“Then I will talk to her when she is available,” Gregor stated. “Until then, tell her to remember the pets.” He hung up.
Bolan dropped the receiver back into the cradle and turned toward the couch.
Polyakova had heard only half of the conversation, but that was enough. “He wanted to talk to me?” she asked, her hands trembling in her lap.
The soldier looked her square in the eyes. He had to tell her something, and that something had to sound realistic. “He said he hoped you were worth it.”
A puzzled look came over the beautiful Russian woman’s face. “What does that mean?” she asked.
“He was insinuating that there was something more than business between you and me,” Bolan said.
Polyakova sat up straighter and nervously tugged at the hem on her dress. She looked at the wall when she said, “Is there?”
The Executioner didn’t answer.
THE EXCHANGE WAS at El Cuchillo Rojo, which meant “the Red Knife.” For anyone who didn’t speak Spanish, the flashing neon sign above the door interpreted the words with pictures. The sign showed a hand wielding a red-handled navaja—sometimes referred to as a Spanish gypsy knife—cutting into a thick beefsteak.
Following the Spanish tradition of late dining, El Cuchillo didn’t even open until 8:00 p.m. Customers still filled the front dining room when Bolan stepped through the door at almost 4:00 a.m. He had decided to pick up the heroin alone, checking Ontomanov and Polyakova into another hotel nearby and leaving them under the supervision of Seven. Gregor still suspected the whole act could be a police trap, but Bolan knew the Russian might well be setting his own snare, and if Ontomanov, Polyakova, Bolan and Seven were all in the same room, taking them out in one fatal sweep wouldn’t be that hard. He could surround the place with men who came in with machine guns, or simply set off a bomb and kill everyone inside.
As he closed the door behind him, Bolan thought of the three people back in the hotel room. He would have preferred leaving the Russians in the custody of some of the Stony Man Farm experts, but there was no time for that. Besides, Seven was proving to be a level-headed man who kept his cool when the gunfire started.
The thick and not unpleasant odors of fish, saffron, wine and the smoke of expensive cigars filled the Executioner’s nostrils as he walked through the main dining room. Gregor had called Bolan’s cell phone only a few minutes before and instructed him to proceed directly to the back room of the restaurant. Bolan made his way through the tables past a large bar against the right-hand wall. A bartender poured Spanish brandy into a pair of snifters as the soldier walked past. The man didn’t look up, nor did any of El Cuchillo’s other patrons.
Still, Bolan made sure his hands were never far away from his unbuttoned sport coat as he walked. Both the Beretta and Desert Eagle were only a split second away.
Many of the men and women in the main dining room were drunk. The others were busy getting that way as the Executioner threaded his way between the tables. Stepping through the open door, he found himself in a narrow hallway. He half expected someone to meet him and guide him the rest of the way to where the deal was about to go down. When they didn’t, he started down the hall on his own, passing a darkened banquet room, then one in which several men and women wearing aprons were eating. Like the people in the front room, they paid him no mind.
Two men sat at a table in the last room at the end of the hall. Both were in their early thirties and looked fit—but in different ways. The one seated closest to the door wore a skintight gray T-shirt that threatened to rip out across his broad shoulders and back. His head was shaved but he sported a bushy brown handlebar mustache and matching goatee. Both were carefully trimmed, as if the time he saved on the top of his head went into grooming the hair below.
Even seated, the Executioner could tell the other man was taller—over six feet, he guessed. His reddish-brown hair was cut into a close brush cut, but he, too, wore a goatee. His T-shirt was black and, while his arms were not as large as his friend’s, the sinewy cuts of biceps and forearms extended from the sleeves.
Both men’s legs were hidden behind the white tablecloth that hung over the edges to the floor. A dozen other tables just like it, empty, were spaced around the room. More importantly than the men’s legs, however, were their hands, which were also out of sight beneath the tabletop. The Executioner had no doubt that both men held guns—aimed his way.
On the table between the two men was a black briefcase.
The Executioner walked halfway into the room and stopped. “I’m looking for Leon and Rotislav.”
The bulky man smiled. “You have found them,” he said. “I am Leon.” He nodded toward the other man, indicating that by process of elimination he had to be Rotislav. “What can we do for you?” Leon’s accent was so strong it sounded as if this might be his first trip outside the Russian walls.
The Executioner took a step forward and glanced down at the briefcase. “I think you know,” he said.
“No. Tell us.” This from the Rotislav, whose Russian inflection was as thick as his partner’s.
“You talked to Gregor?” Bolan asked. It was then that the soft humming he had heard upon entering the room finally sank in. He glanced up to see a small red light half-hidden between stacks of clean dinner and salad plates on the table in the far corner. A video camera.
Leon and Rotislav were recording the meeting. Gregor not only wanted proof that the Executioner and Seven were crooked, but also he wanted leverage that he could apply against them later should he ever need it. As his eyes moved back toward the table where the two men sat, Bolan noticed a slight rustling beneath the tablecloth hiding the video camera. A quick scan of the other tables in the room showed no more movement. But it didn’t have to in order to tell him what was going on.
There were other armed Russians beneath the tables.
The Executioner suppressed a smile. He had expected no less, and if they wanted to videotape him he would play along. He looked back to Leon. “Gregor said you had five keys of smack for us. And that you’d tell us where to take it.” There. He had said it. He had incriminated himself on tape for all the world to see. That should satisfy the man.
And it did seem to be exactly what the two men at the table had been waiting for. The bulky man stood, flipped the catches on the briefcase and opened the lid. Bolan noted that he turned slightly to ensure a better camera angle. From inside the briefcase, he lifted a large plastic freezer bag high into the air. It was filled with an off-white powder.
“Do you want to test it?” Leon asked.
The Executioner lowered his eyes, shook his head and laughed softly. Then, looking back up, he said, “What would be the point? It’s your stuff, going to your people. I’m just the middle man on this deal.” He glanced back at the camera again, for the first time letting the two Russians know he was aware of it. “But yeah, sure, if it’ll make you happy. Just for the record, Department of Justice Special Agent Matt Cooper, who is now engaged in the illegal trafficking of dangerous controlled substances, is about to field-test this heroin to make sure he doesn’t get ripped off.” He looked back to the two men at the table and said, “That okay, boys?”
Leon scowled back at him. Rotislav growled something under his breath. Neither of them liked the fact that he had spotted the camera.
Actually Bolan had anticipated the field test and Johnny Seven had provided an unmarked undercover DEA test kit. The Executioner pulled the small plastic vial of colorless liquid from his pocket and unscrewed the lid as he walked on up to the table. Drawing the Loner knife from under his coat, he slid the razorsharp primary edge of the blade along the top of the plastic, then shook a tiny amount of powder into the vial. Twisting the cap back into place, he shook the solution until it began turning blue.
Bolan looked first at Leon, then Rotislav, letting a cruel smile creep across his face. He stepped around the table and walked toward the video camera in the corner. When he was directly in front
of the lens, he stopped, leaned down slightly and said, “The test proves positive for heroin. Now, if this tape is being viewed by law-enforcement officials, rest assured that by now I’m sitting on a beach somewhere sipping rum and cola. Hope the rest of you are happy with your salaries, benefits and retirement packages. I wasn’t.”
Straightening back up, the Executioner turned around. “Anything else you guys think you might need on tape?” he asked innocently.
The two men’s faces turned red from both embarrassment and anger. Bolan returned to where they sat, keeping one eye on them and the other on the tables around the room where the other Russians were hidden. “Where do I take this?” he asked Leon.
The bulky Russian reached into the back pocket of his faded Levi’s and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Your instructions are all there,” he said.
Bolan dropped the paper along with the used test vial into the briefcase with the heroin and shut the lid. He started to leave, then stopped and turned back toward the room. With the briefcase in his left hand, he drew the Beretta 93-R with his right as he walked swiftly to the table where he’d seen movement earlier. When he reached the tablecloth, he lashed out with a vicious kick that sent his foot flying through the linen and under the table.
The toe of Bolan’s shoe met something solid, and he heard a loud grunt of pain. Turning to face the camera one last time, he said, “Don’t ever think I’m stupid, Gregor.”
Then, without another word, the Executioner walked out of the room.
6
Duane Park was like dozens of other street intersections around New York—a tiny triangle of grass with a few benches calling itself a park.
Bolan parked the Highlander two blocks from Hudson on Duane Street and got out. He walked along the deserted sidewalk past the nineteenth-century buildings that made up that part of the Tribeca area of lower Manhattan. Ahead he could see a redbrick building with a variety of rounded arches, a mansard roof and what looked like Roman details. Farther down on Duane was another structure with a cast-iron front.
Bolan stepped off the sidewalk and listened to the rubber heels of his black-leather-and-nylon assault boots pound softly against the street. He crossed to the park, his eyes flickering right and left, his senses on alert. After leaving El Cuchillo Rojo he had returned to the hotel room where Ontomanov, Polyakova and Seven waited, informing the DEA man of what had transpired.
Now Bolan wore black jeans, a black T-shirt and a black Australian outback coat. The long dusterlike garment wasn’t necessary to hide the Desert Eagle, Beretta, Loner knife or the extra magazines for his pistols, but it came in handy when trying to conceal a weapon the size of the 9 mm Calico machine pistol that hung under his right arm. With the 50-round drum snapped in place on top of the gun, and an extra 100-round drum mag hanging from the other side of the shoulder sling, the system created considerable bulk.
Bolan stepped onto the grass and walked to the center of the park. He knew that if Gregor had decided to kill him rather than continue the test, now would be the time. There was always the possibility that the Russian would change his mind and decide the rewards from being in business with two federal agents weren’t worth the risk. There was also the possibility that the reason for this isolated meeting place was that Gregor’s men could grab Bolan and force him to reveal where Polyakova was.
Taking a seat on the bench in the center of the park, Bolan lifted his wrist and stared at the luminous hands of his watch. He knew he had been followed when he left El Cuchillo Rojo, had seen the car behind him as soon as he’d pulled the Highlander onto the street. But a series of turns down alleys and back streets had lost his pursuit, and by the time he returned to meet with the others at the hotel he was satisfied that he was alone.
The headlights of the car cruising slowly down Hudson toward the park caught his attention. The lead vehicle—a Ford LTD—was followed by two more cars. Bolan watched them slow and park along the street.
The Executioner tightened his grip on the briefcase, letting his other hand move closer to the Calico. The moment of truth was at hand, and he would soon know if his plan was working or not. The traditional method of climbing the ladder to the top of the Russian drug-smuggling operation had failed—his informants didn’t even know the people above them. But as soon as he had gained Gregor’s confidence, the Executioner would change tactics and run the mission more like a war than a police investigation. Playing cop hadn’t worked. So he would revert back to what he really was. A soldier.
There were two things that still worried him, however, two things that he had to find a way around. First he had to complete this drug deal, and possibly others, without letting the white poison actually get into the hands of men who would put it on the streets. Pulling that off without blowing his cover wouldn’t be easy. At the same time, he had to maintain his guise as a Justice Department agent gone bad until he could end the threat to Polyakova’s family. If he was unsuccessful at that, she could kiss them all goodbye.
But first things first, Bolan told himself as the car doors began to open. He had five kilos of heroin in his briefcase that he was supposed to turn over to these men. He couldn’t do that—five keys might not be much compared to some drug deals, but it was enough to ruin many lives. So, how was he going to maintain his cover without giving these men the dope? He didn’t know. As happened so often to the warrior, the time for battle had arrived before he could fully prepare. But, as soldiers did in such situations, the Executioner would go with what he had, stay alert, think on his feet and take advantage of any opportunity that might present itself.
Three men got out of the Ford LTD. They were joined by seven others from the other two cars. An even ten dark figures made their way across the street and into the park.
Bolan stood in front of the park bench as the ten men fanned out. He was directly under an overhead light, and clearly visible. But so were they. The streetlights behind them made the men look like walking police silhouette targets, and he could almost see the X-rings in the centers of their chests. His jaw locked hard as the old familiar battle adrenaline began to creep through his veins, sharpening his senses. It was the “fight or flight” response to threat and danger.
But flight had never been an option with the Executioner.
The men walked forward and formed a semicircle around him. Bolan noted that several had their hands in the pockets of overcoats. A vastly overweight man stepped forward. Thick wet lips glistened in the park lights. Above the lips was a stringy mustache that would have looked more at home on an adolescent than on the middle-aged face who spoke to Bolan now.
“I believe you have something for us.” Another thick Russian accent.
“And I believe you have some money for me?” the Executioner replied.
“The heroin first.”
Bolan gave him a smile. “I’d have thought you’d want me to say that. For the camera, I mean. Which one of you has it, by the way? I want to make sure you get my good side.”
The thick-lipped Russian didn’t return the grin. “Yes,” he said. “You are a very funny man. I understand you like making the movies. And kicking people under tables.”
The Executioner shrugged. “It was a stupid place for them to hide.”
“Give us the briefcase.”
“Give me the money.”
For a moment there was a long silence. Then the Russian finally reached into his overcoat.
Bolan reached under his own coat. His fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of the Calico.
Several of the men saw the movement. “There are ten of us, American,” the fat man with the stringy mustache said. “You think you can shoot us all?”
The Executioner stared back at him. “I doubt it,” he said. “But I think we both know who’s going to be first. Don’t we?”
The dark form didn’t answer. He pulled out a large brown envelope and stepped forward, extending it toward the Executioner. “Count it if you like,” he said.
&
nbsp; Bolan shook his head. “No need.” He traded it for the briefcase.
The fat Russian turned to go, then, as if as an afterthought occurred, turned back. “Oh, yes,” he said. “One other thing. The man you kicked under the table. He was my brother and you broke his kneecap.”
“Send me the hospital bill.”
The portly Russian threw back his head and laughed. “That is not so bad,” he said. “You are a very funny man. And I forgive you for his knee.” Then the smile faded from his face. “It is my other brother for whom I cannot forgive you. You killed him at the art gallery.” A second later there was a pistol in his hand.
The Executioner swung the Calico out to the end of the sling and flipped the selector switch down to full-auto. Pulling back the trigger, he sent four lightning-fast rounds into the rotund belly in front of him. The Calico was a big machine pistol, and the 9 mm rounds had light recoil. It wasn’t much different than shooting .22s.
The Russian dropped the Makarov from his fist and opened his mouth. Blood spewed between his fat lips. It was followed by a loud belch, and then the man regurgitated as he fell to his knees, then forward onto his face.
Bolan swung the machine pistol to the left. He could see a man trying to bring a gun up into play, having just drawn it out of the side pocket of his coat. Another three rounds exploded from the Calico. It was too dark to see where they hit, but the man ended up on his back.
Return fire now whizzed past the Executioner, at least one round catching the tail of his long coat and whipping it back around his legs. He dived to the side, away from the bench and out of the light, rolling across the grass as more explosions sounded in the still night. The bullets sliced into the carefully tended lawn to the side of his head as he moved, tossing blades of grass into his face. He came to a halt on his belly and raised the Calico with both hands.
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