Uncut Terror

by Don Pendleton

  The African didn’t move. Instead, his eyes flickered to Grodovich and then Mikhal. “And who are these others?”

  Yuri smiled and placed his left arm around Grodovich’s shoulders. “This is my partner, Alexander. He and I grew up on the streets of Moscow, and we’ve been together ever since.” He paused and turned his face toward Grodovich. His breath smelled sweet. “Except for the time he was in prison.”

  Lumumba’s eyes flicked back and forth. He looked like a crocodile eyeing his next meal. “And why have I not seen him before?”

  Yuri first squeezed Grodovich’s shoulders, then shook him. “As I said, this man here, he just was released from prison, where, I might add, he made no mention of any past associations or business dealings.”

  Grodovich could almost feel Lumumba’s eyes probing him. After perhaps twenty silent seconds, the African snapped his fingers. One of the suited men reached down, picked up the briefcase and set it on the table. Lumumba adjusted the combination locks and flipped the case open. Sheaves of manila envelopes were lined up. Grodovich could see what appeared to be smears of bloody fingerprints on the paper envelopes.

  “All quality stones of the utmost merit and repute,” Lumumba said. “Do you wish to examine them all?”

  Yuri sat in the chair opposite the African and plucked one of the envelopes from the middle of the pack. “These are rough diamonds, I assume?”

  The African nodded.

  Yuri removed a knife from his pocket and flicked his wrist. The blade popped to an open, locked position. He slid the blade under the lip of the envelope and sliced through the paper, the sharpened edge making a purring sound. After finishing the cut, Yuri slammed the tip of the knife into the tabletop, where it quivered in an upright position.

  He poured the contents of the envelope into his open palm. The stones varied in size and color; most were grayish and misshapen. Yuri reached into his pocket, removed a jeweler’s loupe and held it to his right eye. One by one, he studied the stones. His face twisted into a frown.

  “Are they all of this quality?” he asked.

  Lumumba sat there staring at him. Finally, he extended his hand toward the array of envelopes. “See for yourself. As I told you, they are all there and of excellent quality.”

  As Yuri reached for another envelope, Grodovich felt his mobile phone vibrate inside his pants pocket. It was the signal. Rovalev was here. He strained his ears for the slightest sound and thought he heard a sharp, metallic clinking.

  A silencer?

  A sharp thump on the wall was followed by the crash of the door being kicked open. Rovalev entered holding a Tokarev pistol with a long sound suppressor attached to the end of the barrel, his arm extended. The nonbearded part of his face was streaked with black stripes, making him look like a wild animal, and a pair of night vision goggles were flipped up on his head. Before anyone could react, Rovalev shot the three African bodyguards, then the Robies standing closest to him. The four men seemed to crumple to the floor in successive order. All of them had been shot in the head.

  Rovalev was followed by two more men, who immediately trained their pistols, also equipped with the long silencers, on Yuri and Lumumba.

  “I could not help but overhear your last comment,” Rovalev said with a smile. His white teeth looked feral in contrast to his black beard and darkened face. “But did you forget to mention the new Congolese giant gem that you have?”

  Lumumba’s brow furrowed and his head made a slight jerking motion. “Do you know who I am?”

  Yuri looked around, too. “That’s right. Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with, you piece of shit?”

  Rovalev swept the barrel of his pistol across Yuri’s face. He fell forward slightly and made a grab for the knife.

  Mikhal lunged forward with astonishing speed, grabbing both of Yuri’s arms and forcing them flat onto the table. Rovalev nodded in an appraising way and then grabbed Yuri’s knife with his left hand. As Mikhal kept Yuri’s arms immobile, Rovalev rammed the tip of the knife through the back of Yuri’s hand with such force that it was pinned to the table. Yuri grunted in pain and yelled, “Alexander, help me.”

  Grodovich stood there assessing the situation. Whatever pity he may have felt was overwhelmed by the surge of anger when he remembered his terror as the three Chechens cornered him in the prison stairwell.

  “Did you really think you could get rid of me so easily when I was in Krasnoyarsk, Yuri?” Grodovich asked in a soft voice.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Yuri managed to say through clenched teeth. The blood was welling up the sides of the blade, running over the olive skin of his hand and onto the tabletop. Soon it would permeate the manila envelopes.

  “You betrayed me,” Grodovich said, “so you will die now, but as a tribute to our long-ago friendship, I have told Mikhal to make it quick.”

  “What are you—”

  Mikhal’s huge hands gripped Yuri’s head and neck. The giant’s arms and shoulders rolled in opposite directions, accompanied by a face-twisting grimace.

  Grodovich heard a brief scream of pain and then a dull snap. Yuri’s face suddenly lost all signs of life and his head bobbled loosely on his shoulders as Mikhal released him.

  Across the table Lumumba’s eyes were opened wide. He did not move as Rovalev rammed the end of the pistol into his mouth and forced him backward. His rotund body dropped on the floor. Rovalev followed, straddling the man, still holding the pistol in Lumumba’s mouth. The red beret fell off his head.

  “Where is the big gem?” Rovalev asked, his voice low and visceral. “The conflict diamond. The large stone. I know you have it.”

  Lumumba tried to say something, his words muffled by the metal sound suppressor.

  “Where is it, you son of a bitch?” Rovalev yelled. His left hand moved over the dictator’s body, then he stopped. “Well, what is this?”

  Rovalev withdrew a wrapped item about the size of a small apple from the inside pocket of Lumumba’s jacket and held it in front of the man’s face.

  “Is this it?” Rovalev asked.

  Lumumba tried to work his lips and tongue, but the sound was garbled.

  “I thought as much,” Rovalev said. The Tokarev jerked with subdued explosiveness and an expended casing popped upward and bounced on the hard floor. The African’s entire body stiffened. His eyes remained open, but they became unfocused and a puddle of blood formed on the floor beneath his head. Rovalev got to his feet, stepped over the dead man and moved toward Grodovich. He held out the wrapped item.

  “The bastard had this in his pocket the entire time,” Rovalev said. “Open it.”

  Grodovich took the item and slowly unwrapped it. Inside was the largest rough diamond he had ever seen. It had to be well over three hundred carets. It would be worth a fortune once it had been polished and cut. He glanced back at Rovalev.

  “How did you know?” Grodovich asked.

  Rovalev shook his head. “Stieglitz told me. Now, we must leave immediately. The police are on the way.”

  “But is it safe?” Grodovich asked. “Yuri had several guards—”

  “They have been taken care of,” Rovalev said. “Come. Now.”

  Grodovich started to hand the diamond back to him, but the other man shook his head.

  “It’s your headache now.” His white teeth gleamed and he nodded toward the dead African. “Let us hope it brings you more luck than its previous owner.”

  * * *

  AS THE CITROËN sped through the dark streets, Lupin seemed agitated. He tried to make several phone calls and then popped the earpiece loose and swiveled back to face them.

  “My surveillance team does not answer,” he said. “I have tried numerous times.” His forehead showed rows of creases. “I am hoping it is merely a bad connection.”

 
; “Can you reach them by radio?” Bolan asked.

  Lupin shook his head. “I ordered that no radios be used. The Robies have excellent frequency scanning equipment.” He held up his cell phone. “Mobiles are better.”

  “How far away are we?” Bolan asked.

  “Almost there.” Lupin replaced the earpiece and tried another call. He listened, then shook his head.

  The local police officer said something in Flemish and Lupin nodded. “That is their car up ahead. Parked.”

  The driver shut off the headlights and slowly positioned the Citroën behind the dark van. Lupin exited the car immediately and ran to the other vehicle’s passenger side. Bolan and Grimaldi got out, as well. Lupin shone his flashlight into the van and stopped.

  “Merde,” he said, his face showing a look of shock.

  The front windows on both sides of the car had been shattered. Bolan swept his flashlight over the interior of the van. Two plainclothes police officers were slumped against their respective doors, each with a bullet to the temple. As Bolan pulled open the front passenger door to check the man for signs of life, the body started to tumble out of the vehicle. Bolan caught him and gently pushed him back on the seat. No pulse.

  Grimaldi had moved around to the driver’s side door. He opened it, removed his left glove and placed his fingers against the driver’s neck. Seconds later he looked at Bolan and shook his head.

  “Like Moscow all over again,” Grimaldi whispered.

  Bolan shone his light over the ground and spotted a shell casing—9 mm, from the look of it. Probably two assailants, one on each side, had crept up to the windows and fired a shot into each man. Quick and neat, like snuffing out two candles at the same time.

  “Which building did Grodovich go in?” Bolan asked.

  Lupin didn’t answer at first. He just kept looking at the car.

  Bolan was about to repeat the question, but Lupin said, “That old factory there.”

  Bolan nodded to Grimaldi, who slipped his glove back on and pulled his SIG Sauer out of its holster. Bolan withdrew his Beretta and they started moving down the street toward the factory.

  “Wait,” Lupin said. He strode back to the policeman in the Citroën and leaned over, speaking to the man. After a few sentences had been exchanged, Lupin straightened, withdrew a small pistol from a shoulder holster and ran back to Bolan and Grimaldi.

  “The other units are still a few minutes away,” he said.

  “Well, if you think we’re going to wait for the cavalry,” Grimaldi said, “you haven’t seen any John Wayne movies.”

  “We can’t wait,” Bolan said. “We’re going in.”

  Lupin placed a palm on Bolan’s arm. The Executioner glanced at him, and the INTERPOL man realized the touch was a mistake and withdrew his hand.

  “Sorry, mon ami,” he said. “But I merely wish to say that I am coming with you. Our local assistant will wait here and direct the rest of the arriving officers.”

  “Let’s go then,” Bolan said.

  “Those men,” Lupin said, his voice cracking a bit. “They were my responsibility. I would prefer to be the first to enter the building. I owe them that much.”

  “You know,” Grimaldi said, “I’m beginning to like your style.”

  Bolan was already several steps ahead of them.

  11

  De Keyserlei

  Antwerp, Belgium

  WHEN THEY WERE about fifteen yards from the entrance to the factory, Bolan felt something under the sole of his tactical boot. He held up his left fist to signal for Grimaldi and Lupin to stop and flipped down his night vision goggles. The scene was illuminated in fluorescent green. The Executioner glanced around and, seeing no one, scanned the ground immediately in front of him and lifted his foot. A partially crushed brass shell lay on the ground where he had stepped. A second shell casing was a few inches away. Both appeared to have come from a 9 mm pistol.

  Grimaldi also flipped his goggles down and leaned back to whisper to Lupin, who had no night vision equipment.

  The INTERPOL man nodded.

  Bolan moved forward with renewed caution, his Beretta held at the combat-ready position, arms bent in front of his chest. This allowed for maximum speed of movement with the option of raising the weapon to fire in a millisecond. He advanced toward the door, the green tint providing an expansive and complete view of the area. Two erratic stains, most likely blood, spotted the area in front of the door. What appeared to be bloody partial footprints were present, as well.

  Bolan stopped again and whispered to Grimaldi, “It looks like they dragged the bodies inside.”

  Grimaldi nodded and positioned himself off to the side of the door, aiming his SIG at the opening and gesturing for Lupin to step away from the line of fire. Bolan gripped the doorknob and twisted gingerly. It turned and he swung it open, stepping back to cover the opposite side of the interior. Seeing no assailants, Bolan shot forward, moving inside with a quick grace. The interior of the factory was dark, but his night vision goggles gave him a clear picture of everything.

  The bodies of four men had been laid out just inside the door. Blood pooled in crescent halos around each of their heads.

  The Executioner saw two more shell casings on the floor by the bodies. The aggressor must have shot the two men who were standing outside the door at a distance of approximately twenty-five yards—an impressive shot in the dark with a handgun. Both head shots, too. The killer had most likely been using a weapon with a sound suppressor so as not to alert the secondary guards inside. Those men had also been shot. It indicated more than one aggressor. Most likely they were dealing with at least two highly trained, well-equipped, professional killers—a killing team.

  After stationing Lupin in wait by the door, Bolan and Grimaldi began a quick but systematic clearing of the building. Most of the interior walls had been knocked down, leaving expansive areas devoid of any furnishings. They followed a corridor down to a narrower hallway that offered a ninety-degree turn into a maze of thinly constructed walls. The steady hum of a generator was coming from one of the rooms. Bolan paused at the opening of the corridor and began slicing the pie as he edged around the corner. He could smell burning tobacco. Maybe these guys weren’t so professional after all.

  Bolan edged around the corner a bit more, giving him a partial view. A sliver of light outlined a door midway down the corridor. A pair of voices became audible. Bolan’s glance at Grimaldi confirmed that he’d heard them, too.

  The narrow corridor was a perfect ambush site...a kill zone. He and Grimaldi were wearing level 3, bullet-resistant vests under their BDUs, but that still left their extremities, not to mention their heads, vulnerable. The illuminated, closed door was approximately fifteen feet away, with about twenty feet of hallway on the opposite side. If the first distance could be covered fast enough, Bolan figured they’d have the element of surprise. The walls of the corridor appeared to be nothing more than cheap drywall, however, which would offer little in the way of ballistic cover.

  Bolan started to edge back to confer with Grimaldi when the door opened, spilling a flash of light into the dark hallway and causing a flarelike explosion in the Executioner’s night vision goggles. He flipped the goggles up on his forehead in time to see a man dressed in dark clothing raising a pistol, a long, Russian-style cigarette dangling from his lips.

  The Executioner fired first, sending three rounds toward his adversary. The barrel of the other man’s gun exploded in a burst of flame and Bolan felt a round zing by him on the left.

  He fired again, and the gunman crumpled forward. A hand holding a pistol curled around the edge of the doorjamb, and the weapon spat several times.

  Bolan had already moved out of the opening. Grimaldi fired his SIG in the direction of their new adversary as Lupin came running up.

  “What’s happ
ening?” he asked.

  Bolan pushed him back, out of their adversary’s field of fire.

  More rounds zipped by. Lupin crouched in response.

  “Bad guy at nine o’clock,” Grimaldi said, firing off another round. “He’s in that room halfway down the hallway.”

  “The other units are almost here,” Lupin said.

  Bolan clamped his Beretta under his left arm, reached into the pocket of his BDU shirt and took out a stun grenade. Lupin’s eyes widened as Bolan bent back the flanges of the pin and looked at Grimaldi.

  “Give me a diversion,” he said.

  Grimaldi nodded and kicked the toe of his boot into the soft drywall, causing a large chunk to break away. He reached down and grabbed the broken piece. Switching his SIG to his left hand, Grimaldi leaned forward and threw the broken piece of drywall down the corridor. It smacked into the wall next to the doorway. Bolan released the safety flange on the flash-bang and began his count: one, two, three... He rolled the grenade down the corridor.

  The hand curled around the door again, but the flash-bang, rolling like a discarded soft drink can, exploded just as it reached the open door.

  The gun fell forward, out of their adversary’s hand, and the man’s body came after it. Bolan ran down the corridor, his Beretta at combat ready. He paused momentarily to kick the fallen weapon out of reach and then took a quick look into the room. Six bodies lay in a row on the floor next to a table, upon which sat some odds and ends: three wrist watches, several wallets, some currency and a business card.

  Bolan continued inside and verified that each supine man was deceased. One of them, a large black man, whom Bolan assumed was Lumumba, appeared to have been shot through the mouth. Another’s head had been twisted completely around so that his face was against the floor although his body lay on its back. The others all appeared to have suffered gunshots to the head and other parts of their bodies.

  Grimaldi dragged in the guy from the hallway. He forced the still semi-dazed man onto the hard floor and quickly searched him. He found a knife in the man’s pocket and two spare magazines for a Russian Tokarev pistol.