The strain on his body was prodigious. His wrists ached and the muscles of his arms and shoulders clenched tightly. Displaying great strength, Bolan inched his way up the wall. Once secure, he pulled himself over the edge and scrambled onto the narrow summit. From there he quickly centered his gravity and rose into a crouch.
Bolan shuffled forward, moving across the narrow space until he reached the anchor point where the retaining wall connected with Lich’s building. Bolan stretched to the limits of his height and slid his fingers into a shallow bevel line traversing a ornate facade on the building’s rear wall.
Three stories up, he swung out into space, carrying the weight of his body and kit onto the strength of his grip. He slowly inched his way along the bevel line. The muscles across his back bunched like straining animals under his clothes, and his brow furrowed with the intensity of his concentration.
Five yards away Bolan reached an ornate windowsill. He stretched out and wrapped his already straining fingers around the lip. It was flat and smooth, offering him no purchase. The only thing that would hold him from the inevitable fall would be the downward force he was able to concentrate through his fingertips in counterbalance to the weight of his body.
Keeping his momentum to a tight minimum, Bolan eased himself out underneath the windowsill. He moved his other hand quickly into position and pulled himself up so he could rest his elbows on the windowsill. The window was open to a three-inch gap to let night breeze enter.
Bolan reached out with an underhand grip and slid his fingers around the bottom of the open window. He pulled himself up until he rested his knees on the window ledge. Once there he rotated around until his buttocks rested on the edge. He shoved the window open.
As soon as there was enough space, Bolan swung his legs through the opening and slid inside the building. He landed in a crouch and quickly slid over to the side to avoid silhouetting himself against the window. He paused for a moment, holding his breath.
He was in.
INSIDE THE VILLA Bolan slid his night-vision goggles into place. Behind him the circuit box for the building hung open and vandalized, cloaking the rooms in darkness. Bolan began his careful infiltration.
Moving silently, he navigated staircases and doorways. He glided through dark rooms like a specter of death. He was a night fighter in his element, and the cold hand of justice was coming for the worst kind of sinner—the betrayer of trusts, the traitor.
Bolan rose like a shadow from the darkness.
The bodyguard heard a noise and turned too late. Bolan fell on him like predator on prey. He smashed a hard forearm into the side of the man’s head, knocking him out cold.
Bolan stepped over the man and pushed his way deeper into Claus Lich’s residence.
CLAUS LICH’S HOME was a suite of remodeled rooms on the top floor of the building. The Executioner moved through the connecting rooms like a tiger stalking its prey. He moved carefully, weapon out, his night-vision goggles illuminating his path deeper into the villa’s uppermost level.
He heard a door open somewhere inside the suite of rooms. He hurried up to a door and pressed his back to one side of it, pistol raised by the side of his head.
From the next room Bolan heard Lich’s voice croaking instructions in Spanish. A female voice murmured a reply Bolan didn’t catch. Lich’s voice was slurred and thick, and Bolan guessed the man was on heavy painkillers following facial reconstructive surgery.
The door beside Bolan swung inward. Bolan tensed. A beam of white light preceded the figure into the room, playing along the carpet as the person walked forward. Bolan extended his sound-suppressed Beretta. The pistol was steady in his fist.
A nurse walked into the room. Bolan easily made out the curves of her body. Inside the goggle faceplate Bolan squeezed one eye shut to prevent a loss of night vision as the illumination from the flashlight beam stretched the dampeners on the NVGs to their limit for a brief moment.
The nurse halted.
The muzzle of the sound suppressor was less than six inches from the back of the woman’s head. Bolan’s finger tensed on the trigger. He slowly eased up any play. The weapon was poised, ready to fire. The nurse played her flashlight around the antechamber, her head twisting left and right as she looked for something.
“Eduardo?” she asked.
Bolan waited.
The nurse exhaled a heavy sigh and then strode forward purposefully. Crossing the room, she opened the door Bolan had just entered and walked out, pulling it closed behind her.
Bolan moved into the dark bedroom. Silently he approached the massive bed where Lich lay. A line of clear tubing ran from a fluids bag on an IV stand down to the crook of Lich’s exposed arm. The man’s face was covered in bandages, and his bedside table held a pitcher of water and several prescription bottles.
“Gloria?” Lich asked, voice fuzzy.
Bolan stepped closer to the bed and looked down at the man. Lich’s bandaged head turned in his direction. Lich raised his hand in a sudden move, as if he’d been expecting Bolan.
Once again, the Executioner had anticipated Lich’s response.
The Beretta 93-R spit flame.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-7421-4
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Nathan Meyer for his contribution to this work.
REBEL FORCE
Copyright © 2007 by Worldwide Library.
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Rebel Force Page 18