Bolan allowed his breathing to slow. Enough time had passed. He wanted Octavios to believe “Matthew Cooper” was asleep. He breathed deeply for five minutes, by his count. His sense of time had always been accurate.
The jingle of the handcuffs alerted him to the fact that Octavios was up to something. The tall man was trying to wriggle free. He might have hidden a tool or key on him; it didn’t take much to pop a handcuff loose. Or he might have the flexibility needed to squeeze his hand through the cuff. Bolan hadn’t locked them as tightly as possible because he’d wanted to see what Octavios would do.
The sound of the cuff snapping open was unmistakable.
So was the sound of the front door of the safehouse being kicked in.
Chapter Four
Bolan sprang out of bed. His eyes were well adjusted to the low light. Octavios was just getting to his feet, free of his handcuffs. Bolan kicked him with a front-thrust, planting the sole of his combat boot in the man’s gut. Octavios slammed into the wall and sank to the floor. Judging the angle very carefully so as not to kill him, Bolan bent and delivered a blow to the jaw.
He was already turning. As Octavios went still on the floor, unconscious, Bolan palmed his tactical flashlight and drew his suppressed Beretta 93-R. The weapon had a full 20-round box magazine in its grip. Using the finger brace for his off hand, still holding the light, Bolan dropped to one knee, offset from the doorway.
“Government agent!” he shouted. “Stop where you are!” As he said it, he flashed the doorway to verify his targets and then rolled to one side. Shotgun fire blew holes in the carpet where he’d been. That was all the confirmation Bolan needed that his visitors were foes, not friends. He swept the shotgunner with two 3-round bursts from the Beretta. The man went down.
The attackers, and there were several of them, were dressed in civilian clothes. They were struggling to make it through the doorway, which marked them as amateurs to the combat game. The doorway was a natural choke point and every single one of them was silhouetted in the glow cast by the streetlights.
Not for the first time, Bolan silently praised the wisdom of Barbara Price and Stony Man Farm. The safehouse was situated on a cul-de-sac largely populated by unsold homes. They were new construction, compared to the safehouse itself, which meant there were few people in the area—and little to no possibility of civilians being caught in the cross fire. Bolan could picture Price determining just what the soldier needed in terms of tactical space. He’d warned her, in his message detailing his supply needs, that he thought combat was likely. She’d assured him she had already assumed as much and had looked for a location that would suit him.
She knew him well.
“Javier!” shouted one of the people outside. It was a woman’s voice. “Javier, where are you?”
Bolan doubted Octavios was on a first-name basis with the international hit teams out to get him. That meant this lot was likely his own comrades from Codex Freedom. The soldier would assume as much until he found out otherwise. The idiots were still bunched up in the doorway, as if an armed man were not somewhere in the dark waiting for them.
Bolan decided to remind them that they were out of their element.
He lowered the Beretta and sprayed the lead gunman in the knees. The man spilled through the doorway, screaming, his legs no longer working. The two shooters behind him held a revolver and some kind of small-caliber rifle. Bolan shot the revolver man through the face and then stitched the rifle man in the chest. Both fell back the way they’d come, leaving the doorway open. The rifle clattered to the floor of the porch outside.
By the outside light now spilling through the doorway, Bolan could see pools of blood. The rifle was a .22-caliber youth model, he thought. There was no way this bunch was equipped for what they were trying to do—
The roar of a chain saw suddenly filled the air.
Bolan stood to full height, moving to the doorway and taking cover beside it. He risked a glance around the corner. A big man in a denim jacket, jeans and work boots was holding a chain saw aloft and moving slowly but surely toward Bolan’s location.
“You have got to be kidding me,” the soldier muttered.
“Don’t shoot that man,” a woman outside shouted, “or we’ll burn the house. We’ll burn it with you in it. We want Javier back, and we’ll kill to get to him.”
This was the weirdest hostage negotiation Bolan had ever experienced. The man with the chain saw was now at the edge of the porch. He was waiting, the saw rumbling. As if to punctuate the woman’s point, Chain saw Man triggered his weapon and cut a deep gouge in the wood of the porch floor.
The noise was going to bring the cops again. The area was isolated, but they were still in Toronto. Panicking neighbors, if there were any, would already have dialed for emergency services. Bolan had no idea what their response time would be at this hour—he stole a glance at the luminous hands of the diving watch he wore—but he had to end this before they arrived.
He risked another glance. Two minivans were parked in front of the safehouse. The attackers were gathered on either side of them, foolishly believing that the metal skin of the vehicles would provide them with cover. Where Chain saw Man fit into this, he couldn’t say, nor did the bizarre tactic make any sense to him. But he was tired of listening to the saw idle.
He eased the Beretta back into its custom leather shoulder holster and took out his Desert Eagle. Thumbing the hammer back, he drew a breath, let part of it out and held the rest. Then he whipped around the doorway, brought the gun up and fired.
Chain saw Man went down, making a sound that Bolan couldn’t define. It was part scream and part yelp, as near as he could figure. But the Executioner wasn’t finished yet. He emptied his Desert Eagle into the side of the first van, keeping his shots at roughly chest level. As he swung back behind cover, a few halfhearted shots rang out in the night. At least one bullet shattered a window near the front door. Bolan popped the Desert Eagle’s magazine free and loaded a fresh one, sending the slide home to chamber the first round.
The chain saw, which had been sputtering on the porch, finally choked and stopped.
“You bastard!” the woman shouted. “You are going to pay for the people you’ve killed! Charge! Everybody, charge!”
Bolan braced himself for a mad rush through the doorway. In the darkness, Octavios groaned. He hadn’t come around yet, but he was starting to.
Nothing else happened. Bolan stole a look and saw that, except for the bullet holes in one of the minivans, nothing had changed. Tired of the game and very aware of the passage of time, he again steadied himself and brought up the Desert Eagle. Then he sent a fusillade of .44 Magnum rounds through the other minivan. He kept his shots lower this time, knowing the enemy would have crouched by instinct. He was rewarded by more screaming.
“Go! Go, you cowards!” the woman yelled.
This time, there were footsteps. Bolan had counted on that. They were inexperienced and afraid, but they had just seen some of their teammates get hit from behind “cover.” No vehicle was enough to stop a heavy round, really. Only the engine block was a sure thing, and even then, you could get tagged around or even under the vehicle. Bullets would travel through almost all interior walls and penetrate most exterior walls of a home. Bolan was counting on that, too. He began to back up, moving through the safehouse. On his way past Octavios, he knelt and checked the man.
He was semiconscious and would come around soon. Bolan would have to act fast, because he didn’t want to risk striking him again. Once was risky enough. He didn’t want to give the man a concussion or even brain damage. Only in the movies could people get clubbed unconscious again and again and experience no ill effects.
Shocked by their own losses, the attackers were moving forward. Even a cornered rat would fight if it had no other option. These were cornered rats, convinced now that attacking was the only thing that would
save them. Bolan was a threat in the darkness, a very loud gun that was taking them down one at a time without comment. It was almost a psy-op. Bolan needed that effect. He needed them upset, off balance and eager to do something. That urge would rob them of their caution and override their fear, all while feeding the latter.
The Executioner took up position in the next room, by the door, going prone on the floor. He switched to the suppressed Beretta, flicking the selector switch to single shot. There were a lot of gunners, and he had only so many magazines.
Gunfire caused shadows to dance on the walls. The idiots were firing blindly on their way in, hoping against hope they’d hit something important. Fortunately, Octavios would be relatively safe, passed out on the floor. From a tactical perspective, things were as good as they were going to get.
Judging their positions by their footfalls in the next room, and careful to avoid an angle that would put a bullet in Octavios, Bolan began firing through the wall. He did it carefully, deliberately, just one at a time. The suppressed Beretta wasn’t silent, as most people assumed. It was still loud, about the volume of a clap of his hands. With their ears ringing from their own gunfire, however, the attackers wouldn’t notice it. If they did, they wouldn’t be able to judge Bolan’s location from the sound.
A man screamed, followed by the thud of a body hitting the carpeted floor. There was more animated shouting. Bolan kept up the pressure, firing again and again, punching round after round through the wall. He took the shots as low as he dared, always judiciously avoiding Octavios.
“He’s in the other room!” It was the woman’s voice. She was either the leader or just the loudest of the bunch. Bolan tracked the sound and emptied the Beretta’s magazine in her direction.
“There! There!” a man yelled.
Shotgun pellets began to pepper the wall through which Bolan had been shooting. The pellets came nowhere near him. He waited, knowing the gunners were panic-firing. When the inevitable lull came, he pushed to his feet.
Rushing the doorway, he fired up his tactical flashlight, the Beretta 93-R held in his right hand. The shooters were a mixed group of men and women, carrying a mixture of small arms. This group was also woefully under-equipped for the war they were trying to wage. Bolan blinded them with his light and, while they shrank back, shot the nearest pair of men. They went down, dead before they stopped falling.
The rest of the Codex Freedom people, if that’s indeed who they were, rushed out the front door. Bolan would have liked to take them all down, eliminating the threat they presented completely, but there was no time. He would have to settle for driving them off. He heard the vans start up, heard tires squeal as the bullet-riddled vehicles pulled away, and waited briefly to make sure it wasn’t a trick.
If it had been Bolan, he’d have stationed a couple of shooters at either side of the house to flank the soldier’s position after the minivans left. Too many people forgot that a fight wasn’t over until it was over. These, however, were amateurs to the gun game. They had done nothing of the sort.
Then again, there was the possibility that the talk of killing Javier Octavios was a bluff. It would make sense that their goal was to free their leader, not murder him. There was an equal possibility, however, that nothing this group did made sense. You couldn’t expect rational actions from irrational people. A cluster of deranged data hackers probably wasn’t the most reasonable group of individuals he’d face.
As he reloaded his weapons and grabbed a still-dazed Octavios by the collar, he considered the possibilities. The tall Greek was waking up enough to start complaining.
“You miserable son of a—”
“Careful,” Bolan warned, still dragging Octavios through the house and toward the back door. “I could always hit you again.”
“Was it necessary to hit me the first time?”
“It wouldn’t have been if you’d stayed in your cuffs,” Bolan said. “I couldn’t have you running off. Were those your people?”
“I think so. I think I heard Sheila’s voice.”
“That would be Sheila Hargrave.”
“Yes,” Octavios said. He didn’t seem surprised that his captor knew details about Codex Freedom’s personnel. Then again, Octavios was a master of finding out personal information on others. It wouldn’t impress him to see others do it. “Where are we going, Cooper?”
“We’re getting out of here before the cops show up.”
“For a government agent, you spend a lot of time running from law enforcement,” Octavios observed.
Bolan didn’t say anything. It was hard to argue the point.
As they exited the rear of the structure, Bolan noted that the carport behind the safehouse was unlocked. He raised the overhead door. A blue Chevy Malibu was waiting inside. The discreet courier used by the Farm, per instructions, had dropped the vehicle off while Bolan had been otherwise occupied within. The courier had also taken the Mercedes to be disposed of. Bolan had made sure to leave the keys in the ignition.
“Was this here the whole time?” Octavios queried.
“No. It arrived before your friends did.”
“And your people did not send reinforcements to help you?”
“Do I look like I need reinforcements?”
“Well, you have me there,” Octavios replied. He let Bolan put him in the passenger seat.
“Put on your seat belt. If you try to get out, if you try to run, I just might have to wing you.”
“I have resigned myself to your custody,” Octavios said. “You can stop threatening me, Cooper.”
“You didn’t look so resigned when you were jimmying open your handcuffs.”
“As if you would do less. We both know that handcuffs are easily defeated. Only a fool stays in them when he does not have to.”
“That reminds me,” Bolan said. “If you don’t give me your handcuff key, or whatever you used, I’ll—”
“I know, I know. But between you and me, Cooper, I don’t think you’d carry out any of your threats. You’ll knock a man out, certainly...but I note that you cared enough about my well-being not to do it again. Your callous act needs work. I don’t think I buy it.”
Bolan ignored him, went to the driver’s side, reached in and took the key fob from the dash where the courier had left it. He used it to pop the trunk.
Inside were several cases and some smaller pouches. One was a medical kit. He rummaged through it until he found what he’d asked for: a powerful commercial brand antibiotic. There was another bottle of pills, too, something the soldier had requested in his text message. He took one pill from each bottle.
The other cases, some of them clearly for firearms, would wait. Bolan needed to get out of there now. He climbed into the Malibu and handed the two pills in his palm to the Greek.
“Take those.” Bolan reached into his pocket, produced the bottle of antibiotics and handed it over. “While you’re at it, do me a favor and keep taking them. Three times a day, like it says on the package.”
“I’ll refrain from making the obvious comment,” Octavios said as Bolan started the Malibu and got it moving, “about not surviving to take them all.”
“Thanks.”
They got a few blocks from the safehouse before Bolan saw red and blue lights in the distance and heard sirens. He angled away from them, taking several unnecessary turns.
“You do not intend to drive all night, I hope,” Octavios said.
“No. We’re going to pull over and get some sleep in the car, once I find a suitable overpass.”
“My people will find you again.”
“Do you think they’ll be that eager to engage?” Bolan asked. “I figure they’ll need at least a little time to lick their wounds. Long enough for me to get some rest.”
“We both know that I can get out if you cuff me.” Octavios held up his hands. “Skinny wrists, do
uble-jointed thumbs. Even if you zip-tie me, I’ll escape. You’ll be putting your life in my hands if you sleep in my presence.”
“That’s why I gave you the pills.”
“The antibiotics?”
“One was an antibiotic,” Bolan said. “And that’s what’s in the bottle I gave you. The other bottle I have is a powerful sedative.”
“You are, without a doubt, the most unpleasant man I’ve ever met.”
“Thank me later,” the soldier told him. “I figure that will start to kick in maybe five or ten minutes from now.”
Octavios sighed and did what he could to make himself comfortable, resting his head against the passenger’s-side window.
Bolan drove on. He wanted to cover some ground before he stopped. Somewhere out there, multiple enemies were tracking them, and they could find Octavios wherever he went. He needed to draw those forces out, create a little more room for himself, and then take steps to eliminate them.
It was unfortunate that he was going to have to cause a lot more damage before he was done. Brognola was going to spend a lot of time on the phone trying to quell tension with various authorities in Canada and the United States. But it couldn’t be helped.
In the passenger seat, Octavios began to snore, loudly.
Bolan drove on.
Chapter Five
Queen Street Warehouse, Toronto
“Such decadence,” Egor Smyrnoi commented. “It offends me.”
“Sip your drink,” Dobry Mikhailov said, “and remember, we need to blend in.”
Smyrnoi eyed the massive counter’s impressive collection of colored-glass bottles and decanters. The bottles stretched from counter height to the heavy beams of the ceiling. Around them Canadians, and presumably tourists, circulated through the popular eatery. Smyrnoi didn’t like it. The hanging light bulbs, the decorated posts...it felt claustrophobic to him. He detested the West, and he detested their entertainments. Westerners spent their lives avoiding reality, hiding from it.
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