Soviet Specter

by Don Pendleton

  The Executioner had guessed that the top hinge had been an accident. The bottom one proved it was not. The hit man had trapped them between him and his partner on top of the building to their rear. And now he was making sure they couldn’t even close the door between them.

  Drawing the Beretta with his other hand, Bolan flipped the selector switch to burst mode. He scooted lower in his sitting position until only his shoulders and head were still against the wall. Then, suddenly, in one fluid movement he rolled off the wall onto the floor and extended his upper body through the doorway, firing with both hands.

  A quick burst coughed from the sound-suppressed 93-R as its big brother bellowed out a pair of .44 Magnum slugs. All five rounds flew straight at where the man had been when Bolan first saw him, and where he’d still been a moment before when his attack had destroyed the door.

  The problem was that he wasn’t there now. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen.

  But the Executioner didn’t deceive himself. The hit man wasn’t gone. Bolan’s mind flew back to the strange words Gregor had said at the end of their earlier conversation. He was trying to stop a professional from coming after Bolan, Polyakova, and Johnny Seven.

  This was the man.

  Bolan glanced at the room down the hall. The door was slightly ajar, and as his brain registered what his eyes had seen it began to swing open farther. The barrel of the PPD appeared in the opening.

  The Executioner fired another three rounds of 9 mm and one more double-tap of .44 slugs, then a barrage of full-auto fire drove him rolling back through the doorway. The onslaught went on for another two seconds, the 7.62 rounds perforating the wall just above his head. At almost the same time, a steady stream of fire came through the shattered picture window at the rear of the room. They drilled through the wall next to the Executioner, and then on through the door across the hall, leaving ragged round holes in both plaster and wood.

  The Executioner glanced back into the room. Seven was still on the floor behind the bed. He had pulled the M-16 A-2 from the viola case and was struggling to jam a magazine into the receiver in his clumsy position half under the bed.

  Bolan turned back to the doorway. He had gone low the last time he fired, so now he sprang to his feet, ignoring the bullets spraying past him. If they got him, they got him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had long known that the end would someday come, and he had always known it would come in this fashion. If this was the day, if this was his time, then so be it. He had fought the good fight, and he would accept death if that was to be the outcome. But if there was any way possible, he would finish this race first and see that Polyakova and Seven got out of there safe and alive.

  Rising to full height, Bolan hooked his left arm around the barrier, exposing only enough of his body to see the doorway from which the man was firing. He pumped the Beretta’s trigger twice, sending six 9 mm hollowpoint rounds humming down the hall into the opening.

  But again the hit man had moved. He wasn’t in the hall. So he had to be farther back in the room. The Executioner twisted to the side, pulling the Beretta back into his body and angling the powerful Desert Eagle into the hall. He aimed at the doorway, then moved the sights a few inches to his left. Pulling the trigger, he sent a 240-grain .44 Magnum hollowpoint slug raging through the aging plaster into the room, hoping against hope that it might find its way to his unseen target. He repeated the process, emptying the magazine into the wall, moving his sights an inch or so with each shot.

  The roar of the Desert Eagle was like thunder in the hallway. When the gun finally clicked on an empty chamber, the Executioner pulled it back and stepped back into the room. Keeping the Beretta ready in his left hand, he dropped the empty magazine from the butt, jammed it into his belt and shoved a fresh load down into the grips.

  Sniper fire from across the alley still sailed through the room as Bolan let the Beretta swing out onto his trigger finger. The 93-R hung by the guard as he used his thumb and middle finger to work the Desert Eagle’s slide, chambering another Magnum round. As the slug slid home, he heard .223 fire pop behind him and looked briefly over his shoulder to see Seven sending quick bursts back through the broken glass.

  Polyakova stuck her head out from the bathroom, her emerald-green eyes wide in shock. A .308 round sailed past her nose. When she didn’t seem to notice, Bolan shoved her back through the door and said, “Get down! In the bathtub!”

  As soon as the words had escaped his lips, the Executioner tried to bite them back. Polyakova did as he’d ordered, practically diving over the side of the ancient cast-iron tub. But almost immediately, new rounds from the room across the hall sailed through the wall into the bathroom. Whether the man had heard the Executioner or simply figured out for himself that the bathroom was the only logical place to hide, Bolan didn’t know.

  But it didn’t matter. The 7.62 mm rounds penetrated the wall with ease, flying low into the tub to clang off the cast iron before embedding themselves back in the plaster.

  White dust filled the air as Bolan leaned around the door and fired the hand cannon. He was driven back once more by return fire. Behind him, he heard the steady release from Seven’s M-16 A-2, and the constant pounding of rounds from the roof across the alley hadn’t let up since the sniper had climbed the ladder to a better position.

  The Executioner took a deep breath. From where he was pinned, the chances of getting a good shot at the man across the hall were a thousand to one. The chances of hitting him blindly through the wall, as he’d tried earlier, were even more slim. And sooner or later, the sniper behind them was going to find his groove. He’d get Seven first, then Bolan.

  That would allow the man across the hall to have full access to Polyakova in the bathroom.

  Bolan checked his extra ammo. He had enough to keep the stalemate going at least a little longer. And that’s all he could do. The bottom line was that if something drastic didn’t happen soon to change the situation, they were going to die.

  The Executioner leaned around the doorway and fired again.

  THE CHECHEN TIGHTENED his finger on the trigger, taking up the slack. Akhmatov found himself smiling when he heard Petrov’s following shots from the roof behind the hotel. Akhmatov hesitated for only a split second before readjusting his aim and pulling the trigger. But the American was like a cat. Akhmatov’s rounds blew through the empty air where the man had been less than a second earlier. He cursed under his breath, firing again.

  A man with reflexes like he’d just seen was highly trained. As he heard Petrov continue to fire from the building across the alley, he ducked back into his room and closed the door. He opened it only enough to peer back out into the hall, and was met with a series of mixed rounds. The first sound he heard was the choking cough of a sound-suppressed pistol. But after that all he could hear was the earth-shaking blast of some tremendously high-caliber weapon. He retreated deeper into the room as the rounds penetrated the door at an angle and drilled through the wall next to where he’d stood.

  The Chechen cursed again, louder this time. He knew what was about to happen, and didn’t like it. On the other hand, it was the type of battle at which he excelled. Cat and mouse, they called it in America, he had heard. He would shoot, then the American would shoot. Then they would both duck back and start all over again. Neither of them would hit the other until one of them made a mistake, and that would be the one who first lost patience.

  Akhmatov’s curse turned into a grin. He had been blessed with patience far beyond that of other men. But the Chechen knew he had been blessed in all ways beyond that of mortal men. The writings of Nietzsche had proven that to him. He was what Nietzsche called a “superman.”

  And it went as he had predicted, back and forth. Fire and retreat. Fire and retreat. The big American showed an unusual amount of skill in both marksmanship and strategy. He was good. Very good. The best Movlid Akhmatov had encountered in a long time, and the Chechen found himself wishing the two of them could sit a
nd compare notes someday.

  Of course that would never be possible, Akhmatov realized, as he heard more of Petrov’s rounds come from the rear of the hotel. He kicked himself mentally. He hadn’t prepared for this contingency, so sure had he been that the shots from the rooftop would drive his prey right into his arms. He should have thought ahead, and if he had, he would have realized that right now the woman would be hidden in the only logical place—the bathroom. If she had any sense at all she would have taken refuge in the bathtub. Which, he would wager, was another cast-iron relic like the one in which he had just bathed.

  Akhmatov stepped into the hall and fired a full-auto stream through the wall next to the door where the bathroom would be. The tub would protect the woman, but the big man with the thunderous pistol had no idea of his plans for Luiza Polyakova, and would be operating on the assumption that Akhmatov was just another man trying to kill them all. He was smart, this big American, so the sudden change of aim to the bathroom would reinforce that idea, remind him of her perilous situation, and in turn should disturb him.

  The Chechen grinned to himself. Men who were disturbed lost patience. When they lost patience they made mistakes. And when they made mistakes, men like Movlid Akhmatov killed them and took their women.

  More rounds peppered the doorway around Akhmatov’s room, but he stepped well back away from them. He had moved forward again, prepared to shoot through the wall at the tub once more, when he heard the police sirens outside. The obnoxious, almost cartoon-like whine of British and Western European sirens had always irritated him, but now his disposition went well beyond irritation. Again his anger was directed at himself for not preparing more efficiently. Not only had he failed to plan for the possible cat and mouse game now ensuing, but he had also charted out only one route for escape.

  And from the continually rising sound of the sirens, that route would soon be closed off.

  Akhmatov knew he couldn’t afford to stay any longer. Hurrying back to the bed, he grabbed both suitcases, then dropped the one holding his clothing and personal items. He would need one arm free to operate the PPD, and there was nothing in the bag through which he could be traced. He could always buy more clothes. But weapons of the quality Petrov had obtained for him were harder to come by.

  Several more rounds burst through the doorway as he lifted the weapons bag and turned back toward the hall. Some were the quiet rounds the big man had fired through the sound suppressor; others came with the deafening blast of the Desert Eagle Akhmatov had caught a fleeting glimpse of. It was a big gun, and it took not only a big man but also a well-trained one to control the recoil under combat conditions. That thought brought another smile to the Chechen’s face. The American choosing a weapon too powerful for most soldiers was like his own preference for the hard-to-control Stechkin. They were alike, him and this big man, and again he wished he could sit with the man and talk to him—before he killed him.

  Akhmatov hurried back to the door, sticking his head through just long enough to glance both ways up and down the hall. The elevators were at one end of the hall—past the American’s room. He could get to the stairs without crossing the open doorway.

  Another burst of sound-suppressed fire drove him back into the room for a second. But as soon as the shooting stopped, the Chechen darted forth from the room. Triggering the submachine gun, he sent close to thirty rounds from the magazine, firing it dry. Holes appeared all over the hallway, the plaster walls cracking and even giving in at spots, as he sprinted away.

  Before the American could return fire, Akhmatov ducked into the stairwell and out of sight. He paused long enough to drop the PPD into his suitcase and draw the Stechkin, then took the steps three at a time until he reached the ground floor.

  Movlid Akhmatov was still smiling as he left the hotel through a back entrance and raced down the alley into the darkness. Yes, this American was good, he thought. Certainly good at his trade. But the big man was also good in the sense that he would always try to do the right thing. The laugh that escaped the Chechen’s mouth at the thought was sarcastic. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Garbage. Unlike Akhmatov and Nietzsche, the American had not gone beyond, and his shackles would limit his effectiveness, and eventually produce his downfall.

  8

  The steady pounding of .308 rounds kept up from across the alley, and Johnny Seven continued his sporadic return fire with the M-16. In between the shots the Executioner heard the ever nearing wail of the London Metropolitan Police sirens. Then the man across the hall cut loose with the longest stream of fire yet. Round after round after round hit the front wall of the hotel room, obliterating the few splinters of wooden frame remaining around the door, and blasting several softball-sized holes in the plaster.

  But the fire came in bursts, and each time the man let up on the trigger, Bolan heard the sound of footsteps running away from them down the hall.

  The hit man had heard the sirens, too.

  Suddenly the gunfire both in front and behind the Executioner stopped. Bolan looked over his shoulder to see Seven scowling at the alley. “I think maybe I might have got him,” he said. “At least I don’t see him.”

  “You see him fall?” Bolan asked as he raced past the bed to the gaping hole where the picture window had once been.

  “No.”

  The Executioner came to a halt at the window. Across the alley, he could see no one on top of the water tank or the roof below. Which meant nothing. Since Seven hadn’t actually seen him go down, the sniper might be lying flat on top of the tank or he might have slipped down the ladder and be hidden behind it. He might also have already left the roof and, like his partner across the hall, be beating feet away from the sirens as fast as he could.

  The DEA man still had the M-16 trained out the window when the Executioner hurried back past him. “Get Luiza and our gear,” he said. “Stick as much as you can in the guitar and viola cases and leave the rest.”

  Before Seven could reply the Executioner was out the door into the hall. He hadn’t holstered either the Beretta or Desert Eagle. Cautiously he moved across the hallway and slid his back along the wall toward the room the hit man had occupied. He was almost certain he had heard the man running away as the final bombardment of rounds came his way, but being almost certain had gotten more than one good man killed.

  The room was empty except for a suitcase lying on the bed. Bolan flipped the latches and looked inside. The oncoming sirens grew louder as he foraged through the contents. The suitcase appeared to contain nothing more than clothing, shaving equipment and a few other personal items. He couldn’t be sure from such a cursory search but he had no time to be more thorough at the moment. Slamming the lid shut, he holstered the Beretta to free one hand and grabbed the suitcase off the bed.

  Seven and Polyakova were waiting at the door to the other room when he returned. The DEA man had done as ordered, abandoning Ontomanov’s suitcase and the slender Russian’s ill-fitting clothes and stuffing his new wardrobe into the viola case. He had the guitar case strapped across his back, and the woman’s heavy bag in one hand. Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and lifted the viola case. Polyakova was carrying Bolan’s light bag.

  Bolan led the way to the stairs, mindful of the fact that the man from across the hall had followed the same path only moments earlier and might be waiting in ambush somewhere in the stairwell. It was unlikely. He suspected the man had been intent on leaving before the police arrived. But anything was possible, and Bolan was ready at the first hint of trouble to drop one of the suitcases and draw a gun.

  They encountered no one on the stairs, however, and emerged into the lobby a moment later. A dozen or so hotel patrons had been downstairs when the shooting began, and rather than follow common sense and simply escape to the streets, they had huddled nervously together around the couches and chairs in the sitting area. Like a herd of human sheep, they had frozen in fear, neither fighting nor fleeing but simply waiting.

  The Executioner led the wa
y to the front door, and turned to the right. He led Johnny and Polyakova casually along the sidewalk as several police cars screeched to a halt. Officers exited the blue-and-white vehicles and ran inside the Durrants lobby. They weren’t the average London street bobbies with their wooden truncheons, helmets and gunless belts. These men wore black uniforms, ballistic vests, and carried Glock 17s on their hips. Several also toted Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns.

  The Executioner recognized them immediately as SO19—the Force Firearms Unit within the special operations branch of New Scotland Yard. One of the men stopped as he headed toward the door, looking curiously at Bolan and his companions. His eyes moved back and forth from the guitar case to the viola case as the Executioner raised his hand to hail a passing cab. The SO19 man finally decided they must be musicians, gave a slight shrug with his shoulders, then turned back and followed the others inside.

  Bolan, Polyakova, and Seven got in the cab.

  “Where to, mate?” the red-faced cabbie behind the wheel asked in a thick Irish brogue.

  “Le Meridien,” Bolan said. “Piccadilly.”

  “Good choice,” the driver said, and a moment later they were rolling away from the scene of the massive gunfight.

  LE MERIDIEN PICCADILLY hotel was aptly named, standing only a few yards from Piccadilly Circus. Seven had checked them in and taken the luggage to the room. There, Bolan had carefully gone through the suitcase of the man sent to kill them. But he had found nothing that might lead to the man’s identity, and nothing out of the ordinary except two books by the philosopher Nietzsche. By then, it was time for the nine-o’clock meeting with Raymond Smith-Williams at the gallery.

  Bolan had originally planned to leave Polyakova and the DEA man in the room, going to meet the art-and-drug dealer alone. But after the attack at the previous hotel, he didn’t want to leave the Russian woman alone. Seven was a good man, and had proved to be a good gunman, as well, but the hard, cold reality was that both he and the woman would already have been dead several times over if Bolan hadn’t been with them.