Bolan made for the wide kitchen arch and ducked through, jerking to the left as he saw an armed figure lunging at him, SMG raised. The 9 mm slugs hammered the wall and wood frame of the opening. Plaster and wood splinters filled the air where Bolan had been a microsecond earlier. As Bolan lifted the Desert Eagle, he saw the shooter adjusting his aim. Double handed, Bolan triggered the Desert Eagle, pumping the remaining rounds from the weapon into the shooter. He saw the eruptions as the powerful slugs tore into the target’s chest, throwing him backward.
Bolan’s fingers plucked a fresh magazine from his harness as he ejected the empty one. He clicked it in, felt the slide snap into play, and was ready to fire again even as figures tumbled into view from the end of the passage leading to the front of the house. They came in a ragged bunch, too close, uncoordinated, and Bolan had the fleeting impression he was working a duck-shooting gallery as he fired shot after shot at the figures. His shots were on target, tearing into flesh, splintering bone and splashing walls and floor with fresh blood. The house echoed to the sound of gunfire, brass casings ringing against the tiled floor in a metallic rain.
Bolan was barely aware of exchanging the empty Desert Eagle for the tri-burst Beretta. And his body hardly registered the couple of hits he took in his side and hip.
Bodies slumped in the passage, bloody and torn, the reek of gunsmoke and the brassy stench of spilled blood filling the air.
As suddenly as it began, the savage confrontation ended. A man emitted a final gasp, air gusting from bloody lips as he sagged into a prone sprawl. The hard clatter of a weapon drooping from loose fingers alerted Bolan and he automatically reloaded his handguns, moving along the passage and stepping around the dead and the dying.
Three steps led into the large living room—plush and expensively furnished, a log fire burning in the open grate. Bolan went up the steps, leaning against the closest wall to support his body, his Desert Eagle in hand again. He could feel blood running down his left side where he had sustained bullet hits. It soaked his coverall. He would soon feel shock as the effects took over, but he had enough in him to complete his mission.
There were two men facing him.
The rugged figure of the Russian. And the suddenly less imposing Kendal.
Koretski held a Glock pistol in his left hand and the moment he saw Bolan he raised the weapon.
“Wait. We can still make this work, Cooper,” he said, triggering his weapon. “There is…”
Bolan shot him in midsentence, the hefty boom of the Desert Eagle drowning out any words the Russian might have been saying. The trio of .357 mm slugs hammered him back across the room, blood spray dappling the carpet. The back of Koretski’s legs caught a heavy coffee table and he pitched backward, the rear of his skull smashing against the edge of the stone hearth. He moved once, a wrenching spasm that turned his body on its side, then he became still.
Senator Tyrone Kendal seemed unable to draw his gaze from the blood-soaked body. He stared at the Russian, face suddenly drained of color. When he did move he looked at Bolan, shaking his head slightly.
“Time’s up, Kendal.”
“You won’t kill me. I’m sure you’ve read up on who I am. The power I wield. My money. Position. I’m an important man.”
“No,” Bolan said. “You’re an accessory to murder, a cheat and a man who has abused everything he’s ever touched. A lot of people have suffered just because you dragged them into your grubby scheme. I’ve seen the depths you were prepared to go to protect yourself. The lives you messed with. And now you believe your position and money can buy you out of trouble.”
“You forget I’m—”
“Untouchable? A U.S. senator?” Bolan allowed himself a cold, unfeeling smile. “You’ve used that one too many times, Kendal. The sell-by date has expired. And I’m not impressed, or intimidated.”
The senator tried to make a run for it, grabbing Koretski’s dropped pistol.
The Beretta whispered its disapproval, with two triple bursts that ended Kendal’s life and sprayed his blood across the panoramic window behind him.
Bolan limped his way out of the death house and made his way back to where he had left his rifle. He picked up the brass casings and slipped them into a pocket. He took a transceiver from another pocket and keyed the button.
“Ready for pickup, Jack.”
“Be there in ten, Sarge. You all squared away down there?”
“Yeah. Negotiations completed. I’m walking wounded down here, pal, so make it fast.”
“Will do, Sarge. You hit bad?”
“I’ll survive, but my pride took a little battering. Hell, Jack, I must be getting slow.”
Grimaldi’s laugh echoed from the speaker. “You? Slow? Sarge, you’ll be telling me next that you’re getting older.”
Bolan lifted his face to the falling snow, feeling its cold touch on his skin. It felt good.
Older?
Yeah, maybe.
But what about wiser?
That was a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer.
* * * * *
ISBN: 9781459223509
Copyright © 2012 by Worldwide Library
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