“Get him on his fuckin’ feet,” Kimble said. “I’ll make him talk.”
The nameless man hauled Bolan upright with ease. Bolan could feel the toned muscle under the man’s street clothes. There was strength there. The Executioner offered no resistance. He was not quite ready to make his own physical contribution yet. The man dragged him to the couch and dumped him with little grace.
Kimble reached behind himself and produced Bolan’s Beretta. He leaned over and rapped the muzzle against Bolan’s cheekbone. “C’mon sleeping beauty. Talk time.”
Bolan opened his eyes and stared up at Kimble. He held his gaze and despite his bravado—and the gun—it was Kimble who broke contact.
Bolan pushed himself into a sitting position. “Is the woman all right?” he asked directly.
“Hey, it speaks,” Kimble crowed.
“Well?” Bolan said.
“Don’t get pushy. We ask, you answer,” Kimble said.
“Right now your priority is thinking ’bout yourself,” the other man said. “Like how long you might stay alive.”
“Is she okay?” Bolan asked again.
“Jesus, this freak has a one-track mind.”
“Yeah, well, his ID has him down as some kind of Justice agent,” Kimble said. “You know what that means. They’re just fancy cops, and cops have simple minds.”
“The woman,” Bolan persisted.
“Christ,” Kimble said. “Look, pal, she ain’t here. Right now she’s fine, but how long depends on the way she answers some questions.”
The other man reached into the pocket of his dark pants and produced a switchblade. He pressed the button and the slim, shining blade snapped into position. His face took on a sudden change, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he flexed his muscles.
Kimble reached in a pocket and produced a bundle of plastic ties. “Let’s get this done.”
No time for working on a strategy. Bolan saw the lines of engagement change. Talk was over. He came up off the couch, fighting back the wave of nausea that rose within him.
Bolan’s right foot swept up, and the toe of his shoe drove into the knife wielder’s groin. The blow was without mercy, delivered with every ounce of strength the Executioner could muster. The man made a high-pitched squeal of pain. The kick stalled him long enough for Bolan to continue his move, his body swiveling so that he came face-to-face with the startled Kimble. Bolan’s hands reached out and caught the Beretta by the barrel. He twisted and pulled, hearing Kimble’s trigger finger snap.
Kimble howled as Bolan shouldered him aside, turning about to face the nameless man. The big man, one hand clutching at his groin, was already on the move, lurching in Bolan’s direction. The glittering switchblade was slashing the air as he closed in. Bolan raised the 93-R and pulled the trigger. The Beretta chugged a 3-round burst, the 9 mm slugs punching into the man’s chest. He twisted away from Bolan, dropping to his knees, then went facedown on the carpet. He jerked a few times before subsiding with a long, harsh sigh.
Turning away, Bolan made Kimble the focus of his attention, making sure the man could see the unwavering muzzle of the Beretta.
Kimble panicked. This was not how it was supposed to go down.
Moving behind him, Bolan closed an arm around Kimble’s neck, tight enough to make the man struggle for air. He put the muzzle of the Beretta against the side of the man’s head and pressed hard, letting the warm metal gouge a raw circle in his flesh.
“Think about this, Kimble. Your buddy is dead. You saw how quick it happened. Consider that when you start to answer my questions,” Bolan said.
He let the man think about it for a while. Bolan slackened his grip on Kimble’s neck and the man sucked air in greedily, like a swimmer escaping drowning. He maintained pressure on the Beretta’s muzzle, making sure Kimble stayed aware of his precarious position.
“Simple question. Where do they have the woman?” the Executioner asked.
Kimble knew his life depended on his reply. He was under no illusions. He had seen how easily this man had killed his partner and knew that same fate awaited him if he failed to give the right information.
“If I tell you, can we make a deal?” he asked.
Bolan didn’t answer. Instead he dug the muzzle of the Beretta deeper into Kimble’s flesh, turning it enough to break the skin. Kimble felt the warm trickle of blood from the tear.
“Where do they have the woman?”
“No deal, huh? Look, what if I send you to a certain address and she isn’t there?” Kimble asked.
“Then I’ll come back and we’ll start over. You aren’t going anywhere, Kimble. So make certain I hit the correct location,” the Executioner warned.
“If my people find out I sent you, I’m dead anyway. They’ll come after me.”
“No, they won’t. I can promise you that.”
The tone was neutral but the implication was clear. Kimble knew if this man went after the woman, it wouldn’t matter who stood in his way.
Bolan stepped away from Kimble and stood facing him, the Beretta still trained on the man.
“Your choice, Kimble. Give me what I want, and I’ll cut you a break. Screw me, and you’ll wish I’d killed you right here and now.”
Kimble stared into the cold blue eyes and he saw his own fate mirrored there.
“You genuine on that? Leaving me alive I mean?”
“I never lie, Kimble.”
There was something in the guy’s voice that made Kimble believe him.
“Then we have a deal.”
Bolan gestured with the pistol and walked Kimble across the room. He made him sit on the floor next to the heavy radiator piped into the wall, then picked up the plastic ties Kimble had let drop to the floor. He handed one to Kimble.
“Around your ankles. Make sure it’s tight.”
“Jesus, my finger’s broke. How can I—”
“Your choice, Kimble. I still have bullets in this gun.”
Bolan waited until Kimble did as he was instructed, then fashioned a loop with a second plastic strip. He bound Kimble’s wrists together, then took more strips and secured the bound man to the thick steel pipe running from the radiator to the solid floor.
“Now tell me where she is and how many are with her.”
When Bolan had the information locked down he rose to his feet, holstering the Beretta, then turned to leave.
“Hey,” Kimble called, “how do I get out of this?”
“If the information is genuine, I won’t be back. I’ll leave a message with my people to come and get you.”
Kimble’s anger burst like an unchecked flood.
“You fuckin’ told me you don’t lie. I give you what you want, and you toss me to the cops? What kind of a deal is that?”
“It’s what we agreed, Kimble. You give me the right words, I don’t kill you. That stands. I didn’t say anything about letting you walk away from this.” Bolan paused to stare the man down. “You want to renegotiate the terms? You still have nine fingers left.”
Kimble fell silent, figuring he’d worked the best deal he was likely to get. He watched the tall man leave, and reasoned he was better off where he was. He didn’t envy the snatch crew. He tried not to imagine what was going to happen when the unexpected visitor showed up at the abandoned farmhouse.
4
Their bodies chilled beneath their wet clothing, they climbed out of the SUV and crossed to the motel cabin Bolan had booked them into. The night clerk had viewed Bolan with suspicion when he had stepped into the office, muddy and wet.
“Heck of a night,” Bolan said. “Car skidded off the road into a ditch. Hit my head on something. Took me an hour to get it back out. Lucky for me she’s a four-by-four. Truth is, I’m too tired to drive any farther tonight. Wife is too. You got a double room with plenty of hot water?”
The night clerk looked the big man up and down, figuring he wasn’t going to throw him out. Not the size he was. When Bolan produced a credit card and hand
ed it over, the clerk saw no further problems. He processed the card and gave Bolan the key to one of the empty cabins. In truth all the cabins were empty, Bolan had noticed, seeing the key board was full. The night clerk decided at least one cabin taken was better than none at all. It had been a bad day all-round, with the lousy weather and the forecast for possible snow sweeping down from the north. He blamed the Canadians for that. Why couldn’t they keep their damn snow up in Alaska, or wherever they stored it?
Bolan unlocked the cabin door and they went in. He dropped the bag holding his weapons on the floor. He closed the door and secured it as Dukas clicked on the lights. The room looked comfortable and the heat was on.
Bolan was ready to call in to the Farm and give them an update, but he pushed that aside when he heard subdued sobbing suddenly coming from Dukas. She had gone to stand at the window, leaning her forehead against the glass. He could see her shoulders moving as she wept, and he felt her anguish. Bolan crossed over quietly and stood behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
She turned to face him.
“This has been a nightmare. Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” she said. “I translate languages. I don’t kill people.”
“Circumstances sometimes don’t allow us the privilege of choice. I’m sorry you got pulled in at the deep end, Erika. You answered a friend’s cry for help, and now you’re caught in the middle. What happened back there—none of us wanted it.”
“How do you deal with it? How do you forget when it happens to you all the time?” Dukas knew the man who’d introduced himself as Matt Cooper was some kind of special agent who’d been sent by Barbara Price.
“I don’t forget,” he said. “I have my ghosts and they come back to visit me every so often.”
“That man was going to kill you. I saw that and I couldn’t let it happen. But—”
“You did what you had to. No guilt in that.”
“I took a life,” she said.
“If he had gunned me down, you would have been next. You defended your right to live. That’s a natural reaction.”
She stared up into his steady blue eyes, seeing not savagery, nor the cold heart of a merciless man, but the gaze of someone who carried compassion for those who needed it, and at that moment she was in need. She leaned forward, wanting his strength, and he slid his arms around her as she rested her head against his chest, holding him tight against her. Bolan could feel her trembling and he remained where he was, holding her until she had settled.
She took a deep breath, then she raised herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek before letting go.
Bolan saw sudden concern in her eyes. “Erika?”
“You,” she said. “You’ve got a bad gash on your head. Where they clubbed you at Tira’s apartment. Remember?”
Bolan did, reaching up to touch the spot that was still bleeding.
“Told the desk clerk I hit my head when the car went off the road.”
“Go sit down. I’ll find something to clean it up.” She stared at him. “Do it.”
Bolan did as he was told.
She brought a towel from the bathroom and cleaned up the gash as best she could. When she was done she filled the room’s kettle and plugged it in the electrical outlet while she prepared coffee. They sat silently drinking and for a time there was a fragile peace.
Bolan found a pair of white bathrobes in sealed plastic laid out on the bed. He passed one to Dukas.
“Take the first shot in the bathroom,” he said.
“Don’t think I won’t,” she said.
Bolan pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his mud-streaked jacket and called Barbara Price.
“Run these names through the system,” he said to the Stony Man mission controller. “Billingham. Somebody important. Other is a perp named Kimble. I’d guess he has a rap sheet. I expect he’s no more than a hired gun. See what comes up.”
“Hey, how are you two doing?” Price asked.
“I’d say we’ve both had better days.”
“Any light at the end of the tunnel?”
“Still digging.”
“Erika?”
“They killed her friend Tira. Erika found her. She’s coping,” Bolan said.
“That translates as covering it up well,” Price replied.
“I’ve got it covered.”
“Look after my girl.”
“Yes, Mama,” Bolan said.
“I’ll call when we get something on these names.”
Bolan closed the phone. He could hear Dukas moving around the bathroom, and he thought about the remark Price had made about him looking out for the young woman. He was conscious of his responsibility for her. It was uppermost in his mind. Her safety was at the top of his list.
The bathroom door opened and Dukas appeared. She had changed into the bathrobe and looked slightly less stressed.
“All yours,” she said.
Bolan picked up Tira Malivik’s bag and handed it to her.
“Check it out,” he said. “See if you can find anything.”
She held the bag, hesitating, and Bolan could see the hurt in her eyes.
“It’s like invading her privacy.”
“No. It’s helping to find out who took her from you. She was your friend, and I don’t think Tira would feel you were doing anything wrong,” Bolan said.
Dukas opened the bag and tipped the contents across the bed. As she started to go through them she heard the bathroom door close.
She still felt a trace of unease going through her friend’s possessions. Most of the items were mundane, everyday female things. Dukas pushed this aside and concentrated on what remained.
A slim leather wallet. She examined the contents: just under a hundred dollars in bills, various credit cards, driver’s license. There were some folded receipts. She glanced at them, placing them aside as she read each one.
She found one issued by the U.S. Postal Service. The date was from a few days earlier. The receipt was for the mailing of a package to be delivered and held at a specific destination.
When Dukas read the delivery destination, she smiled.
“Very smart, Tira,” she whispered. “Clever move.”
She crossed to the bathroom door and knocked.
“Problem?” Bolan asked.
“No. But I just found out where the package is.”
“Give me a minute.
Bolan emerged from the bathroom, dressed in the other robe and toweling his hair. Dukas was at the window, staring at the still falling rain. She turned when she caught Bolan’s reflection in the glass.
“Tira mailed the package away for safety. She sent it to Maple Lake, Colorado. It’s a small town in the mountains. Pretty well off the beaten track. Depends on tourists in summer. This time of year it more or less shuts down.”
“What’s the connection?” Bolan asked.
“Our families used to go there for vacations. Rented the same lodge every time. It’s where Tira and I first met when we were teenagers. Up until a couple of years ago we still managed to visit on and off.”
She made them both fresh mugs of coffee. Bolan waited until she sat down again.
“Tell me about Tira.”
“I’ve known her for maybe fifteen years. We shared an apartment for three. She is…she was my friend. The past few years we saw less of each other because she worked for an international aid agency and traveled a lot to Bosnia. It’s where her family originally came from. She still has relatives there.” Dukas glanced across at Bolan. “Do you think this could have anything to do with her work?”
“Right now we’re trying to figure that out,” he said.
“Tira did mention one person in particular. Her uncle. His name was Pavlic. Lec Pavlic. He lived in Sarajevo. When she was over there a couple of months back, he kept trying to contact her but she only managed to see him one time. She was due to ship out on some assignment. She said he seemed very agitated. He told her there was something he
needed to discuss with her. Very important, he said. The only other contact she had with him was a call on her cell phone. Pavlic said he was hoping to get to the U.S. shortly, and he had to see her. She gave him her address and phone number. They were going to get together when he came.” She fell quiet for a moment, then looked Bolan in the eye. “What is it that Lec Pavlic involved her in?”
5
Bosnia
Lec Pavlic had known this day would come—when greed and ambition outgrew loyalty. A day when mistrust finally showed its ugly face and sides were taken. Sometime back he had envisaged and prepared his escape plan, though hoping he might never have to use it. His suspicions were roused when he began to be left out of meetings, was passed over when better positions became available within the consortium. His advice became less sought after, and conversations dried up whenever he entered a room. He knew well enough not to ask direct questions simply because denial would only reinforce his concerns. So he stayed silent, observed and let the evidence grow. It took him some time before he actually got a line on what was happening. When he did he was shocked, but not entirely surprised, because over the years there had been a few disappearances of fringe members of the consortium, in Bosnia and the United States. Two of the men who had done the actual killing had already died. A third had barely survived an automobile accident that had left him fully paralyzed and in a coma. Jev Ritka’s accident had occurred recently. Murmurings of disquiet had been raised.
Looking back, he realized that his misgivings had been well-founded. At the time, his financial acumen had been sought after. His manipulative skills with money made him an important member of the exclusive group, and he had no qualms in going along with the devious and violent nature of the operation. During the formative years, Pavlic had been privy to everything, but as time went by he realized he was being cut out of certain aspects of the operation. At first he paid little attention. He had more than enough to keep him busy and he shouldered his responsibility. But the increasingly ruthless manner in which matters were pursued and the way new blood was brought in began to bother him. It dawned on him that he was being sidelined, edged out, albeit stealthily, and by ways so subtle he might have missed them. But he didn’t miss them and began to take a deeper interest in the day-today operations. He did it carefully, gaining scraps of information, picking up snippets of conversation, until he had satisfied himself that he was being pushed out.
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