, slowly but relentlessly, they were being drawn back toward the fall.
    Bjornstrom's swamped and half-deflated raft swept past and disappeared over the edge of the cataract.
    Bolan was in the worst position. With half a paddle, he was no match for the mighty force of the rushing water.
    Steadily, inexorably, the kayak was drawn stern-first toward the lip of the falls.
    The Beretta's magazine was empty.
    Bolan thought he might have winged the remaining submachine gunner, who had flopped down into one of the raft's seats. But he might have been paddling on the far side to help the guy at the tiller. There was no time to check: the wounded killer was firing the Stetchkin with his good arm; the remaining man with the Skorpion firing from the shoulder with the machine pistol's wire stock extended was pumping 7.65 mm slugs on full-auto at the kayak.
    Seeing the line of holes creep-along the prow toward the cockpit, Bolan took advantage of the only maneuver open to him he swept the paddle blade to one side, snapped his hips violently sideways and dumped the canoe into an Eskimo roll.
    The waterlogged canoe turned slowly onto its back; Bolan disappeared beneath the surface.
    In the distance, Bjornstrom watched aghast as the keel line of the American's capsized craft was riddled from stem to stern by the Russian gunners. Half awash in the speeding flood, the kayak did not right itself.
    With increasing speed, it shot toward the lip of the falls.
    For a dizzy moment it seemed to hang at the edge, the pointed bow rising almost vertically from the water. Then it vanished into the maelstrom below.
    For an instant the Icelander thought he saw Bolan's yellow helmet reappear among the turbulent eddies racing toward the lip, then it, too, was swept away and dropped out of sight.

10
    Gunnar Bjornstrom scrambled down from the rock outcrop and leaped into the river. He was a strong swimmer. And he was wearing a life jacket. Even so the turbulent current carried him two hundred yards downstream before he could make the west bank of the Jokulsa a Fjollum.
    He was no longer in danger from the Russians. They were too busy trying to avoid death by drowning.
    In their eagerness to eliminate the Executioner, they had allowed their raft to drift too near the cataract.
    Now, even with the outboard engine bellowing at full power, they were losing ground. Frantically they pushed the first gunner Bjornstrom had killed out of the inflatable.
    The body was quickly carried away by the current. It vanished into a seething suckhole, reappeared nearer the falls. On the very lip, a leg appeared above the surface, then a limp arm, as if waving in mock farewell. Seconds later it had gone.
    The killers were tossing overheard yet another corpse the second Uziman, who must after all have been wasted by Bolan's final burst. Back at the tiller again, the guy with the shattered arm was screaming hysterically. His two companions took up paddles and began, grim faced, to stroke as hard as they could. But the current's grasp on the raft was relentless with a terrible inevitability it backed up toward the edge.
    Bjornstrom watched the Russians die.
    The end was unexpectedly sudden. A brusque acceleration, as if a