Night's Reckoning

by Don Pendleton

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD ARRIVED in the area shortly after two o’clock. When he had called Grimaldi and told him of the slight change in plan, the flier was not too pleased. “Back me up as you know best” meant taking to the air with Dragonslayer again—not acting as nursemaid to a war criminal awaiting trial. He had grumbled every time Bolan had spoken to him—on the phone when he called him over, and face-to-face when Grimaldi arrived and handed the keys of his car over to the soldier.

  “There’s inventory in the trunk, just in case you didn’t have what you wanted here. And there’s some surveillance and detection tech, as well. Cameras and monitors, some mics, stuff like that. So you go and have fun chasing down the bad guys while I sit on my ass watching TV with laughing boy.”

  Bolan could understand Grimaldi’s frustration—he was a fighter, not a security guard. And, at first, Bolan had wanted to use the chopper to go in all guns blazing and take out the opposition with the minimum of effort. What had changed his mind? The fact that such an action would alert the Chinese elements who had interests, for a start—a full-on attack would cause ripples that would have Xiao Li on the first plane back to Beijing in a diplomatic bag. Dead or alive. Similarly, Brognola would have a lot to deal with as it was—to make his task harder when there was a quieter way of doing business would be ultimately self-defeating.

  The soldier took Grimaldi’s Lexus and headed through the center of Den Haag, away from the safe house to the north and down toward the coast and Scheveningen. On the way down he had time to reflect. The number of men he had personally accounted for over the past few days made it doubtful that there were many left in the group. It was doubtful whether it would be necessary to make the grand gesture: he should be able to mop them up without causing too much mess.

  When he reached the area, he was careful to park up half a mile from the location he had been given. The Lexus stood out in such a poor district, and Bolan didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. He picked a side street that was in an area of mostly deserted houses and shop fronts. It looked to be an area that was ripe for demolition.

  Taking a duffel bag with sound and vision surveillance equipment, and a selection of flash and concussion grenades, he also holstered a Glock 23 semiautomatic with a thirteen-round magazine firing 165 grain Speer Gold Dot JHP slugs, which fitted nicely into a fast draw armpit sling. He also sheathed the Benchmade Stryker automatic knife with the four-inch Tanto blade. He intended to travel light and make the minimum of fuss—if he could use the knife more than a firearm, then so much the better.

  He pulled a light coat on over his blacksuit, and put the duffel bag into a common backpack. If he had to proceed on foot, then he wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  Not that it seemed to matter as he made his way through the streets that were mostly deserted. And even those people who were around were uninterested in the stranger passing through their midst.

  It was the same when he reached the location he was searching for—a nondescript rooming house, one of many like it that lined the street. There was a turnoff three houses down on the opposite side of the road, and he took up position there in order to examine his target in more detail.

  * * *

  IT WAS LATER in the afternoon, and Bolan watched the man named Milan arrive. The Serb, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, did not seem to know that he was being observed.

  The house had an air of being deserted. There seemed to be no movement within until the Serb arrived, and Bolan left his position to make a recce of the immediate area. It was not satisfactory—the house was in the middle of a terrace, and the yard at the rear backed directly onto the yard of another house, with no alley for access.

  Returning to his post, Bolan was in time to observe another man, a little older and heavier, return, followed shortly after by a woman who looked the same age as the first man.

  He waited awhile longer, as twilight fell around him and evening drew toward night. There was no one else returning, and any activity in the house must be at the rear, as the front remained in darkness.

  So there were three at least—and maybe at most. The numbers were good, although lack of intel about the interior was a drawback.

  Time was moving on—he would have to take action. Bolan crossed the road and approached the house to the left of his target. Knocking on the door, he was received by a sour-faced woman in late middle age.

  “What do you want?” she snapped.

  “A room. For a few nights. I have work in the area.”

  She laughed, harsh and cracking. “You’re one of the few. Well, it’s not like we don’t have rooms to let. God knows we could do with new tenants. Not as bad as next door—most of them seem to have left and God knows how they’ll get by. But that’s not my problem. Now, you want a large room or small?”

  “What’s the difference?” Bolan asked, taking in the information that the target house had been seriously depleted.

  The woman shrugged. “A hundred euros a month. And the stairs. You’ll want to know that the cheap rooms are at the top of the house.”

  Bolan sniffed. “Until this job pays me, best to have the cheap room. After that, who knows? You’ll expect a month up front, yes?”

  The woman nodded, and led him into the interior of the house. It was drab and dark, with the smell of stale spices hanging in the air. The furnishing was threadbare like the carpet, and the two men he saw as the landlady led him up the stairs were as drab and downbeat as the house.

  But none of this mattered as he handed over a month’s rent to the woman while she showed him the tiny room he was getting for his money. The bed looked as if it harbored life, while the cupboard and chairs that comprised the remainder of the furniture looked as though they were made of cardboard. It was unimportant—he had no intention of staying long.

  He waited for her to leave, moving to the door to listen as she descended the stairs. When he was sure he was alone, he moved over to the window and opened it up, leaning out to take in the surrounding building.

  His room was just under the eaves of the house, and there was a gap of three yards between this window and that of the top room in the target house. There were no obvious foot- or handholds between the two, and the stucco plaster on the walls was peeling and flaking, revealing brickwork beneath that had loose mortar, but not enough to fashion holds in the time available.

  He would have to go up. Using the sill of the window, he could grasp the eave and pull himself onto the roof. From there, if he was careful on tiling that was probably in as poor repair as the walls, he could be at the corresponding window in the target house within seconds.

  He took a long hard look at the surrounding area. The yards were empty along the terrace. There were only a few windows where he could see in. Where shutters and blinds were drawn, he knew he was safe. Those windows that did have a view seemed to be either empty or showed people preoccupied in their own tasks.

  With twilight helping to disguise him as little more than a shadow, he stripped the coat of labels and left it on the bed. He took the duffel bag from the holdall, which he similarly stripped of identifying marks before leaving that with the coat, and climbed out onto the sill.

  The eave was wood and rotten in places. But the metal and plastic of the drain and guttering gave him better purchase. He pulled himself up, using that part of the window that jutted out as a precarious foothold to augment the effort of his upper body. Once on the roof, he spread his weight and tentatively felt his way across the tiles. Some were loose, and the roof joists beneath felt spongy and rotten in part. Despite this, his caution enabled him to make rapid progress.

  Lowering himself down off the roof and onto the sill of the upper window was the easy part. Getting in might be another matter. He didn’t want to break glass and risk raising the alarm. Praying his luck would hold, he took the knif
e and slid the blade into the gap between frame and hinge. He ran it along the edge, searching for purchase to prise the window open, or a lock that he could try and break. All the while, he was aware of the strain in his thighs and calves as he huddled on the narrow sill.

  It was there—a precious inch of purchase to dig in the knife and lever the unlocked window outward. It was delicate, though. Too much effort would risk him toppling back and off the sill, but too little would leave him trapped and the window closed.

  With relief, he managed to get the window open enough to sheathe the knife and use his fingers to better prise it open. After what seemed like hours but was in reality less than thirty seconds, he had the window open enough to climb and set both feet on the floor.

  He stopped and breathed deeply, listening to the sounds of the house. He was in—next, the real work began.

  * * *

  “WE SHOULD JUST LEAVE. There is nothing left to fight for. I wish there was, but...” Slobo shrugged and spat on the floor of the basement. Here, the group had the PC and printer on which they prepared, printed and mailed their propaganda. A safe in one corner held what remained of the war chest they had been given by their Chinese sponsors. A steel cabinet and trunk housed what remained of their ordnance. The heavy Serb looked around at it all, sadly. “It is over.”

  Milan grasped him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “No! No, it is not, my friend. I thought this, like you. But I was wrong. Listen to me. We have nowhere to hide. The law and military will be up our ass. And if they are not, then the Chinese will be. There is only one thing we can do. Our aim was to found a new state. Maybe we won’t be able to do that, but we can go out in a blaze of glory and make our message known. We are not alone. Others will follow.”

  Mila shook her head. She was standing apart from the other two, and her body language spoke of someone seeking to distance herself.

  “I do not want to be a martyr—for anyone or anything. I say that we split what is left and go our own ways.”

  Milan looked at her in astonishment. “How can you? You know I am right. You are the clever one, yes? You know that they will come after us, that they will hunt us down. Why not strike back when we can?”

  “You speak for yourself,” she said with bitterness. “I will take my chances.”

  “You will not,” Milan yelled, hitting her with a backhand sweep that knocked her across the room.

  “Milan, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Slobo said, restraining the younger man as he tried to get at Mila.

  “No one goes against us. No one. We have always stuck together, and we always will.”

  The woman picked herself up, her head spinning from where she had hit the wall. “You are not a realist, Milan. You never were. Maybe none of us were. One way or another we are marked for death. I will take my chances and see how long I can have before it catches up with me. I am going to take my share of what is left from the money and leave. If you want to stop me, then so be it.”

  Calmly, she wiped the blood that had gathered from a cut on her temple and went to the safe. Unlocking it, she took out a pile of cash, which she counted before replacing two-thirds in the safe. She turned and faced the two men defiantly.

  “Are you going to try to stop me?”

  Slobo looked at Milan. The younger man shook his head. The older Serb said simply, “Go. Good luck.”

  Mila, her innards like jelly, left the basement and went up to the ground level. She was about to ascend the stairs to pack a bag when a hand stayed her.

  There should have been no one else in the house. She was about to yell in shock when another hand clamped over her mouth.

  * * *

  BOLAN’S RECCE OF the house had been swift. The rooms showed signs of occupancy, but were presently empty. He could hear nothing as he moved around. But as he worked his way downstairs, it became obvious that the remaining terrorists were on the ground floor or in the basement—if the latter, then they were a sitting target.

  He reached the ground floor, and a recce showed this to also be empty. Bolan took some of the surveillance tech from the duffel bag and used a mic to listen through the closed door to what was going on below. He was able to hear the exchange between the terrorists, which confirmed that there were only three remaining. Make that two, as the woman was about to leave. He left the door and stood out of view in the doorway of an interior room. He watched her as she closed the door behind her and walked to the stairs. She had already ascended a few stairs when Bolan stepped across and stopped her.

  “Say nothing and you’ll be fine. Try to alert them and you’ll be dead before the first word can escape. Understand?”

  Bolan made certain that there was no mistaking his tone—and her eyes showed enough understanding for him to believe her.

  “You meant what you said?” he asked. Mutely, she assented. He continued. “There are two of them down there? And they have armaments?” She assented to each question.

  “Okay. I want you to leave. Now. No delays. You have enough cash to get by. You know that it won’t be long before they catch up with you, though you might not have to worry about the Chinese.” He shook his head at her mute, questioning glance. “What’s going to happen to your ex-compatriots is going to happen to their connection. You’ve opted out. I’ll let you take your chance. Next time, I might not be so lenient.”

  He indicated the door. Obviously puzzled, perhaps not quite believing that she had escaped death, she seemed unwilling to move. But Bolan’s stony glance must have persuaded her, as she walked hesitantly to the door, pausing only to look back at him before closing the door behind her.

  Two left. Bolan moved back to the basement entrance and listened again.

  * * *

  “TWO, THREE DAYS and they will have that court open again. They do not want to let us win in any way,” Milan said bitterly. “We’ll see who the winners are. They will have to bring Grozny to trial, and when they do we will be waiting. I will prepare a statement to release before we leave. We will free him or die in the attempt, taking him with us.”

  Slobo sighed. “You know, when it comes down to it, I don’t want to die now. But then I guess I don’t want to ever. Who does? But this will be quick, compared to what the military scum or the Chinese bastards will do to us.”

  “We must prepare. We have to be ready at a moment’s notice. No more working-man shit. Cover’s blown. We need to prepare all the weapons we have.”

  * * *

  BOLAN CURSED AS he heard Milan’s words, and the sound of a metal cabinet being opened. The two men fell silent as they set to their task. It seemed absurd that they would do this at this point. They had time—though perhaps too much. Bolan had seen this many times over the years. Men who knew they were about to go into combat, more than likely to die, and were blanking the possibility from their minds with preparation. What drove them was no longer even their cause—it was the need to shut the fear of death from their minds.

  They would not have to worry about that for much longer.

  He could send down a grenade and make it a quick and simple process, but that would throw up too much sound, attract too much unwelcome attention. Better that he did this as quietly as possible.

  The door down to the basement was unlocked, just as the woman had left it. They were not expecting anyone else, even though they knew that they had become targets. Their thinking was unclear, which made them unpredictable. That was a possible danger. Bolan’s next move would have to be quick and decisive.

  The soldier opened the door, taking care not to make any noise, and set his foot on the first stair. With the thick door presently open, he could hear the two men quite clearly. There was some heavy breathing and the kind of grunting that comes from shifting heavy objects. For a moment he wondered what kind of ordnance they had down there—there was no way
he could leave it, and would have to arrange a mop-up of some kind.

  But that could wait until after. He could sense the concentration in their silent efforts. He eased his way down the stairs until he came to a bend that would bring him into view. He held back, observing them. There was a young man going through a case of BXP-10s similar to the ones he had witnessed the Serbian group use all the way through this campaign. He wondered if they were loaded—there was a case of magazines next to it, and it would be reasonable to assume that the SMGs were not presently loaded.

  Reasonable wasn’t good enough—he would assume that at least one had a chambered round. He slipped the Glock from its holster. It was ready to fire.

  The second man was closer to the stairs. He was moving a metal chest that was open, and contained mortars, plastics and what looked from their obscured angle like claymore mines. His head was lowered as he bent over the chest, heaving it across the floor. His labored breathing and the grind of the metal chest on the concrete floor had served to mask any noise that the soldier may have made on the stairs.

  He should have been the man that Bolan picked off first, but circumstance had other ideas.

  Bolan had lifted the Glock when, more by bad luck than any giveaway sight or sound, the younger man looked up. For a moment, Bolan could see the disbelief in his face. The man’s reaction, however, was sharp—the soldier had to grant him this. He snatched up one of the BXP-10s and leveled it—confirming Bolan’s suspicion that at least one would have chambered shells—his mouth coming open to shout a warning.

  He didn’t have the chance. A slight shift of Bolan’s body weight and inclination of the arm, and the quick tap that had been intended to take out the closer target sufficed to stitch a line across the young man’s chest and abdomen that dropped him before his finger had a chance to tighten on the trigger.

  As Bolan tried to readjust, he discovered that fear can overcome shock and surprise and lend a strength that the fearful did not realize they possessed. For, as he shifted, he took in that the older man was no longer bent over the chest. Knowing that his life depended on moving without fear or thought, the Serb had shot forward, and was already up the stairs, head down and charging for Bolan. He was unarmed, and knew that his only chance of survival lay in preventing his enemy from firing and stunning him so that the odds were leveled.