Bolan stood and flipped the tab on another soda. He walked back to the desk and sat in the chair.
Yes, it was simple. At least on paper.
Putting it into practice was going to be the tricky part.
ROMEO’S SUBMARINE WAS playing the name for all it was worth. The sign over the front door featured a long, skinny submarine sandwich. But reality stopped there, and smokestacks made of pepperoni, as well as a bread-stick periscope, extended upward from the top bun. Little cartoon men—dressed in seventeenth-century British sailor suits—were busy atop the bread passing stacks of pickles, mushrooms, olives and heads of lettuce down through port holes to their counterparts in the middle of the sandwich. Below, the sailors who weren’t reaching up to accept the cargo were busy swabbing the lower deck with mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup.
Seated in the Highlander across the street, Bolan watched Polyakova walk beneath the sign and enter the sandwich shop. Johnny Seven was already seated inside, alone, at a table near the rear. He had gone in five minutes earlier, and it appeared the pizza hadn’t been enough to satiate his appetite. What looked like a corned beef on rye was quickly disappearing from the basket a waitress had brought to his table along with a bag of chips.
Romeo’s was still crowded as the clock made its way toward midnight. Bright from the overhead lights, it had all the ambience of an all-night diner. The clientele was a mixture of partyers getting ready to call it an early evening, night-shift workers on their way to the job and street people taking advantage of the shelter as long as they could. But the important thing was that it was crowded.
Bolan had picked Romeo’s for Polyakova to meet Ontomanov because he knew it would be busy—even late at night. And he doubted the Russian would resort to violence in front of so many eyes.
Unless he had to.
Bolan glanced at his watch, then stepped out of the vehicle. He had on blue jeans, running shoes and a navy blue T-shirt. Hanging open, the long tail outside his jeans, the soldier wore a faded denim shirt as a make-shift jacket. Beneath the shirt, in a Cordura nylon and Concealex shoulder rig, the Beretta 9-R rode under his left arm. Counterbalancing the sound-suppressed 9 mm machine pistol under the other arm was a magazine pouch bearing two extra 15-round mags and an inverted Concealex knife sheath. Extending from the sheath was the black Micarta grip of a Tactical Operational Products Loner. The wide four-and-a-half-inch blade was blackened, and in addition to a wickedly curved primary cutting edge, four inches of back edge had been honed to razor sharpness. The back of the tip, however, was blunt. This allowed the strength needed for prying and also drastically widened any cut made by the back edge when the thicker steel hit flesh at the end of a stroke. Designed with the police undercover officer in mind, it had proved to be both a widely accepted fighting blade and utility knife.
As Bolan pocketed the Highlander’s keys and crossed the street, he felt the Desert Eagle digging lightly into his right hip. He had chosen to carry the big .44 Magnum in a simple leather Yaqui slide drop-in holster for concealment. In the warm humid weather following the spring rain, he was pushing things to wear anything but a light concealment garment like the shirt, and the Yaqui slide was as low-profile as they came.
The Executioner waited in the middle of the street as a slow-moving taxi puttered past in front of him, then he stepped up on the curb in front of Romeo’s. Scattered around his belt in nylon pouches and shoved into his back pockets he had four extra magazines for the Desert Eagle. He was a man who believed in being prepared for any situation that might arise. But this night, he was praying that neither of the guns nor the knife would be necessary.
As he neared the front door of the sub shop, he thought of the fourth weapon he had added to his arsenal at the last minute. It rode in a breakaway Kydex holster just behind the Desert Eagle, and might well mean the difference between a live Russian who could further the mission and a dead one whose demise resulted in a sudden dead end.
Bolan opened the glass door and entered Romeo’s, well aware of the fact that his was a precarious situation. He needed Agafonka Ontomanov alive if his plan had any chance of succeeding. Ontomanov and Rabashka had been Polyakova’s only contacts within the organization. And with Rabashka dead, the man Polyakova was about to meet was his last hope.
The Executioner took in a breath of stale tobacco smoke as he entered the submarine shop, hearing the chatter of at least two dozen conversations coming from the tables and booths around the room. He walked directly to the counter, ordered coffee and waited while an acne-faced girl in her late teens turned to the counter behind her. He knew from past experience what kind of men he was dealing with. Loosely termed the Russian mafiya by the press, the general population had picked up on the term and now used it to designate any of the many large, well-organized ongoing criminal enterprises based out of Moscow, St. Petersburg and a dozen other formerly Communist cities in Eastern Europe. Their influence spread across the globe, however, and in less than a decade they had made themselves into a power with which to be reckoned within the realms of organized crime in America. New York was one of their strongholds.
The girl set a steaming paper cup of black coffee down on the counter. Bolan dropped two dollars next to it, picked it up and turned back toward the crowd. Next to the table where Polyakova sat, two young couples who had been talking about a movie were just getting up to leave. Bolan walked slowly that way as a boy in a white apron began wiping down the linoleum top with a damp rag. A second later, Bolan pulled a racing form from his back pocket and took a seat in one of the steel-and-plastic chairs, facing the door. He ignored Polyakova and, and as she had been instructed to do, she ignored him.
Bolan’s face fell to the racing form as he sipped his coffee, but his eyes kept watch on the front door. In his peripheral vision, he could see Seven several tables away. The DEA agent had finished his sandwich and was reading the comics section of a newspaper. The conversations around the room continued as the patrons of Romeo’s Submarine discussed such diverse topics as abortion, the Yankees, the war on terror and the evening rain.
Bolan kept his ears open, catching bits and pieces of each conversation he could hear. Somewhere among the tables, he suspected members of Ontomanov’s organization might already be in place. There were several tables of men only. Some were talking. Others weren’t. But of those who were, he detected no foreign accents.
Which, of course, meant little. Like the criminal elements of the Italian, Irish, Jewish and other immigrant communities, the Russian mobsters were equal-opportunity employers. They often contracted out to local thugs to do their dirty work for them.
Customers—several men who could have been gunmen—came and went as Bolan, Polyakova and Seven waited. Close to twenty minutes later, as the bottom of the paper coffee cup was starting to appear and he was thinking about going back for a refill, Bolan saw the glass door swing open.
Agafonka Ontomanov walked in.
4
Ontomanov wore a black suit with a white shirt. His straw-blond hair was long, expensively permed, and a tiny gold cross hung from his left ear. He stopped just inside the door—much like a patrol cop answering a disturbance call at a bar—and looked around. His eyes fell on Luiza Polyakova, and he walked directly to her table.
Bolan lifted the empty coffee cup, pretended to take a sip and set it back down.
Agafonka Ontomanov pulled out the chair across from Polyakova and sat down. His voice was low, whispering, as he said, “You must come with me.” His English was good—as it had been on the phone, but like many people when speaking a second language, Ontomanov’s speech was more formal than that of native-born Americans. And he might have been in the country for twelve years, but he hadn’t lost the accent he must have had when he arrived with his parents at fifteen.
“No,” Polyakova said, as she’d been ordered to. “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know it is not you who is trying to—” She stopped suddenly and her eyes shot around the room to see i
f anyone was listening. Then, in an even lower voice, she said, “How do I know it is not you who I must fear?”
Ontomanov let out a sigh. He closed his eyes, rubbed both temples with his fingers, and said, “Luiza, be reasonable. We have done good business with you. Why would we want to ruin that?
“Because you are afraid I might talk to get out of trouble. You are afraid I will be a witness against you in order to gain leniency for myself.”
Bolan lifted the racing form and frowned at it. But inside, he was grinning. Polyakova was a natural actress. Her lines were being delivered even better now than when they had rehearsed them on the way to Romeo’s.
Ontomanov waved a hand in front of his face, dismissing the idea as ridiculous. “There would be no reason for you to do that,” he said, leaning even closer. “These charges are nothing. They will never be proven. Already I have hired one of the city’s top attorneys for you. By the time it goes to court you will have your own personal dream team.” He beamed a lady-killer smile that Bolan suspected got him what he wanted most of the time.
But this night, it didn’t. Not with Luiza Polyakova. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “If these charges were really so easy to beat, why did you not bond me out? Why did I have to do so myself?”
Ontomanov shrugged his shoulders, reached inside the jacket of his suit and pulled out a gold case covered in intricate engraving. “I sent a man with money,” he said as he opened the case and took out a long, slender cigarette. “He was to go to your arraignment and provide your bond, but by the time he arrived, you were already gone.” From another pocket he produced a gold lighter. The engraving matched that on the cigarette case. “What I do not understand is when you were arraigned. Or even if you were arraigned.” Flame danced from the lighter to the end of the cigarette. He drew in a long breath, and as the smoke came back out said, “If you were not, that can only mean one thing. And it is not good for either me or you.”
A waitress came by with a coffeepot and filled the Executioner’s cup without being asked. The conversation at the table next to him stopped until she had left again.
“Where is it you want me to go?” the woman asked.
“I will take you to a house,” Ontomanov said. “A house where you will be safe.”
“Who is trying to kill me, if not you?”
For that, Ontomanov obviously had no good answer. He was being forced to rely on the hope that she was so upset she would trust him as a familiar face in a sea of desperation. He shifted uncomfortably, then said, “We are not sure, but we are in the process of finding out.”
“Who?” Polyakova asked loudly.
Bolan had told her that at some point she should draw attention to their table. This was the way she had chosen to do so. And it couldn’t have worked any better.
While all of the heads within hearing distance in the sub shop turned her way, three men seated at a table ten feet away all showed special interest. One, around the same age as Ontomanov himself, even reached reflexively into his coat. Bolan casually scanned the rest of the restaurant. If Ontomanov had other men inside, they hadn’t shown themselves.
He glanced across the room toward Johnny Seven. The DEA man met his eyes briefly, then glanced away but nodded his head. He had seen the backup Russians, too.
“Luiza,” the Russian gangster said under his breath. “Lower your voice.”
“I am sorry,” Luiza whispered. “But I’m upset. I can’t be sure what to do. How do I know I can trust you?” She was playing perfectly the part of frightened and confused woman, on the edge of giving in. Her next move would be to finally agree to go with the man. They would stand and walk out of the submarine shop. Bolan would follow, and take Ontomanov down before they reached his car. Seven would step just outside the door and wait until the other three Russians came out the door, then get the drop on them and hold them at gunpoint until the Executioner had time to get Polyakova and his new prisoner out of the area. Then they would all meet up back at the Red Brick Hotel, entering through a rear entrance and taking the back stairs to the room.
At least that was the way it was supposed to go.
“I don’t know what to do,” Polyakova said.
Agafonka Ontomanov was young, immature and impatient. He had heard enough. His face suddenly changed from pleasant and relaxed to one that would have rivaled Charles Manson. “Then I will help you decide,” he said. He tucked the cigarette case back into his coat, and when his hand came back out it held a blue-framed STI Ranger with a stainless-steel slide. As quickly as it had appeared, the .45-caliber pistol disappeared under the table. His eyes shot around the room. All three of the men at the backup table had their eyes locked on Ontomanov. But besides Bolan and Polyakova, none of the other customers had noticed.
The woman’s face froze in fear. The Executioner continued to study the racing form.
Ontomanov reached out with his free hand and tore several white paper napkins out of the black dispenser on the table. He covered the gun in his lap, then whispered. “You will come with me, Luiza. And you will come quietly. If I must, I will shoot you here.”
“But if I go with you…you will kill me.”
The smile of a carnivorous beast came over Ontomanov’s face. “Then you must chose whether you prefer to die now or later,” he said quietly.
Bolan’s eyes shot to the back of the room. Seven was looking the other way and showed no sign that he had seen the gun. But the three men at the other table had, and their faces reflected both shock and confusion. The Executioner had to guess that producing the gun was a development even Ontomanov hadn’t anticipated. It had all the earmarks of a rash and impatient decision on the young man’s part.
“Now, Luiza,” Ontomanov whispered through gritted teeth, “we will stand. You will walk to the door with me. And you will smile while we walk. If you do not, I will kill you here.” He stopped for a moment and his tongue shot out, nervously licking his lips. “Do you understand?”
Slowly Luiza Polyakova nodded. The fear in her eyes was real now, her acting performance was over. But she didn’t look toward the Executioner as he feared she might, and he had to hand it to her. She was keeping it together better than he would ever have guessed as their plan went to hell in a handbag.
The two stood. The napkins didn’t completely cover the gun, but Ontomanov used them to camouflage the shape of the weapon until he could get it back out of sight under the lapel of his jacket. They started toward the door.
Farther back among the tables, the other three men also stood.
Bolan leaned forward and reached under the tail of the denim shirt, behind where the Desert Eagle rode on his hip. In one fluid motion he propelled himself to his feet and stepped around the table directly in front of Polyakova. The collapsible ASP baton flew out of its breakaway Kydex holster and into his hand.
The Executioner flicked the sectional rod with his wrist and suddenly, instead of a short six-inch stick, he was holding twenty-one inches of steel club in his fist. With his other hand, he brushed Polyakova out of the way.
The Ranger was coming out from under Ontomanov’s jacket as Bolan drew the ASP back over his right shoulder. As the gun came up, he brought the steel baton across his body, striking the Russian squarely on the wrist. A sickening sound, like the snap of a pencil breaking, filled the air. The .45-caliber pistol fell to the floor and Ontomanov screamed.
Bolan brought the ASP back across his body in a backhand strike, coming down hard on Ontomanov’s collarbone. Another crack of bone issued forth and the Russian fell to the ground.
By now the three men at the other table were charging the Executioner’s position, their hands all under their shirts or in their coats. The man in the lead was less than five feet away, and a small .380 Talon semiautomatic was already in his hand.
Bolan turned and took a long, sliding step straight toward the man. The ASP came around in a horizontal arc and struck the oncoming gunman squarely across the forehead. The resulting pop
sounded like a watermelon falling on concrete. Screams and a few groans now issued forth from the mouths of the customers who had seen what was happening.
The man directly behind the leader tripped over the falling man, flying forward and dropping the revolver in his hand as he crashed into the Executioner’s chest. Bolan turned to the side and caught the falling man across the back of the neck with the pommel end of the ASP, helping him onto the floor.
The third backup gunner skidded to a halt, a good fifteen feet away. He gripped a Taurus PT 911 pistol in both hands, and was bringing it up as the Executioner brought his arm back over his shoulder once more.
A split second before Russian could find his target, Bolan threw the ASP with the force of a major-league pitcher unleashing his best fastball. Flying past the heads of several shrieking and ducking patrons, the baton flipped end-over-end across the room, the tip striking the gunman squarely between the eyes. Two things followed. The baton collapsed in on itself, returning to its carry size, and the gunman fell dead on the floor.
Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and swung it across the room, scanning to see if Ontomanov had any more men in the room who he might have missed. If he did, they weren’t about to act like it right now, and he hurried back to where the drug dealer lay on the floor.
Johnny Seven, SIG-Sauer in one hand, 7-shot wheelgun in the other, arrived at his side as the Executioner hauled the injured Russian to his feet. The crowd inside the submarine shop was still screaming, and Bolan feared some well-meaning citizen might mistake them for the bad guys and intercede, getting himself hurt in the process. He nodded toward the room. “Show them your badge, Johnny,” he said, then whispered, “Buy me enough time to get these two out of here. We’ll meet back at the room as planned.”
Seven knew what he meant. His badge case came out of his pocket and flashed long enough to be seen but not identified. “Take it easy, folks,” the DEA man said. “Everything’s under control. Stay cool. We’ve been after these men for a long time. Everything’s going to be fine. Just bear with us—”
Soviet Specter Page 8