Читать онлайн книгу «Deadly Contact» автора Don Pendleton
Deadly Contact
Don Pendleton
DEATH SPIRALA ten-year-old mass execution in Bosnia has suddenly resurfaced to haunt the perpetrators. Members of an association of businessmen, which included Americans, who were willing to get their hands bloody for profit are mysteriously dying. When a translator for the Stony Man team is innocently caught in the conspiracy, she turns to Mack Bolan for help.One of the men has used evidence from the killings to blackmail his fellow murderers. Bolan's mission is to identify the men in high places who killed for money and power in the aftermath of a brutal war. The Executioner's hunt to fi nd the proof leads to a showdown in the mountains of Colorado, where blinding snow and bloodlust mix with lethal force.
The gunner stood his ground
His eyes were wide with a mix of anger and disbelief that his team had been taken down so swiftly.
Bolan hit him with a savage volley that cut the man down like straw in the wind, dumping his tattered and bleeding body on the ground.
The last echo of autofire drifted off into the trees. Wind rattled the brittle foliage, dislodging hard crusts of snow from the branches. Bolan’s boots crunched over the ground layer as he moved from man to man, checking for signs of life and moving weapons clear. He had counted his targets and they were all down.
The Executioner’s shots had been delivered with total accuracy.
MACK BOLAN®
The Executioner
#264 Iron Fist
#265 Freedom Force
#266 Ultimate Price
#267 Invisible Invader
#268 Shattered Trust
#269 Shifting Shadows
#270 Judgment Day
#271 Cyberhunt
#272 Stealth Striker
#273 UForce
#274 Rogue Target
#275 Crossed Borders
#276 Leviathan
#277 Dirty Mission
#278 Triple Reverse
#279 Fire Wind
#280 Fear Rally
#281 Blood Stone
#282 Jungle Conflict
#283 Ring of Retaliation
#284 Devil’s Army
#285 Final Strike
#286 Armageddon Exit
#287 Rogue Warrior
#288 Arctic Blast
#289 Vendetta Force
#290 Pursued
#291 Blood Trade
#292 Savage Game
#293 Death Merchants
#294 Scorpion Rising
#295 Hostile Alliance
#296 Nuclear Game
#297 Deadly Pursuit
#298 Final Play
#299 Dangerous Encounter
#300 Warrior’s Requiem
#301 Blast Radius
#302 Shadow Search
#303 Sea of Terror
#304 Soviet Specter
#305 Point Position
#306 Mercy Mission
#307 Hard Pursuit
#308 Into the Fire
#309 Flames of Fury
#310 Killing Heat
#311 Night of the Knives
#312 Death Gamble
#313 Lockdown
#314 Lethal Payload
#315 Agent of Peril
#316 Poison Justice
#317 Hour of Judgment
#318 Code of Resistance
#319 Entry Point
#320 Exit Code
#321 Suicide Highway
#322 Time Bomb
#323 Soft Target
#324 Terminal Zone
#325 Edge of Hell
#326 Blood Tide
#327 Serpent’s Lair
#328 Triangle of Terror
#329 Hostile Crossing
#330 Dual Action
#331 Assault Force
#332 Slaughter House
#333 Aftershock
#334 Jungle Justice
#335 Blood Vector
#336 Homeland Terror
#337 Tropic Blast
#338 Nuclear Reaction
#339 Deadly Contact
The Executioner
Deadly Contact
Don Pendleton
Go into emptiness, strike voids, bypass what he defends, hit him where he does not expect you.
—Ts’ao Ts’ao, 155–220 A.D.
When I plan a mission I make sure my enemies will never know what hit them.
—Mack Bolan
THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Prologue (#u08ccb0bc-f64c-5baa-b08b-3aa139663257)
Chapter 1 (#uafaa15d3-faba-5b71-858f-667f2febd673)
Chapter 2 (#u2641396c-9365-518c-b253-39c9f141b009)
Chapter 3 (#uc69eead5-40a8-5c51-ac77-cb37369132f2)
Chapter 4 (#ud8236ed0-2476-559b-b87a-68a330254581)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Bosnia, 1995
The sharp light of morning was accompanied by a chill appropriate to the mood of the day. A fine mist rained over the wooded terrain, the cold drizzle building until it slipped from the green leaves of the trees. It dripped onto the bared heads of the tight group shuffling forward from the truck that had brought them to this place. Five men and a single woman. They walked with the heavy tread of individuals aware of their fate, unable to do anything to alter it, yet clinging to some vague hope there might be some last minute reprieve.
They were surrounded by a three-man armed escort—men clad in better clothing than their captives. While the six wore ordinary dress, the escorts were comfortable in weatherproof coats and hats. No one spoke. There was no point. Anything that had been worth saying was in the past. It was time for closure.
Within the group, only one of them allowed emotions to show. One of the men sobbed quietly, his head down so that his chin rested on his chest. His tears ran down his face and merged with the rain-soaked material of his shirt. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the crumpled, stained jacket he wore. Once that jacket had been an expensive item from his wardrobe. Now it showed the effects of his prolonged incarceration. It had a number of tears in the fine material, and some of the dark stains were from his own blood. He knew he was about to die. He wanted it to be different, but the line that prevented that had been crossed many days ago. He had chosen his side, as had the others in the group, and it had been the wrong side. He was about to pay the price for his decision, which in his heart he still defended. He knew the people controlling his destiny were evil. They were men who saw personal aggrandizement as their right, contrary to the responsibility they carried for the countries they served. A defiant resistance to those illegal activities had been the catalyst for the action taking place in this isolated landscape.
Someone rapped out a harsh command, and the group was herded to a stop in a clearing in the wooded terrain. A deep pit had been dug. The dark mounds of extracted earth edged three sides of the pit, glistening in the rain. Already a thin layer of water had pooled in the bottom of the pit. The armed escorts lined up behind the six, the one who had given the command glancing to his right at a shadowy gathering of men standing just within the tree line. One of these men stepped forward, into the light. A big man, with a hard-boned face wet with rain. He was bareheaded, his thick black hair lay tight against his skull. He exhibited no remorse as he faced the six.
“This was not inevitable,” he said. “You chose your own fate by refusing to join us.”
The woman turned to look him in the eye. One side of her attractive face still bore the discoloration that was the result of a severe beating.
“Murderers always try to justify their crimes,” she said. “You are no different. In the end you are all no more than backstreet scum, criminals and thieves, and one day your actions will reach out and drag you down into the grave with us.” She spit in his direction. “Do your worst, you bastards.”
A swift nod and the escorts raised the automatic weapons they were carrying. There was no preamble, no final words or comfort for the victims. The clearing echoed to the vicious crackle of autofire that riddled the six with 9 mm bullets. The writhing bodies tumbled forward into the pit, screaming out their final moments as they hit the rain-sodden earth. Torn flesh, shredded clothing, the final spurts of blood. A pink haze floated for seconds over the open pit, dissipating in the continuous rain.
“Fill it in,” the big man said. “Then get out of here. Report to me in the morning.”
He turned then, flicking a finger at the others standing with him and they merged with the dark trees, retracing the steps that had brought them to this place of slaughter. Minutes later they emerged from the trees and climbed into waiting SUVs. Powerful engines purred to life and the small convoy moved off, following the curve of the thin track, disappearing into the gray mist until there was no sign they had been there.
At the pit site, the escort squad had exchanged their weapons for long-handled shovels. They worked quickly, scooping the wet earth back into the pit, covering the bodies, then dragging clumps of shorn foliage and leaf mold over the plot. The rain would soon reduce their boot prints to nothing, washing away evidence of their activities, and it would not take long for the forest to reclaim its disturbed ground. The grass would grow, and the foliage would weave and tangle its way back.
AN HOUR LATER THE SITE WAS deserted. The distant rumble of the departing truck had long since faded, leaving only the sound of the rain to break the solitude.
From the far side of the clearing a dark figure emerged from concealment. He was a lean, tight-featured man clad from head to foot in camouflage clothing that had allowed him to remain unseen until he stepped into the open. Even his face was striped with camo paint, so his eyes stared out from the mask, bright and feral. He carried an expensive, professional camcorder in his hands. The equipment was state-of-the-art and was fitted with a powerful variable-focus lens arrangement that allowed for tight, detailed closeups even from a distance. The man had been in place well before the events at the pit had taken place. He had recorded the whole episode, making certain that his tape logged every face, of victims as well as the killer escort. He had also focused in tightly on the group by the trees, recording their presence at the massacre. He stood and took a final pan of the area, ending by holding his camera on the camouflaged area of the burial site.
He had just completed his filming when he felt the soft vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He unzipped the flap and took out the phone, pressing the button to open the connection.
“Are you finished?” the voice of his employer asked.
“I was about to leave.”
“You have it?”
“Oh, yes. Everything. They are all identified. It is all on the tape.”
“Excellent. You know what to do?”
“As we discussed. Give me until the end of the week and it will all be documented.”
“I will talk to you then. Now I have to go. They are ready to start the proceedings. We have the past to toast and our assured futures to celebrate.”
The cell phone went silent and the man put it away. First he placed the camera in the soft, waterproof case he had tucked inside his zipped jacket. He slung the case over his shoulder by its webbing strap, then turned and began his long tramp back through the forest to where he had left his car. He had at least a half hour walk ahead of him, but he consoled himself with the anticipation of the warm apartment waiting for him. He would do what he needed to do with the video cassette and the material he had recorded over the past few weeks. He also thought of the money it would bring him, courtesy of his employer, and the payments in the future that would ensure he continued to enjoy his life of upcoming luxury. During his walk back to his concealed car, he never once gave any thought to the six people he had seen slaughtered. In his mind they had ceased to exist the moment the fiery 9 mm bullets had ripped into their bodies.
1
Present Day
Throw a pebble in water, and the waves extend outward with a speed that reaches far beyond the moment of its creation.
For Mack Bolan those ripples had already reached out to engulf someone he knew and had drawn him to this isolated, derelict farm in upstate Virginia on a rescue mission about to go hot.
Armed and clad in blacksuit, he erupted out of the dark shadows and confronted the three-man crew holding Erika Dukas hostage. The crew had been waiting for their orders and were on less than full alert. They had been promised cash for their part in the operation. It had been good pay for a relatively easy job, and the men were congratulating themselves on the easy money.
They were unprepared for the tall, blacksuited Executioner as he opened the abandoned farmhouse door with a powerful kick from a booted foot. As the door flew open, sagging from one hinge, Bolan appeared and lashed out with his Uzi at the closest of the three men before him. The man tumbled back, blood welling from the heavy gash in his head, stumbling to the floor. Bolan turned his attention to the other two as they produced automatic pistols, the suppressed Uzi spitting fire as he squeezed the trigger, tracking the muzzle from left to right, then back again, kicking the stunned kidnappers off their feet. As the last of the 9 mm shell cases clinked to the floor Bolan strode across the room, laying his Uzi on the wooden table he passed and used his Ka-bar fighting knife to cut through the bindings securing Erika Dukas to a wooden chair.
She ripped the duct tape from across her mouth.
“Another one outside…” she gasped before drawing breath.
Bolan helped her to her feet.
“There was,” he said quietly.
It was his only reference to the man who had been standing guard outside. He slid the knife back into its sheath, but not before Dukas caught a glimpse of the blood smear on the blade.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Bolan’s concern over Dukas drew his attention, momentarily, from the men he had taken out. If he had to come up with any excuse as to his momentary lapse in concentration, it would have referred to the clubbing he had received back at Tira Malivik’s apartment. The slight concussion had not entirely cleared, and it had left him less than fully alert.
Behind him a bloody figure rose awkwardly from the floor, turning to make a grab for the Uzi on the table.
The woman’s gasp of surprise warned Bolan.
He turned and powered himself across the room, his eye on the weapon too, aware of the end result if he failed to commandeer it. The kidnapper had less distance to cover and he moved fast, a near-triumphant smile on his bloody lips as he reached out for the submachine gun. His fingers closed over the metal, yanking the Uzi toward him. Bolan was still a couple of feet away. He made a last-ditch attempt, launching himself forward and across the table, sliding over the surface, and slammed bodily into the kidnapper.
The impact sent the guy stumbling back, almost losing his grip on the SMG. He crooked a finger around the trigger and hauled the muzzle around to track on Bolan. The Executioner kept his forward motion. He rolled across the far side of the table, landing on his feet and swinging out his right arm, delivering a smashing fist that clouted the man across the side of his face. He reached for his holstered Beretta.
The other man grunted, pain flaring. He swung the SMG in a vicious arc that cracked against Bolan’s shoulder and followed it with a brutal kick that caught the soldier in the side, spinning him away from the table. The kidnapper pulled the muzzle of the SMG on line, increasing pressure on the trigger.
Bolan tried again for his holstered Beretta, aware he was competing with a man with his finger already on the trigger.
The sound of the single shot made Bolan stiffen, expecting the impact of a bullet hitting home. When it did, it wasn’t Bolan who was the victim. He was looking directly at the kidnapper and saw the bloody exit hole that appeared in the man’s left shoulder. The bullet had entered to the right of his spine, coring its way through his body and blowing clear, taking bone fragments and fleshy debris with it. The man didn’t even have time to scream before he fell, letting go of the Uzi when he hit the floor.
Bolan scooped up the weapon, ran a quick check, then turned to the shooter.
It was Erika Dukas.
The Stony Man Farm translator was still on her knees where she had made a grab for the pistol dropped by one of the other kidnappers. She still held the weapon in both hands and stared in stunned silence at the man she had shot.
Bolan went straight to the woman, crouching in front of her. He gently pried the pistol from her trembling fingers, then placed a large and comforting hand on her cheek.
“We need to get clear of this place, Erika. Before others come.”
She looked at him and he saw her eyes were threatening to spill over with tears.
“I…needed to stop him. He was going to kill you. Wasn’t he going to kill you?”
“I’m a lucky guy to have you at my back. Now let’s get out of here. We can talk this over when we’re safe.” He took hold of her arm and helped her to stand, conscious she had transferred her gaze to the sprawled body. “He can’t hurt us now, Erika. Come on, we need to go.” His voice was low and gentle, his words soothing the turmoil she was undoubtedly experiencing.
Dukas bent to pick up something from the floor. It was the fanny pack she had been wearing. She secured it around her waist.
“Time to move,” Bolan said. “We need to talk.”
“I’m surprised you have time for conversation,” she said as she followed him outside and away from the silent house.
Bolan didn’t reply. He led her back the way he’d come, a walk of at least a quarter mile through the rainy darkness before they came to the concealed Jeep Cherokee. Dukas slid onto the passenger’s seat and waited while Bolan opened the tailgate door. He got out of his combat harness and pulled a lightweight black leather jacket over his blacksuit. He wore the 93-R in a shoulder rig under the jacket. When he joined Dukas, he handed her a 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol and a clip-on hip holster he had taken from his duffel bag.
“From here you go armed. I know you’ve done some time on the firing range. I’ve heard you have a steady hand and a good eye,” Bolan said.
“Paper targets don’t shoot back,” she said as she ejected the magazine, checked it, then clicked it back. “But I suppose I just proved I can handle a gun.”
Bolan saw how capable she was with the pistol. Her movements were smooth and unhurried. He watched her ease the safety on before she put the gun away, adjusting the holster on her hip. He handed her a couple of extra magazines, and she dropped them in her pocket.
“These people we’re dealing with don’t appear to have much regard for life. We’ve already seen how they operate. If we meet up again and the need arises, just remember it’s your choice. Your life, or theirs,” Bolan stated.
She nodded. “I understand. I won’t let you down.”
As he drove Bolan checked out the still, silent figure beside him. He understood what she was going through, and though he kept his thoughts to himself he knew that Dukas would need to come to terms with what she had just done.
All the right reasons were not going to make the slightest difference. Justification, moral right, good versus bad, none of that would wipe away the cold, hard fact that Erika Dukas had taken a life. When the initial shock wore off, Bolan knew Dukas would ponder the stark facts and realize she had sent a man to a morgue slab. The full realization might knock her back and render her incapable of accepting what she had done. On the other hand her resolve might be strong enough to accept the facts and let her move on. For the moment he allowed her the privacy of her own thoughts.
They were still short of the main highway when Bolan picked up the flash of headlights in his rearview mirror. He watched them until he counted at least two vehicles in pursuit.
“Company,” he said.
Dukas twisted in her seat and studied the oncoming vehicles.
“You think they’re coming after us?”
“Out here? Off-road? I don’t imagine they’re tourists. They must have arrived just after we left,” Bolan replied.
He put his foot down, increasing the Cherokee’s speed. The dirt track they were on did little to assist a smooth passage, and the fact the road was waterlogged from the rain only added to the treacherous surface. The SUV managed the terrain, but the ride was uncomfortable.
“This is just crazy,” Dukas shouted above the rising howl of the engine. “What the hell are we doing out here?”
Bolan kept his eyes on the road ahead, peering through the streaming windshield where the wipers were struggling to keep the glass clear. The twin headlight beams danced and shimmered in the downpour as Bolan fought the wheel. The Cherokee slid back and forth, brushing the drenched foliage on each side of the narrow strip. More than once Bolan felt solid thumps as the Cherokee’s heavy tires hit some unseen object.
He concentrated on the road ahead, knowing that the difficult driving conditions would hamper their pursuers as much as it did them. It was a small consolation, but at least it was something.
A bend appeared, and Bolan worked the wheel and the gears to control the Cherokee. He felt the rear slide away and compensated, bringing the heavy SUV back on track. He felt the road start to slope. It wasn’t a steep incline, but under the conditions it did little to help, except to increase their speed.
To the north thunder rumbled, a deep threatening sound that heralded the sudden crackle of lightning. The jagged fork lanced across the cloudy sky, briefly illuminating their surroundings and adding to the general din.
“What next?” Dukas asked. “Do they have tornadoes around here as well?”
The solid thump of bullets striking the Cherokee grabbed their attention. Bolan tried to erase the sound from his mind, but the increasing accuracy of the gunfire meant that sooner or later they would sustain a fatal hit. The tailgate window exploded as rising gunfire hit the glass, almost as a grim warning.
Bolan felt the trail dip suddenly. The front wheels twisted, the big vehicle swayed and then lurched off the trail, sliding down the steep slope. Bolan fought the drift, but despite his powerful grip he was unable to bring the SUV back under control. He felt the right side wheels leave the ground as the Cherokee started to tilt.
“Grab something,” he yelled at Dukas.
The Cherokee rolled, and Bolan and Dukas were helpless as it commenced its bouncing, twisting descent. The last thing he was able to do was turn off the engine before the falling vehicle turned their world into a dizzying, wild ride that could have left them severely injured, or even dead, if they hadn’t been securely strapped in. It didn’t stop them from being jolted, suspended by safety harnesses, senses jarred and knocked out of kilter by the careering Cherokee. Sometime during the fall the windshield shattered, and sleet and mud entered the passenger compartment.
And then it ceased.
As swiftly as it had begun, the spinning, bruising tumble stopped. The vehicle lay on its left side. The creak of distorted metal and the sound of the wind penetrated their senses as they fought to push away the effects of the crash.
Bolan managed to hit the release button and free himself from his belt. He was on his side, pressed up against the driver’s door. He ached, and the side of his head was bloody from where he had banged against the window. He blinked his eyes a few times to get them back in focus. His attention was drawn to something above him.
It was Dukas, still caught in the restricting safety harness. In the pale light he could see the frustrated expression on her face.
“I can’t find the damn release,” she said.
Bolan sat up and reached between the tilted seats.
“Ready?”
He hit the button and Dukas slid from the harness and tumbled free. For a moment they were entangled, and in another place at another time Bolan might have enjoyed the contact. But their position left them vulnerable to attack, so any fleeting moment of closeness was abandoned instantly.
Dukas had the same thoughts and she hauled herself off him, ducking her head through the windshield gap, half falling as she pushed into the open, feeling her hands sink into the chill ooze of mud.
Bolan was close behind. He had spared a few seconds to search for the duffel bag holding his backup weapons, grabbing the handles and hauling the bag with him, then followed Dukas out of the Cherokee.
The cold rain hit him as he pushed to his feet, turning to see if his companion was safe. She was leaning against the vertical hood of the upturned Cherokee, checking the pistol he had given her earlier.
No need to remind her of the priorities, Bolan thought.
He took out the Beretta and made sure it was ready for use. He set it for single shots. He had two spare magazines for the weapon, plus the one already loaded. It would do. There wasn’t time to break out anything else. He checked the long slope they had come down. Headlights broke up the gloom, and he saw the dark figures clustered around the pursuit vehicles. The light faded just as quickly, and in that brief moment Bolan made his decision.
“Highway is in that direction,” he whispered. “We need to reach it if we can.”
Dukas nodded. Her face was slick with rain, her dark hair soaked.
Bolan touched her arm and pointed her in the direction they needed to go.
The ground underfoot was waterlogged and spongy. The mud clung to their feet and slowed them. The constant fall of sleet drove in at them. Bolan let Dukas pull ahead a few feet so he was able to keep her in sight. Bringing up the rear, he checked their back trail and saw the bouncing shafts of light from the pursuit vehicles as they headed slowly down the slope. They halted beside the overturned Cherokee, and Bolan could imagine the anger and frustration the crews would experience when they found it empty. Once they realized their quarry was still up and running they would pick up the chase again.
Up ahead Dukas lost her footing and went down on her hands and knees. Bolan reached her side and stood over her. About to offer a free hand to help, he was waved aside as she stood upright.
“I’m fine. Thanks for the gesture.” She pushed wet hair back from her mud-spattered face.
“Come on then,” he said.
They cut off across the muddy landscape, Bolan aware that the pair of vehicles would catch up with them soon enough. He was looking out for anything that might offer cover if the need arose, but there didn’t seem to be anything to break the unending stretch of relatively flat terrain.
The sudden crackle of autofire told them their pursuers were not waiting any longer. The shots were way off target.
“If those chase cars get in range, try for the tires. It should slow them. Put them on foot too,” he said.
“Seems reasonable,” Dukas answered without breaking her stride.
The first pursuit vehicle closed on them quickly and Bolan snapped out a single command.
“Down.”
Dukas dropped, splaying her body across the muddy earth, propping herself on her elbows, the pistol in a two-handed grip. The Executioner was down himself in the same breath, dropping the duffel bag beside him, the 93-R tracking the driver’s door.
The SUV was only yards from them, slowed almost to a stop as the occupants searched for their quarry.
“Did they see us?” Dukas asked above the hiss of the rain.
“Most likely didn’t,” Bolan answered. “Easy to miss us in these conditions.”
“What do we do?”
“Use it to our advantage. Start cutting down the odds. You go for that front tire. Now.”
She didn’t challenge his command, simply eased the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer around and stroked the trigger three times. The first shot missed. The next pair chunked into the tire, which blew with a soft sound. The SUV lurched to a stop.
Bolan hit the driver’s window with a pair of close shots, the glass imploding and the wheelman jerking in his seat as the 9 mm slugs hit home. Coming up on one knee Bolan triggered more shots at the SUV’s windows.
Confusion stalled the passengers and by the time they had overcome it, two were dead, another wounded, and the rest frantically pushed open the doors on the opposite side of the vehicle, tumbling clear. High ground clearance left them exposed, and Bolan laid his fire into the crouching figures, seeing one go down before the others broke apart.
“The other car’s coming,” Dukas warned.
“I see it,” Bolan said. “Start to back up, flat to the ground. And keep going. Take the bag with you.”
“What about—”
“Go.”
His tone warned her not to resist. Dukas wriggled away from her position, sliding her body through the greasy mud, dragging the duffel bag behind her. She had gone only a few yards when the stutter of a submachine gun sounded. She felt the impact as the line of slugs churned the earth. She continued to crawl, surprisingly calm despite the entirely new experience of being under hostile fire. There was something almost unreal about the situation, but she didn’t pause to question it. Later, if there was any later, she would.
Bolan had started to move in the opposite direction, working his way around to the rear of the stalled SUV. He was making his plan as he moved, aware of the ever-changing situation, using the confusion that had to have been present within the ranks of the opposition. They had been anticipating a run down of their quarry, not the opposite where the hunted became the hunter. Bolan’s strike against them had made them stop and reconsider. If he kept that feeling alive by taking the fight to them, rather than simply running, he might yet gain full advantage. It was worth the risk. Bolan had never lost a fight through quitting, and his warrior mentality always urged him forward, using superior thought and tactics.
He slithered his way through the mud, low to the ground, and he noticed that the gunfire had ceased. The targets had vanished and the gun crew was evaluating what to do next. They were in open country, the terrain unforgiving and the driving rain simply adding to the difficulty of locating their quarry. That was their problem. As Bolan got closer he saw figures silhouetted against their vehicles, with headlights still blazing. The enemy stood out clearly. It suggested that these men were not seasoned fighters in this kind of situation. He figured they were probably a hired gun crew from an urban background.
Bolan drew himself against the bulk of the vehicle and hauled himself up on one knee. Peering around the edge, he counted the opposition. Three close to the second car, a fourth standing off a few yards, cradling a submachine gun as he peered into the misty gloom.
“No way we’re going to find them out here,” one of the men said.
“Billingham said that it we don’t find ’em we don’t need to go back.”
Someone laughed nervously, then said, “What’s he going to do? Wipe us all out?”
“Now I know you never worked for him before, because that’s just what he will do.”
Bolan snapped in a fresh magazine and cocked the Beretta. He rose to his full height and stepped out from behind the SUV, his finger easing the selector switch to 3-round bursts.
He took out the SMG man first, the 9 mm bullets catching the guy in the chest as he turned to rejoin his three partners. The 93-R’s muzzle was already tracking in on the trio as the shot man went down. Bolan broke away from the SUV, moving in close as he triggered repeat bursts, the slugs ripping through clothing and into flesh, spinning his targets off their feet. They collided with one another as they toppled into the mud.
Bolan went directly to the SUV and opened the driver’s door. He slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine and swung the vehicle around, moving in the direction Dukas had been crawling. He braked and stepped out of the SUV.
“Erika? Over here,” he shouted.
In the beam of the lights he saw her mud-caked shape emerge from the mire, then haul herself toward him.
“Don’t,” she warned. “One crack and I’ll lose it.” She flicked mud from her face. “Can you believe women pay to have this stuff plastered over them to improve their looks?”
“In your case it looks like it’s working already,” Bolan said.
“Until I work that out I’ll consider it a compliment,” she said as she tramped by him. She yanked open the passenger door and dumped the duffel bag inside, then climbed into the SUV.
Bolan turned the vehicle in the direction of the distant highway, his mind working constantly. He needed to get them clear of this area, somewhere they could hole up temporarily and assess the events that had started when Erika Dukas had received a phone call from a friend sometime earlier that day.
2
Earlier that day—Falls Church, Virginia
Chill winds had been blowing from the north with a hint of snow in the fine rain misting the windshield of Erika Dukas’s 1965 Chevrolet Impala-SS. She drove steadily, aware of the gathering weariness that had started to impinge upon her being as she wound down. She had just finished a complicated translation for Carmen Delahunt at Stony Man Farm. The work had been intense, urgent. After handing over the completed transcript, she had logged out and had left the Farm, raising a hand to the blacksuit manning the exit gate. She had maneuvered the Impala along the quiet roads until she was able to pick up the main highway that would take her home.
Home was an apartment in Falls Church, Fairfax County. It wasn’t a long drive, but tiring on this gray winter afternoon. The constant rain didn’t help, the insistent sweep of the wipers across the windshield doing little to help her relax. She put on the radio and picked up some soft jazz. The car’s heater blew warm air around her feet. A couple of times Dukas had to blink her eyes. She was tired. She hadn’t been home for two days. The anticipation of a relaxing shower and bed filled her thoughts.
Once inside her apartment she switched on the lights, dropped her briefcase by the door and shrugged out of her coat. Making her way to the kitchenette, she filled the kettle with fresh water and clicked it on to boil. She spooned coffee into a mug, kicked off her shoes as she wandered across to her telephone and then checked her messages.
There were four.
One from her mother asking when she was going to visit.
A call from someone wanting to sell her insurance.
And two from a longtime girlfriend Dukas hadn’t spoken to for a while. The first was from the day before, the second from a few hours earlier.
The girl was Tira Malivik. And the first thing Dukas noticed was the fear in her voice. She couldn’t explain it any other way. Her friend was frightened of something, and she was reaching out for help.
Dukas snatched up the phone and hit the speed-dial button for Malivik’s cell number. She waited as it rang. Finally the call was answered.
“Tira? It’s me—Erika. I just got your message. What’s wrong?”
She could hear ragged breathing on the line and muted sounds in the background.
“Tira speak to me. I’m here. It’s going to be all right. Please, talk to me.”
“I think I’ve lost them for now. Jesus, Erika, they won’t give up. I don’t know what to do.”
“Who? Who’s after you?” Dukas asked.
“—want something. But I don’t have it. I sent it on—”
Her voice faded and Dukas thought her friend was going to put the phone down.
“Listen to me, Tira. I’m going to come and get you. Just tell me where—”
“No! I can’t do that. I’m sure they can hear. They’ll know. I can’t tell you where I am.”
“The police—”
“Uh-uh. I can’t trust anyone except you. Because you’re my friend. Erika, are you still my friend?”
“After what we’ve been through? Hey, I ate your cooking, remember? Just tell me where you want to meet,” Dukas said, hoping to calm her friend’s fear.
“One hour. At JR’s.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
ERIKA LOCKED THE CAR AND hurried to the closest elevator in the garage. She waited impatiently until the doors opened and she was able to step inside, punching the button for the Lower Level Food Court. She was reminded how many times she had made this very trip to meet her friend. Whenever they were able to arrange a get-together it was at Union Station, where they would indulge themselves at Johnny Rockets Diner. Ignoring all the diet rules, they indulged in burgers, fries and shakes, enjoying a brief respite from the cares of their daily routines, sharing news, gossip and girl talk.
But this visit had no fun time on its agenda. As the elevator slowed, Dukas was full of doubt and concern. She stepped out and headed for the diner, scanning the food court for her friend, and wondered just what it was her friend had gotten herself into. She patted the inside pocket of her jacket, just to confirm her cell phone was still there.
She spotted Tira Malivik through the main window of the diner, sitting in their usual booth. They made eye contact and waved in recognition. Avoiding the press of people milling around the area, Dukas reached the door and pushed her way through. Immediately the familiar odors of food and coffee assailed her senses. There was a hum of voices and background music.
A vivacious, dark-haired young woman with striking good looks, Tira Malivik had undergone a dramatic change. As Dukas slid into the booth across from her she noticed the dark shadows beneath Malivik’s eyes, the haggard expression on her face. Her usually shining hair was limp and tangled, and it looked as if she had been sleeping in her clothes. When she reached across to grasp Erika’s hands, Malivik was shaking.
“What’s wrong? And don’t even suggest it’s nothing,” Dukas said.
“I wish I could lie about it.”
Before they could continue a smiling waitress came over. They ordered two large black coffees. As soon as the waitress left, Dukas turned back to her friend.
“Tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”
Dukas listened without interruption, except for when the coffee arrived, and by the time Malivik had finished, the Stony Man translator knew what she had to do.
“Your uncle Lec? Where is he now? And what about this package he sent you?”
“He asked me to get it somewhere safe. Out of the reach of the people looking for him.”
“And did you?”
Malivik nodded, a ghost of a smile briefly edging her pale lips.
“Did he tell you what was in this package?”
“Not directly. He just said it contained information these people do not want exposed. If it is, a number of important individuals are going to go to jail, or worse.”
“Where are these people?” Dukas asked.
“Some in Bosnia. Others here in the States.”
“So you have no idea what the information actually is?”
“Not until I read an e-mail he managed to send me just before he dropped out of sight. I haven”t had time to check it out yet.”
“First thing, we get you out of here. Somewhere you’ll be safe until I can arrange protection. And not the police, or anyone we’re not sure of,” Dukas said.
“Can you do that?”
“Yes. The people I work for can do it. And you’ll be more than safe with them. I promise.”
Malivik clutched her coffee mug in both hands, drinking the hot liquid in quick gulps. She stared at Dukas. She was agitated.
“This is wrong. I shouldn’t drag you into this. I’m sorry. Maybe I should go and you forget this meeting. These people are really scary, Erika.”
“You should meet some of the people I work with,” Dukas said, smiling. She took out her phone. “I’m going to help. Now I need to make a call. Look, you want more coffee? Something to eat?”
“No, but I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
“You go while I do this,” Dukas said. “Hey, I know your e-mail address. Do I need a password?”
“I don’t have my laptop with me.”
“My people can access your site if they have the details. We need to read that message.”
“Password is JRockets.”
“Very subtle.” Dukas laughed.
“I’m really sorry, Erika. I feel so bad doing this to you,” Malivik said.
“Hey, I said no problem. Now go and let me call.”
As she punched in the number that would connect her with Stony Man Farm, Dukas watched her friend cross the diner and push through the door to the ladies’ room. She was concerned about the way she was acting. It was as if she wanted to get up and run. Her attention was diverted as her call was answered and she eventually found herself speaking to Barbara Price and explaining the situation.
“You listen to me,” Price said. “You did right. I’ll set something up and get right back to you. I’ll pass the e-mail details on. Take Tira to your place. As soon as you arrive call me, and we’ll liaise. Hey, take it easy. Get your friend settled and wait for us.”
“Thanks. I owe you,” Dukas said.
“Oh, yes, and big-time too,” Price said lightly.
Dukas drained her coffee mug. As she placed it on the table she thought Malivik had been gone too long.
She stood up and pushed her way through the crowded diner. She hadn’t realized just how much it had filled up since her arrival. She wedged her way through until the reached the ladies’ room and pushed open the door. Malivik wasn’t there. She checked the cubicles twice. There was only one way in and one way out. As she walked back into the diner a chill coursed through her.
She checked out the restaurant, pushing back the panic edging its way to the surface. Back at the booth she met the waitress holding the check. Dukas paid it and turned to leave. She saw Malivik’s purse still on the booth seat. She picked it up and weaved through the crowd. Outside she stood helpless, not sure which way to go. She wandered around for twenty minutes, searching, hoping her friend had just left the diner to get some air. She called Malivik on her cell phone, but the phone was switched off.
She gave up and went back to her car, deciding to check at her own place first to see if Malivik showed up there.
The weather had become worse, the falling rain bitterly cold as the temperature dropped.
“MISS DUKAS?”
She glanced up at the speaker. He was just behind her, to one side, a stocky man in a dark suit, his tie awkwardly knotted. He held out a black badge holder and flipped it open as soon as she gave him her attention, holding it where she could see it, rain speckling the metal shield. He had materialized from the shadows behind her as she bent to lock her car.
There was something in the too swift way he identified himself, a sense of not being quite who he claimed.
“I’m with WPD. I need you to come with me,” he said.
“And why is that?”
“To help us verify an identification.”
“For who?”
“A young woman involved in a traffic accident.” The man was trying hard to stay professional. “I have a car over there.”
Dukas hesitated, caution holding her back, and when the man reached out to touch her elbow she drew away.
“Why did you come to me?” she asked.
“She kept saying your name. Asking us to find you. We looked in her bag and found your address in her diary.”
“Is it Tira?” Dukas asked, frightened.
“Tira Malivik could be her name, but we need formal identification.”
“Nothing in her bag to prove who she is?” Dukas asked.
“No. Look, Miss Dukas, we need to go now. It is urgent.”
I’m sure it is, she thought, considering I have Tira’s bag in my hand right now.
She finished locking her car and fell in alongside the man as they walked in the direction of the waiting car, engine running, lights on. Dukas saw the dark outline of a driver. Her escort opened the back door.
There was no way she was getting in a car with these men.
About to step around the open door, Dukas allowed the bag to slip from her hand and as it hit the ground she caught it with her foot, pushing it under the door.
“Sorry,” she said.
The man grunted, then bent to pick up the bag.
Dukas lunged forward, using her full body weight to slam the door into the man. The bulk of the door connected with his upper body, driving him against the inner frame. Erika grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it wide, then hit it again. The man had slumped to his knees and this time the door thudded into his skull. He uttered a low moan and sprawled on the wet ground.
Snatching up the bag, Dukas ran behind the car. As she moved she caught a glimpse of the driver’s door swinging open. She knew the area well, so despite the driving rain she had no need to hesitate. She raced across the curving swell of the grassed area and into the landscaped bushes and trees. She followed the downward slope, the dark trees closing around her. Running hard, stumbling on the uneven ground, she weaved her way to the far side of the wooded area and came out just above the feeder road. Only then did she stop to catch her breath. She took a few moments to check out her surroundings, seeking any sign of movement.
Had they followed?
She saw no signs of movement.
So what now?
She couldn’t risk going back to her apartment, or even to her car. Concern for her friend guided her. She eased her way along the fringe of the trees until she was well clear of the area, then made her way to the main road. She would hail a taxi and get over to Malivik’s apartment.
IN THE CAB SHE CALLED Stony Man Farm and was more than relieved when Barbara Price answered.
“Hey, I’ve been worried. Where have you been?” Price said.
Dukas explained what had happened. “I’m checking Tira’s apartment,” she said. “I’m on my way there now. That help we talked about? I may need to take you up on it.”
“Already sanctioned. Erika, maybe you should back off until we know what’s going on,” Price said.
“Look, it’s been well over two hours since Tira went missing. I can’t just stand back and do nothing. I’ll be at her place in a few minutes. Barb, I have to do this. She’s my best friend and she called on me for help. She has no one else.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Price said.
“I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Give me her address.”
Dukas passed along the information, then ended the call before Price talked her out of what she intended. She was afraid of what she might find, but she was unable to ignore the fact her friend was in some kind of trouble.
3
The entrance to Malivik’s building was reached by climbing a short flight of stone steps. Dukas got to the door without incident. Pushing inside she stopped in the lobby of the building aware of a sick feeling in her stomach. She considered the fact that she might be well out of her depth.
She climbed to the third floor apartment. No light showed under the door. Dukas took the keys from her friend’s bag and opened the door. Through the gap she could see the room was in darkness, the gloom broken only by the pale light coming through the window. Dukas reached inside and clicked on the light. The room had been disturbed, furniture out of place and objects strewed across the floor.
And from behind the leather couch a bare arm, streaked with blood, jutted at an odd angle.
“Please no,” she whispered. “Not Tira.”
Her plea was too late. When she stepped around the couch, she immediately recognized her friend lying in a wide, congealing pool of dark blood.
She was naked. Her clothes slashed and cut away by the same brutal blade that had ravaged her flesh, leaving her butchered and bloody. Her throat had been deeply cut, the flesh peeling back in a moist, glistening layer.
About to move toward the body, Dukas drew back. There was nothing she could do for her friend now.
Dukas reached into her pocket for her cell, then picked up a whisper of sound from the other side of the room. She realized she was not alone. She turned for the door, catching movement out the corner of her eye—a fast moving figure coming out of the bedroom, heading directly for her.
She reached the door and yanked it open. An arm snaked around her neck, the impact of her assailant’s body pushing her into the door frame. She stumbled, pulling her attacker with her as he maintained his grip. On her knees, she threw out one hand to grip the door frame. She could feel warm breath on the back of her neck that drew her anger as she recalled everything that had happened—the men at her apartment, discovering her dead friend and now this unprovoked attack. It gelled into a moment of pure, reflex rage.
Dukas drove the back of her skull into her attacker’s face. It hit hard and she heard him gasp, the arm around her neck loosening. She pulled free, pushing to her feet and turning to face the man. Still on his knees, temporarily engulfed in the blinding pain of his bruised nose, he was vulnerable. Dukas didn’t hesitate. She raised her right foot and slammed the heel of her boot into his mouth. He fell back, his face bloody, and in that instant she turned and ran.
Dukas raced along the corridor to the stairs, almost throwing herself down the steep flights, trying not to think about what she had left behind. She reached the lobby, barely able to stop herself from crashing into the front door. She fumbled for the handle, pulling it wide, and faced a dark figure blocking the entrance as she went through.
She hadn’t considered the man upstairs might have a partner.
Her forward rush took her headlong into the newcomer. His arms came up to grip her, but to steady her, not to imprison. Even in the flash of panic she knew to trust the voice when he spoke.
“Easy now, Erika, I’m on your side.”
“She’s dead. Tira’s dead,” Dukas cried.
She felt the man’s hands on her shoulders. The gesture helped to calm her. He eased her around and she felt herself being guided to a corner of the lobby.
“I think he was still there. In her apartment,” she said.
“Let me worry about him. You wait here.”
“With more of them liable to come through the front door? I’ll feel safer behind you.”
Mack Bolan saw the determined expression in her eyes.
“Watch my back then,” he said.
He eased the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder rig and held it against his right thigh as they started up the stairs, Bolan taking the lead.
Behind him Dukas offered directions and Bolan followed them. The apartment door stood ajar, the lights still on. As he reached the door, he saw the blood smear on the frame. Fresh blood was still seeping down the wood frame.
“You hurt?” he asked, indicating the blood.
“Not me, him,” came the matter-of-fact reply.
He toed the door open, his gaze covering the interior. Even from the door he could see the bloodied arm jutting from behind the couch. Bolan reached out and pushed the door wide, senses tuned to pick up any sound from inside.
He did pick up something. Not from inside the apartment, but from the corridor—sudden movement. Dukas gasped as she became aware herself. Bolan turned, swinging the 93-R around. He saw two armed figures converging on the apartment, weapons up and ready.
He gave them credit for that. Whoever they were, they had been a step ahead. His first instinct was to protect Dukas, and he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and shoved her out of harm’s way.
And then from inside the apartment another figure materialized from behind the open door, something in his raised right hand. Bolan sensed it swinging toward him, heard the whoosh of disturbed air. He tried to pull himself aside, but the heavy object slammed down across his right shoulder, numbing it. He was barely able to keep a grip on the Beretta. His attacker muttered in frustration, swung the club again and this time connected with Bolan’s skull. The blow drove Bolan to his knees. The third blow put him facedown on the carpet and every light in Washington went out.
THE EXECUTIONER’S AWARENESS RETURNED gradually. His initial conscious reaction was to the savage pulse of pain inside his skull. It occupied his elusive thoughts and he remained still, some deep instinct telling him to assess prior to acting.
He played dead, accepting that it was a disturbing analogy. His first cogent thought centered on Erika Dukas. Where and how was she? It was something he would need to verify very soon.
He began to filter in extraneous sound and movement.
Low talk. Casual movement.
He cracked open an eye, saw the world come slowly back into focus.
He was still in Tira Malivik’s apartment, lying against one wall. The first thing he made out was the couch. Tira Malivik’s body had been behind it, but the body had been moved and the couch dragged forward to cover the bloodstain.
A man was lounging on the couch, staring at the television, the sound turned low. A second man wandered into view, a filled glass in one hand. From the way the pair was acting Bolan guessed they were on their own. He didn’t dismiss the possibility of there being others, maybe in one of the other rooms—maybe keeping watch over Dukas.
The man on the couch rose and crossed the room to stand over Bolan. He saw the man had a bloody nose and a cut around his mouth.
“Hey, Kimble, maybe you hit this asswipe too hard,” the man said. His voice was slightly blurred due to his injured mouth.
“Do I look as if I care?”
“I mean he might not be able to talk. Billingham isn’t going to be pleased about that,” the first man replied.
Two names so far, Bolan thought. Kimble. Billingham.
One paid help, the other the ringmaster.
“Get him on his fuckin’ feet,” Kimble said. “I’ll make him talk.”
The nameless man hauled Bolan upright with ease. Bolan could feel the toned muscle under the man’s street clothes. There was strength there. The Executioner offered no resistance. He was not quite ready to make his own physical contribution yet. The man dragged him to the couch and dumped him with little grace.
Kimble reached behind himself and produced Bolan’s Beretta. He leaned over and rapped the muzzle against Bolan’s cheekbone. “C’mon sleeping beauty. Talk time.”
Bolan opened his eyes and stared up at Kimble. He held his gaze and despite his bravado—and the gun—it was Kimble who broke contact.
Bolan pushed himself into a sitting position. “Is the woman all right?” he asked directly.
“Hey, it speaks,” Kimble crowed.
“Well?” Bolan said.
“Don’t get pushy. We ask, you answer,” Kimble said.
“Right now your priority is thinking ’bout yourself,” the other man said. “Like how long you might stay alive.”
“Is she okay?” Bolan asked again.
“Jesus, this freak has a one-track mind.”
“Yeah, well, his ID has him down as some kind of Justice agent,” Kimble said. “You know what that means. They’re just fancy cops, and cops have simple minds.”
“The woman,” Bolan persisted.
“Christ,” Kimble said. “Look, pal, she ain’t here. Right now she’s fine, but how long depends on the way she answers some questions.”
The other man reached into the pocket of his dark pants and produced a switchblade. He pressed the button and the slim, shining blade snapped into position. His face took on a sudden change, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he flexed his muscles.
Kimble reached in a pocket and produced a bundle of plastic ties. “Let’s get this done.”
No time for working on a strategy. Bolan saw the lines of engagement change. Talk was over. He came up off the couch, fighting back the wave of nausea that rose within him.
Bolan’s right foot swept up, and the toe of his shoe drove into the knife wielder’s groin. The blow was without mercy, delivered with every ounce of strength the Executioner could muster. The man made a high-pitched squeal of pain. The kick stalled him long enough for Bolan to continue his move, his body swiveling so that he came face-to-face with the startled Kimble. Bolan’s hands reached out and caught the Beretta by the barrel. He twisted and pulled, hearing Kimble’s trigger finger snap.
Kimble howled as Bolan shouldered him aside, turning about to face the nameless man. The big man, one hand clutching at his groin, was already on the move, lurching in Bolan’s direction. The glittering switchblade was slashing the air as he closed in. Bolan raised the 93-R and pulled the trigger. The Beretta chugged a 3-round burst, the 9 mm slugs punching into the man’s chest. He twisted away from Bolan, dropping to his knees, then went facedown on the carpet. He jerked a few times before subsiding with a long, harsh sigh.
Turning away, Bolan made Kimble the focus of his attention, making sure the man could see the unwavering muzzle of the Beretta.
Kimble panicked. This was not how it was supposed to go down.
Moving behind him, Bolan closed an arm around Kimble’s neck, tight enough to make the man struggle for air. He put the muzzle of the Beretta against the side of the man’s head and pressed hard, letting the warm metal gouge a raw circle in his flesh.
“Think about this, Kimble. Your buddy is dead. You saw how quick it happened. Consider that when you start to answer my questions,” Bolan said.
He let the man think about it for a while. Bolan slackened his grip on Kimble’s neck and the man sucked air in greedily, like a swimmer escaping drowning. He maintained pressure on the Beretta’s muzzle, making sure Kimble stayed aware of his precarious position.
“Simple question. Where do they have the woman?” the Executioner asked.
Kimble knew his life depended on his reply. He was under no illusions. He had seen how easily this man had killed his partner and knew that same fate awaited him if he failed to give the right information.
“If I tell you, can we make a deal?” he asked.
Bolan didn’t answer. Instead he dug the muzzle of the Beretta deeper into Kimble’s flesh, turning it enough to break the skin. Kimble felt the warm trickle of blood from the tear.
“Where do they have the woman?”
“No deal, huh? Look, what if I send you to a certain address and she isn’t there?” Kimble asked.
“Then I’ll come back and we’ll start over. You aren’t going anywhere, Kimble. So make certain I hit the correct location,” the Executioner warned.
“If my people find out I sent you, I’m dead anyway. They’ll come after me.”
“No, they won’t. I can promise you that.”
The tone was neutral but the implication was clear. Kimble knew if this man went after the woman, it wouldn’t matter who stood in his way.
Bolan stepped away from Kimble and stood facing him, the Beretta still trained on the man.
“Your choice, Kimble. Give me what I want, and I’ll cut you a break. Screw me, and you’ll wish I’d killed you right here and now.”
Kimble stared into the cold blue eyes and he saw his own fate mirrored there.
“You genuine on that? Leaving me alive I mean?”
“I never lie, Kimble.”
There was something in the guy’s voice that made Kimble believe him.
“Then we have a deal.”
Bolan gestured with the pistol and walked Kimble across the room. He made him sit on the floor next to the heavy radiator piped into the wall, then picked up the plastic ties Kimble had let drop to the floor. He handed one to Kimble.
“Around your ankles. Make sure it’s tight.”
“Jesus, my finger’s broke. How can I—”
“Your choice, Kimble. I still have bullets in this gun.”
Bolan waited until Kimble did as he was instructed, then fashioned a loop with a second plastic strip. He bound Kimble’s wrists together, then took more strips and secured the bound man to the thick steel pipe running from the radiator to the solid floor.
“Now tell me where she is and how many are with her.”
When Bolan had the information locked down he rose to his feet, holstering the Beretta, then turned to leave.
“Hey,” Kimble called, “how do I get out of this?”
“If the information is genuine, I won’t be back. I’ll leave a message with my people to come and get you.”
Kimble’s anger burst like an unchecked flood.
“You fuckin’ told me you don’t lie. I give you what you want, and you toss me to the cops? What kind of a deal is that?”
“It’s what we agreed, Kimble. You give me the right words, I don’t kill you. That stands. I didn’t say anything about letting you walk away from this.” Bolan paused to stare the man down. “You want to renegotiate the terms? You still have nine fingers left.”
Kimble fell silent, figuring he’d worked the best deal he was likely to get. He watched the tall man leave, and reasoned he was better off where he was. He didn’t envy the snatch crew. He tried not to imagine what was going to happen when the unexpected visitor showed up at the abandoned farmhouse.
4
Their bodies chilled beneath their wet clothing, they climbed out of the SUV and crossed to the motel cabin Bolan had booked them into. The night clerk had viewed Bolan with suspicion when he had stepped into the office, muddy and wet.
“Heck of a night,” Bolan said. “Car skidded off the road into a ditch. Hit my head on something. Took me an hour to get it back out. Lucky for me she’s a four-by-four. Truth is, I’m too tired to drive any farther tonight. Wife is too. You got a double room with plenty of hot water?”
The night clerk looked the big man up and down, figuring he wasn’t going to throw him out. Not the size he was. When Bolan produced a credit card and handed it over, the clerk saw no further problems. He processed the card and gave Bolan the key to one of the empty cabins. In truth all the cabins were empty, Bolan had noticed, seeing the key board was full. The night clerk decided at least one cabin taken was better than none at all. It had been a bad day all-round, with the lousy weather and the forecast for possible snow sweeping down from the north. He blamed the Canadians for that. Why couldn’t they keep their damn snow up in Alaska, or wherever they stored it?
Bolan unlocked the cabin door and they went in. He dropped the bag holding his weapons on the floor. He closed the door and secured it as Dukas clicked on the lights. The room looked comfortable and the heat was on.
Bolan was ready to call in to the Farm and give them an update, but he pushed that aside when he heard subdued sobbing suddenly coming from Dukas. She had gone to stand at the window, leaning her forehead against the glass. He could see her shoulders moving as she wept, and he felt her anguish. Bolan crossed over quietly and stood behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She turned to face him.
“This has been a nightmare. Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” she said. “I translate languages. I don’t kill people.”
“Circumstances sometimes don’t allow us the privilege of choice. I’m sorry you got pulled in at the deep end, Erika. You answered a friend’s cry for help, and now you’re caught in the middle. What happened back there—none of us wanted it.”
“How do you deal with it? How do you forget when it happens to you all the time?” Dukas knew the man who’d introduced himself as Matt Cooper was some kind of special agent who’d been sent by Barbara Price.
“I don’t forget,” he said. “I have my ghosts and they come back to visit me every so often.”
“That man was going to kill you. I saw that and I couldn’t let it happen. But—”
“You did what you had to. No guilt in that.”
“I took a life,” she said.
“If he had gunned me down, you would have been next. You defended your right to live. That’s a natural reaction.”
She stared up into his steady blue eyes, seeing not savagery, nor the cold heart of a merciless man, but the gaze of someone who carried compassion for those who needed it, and at that moment she was in need. She leaned forward, wanting his strength, and he slid his arms around her as she rested her head against his chest, holding him tight against her. Bolan could feel her trembling and he remained where he was, holding her until she had settled.
She took a deep breath, then she raised herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek before letting go.
Bolan saw sudden concern in her eyes. “Erika?”
“You,” she said. “You’ve got a bad gash on your head. Where they clubbed you at Tira’s apartment. Remember?”
Bolan did, reaching up to touch the spot that was still bleeding.
“Told the desk clerk I hit my head when the car went off the road.”
“Go sit down. I’ll find something to clean it up.” She stared at him. “Do it.”
Bolan did as he was told.
She brought a towel from the bathroom and cleaned up the gash as best she could. When she was done she filled the room’s kettle and plugged it in the electrical outlet while she prepared coffee. They sat silently drinking and for a time there was a fragile peace.
Bolan found a pair of white bathrobes in sealed plastic laid out on the bed. He passed one to Dukas.
“Take the first shot in the bathroom,” he said.
“Don’t think I won’t,” she said.
Bolan pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his mud-streaked jacket and called Barbara Price.
“Run these names through the system,” he said to the Stony Man mission controller. “Billingham. Somebody important. Other is a perp named Kimble. I’d guess he has a rap sheet. I expect he’s no more than a hired gun. See what comes up.”
“Hey, how are you two doing?” Price asked.
“I’d say we’ve both had better days.”
“Any light at the end of the tunnel?”
“Still digging.”
“Erika?”
“They killed her friend Tira. Erika found her. She’s coping,” Bolan said.
“That translates as covering it up well,” Price replied.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“Look after my girl.”
“Yes, Mama,” Bolan said.
“I’ll call when we get something on these names.”
Bolan closed the phone. He could hear Dukas moving around the bathroom, and he thought about the remark Price had made about him looking out for the young woman. He was conscious of his responsibility for her. It was uppermost in his mind. Her safety was at the top of his list.
The bathroom door opened and Dukas appeared. She had changed into the bathrobe and looked slightly less stressed.
“All yours,” she said.
Bolan picked up Tira Malivik’s bag and handed it to her.
“Check it out,” he said. “See if you can find anything.”
She held the bag, hesitating, and Bolan could see the hurt in her eyes.
“It’s like invading her privacy.”
“No. It’s helping to find out who took her from you. She was your friend, and I don’t think Tira would feel you were doing anything wrong,” Bolan said.
Dukas opened the bag and tipped the contents across the bed. As she started to go through them she heard the bathroom door close.
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Don Pendleton
DEATH SPIRALA ten-year-old mass execution in Bosnia has suddenly resurfaced to haunt the perpetrators. Members of an association of businessmen, which included Americans, who were willing to get their hands bloody for profit are mysteriously dying. When a translator for the Stony Man team is innocently caught in the conspiracy, she turns to Mack Bolan for help.One of the men has used evidence from the killings to blackmail his fellow murderers. Bolan's mission is to identify the men in high places who killed for money and power in the aftermath of a brutal war. The Executioner's hunt to fi nd the proof leads to a showdown in the mountains of Colorado, where blinding snow and bloodlust mix with lethal force.
The gunner stood his ground
His eyes were wide with a mix of anger and disbelief that his team had been taken down so swiftly.
Bolan hit him with a savage volley that cut the man down like straw in the wind, dumping his tattered and bleeding body on the ground.
The last echo of autofire drifted off into the trees. Wind rattled the brittle foliage, dislodging hard crusts of snow from the branches. Bolan’s boots crunched over the ground layer as he moved from man to man, checking for signs of life and moving weapons clear. He had counted his targets and they were all down.
The Executioner’s shots had been delivered with total accuracy.
MACK BOLAN®
The Executioner
#264 Iron Fist
#265 Freedom Force
#266 Ultimate Price
#267 Invisible Invader
#268 Shattered Trust
#269 Shifting Shadows
#270 Judgment Day
#271 Cyberhunt
#272 Stealth Striker
#273 UForce
#274 Rogue Target
#275 Crossed Borders
#276 Leviathan
#277 Dirty Mission
#278 Triple Reverse
#279 Fire Wind
#280 Fear Rally
#281 Blood Stone
#282 Jungle Conflict
#283 Ring of Retaliation
#284 Devil’s Army
#285 Final Strike
#286 Armageddon Exit
#287 Rogue Warrior
#288 Arctic Blast
#289 Vendetta Force
#290 Pursued
#291 Blood Trade
#292 Savage Game
#293 Death Merchants
#294 Scorpion Rising
#295 Hostile Alliance
#296 Nuclear Game
#297 Deadly Pursuit
#298 Final Play
#299 Dangerous Encounter
#300 Warrior’s Requiem
#301 Blast Radius
#302 Shadow Search
#303 Sea of Terror
#304 Soviet Specter
#305 Point Position
#306 Mercy Mission
#307 Hard Pursuit
#308 Into the Fire
#309 Flames of Fury
#310 Killing Heat
#311 Night of the Knives
#312 Death Gamble
#313 Lockdown
#314 Lethal Payload
#315 Agent of Peril
#316 Poison Justice
#317 Hour of Judgment
#318 Code of Resistance
#319 Entry Point
#320 Exit Code
#321 Suicide Highway
#322 Time Bomb
#323 Soft Target
#324 Terminal Zone
#325 Edge of Hell
#326 Blood Tide
#327 Serpent’s Lair
#328 Triangle of Terror
#329 Hostile Crossing
#330 Dual Action
#331 Assault Force
#332 Slaughter House
#333 Aftershock
#334 Jungle Justice
#335 Blood Vector
#336 Homeland Terror
#337 Tropic Blast
#338 Nuclear Reaction
#339 Deadly Contact
The Executioner
Deadly Contact
Don Pendleton
Go into emptiness, strike voids, bypass what he defends, hit him where he does not expect you.
—Ts’ao Ts’ao, 155–220 A.D.
When I plan a mission I make sure my enemies will never know what hit them.
—Mack Bolan
THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Prologue (#u08ccb0bc-f64c-5baa-b08b-3aa139663257)
Chapter 1 (#uafaa15d3-faba-5b71-858f-667f2febd673)
Chapter 2 (#u2641396c-9365-518c-b253-39c9f141b009)
Chapter 3 (#uc69eead5-40a8-5c51-ac77-cb37369132f2)
Chapter 4 (#ud8236ed0-2476-559b-b87a-68a330254581)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Bosnia, 1995
The sharp light of morning was accompanied by a chill appropriate to the mood of the day. A fine mist rained over the wooded terrain, the cold drizzle building until it slipped from the green leaves of the trees. It dripped onto the bared heads of the tight group shuffling forward from the truck that had brought them to this place. Five men and a single woman. They walked with the heavy tread of individuals aware of their fate, unable to do anything to alter it, yet clinging to some vague hope there might be some last minute reprieve.
They were surrounded by a three-man armed escort—men clad in better clothing than their captives. While the six wore ordinary dress, the escorts were comfortable in weatherproof coats and hats. No one spoke. There was no point. Anything that had been worth saying was in the past. It was time for closure.
Within the group, only one of them allowed emotions to show. One of the men sobbed quietly, his head down so that his chin rested on his chest. His tears ran down his face and merged with the rain-soaked material of his shirt. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the crumpled, stained jacket he wore. Once that jacket had been an expensive item from his wardrobe. Now it showed the effects of his prolonged incarceration. It had a number of tears in the fine material, and some of the dark stains were from his own blood. He knew he was about to die. He wanted it to be different, but the line that prevented that had been crossed many days ago. He had chosen his side, as had the others in the group, and it had been the wrong side. He was about to pay the price for his decision, which in his heart he still defended. He knew the people controlling his destiny were evil. They were men who saw personal aggrandizement as their right, contrary to the responsibility they carried for the countries they served. A defiant resistance to those illegal activities had been the catalyst for the action taking place in this isolated landscape.
Someone rapped out a harsh command, and the group was herded to a stop in a clearing in the wooded terrain. A deep pit had been dug. The dark mounds of extracted earth edged three sides of the pit, glistening in the rain. Already a thin layer of water had pooled in the bottom of the pit. The armed escorts lined up behind the six, the one who had given the command glancing to his right at a shadowy gathering of men standing just within the tree line. One of these men stepped forward, into the light. A big man, with a hard-boned face wet with rain. He was bareheaded, his thick black hair lay tight against his skull. He exhibited no remorse as he faced the six.
“This was not inevitable,” he said. “You chose your own fate by refusing to join us.”
The woman turned to look him in the eye. One side of her attractive face still bore the discoloration that was the result of a severe beating.
“Murderers always try to justify their crimes,” she said. “You are no different. In the end you are all no more than backstreet scum, criminals and thieves, and one day your actions will reach out and drag you down into the grave with us.” She spit in his direction. “Do your worst, you bastards.”
A swift nod and the escorts raised the automatic weapons they were carrying. There was no preamble, no final words or comfort for the victims. The clearing echoed to the vicious crackle of autofire that riddled the six with 9 mm bullets. The writhing bodies tumbled forward into the pit, screaming out their final moments as they hit the rain-sodden earth. Torn flesh, shredded clothing, the final spurts of blood. A pink haze floated for seconds over the open pit, dissipating in the continuous rain.
“Fill it in,” the big man said. “Then get out of here. Report to me in the morning.”
He turned then, flicking a finger at the others standing with him and they merged with the dark trees, retracing the steps that had brought them to this place of slaughter. Minutes later they emerged from the trees and climbed into waiting SUVs. Powerful engines purred to life and the small convoy moved off, following the curve of the thin track, disappearing into the gray mist until there was no sign they had been there.
At the pit site, the escort squad had exchanged their weapons for long-handled shovels. They worked quickly, scooping the wet earth back into the pit, covering the bodies, then dragging clumps of shorn foliage and leaf mold over the plot. The rain would soon reduce their boot prints to nothing, washing away evidence of their activities, and it would not take long for the forest to reclaim its disturbed ground. The grass would grow, and the foliage would weave and tangle its way back.
AN HOUR LATER THE SITE WAS deserted. The distant rumble of the departing truck had long since faded, leaving only the sound of the rain to break the solitude.
From the far side of the clearing a dark figure emerged from concealment. He was a lean, tight-featured man clad from head to foot in camouflage clothing that had allowed him to remain unseen until he stepped into the open. Even his face was striped with camo paint, so his eyes stared out from the mask, bright and feral. He carried an expensive, professional camcorder in his hands. The equipment was state-of-the-art and was fitted with a powerful variable-focus lens arrangement that allowed for tight, detailed closeups even from a distance. The man had been in place well before the events at the pit had taken place. He had recorded the whole episode, making certain that his tape logged every face, of victims as well as the killer escort. He had also focused in tightly on the group by the trees, recording their presence at the massacre. He stood and took a final pan of the area, ending by holding his camera on the camouflaged area of the burial site.
He had just completed his filming when he felt the soft vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He unzipped the flap and took out the phone, pressing the button to open the connection.
“Are you finished?” the voice of his employer asked.
“I was about to leave.”
“You have it?”
“Oh, yes. Everything. They are all identified. It is all on the tape.”
“Excellent. You know what to do?”
“As we discussed. Give me until the end of the week and it will all be documented.”
“I will talk to you then. Now I have to go. They are ready to start the proceedings. We have the past to toast and our assured futures to celebrate.”
The cell phone went silent and the man put it away. First he placed the camera in the soft, waterproof case he had tucked inside his zipped jacket. He slung the case over his shoulder by its webbing strap, then turned and began his long tramp back through the forest to where he had left his car. He had at least a half hour walk ahead of him, but he consoled himself with the anticipation of the warm apartment waiting for him. He would do what he needed to do with the video cassette and the material he had recorded over the past few weeks. He also thought of the money it would bring him, courtesy of his employer, and the payments in the future that would ensure he continued to enjoy his life of upcoming luxury. During his walk back to his concealed car, he never once gave any thought to the six people he had seen slaughtered. In his mind they had ceased to exist the moment the fiery 9 mm bullets had ripped into their bodies.
1
Present Day
Throw a pebble in water, and the waves extend outward with a speed that reaches far beyond the moment of its creation.
For Mack Bolan those ripples had already reached out to engulf someone he knew and had drawn him to this isolated, derelict farm in upstate Virginia on a rescue mission about to go hot.
Armed and clad in blacksuit, he erupted out of the dark shadows and confronted the three-man crew holding Erika Dukas hostage. The crew had been waiting for their orders and were on less than full alert. They had been promised cash for their part in the operation. It had been good pay for a relatively easy job, and the men were congratulating themselves on the easy money.
They were unprepared for the tall, blacksuited Executioner as he opened the abandoned farmhouse door with a powerful kick from a booted foot. As the door flew open, sagging from one hinge, Bolan appeared and lashed out with his Uzi at the closest of the three men before him. The man tumbled back, blood welling from the heavy gash in his head, stumbling to the floor. Bolan turned his attention to the other two as they produced automatic pistols, the suppressed Uzi spitting fire as he squeezed the trigger, tracking the muzzle from left to right, then back again, kicking the stunned kidnappers off their feet. As the last of the 9 mm shell cases clinked to the floor Bolan strode across the room, laying his Uzi on the wooden table he passed and used his Ka-bar fighting knife to cut through the bindings securing Erika Dukas to a wooden chair.
She ripped the duct tape from across her mouth.
“Another one outside…” she gasped before drawing breath.
Bolan helped her to her feet.
“There was,” he said quietly.
It was his only reference to the man who had been standing guard outside. He slid the knife back into its sheath, but not before Dukas caught a glimpse of the blood smear on the blade.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Bolan’s concern over Dukas drew his attention, momentarily, from the men he had taken out. If he had to come up with any excuse as to his momentary lapse in concentration, it would have referred to the clubbing he had received back at Tira Malivik’s apartment. The slight concussion had not entirely cleared, and it had left him less than fully alert.
Behind him a bloody figure rose awkwardly from the floor, turning to make a grab for the Uzi on the table.
The woman’s gasp of surprise warned Bolan.
He turned and powered himself across the room, his eye on the weapon too, aware of the end result if he failed to commandeer it. The kidnapper had less distance to cover and he moved fast, a near-triumphant smile on his bloody lips as he reached out for the submachine gun. His fingers closed over the metal, yanking the Uzi toward him. Bolan was still a couple of feet away. He made a last-ditch attempt, launching himself forward and across the table, sliding over the surface, and slammed bodily into the kidnapper.
The impact sent the guy stumbling back, almost losing his grip on the SMG. He crooked a finger around the trigger and hauled the muzzle around to track on Bolan. The Executioner kept his forward motion. He rolled across the far side of the table, landing on his feet and swinging out his right arm, delivering a smashing fist that clouted the man across the side of his face. He reached for his holstered Beretta.
The other man grunted, pain flaring. He swung the SMG in a vicious arc that cracked against Bolan’s shoulder and followed it with a brutal kick that caught the soldier in the side, spinning him away from the table. The kidnapper pulled the muzzle of the SMG on line, increasing pressure on the trigger.
Bolan tried again for his holstered Beretta, aware he was competing with a man with his finger already on the trigger.
The sound of the single shot made Bolan stiffen, expecting the impact of a bullet hitting home. When it did, it wasn’t Bolan who was the victim. He was looking directly at the kidnapper and saw the bloody exit hole that appeared in the man’s left shoulder. The bullet had entered to the right of his spine, coring its way through his body and blowing clear, taking bone fragments and fleshy debris with it. The man didn’t even have time to scream before he fell, letting go of the Uzi when he hit the floor.
Bolan scooped up the weapon, ran a quick check, then turned to the shooter.
It was Erika Dukas.
The Stony Man Farm translator was still on her knees where she had made a grab for the pistol dropped by one of the other kidnappers. She still held the weapon in both hands and stared in stunned silence at the man she had shot.
Bolan went straight to the woman, crouching in front of her. He gently pried the pistol from her trembling fingers, then placed a large and comforting hand on her cheek.
“We need to get clear of this place, Erika. Before others come.”
She looked at him and he saw her eyes were threatening to spill over with tears.
“I…needed to stop him. He was going to kill you. Wasn’t he going to kill you?”
“I’m a lucky guy to have you at my back. Now let’s get out of here. We can talk this over when we’re safe.” He took hold of her arm and helped her to stand, conscious she had transferred her gaze to the sprawled body. “He can’t hurt us now, Erika. Come on, we need to go.” His voice was low and gentle, his words soothing the turmoil she was undoubtedly experiencing.
Dukas bent to pick up something from the floor. It was the fanny pack she had been wearing. She secured it around her waist.
“Time to move,” Bolan said. “We need to talk.”
“I’m surprised you have time for conversation,” she said as she followed him outside and away from the silent house.
Bolan didn’t reply. He led her back the way he’d come, a walk of at least a quarter mile through the rainy darkness before they came to the concealed Jeep Cherokee. Dukas slid onto the passenger’s seat and waited while Bolan opened the tailgate door. He got out of his combat harness and pulled a lightweight black leather jacket over his blacksuit. He wore the 93-R in a shoulder rig under the jacket. When he joined Dukas, he handed her a 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol and a clip-on hip holster he had taken from his duffel bag.
“From here you go armed. I know you’ve done some time on the firing range. I’ve heard you have a steady hand and a good eye,” Bolan said.
“Paper targets don’t shoot back,” she said as she ejected the magazine, checked it, then clicked it back. “But I suppose I just proved I can handle a gun.”
Bolan saw how capable she was with the pistol. Her movements were smooth and unhurried. He watched her ease the safety on before she put the gun away, adjusting the holster on her hip. He handed her a couple of extra magazines, and she dropped them in her pocket.
“These people we’re dealing with don’t appear to have much regard for life. We’ve already seen how they operate. If we meet up again and the need arises, just remember it’s your choice. Your life, or theirs,” Bolan stated.
She nodded. “I understand. I won’t let you down.”
As he drove Bolan checked out the still, silent figure beside him. He understood what she was going through, and though he kept his thoughts to himself he knew that Dukas would need to come to terms with what she had just done.
All the right reasons were not going to make the slightest difference. Justification, moral right, good versus bad, none of that would wipe away the cold, hard fact that Erika Dukas had taken a life. When the initial shock wore off, Bolan knew Dukas would ponder the stark facts and realize she had sent a man to a morgue slab. The full realization might knock her back and render her incapable of accepting what she had done. On the other hand her resolve might be strong enough to accept the facts and let her move on. For the moment he allowed her the privacy of her own thoughts.
They were still short of the main highway when Bolan picked up the flash of headlights in his rearview mirror. He watched them until he counted at least two vehicles in pursuit.
“Company,” he said.
Dukas twisted in her seat and studied the oncoming vehicles.
“You think they’re coming after us?”
“Out here? Off-road? I don’t imagine they’re tourists. They must have arrived just after we left,” Bolan replied.
He put his foot down, increasing the Cherokee’s speed. The dirt track they were on did little to assist a smooth passage, and the fact the road was waterlogged from the rain only added to the treacherous surface. The SUV managed the terrain, but the ride was uncomfortable.
“This is just crazy,” Dukas shouted above the rising howl of the engine. “What the hell are we doing out here?”
Bolan kept his eyes on the road ahead, peering through the streaming windshield where the wipers were struggling to keep the glass clear. The twin headlight beams danced and shimmered in the downpour as Bolan fought the wheel. The Cherokee slid back and forth, brushing the drenched foliage on each side of the narrow strip. More than once Bolan felt solid thumps as the Cherokee’s heavy tires hit some unseen object.
He concentrated on the road ahead, knowing that the difficult driving conditions would hamper their pursuers as much as it did them. It was a small consolation, but at least it was something.
A bend appeared, and Bolan worked the wheel and the gears to control the Cherokee. He felt the rear slide away and compensated, bringing the heavy SUV back on track. He felt the road start to slope. It wasn’t a steep incline, but under the conditions it did little to help, except to increase their speed.
To the north thunder rumbled, a deep threatening sound that heralded the sudden crackle of lightning. The jagged fork lanced across the cloudy sky, briefly illuminating their surroundings and adding to the general din.
“What next?” Dukas asked. “Do they have tornadoes around here as well?”
The solid thump of bullets striking the Cherokee grabbed their attention. Bolan tried to erase the sound from his mind, but the increasing accuracy of the gunfire meant that sooner or later they would sustain a fatal hit. The tailgate window exploded as rising gunfire hit the glass, almost as a grim warning.
Bolan felt the trail dip suddenly. The front wheels twisted, the big vehicle swayed and then lurched off the trail, sliding down the steep slope. Bolan fought the drift, but despite his powerful grip he was unable to bring the SUV back under control. He felt the right side wheels leave the ground as the Cherokee started to tilt.
“Grab something,” he yelled at Dukas.
The Cherokee rolled, and Bolan and Dukas were helpless as it commenced its bouncing, twisting descent. The last thing he was able to do was turn off the engine before the falling vehicle turned their world into a dizzying, wild ride that could have left them severely injured, or even dead, if they hadn’t been securely strapped in. It didn’t stop them from being jolted, suspended by safety harnesses, senses jarred and knocked out of kilter by the careering Cherokee. Sometime during the fall the windshield shattered, and sleet and mud entered the passenger compartment.
And then it ceased.
As swiftly as it had begun, the spinning, bruising tumble stopped. The vehicle lay on its left side. The creak of distorted metal and the sound of the wind penetrated their senses as they fought to push away the effects of the crash.
Bolan managed to hit the release button and free himself from his belt. He was on his side, pressed up against the driver’s door. He ached, and the side of his head was bloody from where he had banged against the window. He blinked his eyes a few times to get them back in focus. His attention was drawn to something above him.
It was Dukas, still caught in the restricting safety harness. In the pale light he could see the frustrated expression on her face.
“I can’t find the damn release,” she said.
Bolan sat up and reached between the tilted seats.
“Ready?”
He hit the button and Dukas slid from the harness and tumbled free. For a moment they were entangled, and in another place at another time Bolan might have enjoyed the contact. But their position left them vulnerable to attack, so any fleeting moment of closeness was abandoned instantly.
Dukas had the same thoughts and she hauled herself off him, ducking her head through the windshield gap, half falling as she pushed into the open, feeling her hands sink into the chill ooze of mud.
Bolan was close behind. He had spared a few seconds to search for the duffel bag holding his backup weapons, grabbing the handles and hauling the bag with him, then followed Dukas out of the Cherokee.
The cold rain hit him as he pushed to his feet, turning to see if his companion was safe. She was leaning against the vertical hood of the upturned Cherokee, checking the pistol he had given her earlier.
No need to remind her of the priorities, Bolan thought.
He took out the Beretta and made sure it was ready for use. He set it for single shots. He had two spare magazines for the weapon, plus the one already loaded. It would do. There wasn’t time to break out anything else. He checked the long slope they had come down. Headlights broke up the gloom, and he saw the dark figures clustered around the pursuit vehicles. The light faded just as quickly, and in that brief moment Bolan made his decision.
“Highway is in that direction,” he whispered. “We need to reach it if we can.”
Dukas nodded. Her face was slick with rain, her dark hair soaked.
Bolan touched her arm and pointed her in the direction they needed to go.
The ground underfoot was waterlogged and spongy. The mud clung to their feet and slowed them. The constant fall of sleet drove in at them. Bolan let Dukas pull ahead a few feet so he was able to keep her in sight. Bringing up the rear, he checked their back trail and saw the bouncing shafts of light from the pursuit vehicles as they headed slowly down the slope. They halted beside the overturned Cherokee, and Bolan could imagine the anger and frustration the crews would experience when they found it empty. Once they realized their quarry was still up and running they would pick up the chase again.
Up ahead Dukas lost her footing and went down on her hands and knees. Bolan reached her side and stood over her. About to offer a free hand to help, he was waved aside as she stood upright.
“I’m fine. Thanks for the gesture.” She pushed wet hair back from her mud-spattered face.
“Come on then,” he said.
They cut off across the muddy landscape, Bolan aware that the pair of vehicles would catch up with them soon enough. He was looking out for anything that might offer cover if the need arose, but there didn’t seem to be anything to break the unending stretch of relatively flat terrain.
The sudden crackle of autofire told them their pursuers were not waiting any longer. The shots were way off target.
“If those chase cars get in range, try for the tires. It should slow them. Put them on foot too,” he said.
“Seems reasonable,” Dukas answered without breaking her stride.
The first pursuit vehicle closed on them quickly and Bolan snapped out a single command.
“Down.”
Dukas dropped, splaying her body across the muddy earth, propping herself on her elbows, the pistol in a two-handed grip. The Executioner was down himself in the same breath, dropping the duffel bag beside him, the 93-R tracking the driver’s door.
The SUV was only yards from them, slowed almost to a stop as the occupants searched for their quarry.
“Did they see us?” Dukas asked above the hiss of the rain.
“Most likely didn’t,” Bolan answered. “Easy to miss us in these conditions.”
“What do we do?”
“Use it to our advantage. Start cutting down the odds. You go for that front tire. Now.”
She didn’t challenge his command, simply eased the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer around and stroked the trigger three times. The first shot missed. The next pair chunked into the tire, which blew with a soft sound. The SUV lurched to a stop.
Bolan hit the driver’s window with a pair of close shots, the glass imploding and the wheelman jerking in his seat as the 9 mm slugs hit home. Coming up on one knee Bolan triggered more shots at the SUV’s windows.
Confusion stalled the passengers and by the time they had overcome it, two were dead, another wounded, and the rest frantically pushed open the doors on the opposite side of the vehicle, tumbling clear. High ground clearance left them exposed, and Bolan laid his fire into the crouching figures, seeing one go down before the others broke apart.
“The other car’s coming,” Dukas warned.
“I see it,” Bolan said. “Start to back up, flat to the ground. And keep going. Take the bag with you.”
“What about—”
“Go.”
His tone warned her not to resist. Dukas wriggled away from her position, sliding her body through the greasy mud, dragging the duffel bag behind her. She had gone only a few yards when the stutter of a submachine gun sounded. She felt the impact as the line of slugs churned the earth. She continued to crawl, surprisingly calm despite the entirely new experience of being under hostile fire. There was something almost unreal about the situation, but she didn’t pause to question it. Later, if there was any later, she would.
Bolan had started to move in the opposite direction, working his way around to the rear of the stalled SUV. He was making his plan as he moved, aware of the ever-changing situation, using the confusion that had to have been present within the ranks of the opposition. They had been anticipating a run down of their quarry, not the opposite where the hunted became the hunter. Bolan’s strike against them had made them stop and reconsider. If he kept that feeling alive by taking the fight to them, rather than simply running, he might yet gain full advantage. It was worth the risk. Bolan had never lost a fight through quitting, and his warrior mentality always urged him forward, using superior thought and tactics.
He slithered his way through the mud, low to the ground, and he noticed that the gunfire had ceased. The targets had vanished and the gun crew was evaluating what to do next. They were in open country, the terrain unforgiving and the driving rain simply adding to the difficulty of locating their quarry. That was their problem. As Bolan got closer he saw figures silhouetted against their vehicles, with headlights still blazing. The enemy stood out clearly. It suggested that these men were not seasoned fighters in this kind of situation. He figured they were probably a hired gun crew from an urban background.
Bolan drew himself against the bulk of the vehicle and hauled himself up on one knee. Peering around the edge, he counted the opposition. Three close to the second car, a fourth standing off a few yards, cradling a submachine gun as he peered into the misty gloom.
“No way we’re going to find them out here,” one of the men said.
“Billingham said that it we don’t find ’em we don’t need to go back.”
Someone laughed nervously, then said, “What’s he going to do? Wipe us all out?”
“Now I know you never worked for him before, because that’s just what he will do.”
Bolan snapped in a fresh magazine and cocked the Beretta. He rose to his full height and stepped out from behind the SUV, his finger easing the selector switch to 3-round bursts.
He took out the SMG man first, the 9 mm bullets catching the guy in the chest as he turned to rejoin his three partners. The 93-R’s muzzle was already tracking in on the trio as the shot man went down. Bolan broke away from the SUV, moving in close as he triggered repeat bursts, the slugs ripping through clothing and into flesh, spinning his targets off their feet. They collided with one another as they toppled into the mud.
Bolan went directly to the SUV and opened the driver’s door. He slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine and swung the vehicle around, moving in the direction Dukas had been crawling. He braked and stepped out of the SUV.
“Erika? Over here,” he shouted.
In the beam of the lights he saw her mud-caked shape emerge from the mire, then haul herself toward him.
“Don’t,” she warned. “One crack and I’ll lose it.” She flicked mud from her face. “Can you believe women pay to have this stuff plastered over them to improve their looks?”
“In your case it looks like it’s working already,” Bolan said.
“Until I work that out I’ll consider it a compliment,” she said as she tramped by him. She yanked open the passenger door and dumped the duffel bag inside, then climbed into the SUV.
Bolan turned the vehicle in the direction of the distant highway, his mind working constantly. He needed to get them clear of this area, somewhere they could hole up temporarily and assess the events that had started when Erika Dukas had received a phone call from a friend sometime earlier that day.
2
Earlier that day—Falls Church, Virginia
Chill winds had been blowing from the north with a hint of snow in the fine rain misting the windshield of Erika Dukas’s 1965 Chevrolet Impala-SS. She drove steadily, aware of the gathering weariness that had started to impinge upon her being as she wound down. She had just finished a complicated translation for Carmen Delahunt at Stony Man Farm. The work had been intense, urgent. After handing over the completed transcript, she had logged out and had left the Farm, raising a hand to the blacksuit manning the exit gate. She had maneuvered the Impala along the quiet roads until she was able to pick up the main highway that would take her home.
Home was an apartment in Falls Church, Fairfax County. It wasn’t a long drive, but tiring on this gray winter afternoon. The constant rain didn’t help, the insistent sweep of the wipers across the windshield doing little to help her relax. She put on the radio and picked up some soft jazz. The car’s heater blew warm air around her feet. A couple of times Dukas had to blink her eyes. She was tired. She hadn’t been home for two days. The anticipation of a relaxing shower and bed filled her thoughts.
Once inside her apartment she switched on the lights, dropped her briefcase by the door and shrugged out of her coat. Making her way to the kitchenette, she filled the kettle with fresh water and clicked it on to boil. She spooned coffee into a mug, kicked off her shoes as she wandered across to her telephone and then checked her messages.
There were four.
One from her mother asking when she was going to visit.
A call from someone wanting to sell her insurance.
And two from a longtime girlfriend Dukas hadn’t spoken to for a while. The first was from the day before, the second from a few hours earlier.
The girl was Tira Malivik. And the first thing Dukas noticed was the fear in her voice. She couldn’t explain it any other way. Her friend was frightened of something, and she was reaching out for help.
Dukas snatched up the phone and hit the speed-dial button for Malivik’s cell number. She waited as it rang. Finally the call was answered.
“Tira? It’s me—Erika. I just got your message. What’s wrong?”
She could hear ragged breathing on the line and muted sounds in the background.
“Tira speak to me. I’m here. It’s going to be all right. Please, talk to me.”
“I think I’ve lost them for now. Jesus, Erika, they won’t give up. I don’t know what to do.”
“Who? Who’s after you?” Dukas asked.
“—want something. But I don’t have it. I sent it on—”
Her voice faded and Dukas thought her friend was going to put the phone down.
“Listen to me, Tira. I’m going to come and get you. Just tell me where—”
“No! I can’t do that. I’m sure they can hear. They’ll know. I can’t tell you where I am.”
“The police—”
“Uh-uh. I can’t trust anyone except you. Because you’re my friend. Erika, are you still my friend?”
“After what we’ve been through? Hey, I ate your cooking, remember? Just tell me where you want to meet,” Dukas said, hoping to calm her friend’s fear.
“One hour. At JR’s.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
ERIKA LOCKED THE CAR AND hurried to the closest elevator in the garage. She waited impatiently until the doors opened and she was able to step inside, punching the button for the Lower Level Food Court. She was reminded how many times she had made this very trip to meet her friend. Whenever they were able to arrange a get-together it was at Union Station, where they would indulge themselves at Johnny Rockets Diner. Ignoring all the diet rules, they indulged in burgers, fries and shakes, enjoying a brief respite from the cares of their daily routines, sharing news, gossip and girl talk.
But this visit had no fun time on its agenda. As the elevator slowed, Dukas was full of doubt and concern. She stepped out and headed for the diner, scanning the food court for her friend, and wondered just what it was her friend had gotten herself into. She patted the inside pocket of her jacket, just to confirm her cell phone was still there.
She spotted Tira Malivik through the main window of the diner, sitting in their usual booth. They made eye contact and waved in recognition. Avoiding the press of people milling around the area, Dukas reached the door and pushed her way through. Immediately the familiar odors of food and coffee assailed her senses. There was a hum of voices and background music.
A vivacious, dark-haired young woman with striking good looks, Tira Malivik had undergone a dramatic change. As Dukas slid into the booth across from her she noticed the dark shadows beneath Malivik’s eyes, the haggard expression on her face. Her usually shining hair was limp and tangled, and it looked as if she had been sleeping in her clothes. When she reached across to grasp Erika’s hands, Malivik was shaking.
“What’s wrong? And don’t even suggest it’s nothing,” Dukas said.
“I wish I could lie about it.”
Before they could continue a smiling waitress came over. They ordered two large black coffees. As soon as the waitress left, Dukas turned back to her friend.
“Tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”
Dukas listened without interruption, except for when the coffee arrived, and by the time Malivik had finished, the Stony Man translator knew what she had to do.
“Your uncle Lec? Where is he now? And what about this package he sent you?”
“He asked me to get it somewhere safe. Out of the reach of the people looking for him.”
“And did you?”
Malivik nodded, a ghost of a smile briefly edging her pale lips.
“Did he tell you what was in this package?”
“Not directly. He just said it contained information these people do not want exposed. If it is, a number of important individuals are going to go to jail, or worse.”
“Where are these people?” Dukas asked.
“Some in Bosnia. Others here in the States.”
“So you have no idea what the information actually is?”
“Not until I read an e-mail he managed to send me just before he dropped out of sight. I haven”t had time to check it out yet.”
“First thing, we get you out of here. Somewhere you’ll be safe until I can arrange protection. And not the police, or anyone we’re not sure of,” Dukas said.
“Can you do that?”
“Yes. The people I work for can do it. And you’ll be more than safe with them. I promise.”
Malivik clutched her coffee mug in both hands, drinking the hot liquid in quick gulps. She stared at Dukas. She was agitated.
“This is wrong. I shouldn’t drag you into this. I’m sorry. Maybe I should go and you forget this meeting. These people are really scary, Erika.”
“You should meet some of the people I work with,” Dukas said, smiling. She took out her phone. “I’m going to help. Now I need to make a call. Look, you want more coffee? Something to eat?”
“No, but I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
“You go while I do this,” Dukas said. “Hey, I know your e-mail address. Do I need a password?”
“I don’t have my laptop with me.”
“My people can access your site if they have the details. We need to read that message.”
“Password is JRockets.”
“Very subtle.” Dukas laughed.
“I’m really sorry, Erika. I feel so bad doing this to you,” Malivik said.
“Hey, I said no problem. Now go and let me call.”
As she punched in the number that would connect her with Stony Man Farm, Dukas watched her friend cross the diner and push through the door to the ladies’ room. She was concerned about the way she was acting. It was as if she wanted to get up and run. Her attention was diverted as her call was answered and she eventually found herself speaking to Barbara Price and explaining the situation.
“You listen to me,” Price said. “You did right. I’ll set something up and get right back to you. I’ll pass the e-mail details on. Take Tira to your place. As soon as you arrive call me, and we’ll liaise. Hey, take it easy. Get your friend settled and wait for us.”
“Thanks. I owe you,” Dukas said.
“Oh, yes, and big-time too,” Price said lightly.
Dukas drained her coffee mug. As she placed it on the table she thought Malivik had been gone too long.
She stood up and pushed her way through the crowded diner. She hadn’t realized just how much it had filled up since her arrival. She wedged her way through until the reached the ladies’ room and pushed open the door. Malivik wasn’t there. She checked the cubicles twice. There was only one way in and one way out. As she walked back into the diner a chill coursed through her.
She checked out the restaurant, pushing back the panic edging its way to the surface. Back at the booth she met the waitress holding the check. Dukas paid it and turned to leave. She saw Malivik’s purse still on the booth seat. She picked it up and weaved through the crowd. Outside she stood helpless, not sure which way to go. She wandered around for twenty minutes, searching, hoping her friend had just left the diner to get some air. She called Malivik on her cell phone, but the phone was switched off.
She gave up and went back to her car, deciding to check at her own place first to see if Malivik showed up there.
The weather had become worse, the falling rain bitterly cold as the temperature dropped.
“MISS DUKAS?”
She glanced up at the speaker. He was just behind her, to one side, a stocky man in a dark suit, his tie awkwardly knotted. He held out a black badge holder and flipped it open as soon as she gave him her attention, holding it where she could see it, rain speckling the metal shield. He had materialized from the shadows behind her as she bent to lock her car.
There was something in the too swift way he identified himself, a sense of not being quite who he claimed.
“I’m with WPD. I need you to come with me,” he said.
“And why is that?”
“To help us verify an identification.”
“For who?”
“A young woman involved in a traffic accident.” The man was trying hard to stay professional. “I have a car over there.”
Dukas hesitated, caution holding her back, and when the man reached out to touch her elbow she drew away.
“Why did you come to me?” she asked.
“She kept saying your name. Asking us to find you. We looked in her bag and found your address in her diary.”
“Is it Tira?” Dukas asked, frightened.
“Tira Malivik could be her name, but we need formal identification.”
“Nothing in her bag to prove who she is?” Dukas asked.
“No. Look, Miss Dukas, we need to go now. It is urgent.”
I’m sure it is, she thought, considering I have Tira’s bag in my hand right now.
She finished locking her car and fell in alongside the man as they walked in the direction of the waiting car, engine running, lights on. Dukas saw the dark outline of a driver. Her escort opened the back door.
There was no way she was getting in a car with these men.
About to step around the open door, Dukas allowed the bag to slip from her hand and as it hit the ground she caught it with her foot, pushing it under the door.
“Sorry,” she said.
The man grunted, then bent to pick up the bag.
Dukas lunged forward, using her full body weight to slam the door into the man. The bulk of the door connected with his upper body, driving him against the inner frame. Erika grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it wide, then hit it again. The man had slumped to his knees and this time the door thudded into his skull. He uttered a low moan and sprawled on the wet ground.
Snatching up the bag, Dukas ran behind the car. As she moved she caught a glimpse of the driver’s door swinging open. She knew the area well, so despite the driving rain she had no need to hesitate. She raced across the curving swell of the grassed area and into the landscaped bushes and trees. She followed the downward slope, the dark trees closing around her. Running hard, stumbling on the uneven ground, she weaved her way to the far side of the wooded area and came out just above the feeder road. Only then did she stop to catch her breath. She took a few moments to check out her surroundings, seeking any sign of movement.
Had they followed?
She saw no signs of movement.
So what now?
She couldn’t risk going back to her apartment, or even to her car. Concern for her friend guided her. She eased her way along the fringe of the trees until she was well clear of the area, then made her way to the main road. She would hail a taxi and get over to Malivik’s apartment.
IN THE CAB SHE CALLED Stony Man Farm and was more than relieved when Barbara Price answered.
“Hey, I’ve been worried. Where have you been?” Price said.
Dukas explained what had happened. “I’m checking Tira’s apartment,” she said. “I’m on my way there now. That help we talked about? I may need to take you up on it.”
“Already sanctioned. Erika, maybe you should back off until we know what’s going on,” Price said.
“Look, it’s been well over two hours since Tira went missing. I can’t just stand back and do nothing. I’ll be at her place in a few minutes. Barb, I have to do this. She’s my best friend and she called on me for help. She has no one else.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Price said.
“I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Give me her address.”
Dukas passed along the information, then ended the call before Price talked her out of what she intended. She was afraid of what she might find, but she was unable to ignore the fact her friend was in some kind of trouble.
3
The entrance to Malivik’s building was reached by climbing a short flight of stone steps. Dukas got to the door without incident. Pushing inside she stopped in the lobby of the building aware of a sick feeling in her stomach. She considered the fact that she might be well out of her depth.
She climbed to the third floor apartment. No light showed under the door. Dukas took the keys from her friend’s bag and opened the door. Through the gap she could see the room was in darkness, the gloom broken only by the pale light coming through the window. Dukas reached inside and clicked on the light. The room had been disturbed, furniture out of place and objects strewed across the floor.
And from behind the leather couch a bare arm, streaked with blood, jutted at an odd angle.
“Please no,” she whispered. “Not Tira.”
Her plea was too late. When she stepped around the couch, she immediately recognized her friend lying in a wide, congealing pool of dark blood.
She was naked. Her clothes slashed and cut away by the same brutal blade that had ravaged her flesh, leaving her butchered and bloody. Her throat had been deeply cut, the flesh peeling back in a moist, glistening layer.
About to move toward the body, Dukas drew back. There was nothing she could do for her friend now.
Dukas reached into her pocket for her cell, then picked up a whisper of sound from the other side of the room. She realized she was not alone. She turned for the door, catching movement out the corner of her eye—a fast moving figure coming out of the bedroom, heading directly for her.
She reached the door and yanked it open. An arm snaked around her neck, the impact of her assailant’s body pushing her into the door frame. She stumbled, pulling her attacker with her as he maintained his grip. On her knees, she threw out one hand to grip the door frame. She could feel warm breath on the back of her neck that drew her anger as she recalled everything that had happened—the men at her apartment, discovering her dead friend and now this unprovoked attack. It gelled into a moment of pure, reflex rage.
Dukas drove the back of her skull into her attacker’s face. It hit hard and she heard him gasp, the arm around her neck loosening. She pulled free, pushing to her feet and turning to face the man. Still on his knees, temporarily engulfed in the blinding pain of his bruised nose, he was vulnerable. Dukas didn’t hesitate. She raised her right foot and slammed the heel of her boot into his mouth. He fell back, his face bloody, and in that instant she turned and ran.
Dukas raced along the corridor to the stairs, almost throwing herself down the steep flights, trying not to think about what she had left behind. She reached the lobby, barely able to stop herself from crashing into the front door. She fumbled for the handle, pulling it wide, and faced a dark figure blocking the entrance as she went through.
She hadn’t considered the man upstairs might have a partner.
Her forward rush took her headlong into the newcomer. His arms came up to grip her, but to steady her, not to imprison. Even in the flash of panic she knew to trust the voice when he spoke.
“Easy now, Erika, I’m on your side.”
“She’s dead. Tira’s dead,” Dukas cried.
She felt the man’s hands on her shoulders. The gesture helped to calm her. He eased her around and she felt herself being guided to a corner of the lobby.
“I think he was still there. In her apartment,” she said.
“Let me worry about him. You wait here.”
“With more of them liable to come through the front door? I’ll feel safer behind you.”
Mack Bolan saw the determined expression in her eyes.
“Watch my back then,” he said.
He eased the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder rig and held it against his right thigh as they started up the stairs, Bolan taking the lead.
Behind him Dukas offered directions and Bolan followed them. The apartment door stood ajar, the lights still on. As he reached the door, he saw the blood smear on the frame. Fresh blood was still seeping down the wood frame.
“You hurt?” he asked, indicating the blood.
“Not me, him,” came the matter-of-fact reply.
He toed the door open, his gaze covering the interior. Even from the door he could see the bloodied arm jutting from behind the couch. Bolan reached out and pushed the door wide, senses tuned to pick up any sound from inside.
He did pick up something. Not from inside the apartment, but from the corridor—sudden movement. Dukas gasped as she became aware herself. Bolan turned, swinging the 93-R around. He saw two armed figures converging on the apartment, weapons up and ready.
He gave them credit for that. Whoever they were, they had been a step ahead. His first instinct was to protect Dukas, and he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and shoved her out of harm’s way.
And then from inside the apartment another figure materialized from behind the open door, something in his raised right hand. Bolan sensed it swinging toward him, heard the whoosh of disturbed air. He tried to pull himself aside, but the heavy object slammed down across his right shoulder, numbing it. He was barely able to keep a grip on the Beretta. His attacker muttered in frustration, swung the club again and this time connected with Bolan’s skull. The blow drove Bolan to his knees. The third blow put him facedown on the carpet and every light in Washington went out.
THE EXECUTIONER’S AWARENESS RETURNED gradually. His initial conscious reaction was to the savage pulse of pain inside his skull. It occupied his elusive thoughts and he remained still, some deep instinct telling him to assess prior to acting.
He played dead, accepting that it was a disturbing analogy. His first cogent thought centered on Erika Dukas. Where and how was she? It was something he would need to verify very soon.
He began to filter in extraneous sound and movement.
Low talk. Casual movement.
He cracked open an eye, saw the world come slowly back into focus.
He was still in Tira Malivik’s apartment, lying against one wall. The first thing he made out was the couch. Tira Malivik’s body had been behind it, but the body had been moved and the couch dragged forward to cover the bloodstain.
A man was lounging on the couch, staring at the television, the sound turned low. A second man wandered into view, a filled glass in one hand. From the way the pair was acting Bolan guessed they were on their own. He didn’t dismiss the possibility of there being others, maybe in one of the other rooms—maybe keeping watch over Dukas.
The man on the couch rose and crossed the room to stand over Bolan. He saw the man had a bloody nose and a cut around his mouth.
“Hey, Kimble, maybe you hit this asswipe too hard,” the man said. His voice was slightly blurred due to his injured mouth.
“Do I look as if I care?”
“I mean he might not be able to talk. Billingham isn’t going to be pleased about that,” the first man replied.
Two names so far, Bolan thought. Kimble. Billingham.
One paid help, the other the ringmaster.
“Get him on his fuckin’ feet,” Kimble said. “I’ll make him talk.”
The nameless man hauled Bolan upright with ease. Bolan could feel the toned muscle under the man’s street clothes. There was strength there. The Executioner offered no resistance. He was not quite ready to make his own physical contribution yet. The man dragged him to the couch and dumped him with little grace.
Kimble reached behind himself and produced Bolan’s Beretta. He leaned over and rapped the muzzle against Bolan’s cheekbone. “C’mon sleeping beauty. Talk time.”
Bolan opened his eyes and stared up at Kimble. He held his gaze and despite his bravado—and the gun—it was Kimble who broke contact.
Bolan pushed himself into a sitting position. “Is the woman all right?” he asked directly.
“Hey, it speaks,” Kimble crowed.
“Well?” Bolan said.
“Don’t get pushy. We ask, you answer,” Kimble said.
“Right now your priority is thinking ’bout yourself,” the other man said. “Like how long you might stay alive.”
“Is she okay?” Bolan asked again.
“Jesus, this freak has a one-track mind.”
“Yeah, well, his ID has him down as some kind of Justice agent,” Kimble said. “You know what that means. They’re just fancy cops, and cops have simple minds.”
“The woman,” Bolan persisted.
“Christ,” Kimble said. “Look, pal, she ain’t here. Right now she’s fine, but how long depends on the way she answers some questions.”
The other man reached into the pocket of his dark pants and produced a switchblade. He pressed the button and the slim, shining blade snapped into position. His face took on a sudden change, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he flexed his muscles.
Kimble reached in a pocket and produced a bundle of plastic ties. “Let’s get this done.”
No time for working on a strategy. Bolan saw the lines of engagement change. Talk was over. He came up off the couch, fighting back the wave of nausea that rose within him.
Bolan’s right foot swept up, and the toe of his shoe drove into the knife wielder’s groin. The blow was without mercy, delivered with every ounce of strength the Executioner could muster. The man made a high-pitched squeal of pain. The kick stalled him long enough for Bolan to continue his move, his body swiveling so that he came face-to-face with the startled Kimble. Bolan’s hands reached out and caught the Beretta by the barrel. He twisted and pulled, hearing Kimble’s trigger finger snap.
Kimble howled as Bolan shouldered him aside, turning about to face the nameless man. The big man, one hand clutching at his groin, was already on the move, lurching in Bolan’s direction. The glittering switchblade was slashing the air as he closed in. Bolan raised the 93-R and pulled the trigger. The Beretta chugged a 3-round burst, the 9 mm slugs punching into the man’s chest. He twisted away from Bolan, dropping to his knees, then went facedown on the carpet. He jerked a few times before subsiding with a long, harsh sigh.
Turning away, Bolan made Kimble the focus of his attention, making sure the man could see the unwavering muzzle of the Beretta.
Kimble panicked. This was not how it was supposed to go down.
Moving behind him, Bolan closed an arm around Kimble’s neck, tight enough to make the man struggle for air. He put the muzzle of the Beretta against the side of the man’s head and pressed hard, letting the warm metal gouge a raw circle in his flesh.
“Think about this, Kimble. Your buddy is dead. You saw how quick it happened. Consider that when you start to answer my questions,” Bolan said.
He let the man think about it for a while. Bolan slackened his grip on Kimble’s neck and the man sucked air in greedily, like a swimmer escaping drowning. He maintained pressure on the Beretta’s muzzle, making sure Kimble stayed aware of his precarious position.
“Simple question. Where do they have the woman?” the Executioner asked.
Kimble knew his life depended on his reply. He was under no illusions. He had seen how easily this man had killed his partner and knew that same fate awaited him if he failed to give the right information.
“If I tell you, can we make a deal?” he asked.
Bolan didn’t answer. Instead he dug the muzzle of the Beretta deeper into Kimble’s flesh, turning it enough to break the skin. Kimble felt the warm trickle of blood from the tear.
“Where do they have the woman?”
“No deal, huh? Look, what if I send you to a certain address and she isn’t there?” Kimble asked.
“Then I’ll come back and we’ll start over. You aren’t going anywhere, Kimble. So make certain I hit the correct location,” the Executioner warned.
“If my people find out I sent you, I’m dead anyway. They’ll come after me.”
“No, they won’t. I can promise you that.”
The tone was neutral but the implication was clear. Kimble knew if this man went after the woman, it wouldn’t matter who stood in his way.
Bolan stepped away from Kimble and stood facing him, the Beretta still trained on the man.
“Your choice, Kimble. Give me what I want, and I’ll cut you a break. Screw me, and you’ll wish I’d killed you right here and now.”
Kimble stared into the cold blue eyes and he saw his own fate mirrored there.
“You genuine on that? Leaving me alive I mean?”
“I never lie, Kimble.”
There was something in the guy’s voice that made Kimble believe him.
“Then we have a deal.”
Bolan gestured with the pistol and walked Kimble across the room. He made him sit on the floor next to the heavy radiator piped into the wall, then picked up the plastic ties Kimble had let drop to the floor. He handed one to Kimble.
“Around your ankles. Make sure it’s tight.”
“Jesus, my finger’s broke. How can I—”
“Your choice, Kimble. I still have bullets in this gun.”
Bolan waited until Kimble did as he was instructed, then fashioned a loop with a second plastic strip. He bound Kimble’s wrists together, then took more strips and secured the bound man to the thick steel pipe running from the radiator to the solid floor.
“Now tell me where she is and how many are with her.”
When Bolan had the information locked down he rose to his feet, holstering the Beretta, then turned to leave.
“Hey,” Kimble called, “how do I get out of this?”
“If the information is genuine, I won’t be back. I’ll leave a message with my people to come and get you.”
Kimble’s anger burst like an unchecked flood.
“You fuckin’ told me you don’t lie. I give you what you want, and you toss me to the cops? What kind of a deal is that?”
“It’s what we agreed, Kimble. You give me the right words, I don’t kill you. That stands. I didn’t say anything about letting you walk away from this.” Bolan paused to stare the man down. “You want to renegotiate the terms? You still have nine fingers left.”
Kimble fell silent, figuring he’d worked the best deal he was likely to get. He watched the tall man leave, and reasoned he was better off where he was. He didn’t envy the snatch crew. He tried not to imagine what was going to happen when the unexpected visitor showed up at the abandoned farmhouse.
4
Their bodies chilled beneath their wet clothing, they climbed out of the SUV and crossed to the motel cabin Bolan had booked them into. The night clerk had viewed Bolan with suspicion when he had stepped into the office, muddy and wet.
“Heck of a night,” Bolan said. “Car skidded off the road into a ditch. Hit my head on something. Took me an hour to get it back out. Lucky for me she’s a four-by-four. Truth is, I’m too tired to drive any farther tonight. Wife is too. You got a double room with plenty of hot water?”
The night clerk looked the big man up and down, figuring he wasn’t going to throw him out. Not the size he was. When Bolan produced a credit card and handed it over, the clerk saw no further problems. He processed the card and gave Bolan the key to one of the empty cabins. In truth all the cabins were empty, Bolan had noticed, seeing the key board was full. The night clerk decided at least one cabin taken was better than none at all. It had been a bad day all-round, with the lousy weather and the forecast for possible snow sweeping down from the north. He blamed the Canadians for that. Why couldn’t they keep their damn snow up in Alaska, or wherever they stored it?
Bolan unlocked the cabin door and they went in. He dropped the bag holding his weapons on the floor. He closed the door and secured it as Dukas clicked on the lights. The room looked comfortable and the heat was on.
Bolan was ready to call in to the Farm and give them an update, but he pushed that aside when he heard subdued sobbing suddenly coming from Dukas. She had gone to stand at the window, leaning her forehead against the glass. He could see her shoulders moving as she wept, and he felt her anguish. Bolan crossed over quietly and stood behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She turned to face him.
“This has been a nightmare. Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” she said. “I translate languages. I don’t kill people.”
“Circumstances sometimes don’t allow us the privilege of choice. I’m sorry you got pulled in at the deep end, Erika. You answered a friend’s cry for help, and now you’re caught in the middle. What happened back there—none of us wanted it.”
“How do you deal with it? How do you forget when it happens to you all the time?” Dukas knew the man who’d introduced himself as Matt Cooper was some kind of special agent who’d been sent by Barbara Price.
“I don’t forget,” he said. “I have my ghosts and they come back to visit me every so often.”
“That man was going to kill you. I saw that and I couldn’t let it happen. But—”
“You did what you had to. No guilt in that.”
“I took a life,” she said.
“If he had gunned me down, you would have been next. You defended your right to live. That’s a natural reaction.”
She stared up into his steady blue eyes, seeing not savagery, nor the cold heart of a merciless man, but the gaze of someone who carried compassion for those who needed it, and at that moment she was in need. She leaned forward, wanting his strength, and he slid his arms around her as she rested her head against his chest, holding him tight against her. Bolan could feel her trembling and he remained where he was, holding her until she had settled.
She took a deep breath, then she raised herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek before letting go.
Bolan saw sudden concern in her eyes. “Erika?”
“You,” she said. “You’ve got a bad gash on your head. Where they clubbed you at Tira’s apartment. Remember?”
Bolan did, reaching up to touch the spot that was still bleeding.
“Told the desk clerk I hit my head when the car went off the road.”
“Go sit down. I’ll find something to clean it up.” She stared at him. “Do it.”
Bolan did as he was told.
She brought a towel from the bathroom and cleaned up the gash as best she could. When she was done she filled the room’s kettle and plugged it in the electrical outlet while she prepared coffee. They sat silently drinking and for a time there was a fragile peace.
Bolan found a pair of white bathrobes in sealed plastic laid out on the bed. He passed one to Dukas.
“Take the first shot in the bathroom,” he said.
“Don’t think I won’t,” she said.
Bolan pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his mud-streaked jacket and called Barbara Price.
“Run these names through the system,” he said to the Stony Man mission controller. “Billingham. Somebody important. Other is a perp named Kimble. I’d guess he has a rap sheet. I expect he’s no more than a hired gun. See what comes up.”
“Hey, how are you two doing?” Price asked.
“I’d say we’ve both had better days.”
“Any light at the end of the tunnel?”
“Still digging.”
“Erika?”
“They killed her friend Tira. Erika found her. She’s coping,” Bolan said.
“That translates as covering it up well,” Price replied.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“Look after my girl.”
“Yes, Mama,” Bolan said.
“I’ll call when we get something on these names.”
Bolan closed the phone. He could hear Dukas moving around the bathroom, and he thought about the remark Price had made about him looking out for the young woman. He was conscious of his responsibility for her. It was uppermost in his mind. Her safety was at the top of his list.
The bathroom door opened and Dukas appeared. She had changed into the bathrobe and looked slightly less stressed.
“All yours,” she said.
Bolan picked up Tira Malivik’s bag and handed it to her.
“Check it out,” he said. “See if you can find anything.”
She held the bag, hesitating, and Bolan could see the hurt in her eyes.
“It’s like invading her privacy.”
“No. It’s helping to find out who took her from you. She was your friend, and I don’t think Tira would feel you were doing anything wrong,” Bolan said.
Dukas opened the bag and tipped the contents across the bed. As she started to go through them she heard the bathroom door close.
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