Four guns. Would there be others waiting on the sidelines to attempt a save if things went sour for the home team?
Bolan had no time to mull the question over as he palmed the new Beretta, hunching lower in his seat. His free hand rose beneath the table, seized it by the lip for leverage, and kept on rising, plates and bottles spilling to the floor as he thrust it over on its side. He dropped behind it, seeing weapons on the rise, and triggered two quick shots before he hit the floor.
One of the dancers screamed. Downrange the toilet gunner lurched and staggered, groping for the wall to keep himself from falling. It was hopeless, and the guy was dead before he hit the floor.
His comrades opened up in unison, their wild rounds knocking chunks of plaster from the walls and drilling knotholes in the table. Bolan wriggled back into a corner of the booth and twisted so that he could see a portion of the room. A shoulder, clad in leather, and a denim leg — the gunner from the kitchen shifted, trying for a better shot, and Bolan took one of his own.
He winged his adversary, nothing serious, but it was still enough to drive the shooter back. The other kitchen gunner followed, seeking cover, and a group of rowdy Turks dispersed before them, scattering to safety.
There were screams from both the dancers now, accompanied by shouts and curses from the patrons as they ducked beneath their tables, half a dozen of them breaking for the door. Would any of them hail police? No matter. Spyros more than likely had the fix in locally, and Bolan would be on his own.
The lanky backstage gunner had approached within a range of twenty feet, an automatic pistol counting cadence. Six shots…seven…eight. A momentary silence spurred the Executioner to action, and he burst from cover, catching his assailant as the gunner tried to draw another weapon he wore tucked behind his back.
It was the rough equivalent of point-blank range for the Beretta. Bolan drilled a mangier through the gunman's stocking mask and watched the impact punch him backward, flattening a table as he fell.
The two surviving gunners opened fire in unison, and Bolan vaulted from the booth. He hit with a flying shoulder roll and came up firing, scrambling across the floor and under cover of another capsized table as his adversaries found the range.
Four up, two down — and he'd have to do a damn sight better in a hurry if he meant to catch Makarios. The dealer might have slipped away already, and he surely wouldn't hang around if he perceived his troops were losing. If he lost Makarios…
The warrior shifted cautiously, again, and he was in the open, worming toward a new location under cover of the semidarkness. Customers had scattered from the area around his booth, but he could feel them watching from the shadows, huddled under furniture to duck the next barrage of slugs.
He found another table lying on its side and burrowed in. The gunmen were impatient, anxious to complete their «simple» job, and he was banking on their eagerness to breed mistakes. They had to move, and it was either rush or run.
Whichever way it played, the Executioner was waiting.
But he didn't have the time to wait all night.
* * *
Makarios hadn't been shamming when he told Bolan that he had to use the toilet. He was standing at a urinal, his free hand braced against the wall, when rapid pistol fire erupted in the outer room. Two shots, at first, and then a crackling string like fireworks. He was zipping up his trousers when he realized that it was taking much too long. Belasko should be dead by now, and still the gunfire echoed through his club.
Alarmed, Makarios allowed himself a quick peek from the men's room, but his view was blocked by corners and a screen of hanging beads. Emerging from the rest room, he killed the alcove lights to give himself some cover, and it helped a little. Now he saw a pair of legs protruding from around the corner, feet splayed out in death.
Belasko had been lucky, and continued gunfire told Makarios his luck was holding. Sober now, the dealer knelt and drew the stubby Walther automatic from its ankle holster. Flicking off the safety as he rose, Makarios edged closer to the beaded curtain, glancing downward for an instant at the fallen gunman's prostrate body. Blood had pooled beneath him and escaped in shiny rivulets across the floor.
He tracked in the direction of the empty booth, his stomach lurching as he recognized the corpse of Constantine Pappas. Two other members of his firing squad were still alive, occasionally popping up from cover, firing toward a table in the middle of the room, but Makarios couldn't see Belasko, with the shapes of furniture and huddled patrons in his way.
Behind the bar his backup gunner had begun to pace, the submachine gun in his hands, but he had no clear target either. Makarios sized the situation up and knew that he'd lost control. They still might kill Belasko if he tried to reach the door, but a prolonged exchange of fire was bound to draw police. Makarios couldn't afford to wait around and answer probing questions. It would take time to prepare himself, rehearse his answers, and for that he needed breathing room.
His car was parked out front, and that meant crossing in between Belasko and the other guns unless he worked his way around in back. Retreating, Makarios tucked the Walther automatic in his belt and raced toward the exit. If their plans hadn't been shattered, Constantine and his companions would have carried Mike Belasko's body out this way, a simple flourish of the mop sufficient to eradicate all traces of his passing.
Suddenly, behind him, pistol fire erupted in a storm. Two weapons hammered before another made it three, and then the submachine gun opened up. Makarios heard bullets ripping into plaster, gouging woodwork, as his gunners gave it everything they had.
Too late to stem the rising tide of panic that propelled him forward, Makarios hit the alley running, turning right and pounding past the car Pappas had stolen for tonight. He left it there, uncertain whether there were keys or where to find them, sliding on the gravel as he ducked around another corner, headed for the street.
No more than twenty yards and he'd be safe. Makarios's car was locked, and he fumbled with the keys, alert to fleeting time. He flicked a glance in the direction of the entrance, saw the doorman taking to his heels, a spectacle in turban, satin vest and flimsy harem trousers.
He slid in behind the wheel, jabbed at the ignition, missed it, tried again. He got it on the second lunge and mouthed a silent prayer of thanks for swift response beneath the hood. Belasko couldn't stop him now.
But where to run?
If the police were summoned, they would quickly trace him to his home. With corpses in the club, they were obliged at least to pull him in for questioning. He needed time to think, but where?
He had it!
Sarkis had demanded that he kill Belasko, and the order had presumably been handed down from Bashir Moheden. Makarios could hide with Sarkis and let the Lebanese attempt to salvage something from the chaos of his master plan.
Relaxing now that he had found a destination, Makarios concentrated on his driving, easing up on the accelerator. He couldn't afford a confrontation with police, on any charge, before he spoke with Sarkis and resolved their difficulty.
Soon.
In a few more moments all his troubles would be over.
* * *
It was rush or run, and when he heard his adversaries scrambling to their feet, Mack Bolan knew instinctively they had decided on the rush. For all they knew, he might be wounded, even dying, and they had to take the chance. Their skirmish had already lasted long enough to draw police, and their only ready exit lay within a hostile line of fire.
They rose together, squeezing off in rapid fire with two guns each, and Bolan had to give them points for accuracy. Dead on target from a range of fifteen yards, they doubtless would have nailed him if he hadn't scurried clear in time.
He let them close the gap a little, easing up from cover with the Beretta braced in both hands, tracking on the nearest figure first. A double punch ripped through the guy's chest and sent him spinning like a dervish, jostling against his partner as he fell.
The second
man, still bleeding from the graze above his elbow, caught himself before he fell and spun to face the enemy. He got off two more shots before he died, but both of them were wild, and then a single slug made contact like a hammer blow between his eyes. The shooter's head snapped back, and Bolan watched him melt away, a snowman disappearing in a sudden heat wave.
He was expecting backup gunners, but the burst of submachine-gun fire surprised him even so. He caught a glimpse of muzzle-flashes as he hit the floor, and then a storm of bullets started eating up the furniture around him, wild rounds scattering some patrons who had gone to ground nearby.
Their flight distracted Bolan's adversary for an instant, tricking him with decoys, and he chopped down two runners before he realized his fatal error. By the time he swung the weapon back on target, Bolan had him cold at thirty feet, the first round drilling through his sweaty forehead, lifting off a section of his scalp. Another clipped his dying vocal cords before he had a chance to scream, and number three was simply icing on the cake, a heart shot, as he fell away behind the bar.
There was no time to waste. It took a moment for the Executioner to reach the men's room, scan its empty stalls and double back to try the exit. He found the door ajar and pushed on through. The solitary car out back was going nowhere.
Bolan played a hunch and doubled back, past milling patrons who appeared to realize the worst was over. Half expecting opposition from the doorman, the warrior hit the sidewalk in a gallop, nostrils flaring at the scent of burning rubber in the air. Downrange, a pair of fleeing taillights winked across the nearest intersection.
Bolan got the door unlocked and threw himself behind his rented compact's steering wheel. Makarios was working on a decent lead, but there was time, if he could let the dealer think that he had made it free and clear. If common sense prevailed and panic was suppressed, he had a chance.
The engine came to life, and Bolan gave the little car its head, running dark through the short quarter-mile without oncoming traffic. Makarios was slowing by the time he crossed a major intersection, and Bolan turned on his headlights, an innocent motorist pulling away from the curb.
In fact, he had a fair idea of where Makarios was going. If he called it right, the dealer would be doing him a favor, simplifying matters for what lay ahead. The soldier still had ugly work to do, and it would go down easier if he could find his targets — some of them, at any rate — mobbed up together in a handy shooting gallery.
The «soft» approach had failed spectacularly, and he wondered who had blown his cover. Moments later Bolan's mind coughed up a possible solution, but the answer raised more problems than it solved. If he was not mistaken, then his killing mission might take on the aspect of a rescue.
Soft was definitely out.
The Executioner was going hard.
Chapter Eleven
"And so, you left him?" Sarkis made no attempt to disguise the venom in his tone. He pinned Makarios with an accusing stare. "You have no way of knowing whether he is still alive?"
His unexpected, uninvited visitor turned open palms in the direction of the ceiling. "The police! I couldn't wait, Rashid. He must be dead by now, but I need time."
"For what? To find your balls?" He was delighted by the way Makarios recoiled before his anger. "You were dining in your own establishment, alone, when all the shooting started. You have never seen the tall American before. The other men wore masks, you say? How could they possibly be recognized?"
"But the police know Constantine. He works for me. That's not a secret."
"So?" Rashid felt confident, as always, when he solved the problems of a less intelligent associate. "Are you responsible for everything that your employees do in leisure time? How could you possibly suspect that Pappas was involved in criminal activity?"
"You think they will believe me?"
"It isn't important whether they believe you, Spyros. The police must prove you guilty of a crime before you go to prison, eh? Who testifies against you in this case? Not Constantine. His men?"
"They wouldn't dare."
The Lebanese took time to pour himself a glass of wine.
"That leaves Belasko."
"But a dead man…"
"Trust his death when you have seen his body, Spyros. As it is, you think he might be dead. Where is your car?"
Makarios looked honestly bewildered for a moment, then cocked a thumb in the direction of the street. "Outside."
Sarkis made an effort to suppress his mounting anger and disgust. The whining bastard had arranged an ambush for Belasko, then ran out before he saw it through. If that wasn't enough for one night, he had run directly to Sarkis, at his home. No warning call. No hasty rendezvous on neutral ground. If anyone suspected Spyros, if he'd been followed…
Sarkis stiffened, dark eyes boring through Makarios.
"You took precautions?" he demanded. "Coming here tonight, you weren't followed?"
"Who would follow me, Rashid?"
The dealer's mind was racing, searching for the reassurance of an answer. "Are we certain that Belasko was alone in Nicosia?"
Makarios frowned. "There was Nikos Kiprianou…"
"Forget him." Sarkis smiled. The young man wasn't a problem any longer. He was simply rubbish, waiting to be carted out and thrown away. Perhaps a memory. "Can you be certain there was no one else?"
Makarios looked worried now. "I made inquiries of the concierge at his hotel. Belasko was alone when he arrived. He had no visitors other than Kiprianou."
"Were any other hotels scrutinized? Was this Belasko followed when he left his room? Did he make contacts on the street?"
The Cypriot was staring at his shoes. "I ordered no surveillance," he replied. "There wasn't time. The usual inquiries…"
"Brought the usual results. Our problem," Sarkis said, "is that Belasko might turn out to be a most unusual man."
"But he's dead! I don't see…"
"One moment!"
Sarkis raised an open hand to silence his companion. A small red light was flashing on his desk. It appeared to be a silent pager for his intercom, but any message heralded by that light had to be bad news. The beacon was, in fact, connected to a series of strategic "panic buttons" planted all around the house, positioned where his sentries would have easy access in emergencies. Another red light would be flashing in his bedroom, with a muted buzzer chiming in to wake him from the soundest sleep. The system had been tested after installation three years earlier, and Sarkis hadn't seen the flashing light since then.
"What is it?" Spyros asked.
"Perhaps a visitor."
"Police?"
"Unlikely."
The police were never unexpected, and his men had been well trained to use the panic button only in a case of dire necessity. A full-scale raid might qualify, but Sarkis knew he'd have been forewarned by friends in uniform, whose loyalty he'd purchased over time. Eliminating the police, that only left…
The burst of automatic fire was muffled, barely audible inside his study, but it was enough to put Makarios in motion, short legs driving him across the room and back again. His face had lost its color. Sarkis wondered if he might be on the verge of cardiac arrest, a blessing in disguise.
He pulled a desk drawer open, slipped his hand inside and palmed the Browning automatic, drawing reassurance from its weight. He flicked off the safety and drew the slide back, just enough to verify a live round underneath the firing pin.
"Who is it?" Makarios whispered hoarsely.
"We'll have to go and see," the dealer replied. His pistol waggled toward the only exit from his study. "After you."
* * *
Makarios had led the Executioner on a winding, quarter-hour drive, but Bolan had maintained surveillance, hanging back just far enough to seem innocuous, occasionally turning off his headlights if he found a street devoid of other traffic. Once, he thought the runner might have spotted him, the way Makarios had taken three quick rights, to double back upon his course. In fact, the guy had sim
ply missed his landmark, circling the block to get it right. He took no other measures to avoid pursuit, and Bolan trailed him back to Sarkis, switching off his lights and pulling in a full block from the dealer's home.
The street was dark and empty. Bolan took a chance and stood beside the rental car to change his clothes, the night breeze warm against his naked flesh before he pulled the blacksuit on. He snugged the shoulder rigging back in place and mounted the Beretta's silencer. Spare magazines were evenly distributed among his several hidden pockets, and he finished off the job by smearing camouflage war paint on his face and hands.
He knew there would be guards and they'd probably be armed with more than pistols. Bolan could have used a submachine gun — some grenades, perhaps — but it was no good wishing. He'd left an SMG at the strip joint, but he would have wasted precious time retrieving it and scouring the bar for backup magazines. He might have lost Makarios and any chance he had of wrapping up the pipeline's western terminus in Nicosia.
Granted, he'd known where Sarkis lived from the beginning. Brognola had briefed him on the dealer's current residence — along with that of the Iranian, Hussein Razmara — but he hadn't been convinced Makarios would run directly to his crony. If the Cypriot had tried to make a break — the airport, for example — Bolan would have been compelled to take him down in public, prior to searching out his other targets.
It was better this way. If, by chance, he found Razmara in the house with Sarkis and Makarios, his mission would be simplified. If not, he had the address and his street map. He could still be finished with the job by dawn.
But first he had to make his way through any sentries Sarkis might employ. Not past them, for the risk of leaving one alive would be too great. They played the game and took their chances. They would have to die.
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