Dade shuddered. Kursk sat behind his desk, spread his hands and smiled.
“Let’s not have this conversation again. Rather, I want to speak of Nightwind. Yes?”
Dade nodded, only too glad to change the subject.
“I looked at the schematics this morning,” the Russian said. “They are brilliant. Surely, I will have no problem selling them.”
The American exhaled a puff of smoke. Whether from fear or cocaine withdrawal, his shoulders and hands trembled.
“It’s my best work,” Dade said. “I spent two years fine-tuning the lasers so they won’t get warped by atmospheric conditions. Maxed out, they could punch a hole through a ship’s hull. Or an aircraft skin.”
“And depressurize the cabin,” Kursk said.
Dade shrugged. “I guess so,” he said. “I didn’t design Nightwind for use against commercial jets. It’s meant to shoot missiles from the skies. Not airliners.”
Kursk made a dismissive gesture. “We don’t determine uses,” the Russian said. “The customers do. If they can pay for the craft, they can do what they want with it. A customer asked me if it could be damaging to commercial jetliners. “
“Sounds like a terrorist,” Dade said.
“He considers himself a freedom fighter.”
“Whatever,” the scientist replied. “This is highly technical. Even if the guy could foot the bill for the plans, he’d never have the resources to reproduce it. Sentinel has billions of dollars, and they still needed help from the U.S. government to make the plane. It’d take a sovereign government with untold billions and a first-rate military establishment to make another Nightwind. Most nations can’t figure out how to build a nuclear bomb, let alone a tactical laser fighter. Even your country couldn’t reproduce it.”
Typical American arrogance, Kursk thought. “I have no country,” the Russian said, correcting him. “Only customers.”
Dade rolled his eyes. Talking science, he was in his element and less intimidated. “No one can reproduce this plane. That’s why I figured it was okay to sell the plans. Let some despot drop half a billion dollars and end up with the equivalent of a screen saver. Lots of pretty pictures, with no real value. I couldn’t care less.”
Kursk smiled. “You assumed I would sell my clients a—how you say—pig in a poke.”
“You knew that,” Dade said. “I told you as much.”
Kursk shrugged. “I changed my mind.”
“What?”
“My business is built on trust. I cannot sell someone faulty merchandise. It would not be right.”
“What the hell do you care?” Dade asked. “You make this score and you can retire. Get out of the blood trade for good. Besides, your customers are crooks, for God’s sake.”
“You, too, are a criminal now. This you must not forget.”
Dade looked down at his lap and studied his hands. “Bull. I just wanted to get back at my company. Get the hell away from everything. I wasn’t going to jail for anyone, especially some stupid hooker.”
The man was a bottomless well of self-pity and whining, Kursk thought. “I must ask more from you before all this is done.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Dade replied, startled.
“I want the plane. I am going to steal it, and you’re going to help me do so.”
Dade looked stunned. “You’re crazy.”
The smile drained away from Kursk’s face. He leaned forward, rested his big forearms on the desktop and trapped Dade under his gaze. “It’s quite simple, my friend. You either help me or I kill you. I already have the data. The world already thinks you are dead. I have nothing to lose if you die for real. It might even make my life easier in the long run.”
To punctuate the point, Kursk reached behind his back, drew the Tokarev and set it on the desktop within easy reach.
Dade’s blood-etched eyes widened, his cheeks flushed and anger flared. “This wasn’t part of the deal, and you know it. Besides, the plane is heavily guarded. You’d never get to it. It’d be a bloodbath.”
“You let me worry about that. You said it yourself, I work in a blood trade.”
As if reading Kursk’s mind, Dade said, “I don’t know anything about the security. I’m just a scientist.”
“You’re an extremely intelligent man,” Kursk said. “You notice things. Despite your little problem, eh?” Kursk squeezed his thumb and index finger together to approximate the tip of a spoon, stuck them to his left nostril and snorted.
Dade’s face flushed red. “You bastard, I ought to—”
Kursk held up a hand for silence. “You ought to calm yourself, my friend. Put away your pride. It’s no secret you enjoy cocaine, alcohol, women. Whether you are addicted is of no consequence to me. I just want to provide you with as much of all three as you can handle. I do that for business associates all the time.”
“What about my money?” Dade whined.
“You’ll get that, too. But you must help me steal the plane. I have ideas, and I have a contact within Sentinel’s research and development facility, the Haven. But I need you to confirm what I know and give me specifics about the aircraft.”
Dade leaned forward in his chair, grabbed the edge of the desktop. Kursk noticed the scientist’s fingers whitened as he held it in a death grip. Dade looked side-to-side before speaking, as if they were about to share a secret.
“Look, I’m dying for some blow,” the scientist said. “You get me that and we can work things out. I’ll help you get Nightwind.”
“Consider it done, my friend. Tell me what I need to know and you can have all the drugs and money you want.”
KURSK SHOVED ASIDE the aerial photos and drawings that had been scattered across his desk. A wave of disgust cascaded over the Russian as he looked at Dade. Sweat beaded the scientist’s forehead and his hands shook violently. His attention was becoming increasingly unfocused as his withdrawal symptoms deepened.
Kursk decided that he’d learned enough for now. He dismissed the scientist with a wave of his hand. “Please, go to your room. I believe you will find it suited perfectly to your particular tastes. And be assured you will have company this evening. You are my guest and shall be treated as such.”
Dade shot him a wary look, which pleased Kursk. Scared people were compliant and Dade’s fear pulsed through the room like waves of energy.
“We will speak further of this later,” Kursk assured the man.
A pair of guards escorted the scientist from the room. With a wave of his hand, the Russian dismissed the rest of his security force, too. He needed time alone to consider the challenges that lay before him.
That the American and Natasha Rytova were still alive worried Kursk. He couldn’t tolerate another debacle like the one at Talisman’s compound. If those two weren’t dead by morning, he would send his army of former Spetsnaz and special forces troops to Talisman’s compound to eliminate him and set an example for others within the organization.
Kursk would have killed Trevor Dade in a heartbeat if he didn’t think the man would fetch so much on the open market. Rogue nations and those engaged in uneasy alliances with the United States alike would gladly take custody of the man and his secrets.
But Kursk had other plans in the works. With a brilliant flash, he’d reduce America’s premiere weapons-development facility into a crater measuring a half mile in radius.
Freetown, Sierra Leone
AS THEY APPROACHED the building, a skinny boy dressed in a sweat-stained, sleeveless T-shirt and shorts, stepped from the doorway and thrust forward an AK-47 knockoff.
The young African held up the rifle with two hands, diagonal across his chest, muzzle pointed skyward, as though blocking throngs of rioters. Bolan guessed the child was about fourteen. A faded necktie converted into a rifle strap hung loosely from the gun. A dead-eyed stare appraised Bolan for a moment, Rytova even longer.
“Where are you going?” the boy asked. He brought the rifle down, leveled at Bolan’s chest. The b
oy’s index finger rested on the outside curve of the trigger guard.
“I’m going inside,” Bolan said. “We’re here to see a tenant.”
“Who?”
“You the security here?” Bolan asked.
The boy nodded. “You want to go inside, you have to go through me.”
Bolan had no doubt he could. He just didn’t want to.
“We really need to get inside,” Bolan said. “Maybe we can make a deal.”
“No deals. Who are you here to see?”
“I’ve got money,” Bolan said. He dug in his pocket, extracted the equivalent of $40. He held the money just out of the boy’s reach.
The boy stared at the money but said nothing. Bolan kept the cash front and center, entranced the boy with it as he shifted slowly to one side.
The boy grinned. “I could kill you and take the money.”
“Suit yourself,” Bolan said. He flicked the cash through the air to the boy’s right. Small eyes followed it as it exploded into a cloud of several small bills wafting toward the ground. The rifle followed the boy’s line of vision, moving the muzzle precious inches away from Bolan’s center mass.
The big man stepped in, grabbed cold steel and cleared the muzzle from his kill zone. Rock-hard muscles tensing, arms acting in concert like pistons, Bolan gave the assault rifle a hard yank with one hand, the boy’s chest a rough shove with the other.
The boy fell back and yelped when his rear collided with concrete.
Bolan raised the rifle, ejected the magazine and handed it to Rytova. With practiced movements, he stripped the weapon, heaving components in different directions. He removed the weapon’s recoil mechanism, held it up so the boy could see it, then handed it to Rytova. He tossed the knockoff AK-47’s remains aside.
“You’re out of business, son.”
Pulling himself up from the pavement, the boy balled up his fists, surged toward Bolan and snapped out a sloppy left. Bolan stepped aside and let the punch glide past him. Snagging the kid’s wrist, Bolan wheeled at the waist and yanked him forward. The force stole the boy’s footing. Grabbing at the young man’s upper arm with his free hand, Bolan pushed him to the ground. He kept the movement as gentle as possible so he could maintain control without hurting the boy. Laying him flat against the pavement, Bolan twisted a slim arm up behind the youth’s back.
“You don’t want to fight me, and I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to. So take your money and go. Understand?”
The boy nodded.
Bolan eased off. The boy got to his feet, rubbed his shoulder and gave Bolan an angry look.
“This isn’t over,” the boy said.
“Between you and me it is,” Bolan said.
The boy agreed to unlock the building’s front door, and gave Bolan and Rytova a wide berth as they entered the sagging building. Looking over his shoulder, Bolan saw the boy collecting pieces of his rifle. A clattering noise sounded from behind, prompting the soldier to turn. He saw Rytova had stepped behind the desk and dumped the recoil mechanism into a trash can. He watched as she shoved the container inside a cabinet underneath the lobby desk and closed the door.
Bolan scanned their surroundings as Rytova walked to the elevator and summoned the car. The lobby was devoid of people. A pair of bare bulbs burned overhead, illuminating the dingy area. White wallpaper stained brown from water leaks separated from the wall in several spots and hung down in large curls. Bullet holes and scorch marks blemished the walls. The stink of mildew hung heavy in the air, nearly overpowering the weaker smells of coffee, cooking grease and exotic spices that drifted from the building’s upper reaches.
A muffled ring announced the elevator’s arrival and the door slid open. With a gesture, Bolan ushered the woman into the car, took a last look behind them and followed her inside. As the car ascended, Bolan’s combat senses began to sound, and he felt the pit of his stomach tighten.
He had the Beretta in his hand before the elevator halted at the sixth floor. As the door slid open, the warrior poked his head out and glanced down the hallway. A shaft of light shone through a partially opened door farther down the hall. Taking a quick inventory of room numbers, Bolan figured the open door was Moeller’s.
They made their way down the hall and Bolan peered through the door while Rytova, armed with a SIG-Sauer P239, watched his back. He saw the suitcase and the nylon computer bag setting on the floor near the apartment entrance. Computer keys clicked from deeper inside the room. Bolan stepped into the doorway, chanced a look inside and saw Moeller dressed and seated at the computer desk. He noticed the bulge in the guy’s left armpit almost immediately.
Bolan locked the Beretta on the man and nudged the door with his free hand. Rusty hinges protested as the door swung open.
Moeller gasped, jumped to his feet and whipped around, knocking the chair to the floor in the process. His hand stabbed inside his shirt.
“Don’t do it, Ron,” Bolan said.
Moeller didn’t. Instead, he raised his hands and smiled.
“Hey, you’re American,” he said. “You’re Cooper, right?”
Bolan kept his face impassive. “Maybe.”
“Bull,” Moeller said. “You’re the guy I was told to expect.”
Bolan didn’t respond. Instead he cocked his head at Moeller’s suitcases. “Looks like you didn’t want to be here when I arrived. Where are you going?”
Moeller’s lips tightened for a moment, a sheen broke out on the crown of his head.
“I got orders to move tonight,” he said. “I’ve helped the locals stop a couple of diamonds-for-weapons deals around here. Somebody figured it out, put a price on my head. The bosses in Washington told me to haul ass and go home. Hey, man, can I put my hands down?”
Bolan ignored the request. “Interesting,” he said. “Now try telling me the truth.”
“That is the truth,” Moeller said, looking serious.
Instinct told the Executioner otherwise.
Bolan scanned the room and spotted a tattered cigarette carton resting on a scarred wooden coffee table. The plastic wrapping had been stripped away and a couple of bands of clear tape held the box closed. Bolan noticed the room had the same rotten stench as the rest of the building—years of sweat, backed-up sewers, mildew—but no cigarette smoke. There wasn’t even an ashtray in sight.
“You a smoker, Ron?” he asked.
“Nah, man. Nasty habit, right? Got enough people trying to kill me already. You know what I’m saying?”
Bolan nodded toward the cigarette carton. “Holding those for someone?”
Moeller’s lips tightened again. Bolan assumed that meant he was trying to think of a new lie to tell. Brushing past him, the soldier stepped to the table and grabbed the carton.
Moeller stepped toward Bolan, clenching his fists as he did. The Executioner’s gun hand snapped forth and leveled out as he planted the Beretta’s muzzle on Moeller’s forehead.
The State Department agent stopped cold.
Bolan pushed the Beretta harder into the man’s face, forcing his head to tilt back at an uncomfortable angle. “Sit,” Bolan said.
Moeller folded his legs and fell into the couch.
Bolan pointed his pistol at the agent’s armpit. “Two fingers,” he said. “Take it out. Hand it butt first over your shoulder to the woman behind you. If I get nervous, I’ll put one in you and apologize to your bosses later.”
Moeller retrieved his pistol and handed it to Rytova, who had shifted to the side to get out of the line of fire. Rytova snatched the SIG-Sauer, cocked back the hammer and pointed it along with her own pistol at Moeller’s head.
The agent jerked in his seat. He shot her a frightened glance. “C’mon, guys,” he said, “you’ve got the wrong idea.”
“My mistake,” Bolan said. Holstering the Beretta, he ripped open the cigarette box and emptied rough diamonds into his palm. Faced with the suitcases and the jewels, Bolan’s worst fears had been confirmed. “You doing some fre
elance work?” he asked.
“Screw you, man,” Moeller responded.
“Is this for fingering the other State Department agents?” Bolan asked. He closed in on the man. “You the reason they’re dead, Ron?”
Moeller’s eyes bulged, and he backed up against the couch until the wood frame stopped him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I was holding them for someone. Actually, one of my sources must have left them here. He was here earlier tonight, I swear. Hell, that’s the closest I’ve been to rough diamonds since I arrived in Africa.”
Moeller managed a weak smile, an even weaker shrug. Bolan pocketed the diamonds and drew the Desert Eagle from behind his back. He centered the big-bore hand cannon’s muzzle on Moeller’s chest.
“Ron, I’m a better shot than you are a liar. What say we start playing straight with each other?”
It was Bolan’s turn to lie. He knew he couldn’t kill an unarmed man looking like he was more ready to cry than to retaliate.
But he would indulge in a little psychological warfare. The gun’s muzzle stayed rock steady.
“You know Talisman, Ron?” Bolan pressed. “You the guy who sold us out? Where can we find him?”
From the hall, Bolan heard the elevator bell ring and the door slide open. The furtive scrapes of boot soles striking bare floor were followed by the metallic click of a weapon being cocked.
Bolan glanced back at Moeller and saw a look of relief wash across the guy’s features. Apparently he figured help was on the way. That could only mean something very bad for the Executioner.
TALISMAN THREW the two-way radio to the floor of his red BMW sports car and stared out the car’s window. Artificially cold air blew against the exposed skin of his face and arms, making them feel clammy. But an angry fire consumed his stomach, and breath whipped in and out of his lungs in long pulls. He sounded like an enraged rhinoceros preparing to charge a hunter.
He looked down at the radio and mentally replayed his discussion with Iron Man.
Nikolai Kursk had insulted him, called him a coward and killed one of his people. Not that Talisman cared particularly about Blood Claw. But he did consider the man property—his property. As far as Talisman was concerned, you didn’t kill his people any more than you’d steal his car or burn down his house. Doing such things were blatant acts of war.
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