Bolan stepped toward the desk. “You’re coming out of here in one of two ways. Either you can walk out that front door or I can drag you out. Your choice.”
“You don’t seem to understand who you’re dealing with, Mr. Cooper, or whoever the hell you are,” Martin replied. “My grandfather came to this country and scratched out a living in the gold rush in Victoria. My father founded Wallcorloo in his garage with a thousand dollars. And if you think I’m going to let it all be flushed away because some Yank has the gall to come in here and tell me how to run my business, you’re out of your fucking mind!”
He stood as he delivered those last words and it wasn’t the unhinged tone in Martin’s voice that caught Bolan’s attention—it was the short-barreled, pump-action shotgun he was holding.
The Executioner was out in the open space in front of the desk, with no suitable cover around him.
The only place to go was forward. The moment Martin racked the pump, Bolan dived to the ground in front of the desk, breaking his fall with his injured right arm while his left hand drew his SIG Sauer. A deafening roar exploded in the room and he felt the blast from the barrel overhead. Behind him, a section of the white leather sofa burst into tatters as buckshot blasted through it.
“You think you can come down here and tell me what to do?” Martin raged as he worked the slide of his weapon.
Bolan was about to stick his pistol over the edge of the desk to take Martin down when the shotgun went off again, blasting a huge chunk of wood from of the desk’s corner. Splinters rained down on the Executioner.
“Those AFN bastards are gonna take the fall for this, and I’ll do whatever I need to do to make it stick—including killing you!” Another pump rack sounded nearby and Bolan moved to the right corner of the desk. He peered around the corner, hoping he’d guessed correctly that Martin was coming around the other side. He was right—this side was empty. He crouch-walked around it as the billionaire screamed in rage.
“Where are you, Cooper?” He shouted from the front of the desk. Bolan then heard the sounds of Martin scrabbling onto its surface. “You can’t hide forever! Just like my forefathers, I’ll wipe out anyone who stands in my way!”
As the Wallcorloo CEO racked the shotgun again, Bolan jumped up and aimed squarely at his heart. The chubby businessman, chest heaving, stared at him as he brought the shotgun down to aim.
The Executioner fired three times. All three bullets punched through Martin’s suit coat to slam into his chest. As he tottered backward, he triggered his weapon once more, the cloud of shot whizzing over Bolan’s head. Then the Australian collapsed to the desktop with a groan.
Still covering him, Bolan walked around to the back of the desk and pushed the chair out of the way. He knocked the shotgun from Martin’s hand and reached out to feel for a pulse.
A sweating hand suddenly grabbed his gun hand and levered it up while a second fist lashed out at Bolan’s head. “What, you think I haven’t been shot at before, you bastard?” Martin shouted as his perforated jacket fell away to reveal bullets stuck in a black Level II or III bulletproof vest.
Bolan tried to pull away, but the enraged Aussie clung to him, keeping the gun away from his head while raining furious blows down on Bolan with his free hand as he pushed toward his adversary on the desktop. “I’m...gonna...kill...you...Cooper!” Martin panted between every punch. He was close enough to glare at Bolan, his muddy-brown eyes alive with hatred.
Blocking the rain of mostly ineffective blows with his free hand, Bolan finally just hauled back, pulling Martin off the desk and intending to slam him to the ground. But the portly man was surprisingly agile and managed to get a foot down on the floor. Swinging his other leg around, he kicked Bolan in the right arm, making him grunt in pain.
Martin’s flailing hand shot to the big American’s throat and started to squeeze. “When I get through with you, you’ll be dead and I’ll be a hero!” Martin wheezed.
Raising his free arm, Bolan rained hammer blows on Martin’s arm until he broke the man’s grip on his throat. Before the man could recover, he drove the heel of his hand into Martin’s nose, crushing it and stunning him.
The CEO reeled back, still holding on to Bolan’s gun hand and pulling him along. The Executioner tore the pistol out of his adversary’s hand, flipped it so the grip fell into his palm and pulled the trigger three times, shooting Martin across the upper body, where the vest didn’t cover. Two of the bullets passed through his shoulder, exiting with enough force to crack the glass windowpanes behind him.
The third one hit him in the neck. Immediately unable to breathe, he released Bolan and put both hands to his throat, which was spurting blood. Gasping and gagging, he staggered backward until he hit the weakened window, which was unable to support his weight.
In a shower of glass, Angus Martin fell out the window of his sixty-fifth-story office and plummeted to the ground below.
Epilogue
“—and after that, I had no choice but to hang around for the next two days answering questions about what had happened at the Amadeus site and in the office. By the end of the second, the US ambassador had smoothed my way out. Thanks for the assist, Hal.”
Bolan sat in the Farm’s War Room with Brognola and Price.
“So, what’s the fallout?” he asked. “It can’t be good that the administration’s handpicked minerals guy Down Under turned out to be willing to do anything to destroy the indigenous people that he ordered two of his own employees killed to give plausibility about his company being attacked?”
“No, it is not good,” Brognola replied. “They’re keeping a tight lid on this in the States, and trying to in Melbourne, but Martin’s swan dive has pretty much prevented it from being swept under the rug.”
“Travis and his surviving men cut deals with the government to give statements regarding the crimes committed by Martin and his company in exchange for reduced sentences—nice work on that, by the way,” Price added.
Bolan nodded. “I figured it would be easier to clean house if there were actual witnesses to the crimes happening under the government’s nose. It’s just too bad I couldn’t get Martin locked up, as well.”
“Well, either way, he’s out of the picture and, right now, Wallcorloo’s future isn’t looking very bright,” Price said. “It seems the other large mining companies are already circling, looking for opportunities to acquire some or all of the company. Too soon to tell if the board will fend off acquisition offers or hostile takeovers, but then again, it’s not really our problem anymore, is it?”
“Nope, it isn’t.” Bolan leaned back in his chair. “So, anything interesting happen around here while I was gone?”
Brognola and Price exchanged glances. “Not so much,” the big Fed said. “The usual Capitol Hill bull streaming downhill, you know.
“Speaking of the Hill, Barbara, you might be interested in this little news article.” Brognola turned on the monitor to catch the top-of-the-hour headlines.
“—and in White House news, more staff shakeups in the President’s administration,” the anchor announced. “Christian Payne, one of the President’s top advisers, has announced that he is leaving his government position and heading back home to Michigan to pursue opportunities in the private sector. Rumors have been swirling around Mr. Payne’s departure, with sources saying he was fired for carrying out his duties poorly, including being unable to stem the flow of White House leaks to the press. This is the latest in a steady stream of staff members to leave the White House. We’ll have more on this story as it develops...”
Price turned from the screen to Brognola, who was sitting at the end of the conference table, an unlit stogie clamped between his teeth. “See, I told you these things have a way of sorting themselves out.”
“And, naturally, you had nothing to do with moving him along,” she stated.
“Who, me?�
� Brognola replied. “Of course not. I merely submitted my report on the operation that Mr. Payne initiated at the White House’s request, in which our on-site personnel uncovered a racist bigot—whom the President wanted to be all buddy-buddy with—running one of the largest corporations in a friendly nation and during the course of the investigation, was forced to terminate said person when he became unhinged and tried to kill our investigator.”
He shrugged. “It’s certainly not my fault if the POTUS doesn’t suffer fools gladly...or at all. Like I said, ducks in a row.”
“No, Hal...it certainly isn’t,” Price said with a grin.
Bolan looked at Price and then at the man from Justice. “Why do I get the feeling that I just missed something?”
* * * * *
Special thanks to Jonathan Morgan for his assistance in shaping this manuscript.
ISBN-13: 9781488096099
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to John Helfers for his contribution to this work.
Copyright © 2018 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
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