Even with the gunfight all over the news, it was unlikely the man knew about it since he was on the plane. Bolan reminded himself that, with Smith-Williams as a willing partner, there were a few differences in the London and New York operations. For one thing, even though they seemed tight-lipped among each other, everyone seemed to know a little more than Polyakova had. “Have you ever met Nemets at the airport before?” the Executioner asked, turning back to Navrozoz.
Navrozoz nodded his head. “A few times I went with Smith-Williams.”
“Get up,” the Executioner demanded. “We’re going to meet him again.”
Navrozoz had been cooperative so far but now he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I have told you what you wanted to know. But if I do more they will kill me.”
“They might,” Bolan said. He jammed the Beretta between Navrozoz’s eyes again. “Want to take that chance or have me just kill you now?”
The Russian’s eyes told Bolan he had made his decision. But he was a career criminal, and always on the lookout for any way to take advantage of whatever situation arose. “All right,” he said. “But how will I be rewarded?”
The Executioner slapped the flat side of the Beretta across the side of the man’s face. “With less of that,” he said, as an angry red welt began to swell on the Navrozoz’s jaw.
A few seconds later, they had collected the equipment they would need and were on their way.
THE CHECHEN HAD CHOSEN the King John Inn near Victoria Station for three reasons. First it was far enough from the gallery that the proprietors wouldn’t have heard the gunfire. Second it was still relatively close. He couldn’t go long without treating his eye, nor could he parade around London soaked in blood. And last but perhaps most important of all, the King John was not the sort of place that would question such injuries. Knifings, clubbings and brawls of all kinds would be everyday fare in the shoddy pubs surrounding the cheap rooming house.
Under the bare lightbulb above the cracked bathroom mirror, Movlid Akhmatov forced his swollen eyelid up with his finger. With his good eye he surveyed the mutilated tissue inside the socket. He had lost all chance of ever seeing through that eye again—of that he was certain. So there was no reason to seek out professional medical attention now. At this point he could do as much for himself as any doctor.
Akhmatov saturated the blind eye socket with rubbing alcohol, feeling the fire spread from his eye throughout his head, and then the rest of his body. It was painful, yes, but there was a curious satisfaction to the feeling, as well. The apparent conflict of emotions seemed curious to him. He suspected it was somehow akin to the way pain, torture and eventually death itself increased the love his women had for him.
A smile broke on the Chechen’s face as he applied a heavy gauze patch. The woman—Luiza Polyakova—didn’t yet understand the relationship between love and injury, pleasure and pain. But she would. Soon.
Akhmatov turned and looked at the tiny red marks on his back. After she had punctured his eye with whatever it was she had used—a small knife, he suspected—she had begun ineffectively stabbing him, over and over, in the back. His coat and shirt had prevented all but several irritatingly shallow wounds, and he would ignore them.
Quickly the Chechen changed clothes, abandoning the blood-soaked coat and other items he had worn earlier. He didn’t know exactly what the big American’s next step would be, but he had no doubt where the man was eventually headed. He would go there and wait for him. When he arrived, he would kill the man and his partner. And considering the location, it would no longer be necessary to seek out some isolated spot to teach the woman his ways of love. He could simply take her home with him to the mountains. He could love her at his leisure, for as long as she lasted. The Chechen gathered his things and reached out for the doorknob, his mind filled with fantasies featuring Luiza Polyakova.
Yes, he thought as he opened the door. At his home in the Caucasus, they could make love in his special ways until she provided the ultimate proof of her devotion. She was beautiful, and might well turn out to be the best lover he had ever had.
At least he had never heard anyone scream quite as beautifully as she had when he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her.
EAST MIDLANDS AIRPORT, north of London, took less than an hour to reach in the Ford Crown Victoria Seven and Polyakova had “borrowed” when escaping the Smith-Williams gallery. Dawn had broken as Bolan drove, with the woman at his side. The DEA man, who was walking much better now that he knew how superficial his wound had been, sat in the back, guarding Navrozoz.
The soldier turned into the airport. He cruised slowly past the large hotel servicing the airport, then turned left once he’d passed a sign announcing Air Cargo Village. He turned again on the other side of the large warehouses, and drove along the access road next to the runway. He came to a halt in a small parking area near the cargo terminals and left the Ford’s engine running.
His plan was simple: get the jump on Stavislav Nemets, who he hoped hadn’t yet gotten word that there had been an incident at the gallery. With any luck, Rabashka’s London counterpart would escort the shipment in as usual, expecting to be met by Raymond Smith-Williams, to whom he would turn over the cargo after completing the required inspection forms.
Well, the Executioner thought as he sat waiting, the man was in for a surprise. Bolan planned to grab Nemets as soon as the man stepped off the plane. Then he would whisk him across the airport to the private-plane area, where Jack Grimaldi should have already touched down. With any luck, they would be in the air and headed toward Moscow before airport officials figured out what was going on.
During the next half hour or so, two other cargo planes landed, taxiing into the terminals. Men, trucks and other vehicles came and went. Some of the vehicles were marked with the logos of various companies, others were not. It was a good situation, Bolan thought, as a huge four-engine I1-76 finally appeared in the distance. It heightened his chances of getting close to the plane without being noticed.
As the I1-76 neared the ground, Bolan turned to Navrozoz. “Is that it?” he demanded.
The cowardly Russian had shown no resistance to the Executioner’s questioning since the beginning, and he didn’t start now. He nodded.
The plane landed at the end of the runway and began to slow. The Executioner threw the Crown Victoria into gear but kept his foot on the brake. He couldn’t be sure yet into which of the four cargo terminals the plane would taxi, but he intended to be ready to make his move as soon as it stopped.
The Executioner turned and rested his arm over the seat. Navrozoz had already described Nemets as a big man with blond hair and a matching beard. But a positive ID was imperative on a snatch-and-grab demanding split-second timing like this one, and now he said, “As soon as the doors open, you point him out,” he told Navrozoz. “You try to screw us around and make a mistake, you die. Clear?”
Navrozoz nodded again. His face showed less emotion than a wooden ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Want me with you?” Seven asked.
Bolan shook his head. “Somebody’s got to keep an eye on our friend here.” He indicated Navrozoz. He also wanted the DEA man to watch Polakova in case the hit man returned unexpectedly.
The plane arrived at the terminals and headed into number three. Bolan threw the Crown Victoria in gear and began driving that way at a moderate pace. Other vehicles came and went throughout the area as another cargo plane, high in the sky, began to drop toward the runway.
The I1-76’s cargo doors swung open as several handlers wearing coveralls walked forward. Bolan halted the car next to a building twenty yards away just as a man fitting Nemets’s description stepped down from the cockpit. Bolan turned to Navrozoz, who was staring into space like a zombie again. “That’s him?” he asked.
Slowly, as if he were a robot and someone had just tripped one of his switches, Navrozoz’s head swivelled to look at the man with the beard. His eyes held a thousand-yard stare but his head
bobbed slowly up and down. “Nemets,” he said softly.
The Executioner exited the car and walked casually toward the man with the beard. Within the busy area, none of the other men coming and going gave him a second look. When he was ten feet from where the big blond man stood talking to one of the men in coveralls, he drew the Desert Eagle.
Nemets was facing away from the Executioner at an angle. He couldn’t see the gun. But the man in the coveralls saw it, and his lower lip dropped open. Then the top lip rose as he prepared to shout a warning.
Before the words could leave his mouth Bolan had stepped forward and clubbed him with the big .44 Magnum, sending the man to the ground.
Before Nemets could react, the Executioner jammed the barrel of the Desert Eagle into his ribs. “Move,” he said in a low menacing voice. “Open your mouth and I’ll kill you right here.”
The Russian’s pale blue eyes flickered in surprise. Then they scanned the area for help. But the Executioner had already done the same, and none of the busy men had seen what had transpired under their noses. Grabbing one of Nemets’s arms, Bolan pushed him forward.
They were thirty feet from the Ford when the back door suddenly opened and Leonid Navrozoz jumped out. Through the window, Bolan could see Johnny Seven frantically diving across the seat trying to grab the man. The DEA agent was a half second too slow.
Navrozoz had acted strangely in the car, and now he didn’t yell or even speak. He just stared at Bolan for a second, then took off in a panic, running in the opposite direction. As he raced away from the Crown Victoria toward the runway, Bolan heard a scream from behind him. “You there! What the hell?” Then another voice shouted, “What’s happened to Carpenter?” and yet a third yelled, “You two! By the car! Stop where you are!” The last words were followed by the shrill sound of a whistle being blown.
Bolan pushed Nemets toward the Ford, where Johnny Seven was holding open the back door. He shoved the blond man inside, where the DEA man jammed both his SIG-Sauer and 7-shot Taurus into the Russian’s side. As he turned back toward the driver’s seat, Bolan heard the roar of the cargo craft he had seen about to touch down. In the distance he could see Navrozoz, still running blind and terrified, about to cross the runway.
The Executioner slid behind the wheel just as the big plane and Leonid Navrozoz crossed paths. Then the aircraft rolled to the end of the runway.
Navrozoz had simply disappeared.
Bolan pulled away from the terminals, speeding along the access road once more. There had been no time to recon the airport, but he had seen the sign pointing toward the charter area when they’d first arrived. He slowed his pace once he was out of the immediate area, driving moderately—hoping not to draw attention—toward the charter terminal. He would leave the stolen artwork and heroin on the I1-76 for the British authorities to take care of. There had been enough commotion around the plane that it should receive a thorough shakedown.
Far ahead, Bolan saw the runway where the private craft landed and took off. What he didn’t see was Grimaldi or the Learjet. He drove on, hearing a siren go off behind him. In the rearview mirror, he now saw three marked border inspection vehicles racing to catch up.
The Executioner neared the runway and finally saw the Learjet, its nose poking out behind the corner of the charter terminal. Grimaldi stood next to the plane, talking to a man in uniform. The wild hand gestures of both men made it obvious they were arguing. Probably about where Grimaldi had chosen to park the plane.
Bolan grinned, wondering what cock-and-bull story the ace pilot had come up with to stall for time. He would learn all that later. Right now the number-one priority was to get them all on the plane and out of there before security got organized.
As the Ford shot down the access road, the soldier saw Grimaldi suddenly draw back his fist and drive it into the belly of the uniformed man. He grabbed the officer by the back of the neck as he bent over, throwing him away from the plane, then climbed up and into the Lear. A moment later, the plane was taxiing onto the runway.
Bolan turned onto the runway himself, racing toward the approaching Learjet. Grimaldi saw him and began to slow. The plane and car halted side by side.
Seven shoved Stavislav Nemets out the back of the car, and the big man hit the tarmac. As sirens wailed, lights flashed and the border inspection vehicles behind them closed the gap, Bolan jerked the bearded man to his feet and shoved him onto the plane. Seven took Polyakova’s arm and followed.
They were barely on board when Grimaldi reached forward to the control panel and spun the wheels down the runway. As the Lear picked up speed, Bolan looked out the window and saw border inspection cars racing beside them on both sides. He buckled himself into the seat next to the pilot as Grimaldi looked over and smiled. “They’ve got pretty fast cars to keep up with us, huh?”
The Executioner didn’t answer.
“But let’s see if they can do this,” Grimaldi said, and the Learjet rose into the sky.
MACK BOLAN WAS A SOLDIER, not a cop. Over the years, however, he had adopted many police techniques to include in his war against evil. Now, as the Learjet neared Moscow, he thought back on how he had decided to approach this mission since the start.
In one way or another, one man had led to the next. Polyakova to Ontomanov, Ontomanov to Gregor. Gregor had put him onto Smith-Williams, and he had followed the Briton’s tracks to Navrozoz, who had led him to Nemets. Now Nemets was taking him to the top man in Moscow—a man named Anton Zdorovye. In many ways he had climbed the ladder very much the same as if he’d been working a routine drug investigation. But there were differences, too—differences that no federal, state or city cop could have ever gotten away with. There had been no plea bargaining, and no promises of sentence reduction. In contrast, everyone in the chain had gotten what he deserved. Polyakova, the unwilling pawn, would eventually be cleared. The rest would be dead. But in order to ensure a complete victory, Bolan knew he had to squeeze Gregor’s full identity out of Zdorovye before he killed him.
And there was still the hit man, wherever it was he fit into the overall organization. He needed to die, too—maybe worse than any of them.
Bolan looked over his shoulder at Nemets. He had bound the man, hand and foot, as soon as they’d been in the air. He was also belted into his seat. That hadn’t been the case during the first part of the trip.
The Russian had been unarmed when the Executioner had shaken him. But he’d been a tougher nut to crack than his cowardly accomplice, Navrozoz. Bolan had been limited in his interrogation techniques on the Learjet so he had gotten creative in a way that thoroughly delighted Grimaldi. Making sure that everyone but Nemets was belted down, he had instructed the pilot to perform an aerial stunt show across the English Channel. It hadn’t taken long before Nemets tired of bouncing around the cabin, and began to talk.
The blond Russian had decided he would be more than happy to take them to Zdorovye. And he had confirmed the hit man was Movlid Akhmatov, who had become something of a legend in espionage circles behind the old Iron Curtain. The Chechen was as famous for his perversions as his skills at torture and assassination. Nemets had begun to go into detail, but Bolan had shut him up when Polyakova’s eyes began to grow wide with fear.
The soldier didn’t need to know any more details than he already did. Movlid Akhmatov needed to die along with the rest. Several times over.
“Ten minutes, Striker,” Grimaldi said. Bolan nodded.
The soldier had called Stony Man from the plane, making sure Hal Brognola used his considerable influence to see that they wouldn’t be searched by Russian authorities once they landed. And Brognola had called back less than a half hour later to advise them he’d pulled it off. Bolan didn’t know exactly how—the Stony Man director’s methods of making things happen ran the gamut from political contacts to out-and-out bribery when it was called for.
In any case, they were about to be met by some Russian general who would walk them through customs.
&
nbsp; As the Learjet began to descend, Bolan turned back around again. “We’re going to rent a car once we’re down,” he told Nemets. “Then you’re going to guide us straight to Zdorovye’s office.” He drew the Loner knife from under his arm and held it up. “You try anything funny, and they’ll find you in more pieces than your buddy Navrozoz. This Movlid Akhmatov will seem like Mother Teresa to you when I’m finished.”
As soon as they were on the ground, Bolan cut Nemets’s restraints and led him out of the plane, glancing around for the general who was meeting them. He saw no uniform, but he did see a familiar face walking toward him across the tarmac.
Marynka Platinov wore a bright red women’s suit and high heels. She had beautiful muscular legs, reminding the Executioner that she had been an Olympic sprinter and hurdle champion before joining Russian intelligence years before. She was every bit as beautiful as her fellow Russian, Luiza Polyakova, but in a very different way. Where Luiza was soft, Marynka was hard. With Polyakova, the desire was to wrap his arms around her and protect her. There was a desire to wrap his arms around Platinov, too. But not for protection. Marynka Platinov was one woman who could take care of herself.
Bolan couldn’t keep the smile off his face as she neared, her heels clicking along the tarmac. The years had been good to her. They had worked two missions together in the past, and become close friends. Actually friends might be putting it a little mildly, the soldier thought as he took the hand she extended.
The last time they had seen each other, Platinov had been a colonel. “So they’ve bumped you up to general now, have they?” Bolan asked.
Platinov stared deep into his eyes and caressed his fingers as she nodded. She kept hold of his hand as she turned to watch Seven and Polyakova step down off the Learjet. She only glanced at the DEA man but gave Polyakova a thorough going-over with eyes that were not particularly friendly. Then, turning back to Bolan, she said, “I see I’ll have to change my plans a little.” She forced a smile that was anything but happy. “The bottle of vodka in my freezer I can drink myself, but I was counting on you for the other part.” Before Bolan could respond, she had turned and was clicking her heels toward the terminal.
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