“And what’s in it for me?”
“Whatever you want—success for your employer, a hit against the Marchinski organization, a way in if that’s what you wanted.”
Bolan could see why Keppler was a lawyer. The man talked the talk. He was also a two-faced wheeler-dealer, seizing the opportunity that had presented itself. In this instance, he was ready to cast aside any loyalty he had for Leo Marchinski. Keppler was siding with the next in line and preparing to consolidate his own position.
Bolan experienced a sense of loathing for this man.
“Where’s the girl?”
Jason Keppler stared at Bolan, his mind working quickly. “Are you...?”
“Taking you up on your offer? Keppler, I didn’t come here to check your water cooler. Don’t dance around. If we’re going to do this, make it happen.”
Keppler hesitated for a few seconds more then turned and moved behind his desk. He drew a scratch pad to him and picked up a pen, quickly writing. He tore off the top sheet of paper and handed it to Bolan.
The figures on the pad were sat-nav coordinates. Underneath was a cell phone number.
Bolan folded the paper and slid it into a pocket.
“Call me,” Keppler said.
“You’ll be hearing from me,” Bolan replied.
He meant it. Not in the way Keppler expected, but they would be meeting again.
Chapter 17
Appalachians
The Marchinski safe house was located in wooded hills off the main highway, making it isolated and easy to defend. Sitting close to a ragged outcrop of rock, with a steep fall protecting its eastern boundary, the safe house had open ground on the other three sides. Behind the low spread of the house, in the distance, rugged, timbered hills provided a natural backdrop.
Bolan had driven for almost four hours, leaving the city at dawn. Now he lay prone, studying the layout, assessing the odds, knowing he would eventually have to make his move. The Executioner had been in place for nearly two hours, concealed by his camouflage gear and the spread of vegetation. His ordnance was in the backpack he wore over his shoulders. The big Desert Eagle was holstered at his side, and he wore his 93R in its shoulder rig. A Cold Steel Tanto knife was sheathed and strapped to his thigh.
Bolan’s silent observation had provided some intel, but not as much as he would’ve liked.
He’d spotted two parked 4x4s, and a couple of guards making loose circuits of the property. From the way they moved and the way they were dressed, Bolan knew these were city boys—reluctant soldiers working well out of their comfort zone—but he didn’t dismiss them. Any man carrying an SMG was dangerous.
Bolan hadn’t been able to get an accurate count of the guards inside, despite having a powerful pair of compact binoculars. The windows allowed him some access to the interior, but the ground was at a lower point than the house. It restricted his viewing angle.
He was left with little data on the number of people inside, and he wasn’t too happy about that. But there was nothing he could do about it, so Bolan concentrated on what he could see.
Two parked vehicles.
A pair of guards outside.
Beyond the house, he saw a squat structure, stone built with a slightly pitched roof and a metal chimney with a capped vent. Bolan guessed that was the generator housing. Electricity wouldn’t be piped into such a remote spot, so the house would have its own power supply. When Bolan had scanned the outhouse, he spotted a medium-sized fuel tank jutting out from behind it. All very self-sufficient.
Bolan drew away from his surveillance spot and checked his watch. Late morning. He would have preferred a night assault, but Bolan needed to move fast. The sooner he pulled Abby out of the hands of the Marchinskis, the better he would feel.
He had set up both crews—the Marchinskis and Tsvetanovs—for a final showdown. But the conflict wouldn’t distract the Marchinskis for long. Patience would evaporate quickly if Larry Mason failed to keep his side of the bargain—uneven though it was.
If Mason kept Gregor Marchinski and Lazlo Sabaroff waiting, there could be dire consequences for Abby. Bolan knew the kind of people he was dealing with. Life had little meaning to them—even that of a child. The Marchinskis enslaved hapless young women and sold illicit goods and drugs—death was a by-product of their business...death from overdosing and from the crime that followed when an addict stole to feed the habit. Leo Marchinski had little conscience. He focused on the vast amounts of money his business created rather than the suffering he caused.
So why would the death of a single child concern him?
Bolan knew the answer.
It wouldn’t.
Marchinski wanted his freedom, and he would do anything to achieve it. His crew would follow his orders, and if the order came to take a young life, then it would be obeyed.
That realization settled any doubts Bolan had.
He had his objective.
Free Abby and deal out Bolan-style justice to the ones holding her.
He was not their judge.
Not their jury.
He was their Executioner.
Bolan opened the backpack and drew out a 9 mm Uzi. He also extracted a matte black Gemtech Mossad-II suppressor. The attachment weighed 12 ounces and was nearly eleven inches long. Bolan unscrewed the existing barrel-retaining ring and screwed the Gemtech suppressor into place. He snapped in a 32-round magazine. Laying the Uzi aside, Bolan took out a combat harness, quickly pulling it on. The loaded pouches held extra magazines for his weapons—the Uzi, the 93R and the Desert Eagle on his hip. The backpack was pushed out of sight beneath tangled foliage.
Bolan didn’t want to risk hurting Abby Mason, so he left behind the fragmentation and stun grenades in his ordnance bag. He would depend on the controllable power of conventional weapons. That might leave him with reduced capability, but it was something he had to accept. If Abby had not been inside the building, Bolan could have gone in on a full assault, blitzing through with little regard for anything but his own life, but today Abby’s safety was his priority.
Bolan checked both handguns and reholstered them. He was as ready as the situation would allow.
The Executioner looped the Uzi’s strap over his head and allowed the weapon to hang free. His initial assault would be on the two sentries. He needed to eliminate them quietly, without alerting the people inside the house.
Bolan silently skirted the house, under cover of the treeline until he reached the angled slope backing the building. From where he crouched, Bolan saw the rear of the house above him.
The slope held a scattering of brush and stunted trees. Bolan studied the area for a few minutes, deciding on his best path, before he started to work his way up the incline. He moved steadily, using the foliage as cover and pausing frequently to make sure he was still clear. It took him twenty minutes of careful maneuvering before he reached the top of the slope.
Bolan edged forward, keeping the bulk of the house’s rear wall above him. There was a single wide window in the back wall, but no one could spot him from that angle.
Edging around the rear wall, Bolan checked the side of the house. A pair of large windows were cut into this section—one at the back, the second closer to the front. Someone checking from those windows could easily spot suspicious movement.
Bolan crouched and edged his way along the wall, pressed in against the rough natural stone. He was only feet away from the front corner when he heard the tread of footsteps on the gritty earth.
It had to be one of the sentries.
The way the man moved told Bolan he was in no hurry to complete his patrol. Bolan could also smell tobacco smoke. Staying low—back pressed hard against the stone wall—he reached down, removed the combat knife from its sheath and held it in his right hand.
The steps
became louder.
Closer.
The sentry appeared. He was half turned away, staring out toward the distant treeline. Smoke trailed from the cigarette between his lips. He took a couple of steps, bringing himself to the apex of the corner.
Bolan had no way of knowing whether the second man was in the line of sight. His chance had come, and if he hesitated too long, his target might turn about and step beyond reach.
Bolan grabbed the man’s coat with his left hand. Before the sentry could brace himself, Bolan hauled him close, catching him off balance. The Executioner swung the man around and slammed him against the stone wall. The sentry gasped under the impact, the cigarette flying from his lips.
Bolan had seconds to act. The man was going to yell—that was a given—and Bolan didn’t want him to warn the other guard. The Executioner raised the Tanto’s gleaming blade and cut across the exposed throat, right to left, the ultra sharp steel biting in deep. It severed everything in its path—flesh and muscle and blood carriers. The sentry’s eyes widened in total shock. An SMG slipped from his grip and hit the ground as the man reached up to clutch at his throat, blood already swelling from the wound. It spurted between his fingers, spilling down his shirtfront, soaking the material.
Bolan had already stepped back to check the position of the second sentry. He was in time to see the man step into sight from around the far corner of the house.
One down, one to go.
Bolan heard a wet gurgle coming from the man, now on his knees and frantically trying to suck air into his lungs. Both hands at his throat were covered in blood. More was still bubbling between his fingers, spilling in a torrent to his waist. The man fell back against the wall, sliding to one side until he was on the ground, body going into spasms.
Slipping the knife back into its sheath, Bolan brought the Uzi into play.
Peering around the corner of the house, Bolan checked out the second sentry. The man was already moving in his direction. He didn’t exhibit any signs of alarm. Most likely he figured his partner was checking the side of the house.
That would change when the first sentry failed to reappear. Bolan needed to move quickly, but the second man was moving past the house’s main windows. If anyone looked out as Bolan took the sentry down, any surprise would be lost. He’d have to risk it.
The man was nearly twelve feet away. Bolan leaned around the corner, raised the Uzi and triggered a three-round burst that hammered the guy’s chest, over his heart. The 9 mm slugs cored in and delivered a killing blow that toppled the startled sentry. He skidded and fell, hitting the ground hard, his body raising puffs of dust.
Chapter 18
The moment he fired, Bolan cleared the corner of the building and sprinted for the stairs leading to the veranda and the front entrance. He hit the steps at a run then raised his left foot and slammed it against the door, just below the handle. The door burst open, splintered wood flying as the lock assembly was ripped from its housing.
Bolan stepped into a wide entrance hall, doors on either side. The Uzi scanned right and left. To Bolan’s right, an open double door showed a large open-plan lounge.
An armed figure rushed forward, bringing up the stubby-barreled shotgun he was carrying. His erratic move meant his first and only shot went way off target. Bolan’s follow-up Uzi burst ripped into the man’s midsection. He folded forward so that Bolan’s second burst took the top of his skull off in a mélange of blood and gray brain matter. The guy performed a nosedive to the floor.
Two others were already on the move. One grabbed a Benelli shotgun that was resting against a coffee table. The second man pushed up off a wide leather couch, hauling a stainless-steel auto pistol from a shoulder holster.
Bolan let the Uzi complete its swing in their direction, his finger already stroking back on the trigger. The hard-fired burst caught the shotgunner as he pulled the Benelli on track. He was hit high in the chest, the 9 mm slugs half turning him. The shotgun boomed loudly in the confines of the room, the 12-gauge shot hammering into the wall as the man fell back. He tangled with the coffee table and stumbled, going down with a heavy crash. Before the man hit the floor, Bolan had dropped to a crouch, targeting the second gunman as he cleared his pistol from its holster. The pistol cracked too soon, the slug clearing Bolan’s head by a few feet. When the Uzi fired, the shots took a bloody chunk of flesh from the guy’s throat, left side, and the resultant burst of blood misted the air. The man clasped his hand over the gory wound as he tried for a second shot at Bolan. The Executioner triggered another short burst that punched in through the man’s torso and put him down.
Raised voices were coming from the far side of the lounge, where a doorway led to another room. Bolan heard pounding footsteps, and a shirtsleeved figure appeared, a pistol in his hand.
The man was tall and heavyset, with a mass of dark hair and a thick beard. He was closely followed by a second man, this one in a baggy T-shirt and jeans. The dark-haired man saw Bolan and threw a quick shot in his direction. The slug burned across Bolan’s left upper arm, leaving a stinging wound.
The Uzi tracked in, Bolan triggering a series of 9 mm Parabellum bursts that hit the bearded guy and his partner, who had crowded in close. The bloody strikes had the desired effect and both shooters went down, lying still.
When Bolan scouted the area beyond the lounge, he found the kitchen. Satisfied it was clear, he went back across the lounge and stepped into the front hall. Bolan crossed to check the doors on the far side, kicking each door open and making sure the rooms were empty.
That left the stairs leading to the upper floor. Partway up, a landing extended left and right. There was no easy way to reach the top, so Bolan made his approach fast, eyes scanning the empty landing.
Close to the top of the stairs, Bolan picked up a rustle of clothing coming from the right of the landing. An armed figure leaned out from behind the wall, pushing a handgun into view. Bolan swept the Uzi up and triggered a pair of hot bursts that ripped the shooter’s hand apart in a welter of blood and lacerated flesh, the pistol dropping away from the ruined fingers. The guy let out a howl of terror as he saw his hand disintegrate. He clutched at his wrist, staring at the mangled wound in complete shock.
Bolan stepped in close, jamming the suppressor against the man’s cheek.
“Where is she?”
The man failed to respond.
“Make it right,” Bolan snapped. “The girl doesn’t deserve this.”
Tears filled the man’s eyes as he turned to stare at Bolan. When the man saw the unforgiving expression on the Executioner’s face, he pressed his shattered hand to his chest, covering the mutilated mess with his free one.
“Room to the left,” he whispered.
“Alone?”
“One of our guys. And Gregor... He’ll kill her.”
Bolan kicked the fallen pistol through the bannister rail. It dropped to the floor below.
“What about me?” the man pleaded.
“What about you?” Bolan asked as he smashed the Uzu against the injured man’s skull. As his victim collapsed to the floor, the Executioner headed across the landing.
Chapter 19
The door was partway open, and Bolan picked up movement on the other side. He let the Uzi hang by the strap and took the Beretta from his shoulder rig. Bolan reached out with his left hand and gave the door a gentle push, enough so that it swung wide to show the room beyond.
Even though the room was large, it contained only a single bed and a couple of wooden chairs. The window was barred.
A shadow angled across the floor from Bolan’s left. Boards creaked. In front of him was Gregor Marchinski. He was a younger, thinner version of his brother and there was a weakness in his pale features.
“Leave, or she’s dead,” Gregor said.
He held an auto p
istol in his right hand, the muzzle touching the cheek of the nine-year-old girl he held tight against him.
Bolan had seen her face before—in the photo in Larry Mason’s kitchen.
Abby Mason stared at Bolan, wide-eyed, yet showing defiance.
“Give it up, Marchinski. It’s over,” Bolan said quietly.
“I will kill her if you don’t back off.”
“Think this through, Gregor. Your brother isn’t walking free. Killing the girl isn’t going to change that. You pull that trigger and you’ll be dead a second later. That is definite. I don’t negotiate. I don’t back down. Whatever bargaining power you might have had is finished. Leopold is still locked away, and he’s going to do his time—no question there. If you carry this through, he won’t have a brother on the outside. Your choice.”
Bolan had remained outside the room. He knew the armed man behind the cover of the door was waiting for him to clear the opening so he could make his shot.
Bolan was able to peer through the gap between door and frame. He made out the arm and part of the man’s body.
Gregor was not going to harm the girl. She was his one chance at walking from the house in one piece. As long as she was alive, she was a bargaining chip.
At that precise moment in time, all Bolan had to worry about was the man concealed by the door.
Bolan gripped the strap supporting the Uzi and lowered the weapon to the floor, pushing it aside with his foot.
“Time to negotiate,” he said, directing his words at Gregor.
“Not with that gun in your hand.”
Bolan lowered the Beretta a fraction. “This?”
A nervous tic edged Gregor’s mouth.
Bolan tensed his muscles, preparing to make his move. He was going to have one shot at this.
He powered forward, his leg muscles thrusting him through the door. Bolan launched himself in a long dive, tucking in his left shoulder, arm extended, and executed a roll that threw him across the floor. As he landed, skimming the floor and twisting so his right hand curved around, the 93R tracked the dark shape of the shooter. The man had been caught off guard when Bolan came in low, and a burst of auto fire went high over Bolan’s body, slamming into the far wall. The Beretta chugged out a triple burst that hit the man in the chest, kicking him back against the wall. The gunman lost his weapon, gripping his body as Bolan pushed to his feet, angling the Beretta and delivering a second burst of 9 mm slugs that dropped the would-be-shooter to the floor.
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