He began walking quickly down the corridor, his feet silent on the carpet. He shrugged off his knapsack and began to rummage in it as he approached his target door. He stopped in front of the dark-grained wooden door and double-checked the room number. Satisfied, he produced the key card Sparks had fabricated for him.
He pushed the key card into the slot above the door handle until the edge clicked against the bottom of the electric lock housing. He paused for a second, the lock indicator light showing red, then pulled his key card free. There was a pause. Then the red light winked out and a green light blinked on. He heard the dead bolt slide back automatically.
He turned the door handle and pushed. It moved easily under the weight of his hand. As the door swung open, Bolan held his pistol in his free hand behind his back.
The Beretta was smooth and well balanced in his grip. The extra weight of the sound suppressor was negligible. His finger found the smooth curve of the trigger and took up the slack. Bolan pushed open the door.
He followed tight in behind the swing of the door, letting the knapsack drop to the ground just inside the doorway. He took up the Beretta pistol in both his hands and began tracking the muzzle in shorts snaps, dividing the room into instantaneous vectors then clearing them.
Mitchell Sparks's phone call to the hotel room had been only minutes earlier, indicating that the room was currently unoccupied though a search of hotel registry records by the cyber-specialist had revealed that a financial networks manager with the Philippine government and his wife were staying in the room.
Bolan had no intention of killing such innocent people, even in the name of operational security. He would get the jump on them, secure them, then execute his plan. The entire affair was rushed and last minute, but he had been dealt a distasteful hand of cards. He could give up, or he could push forward.
He stepped into the room. The lights were off, the television dark. He could hear no sounds coming from the bathroom but he checked it anyway, then the closets. He had caught a break at least in that the room appeared completely unoccupied.
He moved to the door, threw the latch, secured the dead bolt, then rammed a desk chair up under the handle. He picked up his knapsack and went to the left-hand wall between the beds.
He reached down and ripped the phone out of the wall, then tossed it onto the other bed, followed by the lamp and a digital clock. He slid the Beretta into his waistband behind his back and then stooped. His hands found either corner of the nightstand and picked it up. Casually he tossed it over the bed, where it landed on the carpeted floor with a muted clatter.
He opened his knapsack and took out a compact apparatus that resembled a caulking gun used by industrial plumbers. With quick, efficient movements he attached the tube containing the foam explosive and then added the second, smaller tube of propellant.
He stepped forward and began spreading a slurry of foam explosive on the wall. It splattered across the wallpaper like shaving cream. The compound splashed onto the wall in thick, muddy streams, and Bolan hastily drew a zigzag pattern starting about seven feet above the floor and moving down.
The applicator made a sputtering sound as it emptied its bladder, and Bolan casually dropped it on the floor at his feet. It bounced once and came to rest against the wall. Bolan pulled a timing pencil from a slit on his knapsack and pushed it into the viscous goo after initiating the detonator.
Moving quickly, Bolan backpedaled from between the beds and moved to put the retaining wall next to the entrance between himself and coming blast. A tracer round could have been used to detonate the foam, as well, but he preferred the more controlled method of a timing pencil.
He went to one knee beside the wall and drew the Beretta once again.
He inhaled, then slowly exhaled. He kept his mouth slack to allow for compensation for the concussive pressure in his ears. The muscles along his frame were primed but loose, like a jungle predator before the killing leap. He shrugged the knapsack into place. Now was the time.
The explosion was sharp and sudden. It clapped loud like a thunderhead and a cloud of plaster dust and construction material billowed into the room. Bolan was up, coming to his feet smoothly and snapping the machine pistol in his fists out ahead of him.
He rounded the corner and plunged between the beds, slipping into the smoke like a violent apparition. He moved forward in a half crouch and breached the hole he'd just blown through the wall. He stepped over a small lip of structural support left intact on the ground.
Emerging into the adjoining hotel room, he scanned for the Vietnamese security forces. He saw a man at his feet struggling to rise, a Makarov pistol half-pulled from a shoulder sling.
Bolan lowered the muzzle of the Beretta and it coughed a 3-round burst, the pistol recoiling smoothly in his grip, the barrel barely rising off target. Enough blood and brain to fill a soup bowl was splashed out on the carpet behind the man's head, and Bolan stepped across his corpse.
The Executioner caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and saw a snarling Vietnamese in a cheap business suit sprawled out on a bed. The man swept up a submachine gun, swinging the muzzle around toward the intruder.
Bolan directed twin bursts into his throat and chest, staining his pillow crimson and knocking the security agent back. Instantly Bolan pivoted back around at the waist even as he advanced a few more steps into the room.
He saw a figure push itself up off the floor between the beds. His eyes narrowed, and his finger tensed on the trigger. He identified the man as European and held his fire. Beyond the bed next to the rising Occidental, another figure, this one in a crisp gray-and-maroon uniform, leaped forward.
There was a starburst of flame as the pistol in the uniformed man's hand came to life even as Bolan was throwing himself to the side. Bolan squeezed the Beretta's trigger as he leaped but the rounds went wide and punched holes out through the window behind the enemy gunmen.
He heard the pistol's angry bark as he landed on the bed next to the corpse of the second man he'd killed. Bouncing up, Bolan twisted his torso into position as two 9 mm rounds of enemy fire slapped into the wall of the hotel room.
Bolan's shot was hasty and he scored only a gut wound. The Vietnamese bodyguard staggered, one hand flying to his leaking belly. Bolan shot again and put a triburst in the man's shoulder, chest and throat.
Blood sprayed out and seemed to hang in the air for a moment as the man sagged. The soldier dropped to the floor and his own blood rained down on him. Bolan twisted to cover the front of the room in case there was another member of the security entourage in the room.
Seeing nothing, he turned back and rose from the bed. The European had managed to struggle to his feet, obviously still discombobulated from the initial blast. From less than two feet away Bolan took in his features and recognized his target. Without hesitation Bolan surged forward and snatched the man by the collar of his shirt.
The Russian squawked in surprise then, and Bolan bowled him over, driving him onto the bed and flat on his back. The Executioner was on him like a wolf on a lamb. The muzzle of the Beretta was shoved up under the man's chin in the soft bar of his jaw. The man's eyes grew wide in terror.
Bolan leaned in close.
"You are one wrong answer away from death, Comrade," he said. "I want to know what a Communist true believer so ardent he left Russia for Vietnam after glasnost is doing with a sudden change of heart this late in the game."
The man swallowed and Bolan saw his Adam's apple bob with the effort. Lerekhov was so frightened the sound came out in a dry click. The man answered in English.
"Didn't your handlers explain everything to you?" His voice was weak but frantic.
"Wrong answer, Comrade," Bolan snarled back. "You see my handlers? You see anyone else? The clock is ticking, so you convince me!"
"Fine!" The old man coughed. "I'm dying! Can't you see it? Can't you smell it?" He shook with indignation. "Cancer of the blood."
Bolan's eyes narrowe
d as they hunted for confirmation. The phlegm rattle in LerekhoVs voice supported his claim. Bolan saw the yellowed sclera of his eyes, the gaunt features. He could smell the fetid breath that whistled and echoed as the man gasped his claim. It fit the story he'd been given, and this close up Bolan was inclined to believe him.
"What's the matter? The worker's paradise not have good enough health care?"
"Damn you!" the man snapped angrily. He became so emotional he slipped back into Russian, apparently without noticing. "It is for my mother! For my mother. I broke her heart. She was Russian Orthodox. It broke her heart when I joined the Party. I buried her in a state grave, not in a church. I am dying. No medicine could touch my pain. It was in my guts, in my bones the agony. Finally I... I broke. I broke and I prayed. I prayed for the first time since I was a little boy."
Lerekhov stopped, his tongue went to his lips and Bolan eased back on the pressure of his muzzle under the old man's chin. He had only seconds to make a decision about whether or not he believed the veteran code breaker. Bolan was used to making those kinds of decisions.
"I prayed," Lerekhov said, "and the pain eased. I knew then, I understood then how wrong I had been, how I had hurt her. I want only to be buried by a priest of the orthodoxy when I die. I want only for my mother's body to be moved now to hallowed ground. If you will promise me that, I will tell your government whatever you want. That is all. Laugh if you want. Scoff if you want. I do not care but if you do not believe the truth because it is so simple, then kill me now. Hurry, damn you!"
Bolan stood. He began shrugging off his backpack. "Get up," he told the man. "I'm getting you out of here."
"Thank God," the old man muttered, speaking English again.
Outside the window shattered by Bolan's bullets he heard the first of a dozen explosions as the Myanmar guerrillas began to spring their ambush. As Lerekhov rose, Bolan pulled a hard plastic case about six inches square from out of the knapsack.
"What's that?" The old man asked, suspicious as Bolan flipped open the latches.
Bolan looked up and captured the man's gaze with his own. "You're going to have to trust me. You're not going to want to, but we don't have time. I'm going to give you a shot. If you refuse the shot, I leave you. I want those Iranian codes, but you have to play my way."
As he spoke, Bolan pulled out a syringe filled with a yellowish liquid. The old man's eyes grew wide when he saw it, but the Russian set his mouth into a firm line and grimly began rolling up the sleeve of his shirt.
"Never mind that." Bolan shook his head. "I don't need a vein. This shot is intramuscular. Just put your leg out."
"Can I ask what it is?" Lerekhov said.
Bolan could hear how the man's pride was keeping his apprehension in check and felt a grudging admiration start to grow.
"It's a go-shot. We've got a very tough ten minutes ahead of us, Andrei. I've manipulated the board as best I can, but there are just too damn many pieces in play. I need you to move, but you're not in the best shape for that with your illness. This is your best and only chance of making it."
"My heart..." the Russian code breaker began.
"I know," Bolan cut him off. "We made allowances. I don't have time. You don't have time. What's it going to be?"
Bolan kept the bite out of his voice. He had turned a corner in his own mind about the old man.
Lerekhov drew his mouth tight and then nodded. He sat on the edge of the bed and stuck out his leg. Bolan reached out and grabbed the man's leg by the quadriceps through the loose weave of his trousers. It was like grabbing a stick it was so skinny, but he was able to pinch enough flesh to do the job.
Without preamble he slid the needle through the pants and directly into the defector's leg muscle, such as it was. He quickly flexed his finger and dumped the injection into the Russian. Lerekhov winced as the medicine pushed in between the fibers of his muscle.
Once the plunger had been pushed down to the bottom of the barrel, Bolan pulled the needle free and stuck it unceremoniously into the mattress. He looked at Lerekhov, searching for the signs of a characteristic response.
The man's rheumy brown eyes dilated even as he watched until the black of the iris had almost obliterated any trace of the brown cornea. A heartbeat later a thick sheen of sweat appeared on the Russian's forehead and upper lip, his face became pale and his nostrils flared as he began to breath faster.
"My God!" the code breaker exclaimed. "I feel like I'm going to explode."
"Good, it's time to roll. I won't leave you but try to stay close. If something happens get down and keep me between you and the bad guys."
Bolan shrugged into his knapsack even as heavy machine-gun fire began to answer the rocket attacks outside. Hell had come to Yangon. Bolan had paid good money for the distraction, and his instructions had been clear; the only targets the guerrilla group would engage were established military checkpoints. The attack was to last no longer than twelve minutes, and they should avoid any action that might lead to collateral damage.
Bolan rose and turned toward the door to the room. Barely three minutes had elapsed since he had detonated the foam and breached the wall. Behind him Lerekhov came off the bed like a jack-in-the-box.
Bolan's finger went to his earpiece.
"How we doing?"
"It's going on out here!" Sparks shouted back, his voice jubilant. "It's chaos. The lady got out and got the car. All my memory cards have been wiped. The contact to guide us through the mob is in the car. We are headed toward the river now. The Red Sox fans caught the soldiers sleeping!"
"Copy. I'm in phase two," Bolan acknowledged. He began moving toward the door. "Let's roll," he told the Russian, but the older man was already close on his heels.
21
Bolan stepped into the hallway.
The corridor was jammed with milling, frightened people. Behind him Lerekhov hovered as if tethered to his wrist. Bolan used his height to scan above the throng. Scared people were wincing at every explosion that echoed into the hotel from outside, shuddering at the noise of machine guns returning fire.
Bolan frowned. For every scared diplomat or bureaucrat there were two hard-eyed men with hands tucked into the lapels of their jackets. Bolan stepped to the side and let the ex-Soviet code breaker move forward according to his instructions.
Lerekhov began to navigate the hall, heading toward the far end away from the guest elevators, fighting the flow of guests. After a moment Bolan followed him. People bumped into the old man and pushed past him in their hurry to reach the elevator lobby but mostly ignored him. The man was so juiced up from his shot he actually seemed to gather forward propulsion from the kinetic energy of each contact and brush by.
Halfway down the hallway, barely fifteen seconds out of the room, Bolan faced his first obstacle. A fat Asian man followed by a tiny stick of a woman in too much makeup burst out of a door directly by Bolan. The big American turned a shoulder into them and they split around him, arguing loudly in a language he didn't immediately recognize.
At the same time from just over his shoulder he heard an angry Vietnamese voice shout Lerekhov's name. Just as Bolan had instructed, the Russian put his chin into his chest, ignored the voice and pushed forward.
The man barked another angry command, and Bolan stepped into the slight well offered by the open door to the room from which the fat Asian and his companion had emerged. A member of the Vietnamese auxiliary security team, dressed in his parade uniform of gray and crimson, shoved his way past Bolan's position, eyeing the big American, then turning his attention back toward his charge.
As he stepped past the American, Bolan saw the man clutched a Makarov pistol behind his back. Bolan stepped back into the hallway, coming up directly behind the Vietnamese soldier.
The medulla oblongata, Bolan knew, was Latin for "stem of the rose." It was specifically that part of the brain stem that joined the brain and the skull to the spine. It was the arterial nexus of the central nervous system.
&nb
sp; Bolan lifted up a big right hand and fired knuckles the size of dice into the back of the man's neck at the medulla oblongata. The effect was as instantaneous and as final as the industrial trip-hammer at a slaughterhouse. The Vietnamese buckled at the knees and dropped to the carpet.
The Makarov tumbled loose from slack fingers and bounced off the carpet. Bolan slid the fallen pistol into the open door of the room. He bent over and lifted the 145-pound man like a sack of potatoes and tossed the limp body into the open room. He leaned forward, snagged the door handle and pulled the door closed.
He pushed his way into the crowd. Three seconds had elapsed.
Up ahead the fleeing Lerekhov had almost reached the end of the hall. He looked back once and Bolan angrily gestured for him to keep moving, but a look of horror splashed across the Russian's animated face. The Executioner knew without looking that things had not gone smoothly.
He rudely pushed his way forward through the crowd like a running back fighting his way upfield. He tossed a look over his shoulder and saw more uniformed Vietnamese standing at the door to LerekhoVs room.
The men held Shipka Bulgarian submachine guns. The Shipka was a boxy, straightforward design, using simple blowback operation and firing from open bolt. The lower receiver along with pistol grip and trigger guard, were made from polymer, while the upper receiver was made from steel. The simple buttstock was made from steel wire and folded to the left side of gun.
It was an easily concealed compact weapon perfectly designed for urban operations and was capable of firing 700 rounds per minute. Exactly the situation Bolan wanted to avoid in such a congested environment.
He did the only thing he could do.
He ran.
* * *
Just ahead of him Lerekhov pushed open the door at the end of the hall that opened onto the staircase. The Russian disappeared through the doorway. Bolan cursed in frustration; at the end of the hall, set in a sort of L-shape were two doors. One was the fire door that led to the hotel stairs, and the other opened up to the service elevators used by the resort's maids and other employees.
Collision Course Page 12