Meltdown te-97

by Don Pendleton

  A dim light filled the room, and a brighter light spilled through a crack under the door. It was a bedroom, with two large double beds. It was neat, but showed signs of regular use. Books and papers filled two rows of shelves on one wall, and clothes hung in the open closet. Opening the door a crack, he could hear the voices more clearly. Soft piano music obscured the words.

  The hallway outside was bright, too bright for him to take a chance on being spotted, but he had to get a better idea of what he was up against. There was a light switch on the wall directly opposite the doorway. With any luck, it controlled the hallway lamps. Pulling the door wide open, Bolan listened. The hall was deserted. Quickly he reached for the switch and flipped it, plunging the hall into darkness. Someone would notice it sooner or later, but at least he would be harder to spot.

  Swiftly he stepped to the end of the hallway, pausing for a moment to listen at each door. Silence.

  Everyone must be downstairs. Making his way to the stairs, he checked the door at the head of the stairwell. That room, too, was silent. He listened again, hoping to get an idea of the numbers he was up against. The voices continued at a constant level, and the piano droned away. He could tell that there were two men and two women. But Bolan couldn't tell if one of them was Rachel. He strained to hear, but the piano masked the voices.

  Softly he began his descent. There was a faint sound behind him, and he turned. The door at the head of the stairs had opened.

  "Go on down, Mr. Bolan. We've been expecting you." Peter Achison gestured with a Skorpion machine pistol. To his right, holding an Ingram MAC-10 in his hands, was Bert.

  "Place the gun on the carpet gently. Slowly."

  Bolan bent to place the AutoMag on the stairs in front of him. Bert laughed, but Mack Bolan never heard it. Someone had climbed the stairs behind him. A rifle butt slammed into the side of his head. The Executioner collapsed and rolled down the stairs.

  13

  The cold water shocked Mack Bolan back to consciousness. He shook his head to clear it and looked around the room. He was tied to a bench on a wall opposite the doorway. The rope was heavy and well knotted, but there was a little slack.

  Two men stood watching him. The same two men who had surprised him at the top of the stairs. The larger of the two was built like a linebacker. He stood about six three and must have weighed two-fifty.

  In one hand he held a quart of beer, in the other a machine pistol. The second man was older, less athletic in appearance. His hair was thinning, and he looked at least fifteen pounds underweight.

  "Mr. Bolan," the balding man said. "We meet at last."

  "You haven't met me yet, pal," Bolan said, spitting his words out between clenched teeth.

  "Rather brave words for a man in your position, Mr. Bolan."

  "Just exactly what is my position?"

  The skinny guy pursed his lips, as if in thought, and made a steeple of his long fingers. "Let's just say you are about to become the late Mack Bolan. Would you say that about sums it up, Bert?"

  The larger of the two men smiled. "Yeah, I'd say that. Why don't we get it over with?"

  "We have to wait for Andrey, Bert. You know that. Mr. Glinkov would be upset with us if we took the law into our own hands."

  "I say we're wasting time, Peter. If this guy is such bad news, we're taking a chance keeping him around. Let's waste him and be done with it. Glinkov won't care."

  At the mention of Glinkov, Bolan's eyes widened. So there was a KGB connection. The name didn't mean anything, though. Either he was new, or he was special. Maybe both. Either way, it wouldn't matter unless Bolan could get loose before the Russian arrived.

  "You won't have long to wait, Bert. I already spoke to Andrey. He'll be here in a couple of hours. Just try to restrain yourself."

  "I still don't like it."

  "Bert, we're paid very well to do what we're told. Do I make myself clear?"

  Bert nodded reluctantly.

  "You keep an eye on Mr. Bolan while I go up to the house." The skinny guy turned to leave, then stopped. "Oh, Mr. Bolan. I think it might interest you to know that Ms Peres isn't here." He chuckled and left.

  It was going to be a pleasure to waste that creep, Bolan thought. Yeah, a real pleasure — if he ever got out of there. Bert had taken a seat on a long bench on the opposite wall. All four walls were made of stone.

  Bolan knew he was either in the basement of the house or in one of the outbuildings. Getting free without making any noise wasn't going to be easy.

  Rachel had mentioned somebody named Peter. The skinny guy must have been the man she had met — the one who had huddled with Parsons. There was something familiar about him, too. His general build. The way he moved. The face meant nothing, though. And Bert. Bolan knew his kind by type. The no-nonsense hardman. Long on brawn, a little light on brains. It might be possible to throw him off his guard long enough to get free. But he couldn't do it with Bert sitting there staring at him.

  The guy was guzzling beer, letting some of it run down over his chin. He'd already had a few. With a little luck, Bolan thought, he might nod off. Or have to relieve himself. Anything to give Bolan a little time. The guy's eyes were heavy, and his head lolled to the side occasionally. He was going to fall asleep, as long as Bolan didn't do anything to arouse suspicion. And as long as the scarecrow didn't come back. Bolan discreetly surveyed the room, taking inventory. Mostly garden tools and a few bottles and cans of insecticide and plant food. Somebody, Parsons no doubt, was more concerned about the health of his plants than that of his neighbors. It was hard to understand how someone could lavish attention on flowers and yet be willing to unleash nuclear poison. Assholes like Parsons were so egotistical that they failed to realize they were likely to die in their own traps. They thought they were too smart, that they were above it all. More often than Mack Bolan cared to admit, it was the schemers who got off scot-free. It never mattered to them how many soldiers died in a war, as long as the generals were safe. Bolan had to get his hands free. He bunched his muscles and wriggled his arms slightly, then relaxed. The ropes felt a little freer. Bert roused himself and took another swig of beer, ignoring Bolan completely. Bolan clenched his fists, unclenched them and clenched again. The ropes on his wrists were the loosest. If Bert would drift into a fog, Bolan could free his hands. He worked silently. Patience was paramount. As long as Bert noticed nothing, it might be possible.

  Bert's head fell to his chest, and he started to snore. Bolan tugged vigorously at the rope, chafing his knuckles. A little more leeway was all he'd need.

  While he worked, Bolan eyed the contents of the room again. Getting free was only half the battle. As soon as he got up, he'd have to know what he was going to do. Bert might not be sleeping that soundly. Glancing again to a table at one end of the shed, Bolan examined the bottles. He could just make out the letters P-R-U-S-S on a two-quart jar. It had better be what he hoped.

  Another tug, and the rope slid down off his right hand. The cord on his upper arms still prevented him from moving but with his free hand he quickly loosened the rope on the other. Bert was snoring peacefully. Bolan wriggled now, stretching against the cord to bring the slack into play around his upper body.

  A final shrug, and the ropes fell to his waist.

  He slid one arm out of their coils, then followed it with the other one. Bending slowly, he worked anxiously at the knots binding his feet. If the other man returned it would all be for nothing. He sure as hell wouldn't get a second chance. The knot was stubborn, resisting his nails and scraping at his fingertips. Finally, the knot budged. He pulled at the loosened coil. It came away in his hands, just as Bert shook himself. It was now or never.

  Bolan leaped the length of the shed, searching in the shadow thrown by his own body for the two-quart jar. He found it and turned in time to see Bert raising his machine pistol. With all his strength, Bolan hurled the jar. It caught Bert on his collarbone with enough force to shatter the glass. The gun fell to the floor of the shed as
two full quarts of prussic acid spilled over Bert. It splashed in his face and eyes, beginning its corrosive attack. Bert clawed at his eyes as he emitted a deafening howl. His hands blistered as the acid ate away at his skin. The Executioner moved to the corner, grabbing a pitchfork and charging toward his blinded opponent. Like a medieval jouster, Mack Bolan brought his makeshift lance to his shoulder and then drove it home. Bert gagged and began to gurgle.

  Bolan put all his weight on the pitchfork, driving its tines into a wooden window frame behind Bert and pinning him to the wall. Blood bubbled and drooled out of his mouth as Bert gasped for air like a landed trout. A tine of the pitchfork had pierced his throat on either side of the larynx. His eyes bulged as blistered fingers struggled to pull the pitchfork free. Bolan swept the machine pistol from the floor. Holding it tightly against Bert's chest, he fired a short burst. The rain of death punched through the rib cage into the heart, and Bert struggled no more. His limp body sagged, pulling the pitchfork out of the dry wood of the window frame as he pitched forward, his fall arrested by the farm implement's handle. He paused momentarily, as if in slow motion, then slipped sideways to the floor.

  Bolan moved toward the door and opened it slightly. There was no sign that anyone had heard the struggle, or the short burst from the Skorpion.

  Bert had been more useful as a sound suppressor than as a human being. The moon was gone, and it had begun to snow again. Swirls of snow blew through the open door of the shed, collecting on the floor. His head ached, but he had to know if the scarecrow had been telling the truth. Crossing the snow-crusted lawn in a hurry, he climbed the stairs to the deck for the second time that night. But Bolan knew this time they wouldn't be expecting him. Slipping in through the same window, he spotted Big Thunder and his Beretta on a night table. He holstered both guns and stepped through the door out into the hallway. The earlier voices were silent now, and the house seemed deserted. If they were waiting for the Russian, someone should certainly be around. All Mack Bolan wanted was one man, and some information. He had to find Rachel. Now that they thought they had him, Parsons and his men might decide they didn't need her as bait any longer.

  If she were still alive. Descending the stairs two at a time, he burst into a lower hallway. Still no sign. He stalked his own shadow down the hall toward an arched doorway. The room was dimly lit, and empty. Where the hell were they? At the other end of the hall was a closed door. He approached the door carefully, pausing to listen. From inside, he heard the sound of heavy breathing. Deep and irregular, it sounded as if the person were heavily sedated. Turning the knob, he pushed through the door. There was a small reading lamp over the only cot that was occupied. A man lay on his side, facing away from the door. An open book lay, pages down, on the sheet beside him. The room smelled of medicine and alcohol. It was a hospital smell-an odor Bolan would just as soon never smell again. He bent over the sleeping man. Ready to smother any sound the patient might make, Bolan hefted a pillow in one hand, his Beretta in the other. As he reached out, the man stirred. Groaning, he rolled onto his other side. Bolan drew in his breath sharply. Eli Cohen had had a rough time of it. His face was badly bruised. Several wounds marked the smooth, dark complexion. Both eyes were black and blue, as if the man's nose had been broken.

  What in hell was he doing here?

  While he debated whether to risk waking the battered man, he heard the sound of feet scraping on the front porch. There were two sharp, almost angry voices. He recognized the scarecrow, but the other voice was unfamiliar.

  Probably Glinkov.

  There was no way he wanted to risk a shootout under the current circumstances. Rachel wasn't here, that was clear. Cohen was, but he didn't know what that meant. Until he did, he would file that knowledge. It was significant, Bolan knew, but of what? Even if Cohen were on the right side, he couldn't risk compromising him. He had to get out.

  Racing back through the room, he closed the door softly behind him and mounted the stairs. Waiting at the head of the staircase, he tried to overhear the conversation as the new arrivals entered the house. There was too much racket: chairs scraping, and the stamping of snow off several pairs of feet. A woman's voice asked who wanted coffee. As much as he wanted to get a look at Glinkov, it would have to wait. He'd be back. The warrior knew discretion and good judgment counted for much in an unending war. Glinkov would have to keep. First, he had to find Rachel. Closing the door behind him, Bolan slipped back through the window and out onto the deck. The wind had begun to howl, and the snow stung as it whipped across the deck. Already there was an inch of new snow on the ground. The Executioner was thankful for the turn in the weather. No doubt they'd be looking for him soon, but the privileges of rank meant they'd have their coffee before worrying about whether Bert was comfortable in the outbuilding. And Bert would never feel the cold again. Enough was enough. Mack Bolan was fed up. He'd been pushed to the wall, and it was time to push back. He had to believe that Rachel was still living, and therefore he had to keep searching for her. He would start at a couple of the safehouses. Tossing them one by one, he would tug on Glinkov's chain a little. Send him a message. If anything happened to Rachel Peres, no place in the world would be safe for the KGB man. Not even Moscow was off-limits to Mack Bolan. He'd been there before, and he'd go again.

  14

  The first stop was in the East Village, not far from Rachel's apartment. A flophouse for the disaffected, members of most radical movements had used it at one time or another. As the times had gotten tougher, the place had gotten more militant.

  Bolan had seen a dozen centers like it over the years.

  It was the kind of place where everyone slept with a gun under his pillow. A man could have a roof over his head if he knew the right catchphrase or spouted the current antiestablishment rhetoric. But he had better sleep with one eye open. Few of the groups tolerated one another, no matter how similar their "political" positions. Violence was what they knew best, and practiced most often.

  Bolan sometimes wondered whether it might not be easiest to arm them all to the teeth, then stand back and let them fight among themselves. And he'd take on the winner for breakfast.

  The People's Hostel was about to receive a visitor, an armed transient, like so many others. But they had never seen the likes of the Executioner. Parking around the block, Bolan made sure he had a clean approach to his rented Camaro. He'd be leaving in a hurry. A back alley ran through the block and passed the hostel on one side. Dressed in his nightsuit, Bolan blended with the shadows as he jumped for the lowest rung of the fire ladder. He hauled himself up, the old iron squeaking under his weight.

  The five-story building was dilapidated. The window frames hadn't been painted in a long time, and they'd worn bare. Putty fell in chunks from around the glass. Moving swiftly, Bolan climbed to the roof, pausing once at each level to check a window. Most were dark. It was difficult to tell how many people were inside. The more the merrier crossed his mind, but it was too reckless an attitude for the work he had to do. It was possible that Rachel was inside. But even if she wasn't, it was a place to start. The underground grapevine would blossom as soon as he left. Tales of radical heroism would distort what happened, but Glinkov would read between the lines. And the Russian was undoubtedly looking for him already.

  The tar-and-gravel roof was covered with litter.

  Scraps of snow still lay in the nooks and crannies, but it was possible that the rasp of his shoes might still be heard below. On tiptoe, Bolan moved toward the fire door. Most roofs in the neighborhood were used for drug deals, and the doors were usually open. This one was no different. Its hinges didn't even squeal as he tugged on the handle.

  Inside, the light was dim. Overhead, a single bulb, more suitable to a refrigerator, revealed the stairs and enough graffiti to cover a subway car.

  Working his way down, Bolan stopped at the landing on the top floor. His listened for a moment, but heard nothing. Only one room had a door, and it was open. Checking each room in tur
n, he found them all empty.

  The next floor was wide open. The walls had been taken down, and the place was used for storage.

  Cartons were piled everywhere. A quick look told Bolan the place was an armory. Guns and ammunition were stacked in one corner. It seemed carelesseauntil he reached the next landing. A steel door barred the way. Before even turning the knob, he knew it would be locked. It was.

  He knew there would be grenades and plastique in the storeroom. The latter would come in handy now.

  Back on the fourth floor, he found the plastique and cut a block of C-4 big enough to take out the door. In a half-empty carton there were detonators, wire and radio transmitters.

  Rigging the door to blow on the first attempt, he quickly planted the plastique, set up a detonator and reclimbed the steps. In one open crate he found a half-dozen Ingram MAC-10 submachine guns. Selecting one, he checked it out. It was a bit rusty, so he pulled another from the crate. This one was satisfactory.

  He fitted the SMG with its bulky sound suppressor. Now for ammunition. On steel shelving against one wall, Bolan found several cases of ammunition. He grabbed several clips and stuffed them into his coat pockets. He was as ready as he'd ever be. Standing away from the stairway, he pressed the button. Before the smoke had cleared, he was at the bottom of the steps and through the splintered doorway. The Ingram ready, he checked both ends of the hall. Below, he could hear footsteps. The surprise wouldn't last long. He kicked in the first door he came to, but the room was empty. As was the next. In the third, a man was sitting upright in bed, the covers drawn up to his chin. He was groggy, uncertain of where he was.

  "What the hell's going on, man?" he asked.

  "I'm looking for somebody," Bolan growled.

  "If it ain't me, I can't help you, man."

  "It's not you, pal," Bolan snapped. He slugged the man in the forehead with the Ingram. The man would sleep through.