But Talisman knew he could never wage war against Kursk. To do so was suicide. Kursk had handed him a do-or-die mission, and he had no choice but to comply. So he’d get his re-match with the American, and this time he’d walk away a winner. First, though, he had another loose end to tie up. Ronald Moeller had outlived his usefulness, and Talisman no longer trusted the squirrely bastard. The guy might have an attack of conscience and turn himself in, or worse, dump his guts to some drinking buddy who, in turn, sold the information to a U.S. intelligence agent. Talisman knew it would all come back on him, and he didn’t need the headache.
He wheeled the BMW into the parking lot next to Moeller’s apartment building, a former luxury hotel. An armored Mercedes sedan followed. Kursk had provided Talisman with a fleet of armored cars and trucks so he could shuttle the kidnapped scientist around the country in safety.
The hardman shifted the car into Neutral, yanked up the emergency brake and killed the lights. He waited for his boss to exit the car before doing likewise. A ten-foot-high fence topped with curls of razor wire surrounded the pockmarked parking lot.
The building had begun to sag under the weight of the civil war’s tireless onslaught. When bombings, gunfights and kidnappings took hold of the country, the tourism trade evaporated. From what Talisman knew, this particular structure had been abandoned and later transformed into an apartment building for the army of bleeding heart aid workers infesting his country.
The young guard approached Talisman and held out a hand. Talisman reached into a jacket pocket, withdrew a half-burned joint and handed it to the boy.
“Watch the cars,” Talisman said. “If I find a scratch on them, I’ll cut off your arms.”
Talisman patted the head of the battered ax shoved inside his belt and smiled. The boy scowled and nodded his understanding.
“Someone already is here,” the boy said. “A man and a woman, both white, came earlier. I’ve not seen them before.”
Talisman frowned. “You let them in?”
The boy shrugged his frail shoulders. “They forced their way in. I confronted them, but the man snatched my weapon and broke it. Told me to go home.” The boy leaned toward Talisman and stared intently as he spoke. “My rifle is no good. Perhaps you could fix it or give me another one?”
“The man, was he American?” Talisman asked.
“I think so. He was big. Not as big as you, of course, but big.”
Talisman gave the boy a hard shove that knocked him against the fence. “If someone tries to hurt my cars, you hit them with your empty rifle. Do whatever you have to or it’s your ass.”
Heart hammering in his chest, Talisman started for the main door. His earlier buzz had worn off after the battle at his compound and he felt edgy, ready to pound somebody. He’d considered lighting up, but had decided against it. He needed his senses sharp for the task ahead. The marijuana had caused him to hesitate and run out the door after he’d hit the American with the rifle. He wouldn’t repeat that mistake.
He’d lost his AK-47 during his escape and had replaced it with a Galil assault rifle. He snapped off the ambidextrous safety and canted the weapon by its pistol grip as he tugged the hotel’s front door open. If everything went his way, he could kill three enemies and lord it over Nikolai Kursk.
5
Mack Bolan was on the move even as the first shadow approached the doorway. He turned to Natasha Rytova who nodded, indicating she too saw the impending danger. The woman raised her SIG-Sauer and brought it down hard, cracking it against Moeller’s skull. The State Department agent groaned and rolled to the side, unconscious.
Bolan leveled the .44 Magnum hand cannon in front of him as he closed in on the door. An African trooper, his Galil assault rifle snug against his shoulder, filled the portal and swung the weapon in an arc toward Bolan.
The Desert Eagle roared once in Bolan’s hand. The bullet pounded into the man’s skull, tore away part of his head and knocked him backward into the hallway. Rytova fired two shots from her weapon, planting both in the man’s torso. His weapon fell to the ground. Even as the reverberations from the Desert Eagle’s last blast died down, Bolan was again in motion, seeking another target.
A devastating wave of 5.56 mm tumblers punched through the doorway and into the apartment, splintering wooden furniture and fixtures, piercing drywall and shredding upholstery before sawing through Moeller’s inert form.
Bolan cursed himself as he bolted for cover. He hadn’t meant to get the agent killed, even if the man was dirty.
A second gunner had twisted himself around the door frame and raked the room with sizzling autofire. The Desert Eagle barked once in Bolan’s hand, but the round whizzed harmlessly past the intruder. The soldier adjusted his aim, fired again. The bullet caught the man in the right eye, and he collapsed to the ground in a heap.
The gunfire halted for a moment as the remaining shooters saw the second of their two comrades fall. At best, Bolan knew, the respite was temporary. He also knew his good fortune thus far was just that. He’d need better firepower to finish the job at hand.
The warrior ran in a crouch to the abandoned weapons lying on the floor. Grabbing the fully loaded Galil dropped by his first kill, he slid it across the floor to Rytova who was closing in on his position. She held the SIG-Sauer in both hands and extended it forward, covering the shattered doorway as she came up beside him. Holstering the handgun, she hefted the Galil and checked its load.
Bolan grabbed the second corpse’s ankle and dragged him inside the room. The movement reignited another deadly surge of firepower more fierce than the last. Bullets lanced through the air and drove Rytova back behind a heavy wooden chest.
Furiously, Bolan continued to tug at the Galil’s strap, which had become entangled in its owner’s arms. After the weapon came loose, Bolan stripped the man of his web belt and moved off the firing line. He strapped the seized belt crossways over his chest like a bandolier.
The gunfire lessened for a moment as more than one of Bolan’s attackers apparently reloaded their weapons. He continued to hold his fire, though, not wanting to send wild sprays of autofire into the corridors of a crowded apartment building. Instead, he used the time to scan his surroundings and formulate a survival plan.
Then things got worse.
A chorus of fire bells rang throughout the building, followed seconds later by screams and thundering footsteps as already panicked residents bolted from their apartments in search of safety. Whether activated by the rolling gunsmoke or one of Talisman’s foot soldiers, the alarm bells had just opened a floodgate of human shields that would cramp Bolan’s style and make the job that much easier for Talisman and his band of exterminators.
Bolan caught Rytova’s eye and nodded toward a sliding glass door at the other end of the living room. He crawled backward toward the glass door, propelling himself with his elbows. Regardless of whether she understood his idea, Rytova followed suit.
She slid the door open, and they both slipped through it and onto the balcony. Even Freetown’s humid, fetid air felt fresh and cool compared to the smoke-and-cordite laden atmosphere of Moeller’s apartment.
Strapping the Galil across his back, Bolan moved to the balcony railing. Peering down, he saw dozens of people already pouring from the building’s entrance. Rytova gave him a questioning look. “Where are we going?”
“Up. Then we get them from behind. I’m not leaving this damn place without Talisman.”
Balancing himself on the balcony railing, Bolan reached up and over the balcony platform above him. Running his hands along the concrete surface, he searched until he found the posts securing the railing. Gripping one in each hand, he pulled himself up to eye level with the next balcony. For long moments, his legs dangled five stories above the streets. Ignoring the burn in his muscles, Bolan hoisted himself high enough to swing a leg onto the platform and complete the climb. Moments later, he was on the balcony, inside the railing and reaching below for Rytova. She fired a short b
urst into Moeller’s apartment, then climbed onto the railing and looked up at Bolan.
“They’re trying to storm the room,” she shouted.
“Take my hand,” Bolan said.
She complied, and he pulled her to him. As soon as she was able, she slid a leg onto the balcony, grabbed hold of the railing and pulled herself the rest of the way up.
Bolan peered into the apartment, which seemed empty. He tried the door and found it locked. A quick burst shattered the handle and the locking mechanism, and he slid the door open.
A quick sweep revealed the apartment was empty, and Bolan made his way to the front door. He stopped and listened. Stragglers shouted at one another over the fire alarms. There was a lot of noise and panic, but nothing to indicate an immediate threat to Bolan or Rytova.
Stepping into the corridor, the soldier nearly collided with a woman in a robe, who screamed when she saw him. Others began to raise their hands and stop when they saw the armed intruders.
“Go,” Bolan said.
The people raced into the stairwells at either end of the floor.
“You take the stairs at that end of the hall,” Bolan said to Rytova. “I’ll take these. We converge on Moeller’s apartment. Catch them from behind.”
“Right,” she said.
Bolan returned to Moeller’s floor and stepped from the stairwell into the corridor. Screams sounded from elsewhere in the building and a cold sense of unease gripped him. He decided to stand his ground. Another distraction might cost him a chance to take down Talisman, and he couldn’t allow that.
As he closed in on the wrecked apartment, Bolan could hear Talisman inside, screaming at someone. “The troops, the police, they’re everywhere. We have no air support. Grab me hostages before the building empties, or we’ll never make it out of here.”
Bolan heard the creak of leather and the pounding of boot soles as someone approached the corridor. Whispering across the floor like a wraith, Bolan squeezed into the recess of a nearby doorway and drew down. A hardman exited Moeller’s apartment, AK-47 held at the ready. The Beretta coughed twice and the twin Parabellum rounds broke through the man’s ribs and tore into vital organs. The gunner’s eyes widened in surprise as crimson wounds blossomed across his chest. He struggled to scream, but only managed to conjure up a sickening gurgle as he staggered back.
His handgun held at the ready, Bolan stepped into Moeller’s apartment and found Talisman standing among the ruins. The big African had pushed the agent’s corpse onto the floor and dumped the contents of his suitcase on top of him. Talisman was kneeling next to the mess, picking through the scattered clothing.
Thankfully, the blaring fire alarms went quiet.
“If you’re looking for the diamonds, forget it,” Bolan said.
Talisman stiffened, but raised his hands. He stood and turned toward Bolan.
“Not bad, American,” Talisman said. “Take away that gun, though, and my guess is you’re a whole lot of nothing.”
Bolan eyed his opponent and considered the challenge. Talisman was wasting his time trying to goad the Executioner into a fight by attacking his ego. Bolan had survived too many hell-grounds to feel a need to prove himself.
Still, Talisman might have valuable intel to share about Nikolai Kursk or Trevor Dade. And if Bolan could sweat it out of the guy, so much the better.
“There’s only one way this will work,” Bolan said. The Beretta remained locked dead center on Talisman’s forehead.
Talisman nodded. He dug into his holster, drew his handgun with two fingers, tossed it aside. Sliding his ax from his belt, he thrust the weapon into the floor. The razor-sharp steel buried itself in the wood with a dull thud.
Bolan lowered the Beretta. Unloading the weapon, he threw it behind the couch and pocketed the empty magazine. He did the same with the Galil and the Desert Eagle.
A guttural cry escaped Talisman’s lips as he surged toward Bolan. Cold steel glinted in the larger man’s hand and the Executioner found himself fighting for his life.
NATASHA RYTOVA WADED into the wave of panicked residents as they scrambled downstairs in a desperate search for safety. Fire alarms blared in her ears and caused her head to throb as she pushed her way though the people, her SIG-Sauer held at the ready.
A baby cried, and the noise transported Rytova to a place she didn’t want to go. Back to Moscow and before she was drummed out of the SVR. She’d been in the early days of her second trimester when Kursk’s thugs had killed Dmitri and her father.
When they died, she went numb for what seemed like weeks as she waited for the shock to wear away. When the ice briefly began to melt, it had been thanks to the smoldering rage that permeated her every cell and jolted her back to life. Her anger drove her to work hours, days on end without sleep or food as she began petitioning the SVR to track down and arrest Kursk.
After two weeks, she collapsed and woke up later in a hospital. The baby was gone.
The loneliness had been almost unbearable. She came to realize that Nikolai Kursk had killed her husband and father, but it had been her rage that had caused her baby to die.
She had gone cold at that realization. And when the rage seeped through it came in the form of a self-hate that burned inside and, at times, threatened to consume her.
The crowds had thinned, and Rytova reached for the doorway leading onto Moeller’s floor.
Footfalls thundered overhead. The Russian spun and brought up the SIG-Sauer in a two-handed grip. An African hardman stopped short, staring at her over the barrel of his AK-47. Her heart quickened, her breath went shallow. Emotion clashed with training as she fought to control her racing mind. She could run, sure, but she needed to draw blood first or take a bullet in the back.
A small cry from below diverted her attention.
She knew what was coming, but looked anyway.
A woman was climbing the steps. Sweat and tears rolled down the coffee-and-cream complexion of her face. Breath intermingled with frightened sobs. A gunner had snaked his sinewy arm around her throat. He had turned her neck hard, forcing her to walk on her toes. The woman had arched her back to relieve the pressure on her neck. The pair came to a rest on the landing just one flight below Rytova. Another flight below that was the doorway leading into the next floor.
The gunner flashed Rytova a smile. Buried an Uzi’s snout into the woman’s side, just inches from the baby she carried.
Rytova had no delusions. The woman and the baby were as good as dead. So was she. Unless she got all three of them out of this.
The fire alarms ceased their incessant wailing and the contrasting silence seemed almost stunning. Finally, one less distraction and one more thing going in her favor. A door below Rytova opened. She heard more footsteps as people began to file into the stairwell.
“Sir, put down the weapon. Let the woman go. Let her go,” someone ordered.
The gunner from above kept his weapon trained on Rytova, but his eyes darted wildly as he tried to ID the new variable in the standoff. The man with the hostage whirled violently toward the voice. His gun drifted about six inches from the hostages. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it was enough.
Intervention by what Rytova assumed were peacekeepers had opened a window of opportunity. A small, brief opening. But an opening, nonetheless.
She took it.
TALISMAN DROVE the razor-sharp steel toward Bolan’s throat with a vicious roundhouse swing. Bolan stepped inside the arc of the blow and blocked it with his left arm. He stabbed at Talisman’s Adam’s apple with a knife-hand strike and threw his hip into the blow to give it more power. Talisman’s upper body whipped back and Bolan made only glancing contact with the bigger man’s throat. His adversary took three steps back, clutched his throat and gagged but didn’t fall. Bolan wanted to press the advantage, but Talisman continued to wave the knife in wide patterns in front of him.
Bolan kept the man in soft focus, not concentrating on the arms or the legs, but on the whole body, and prepared
for his next move.
Talisman moved forward, slashing the air with the knife and driving the soldier back. The blade’s tip caught the front of Bolan’s jacket, sliced a three-inch gash through the material but missed the flesh underneath. Talisman continued forward trying to crowd Bolan with his greater bulk.
The Executioner cracked his opponent hard in the face twice, flattening Talisman’s nose and causing the bigger man to drop back and give him a wider berth. Hitting Talisman was like striking granite.
The African snapped a kick for Bolan’s groin. The Executioner spun and bore the brunt of the impact on his hip. It struck Bolan like a gunshot and knocked him backward. His hip and thigh went numb, but Bolan knew pain would kick in after the shock and adrenaline wore off. He covered the distance between the men with a snap kick that plunged into Talisman’s solar plexus.
Bolan let his momentum propel him deeper into the fray. As Talisman bowed at the waist to protect his midsection, the Executioner grabbed the African by the ears, yanked down on Talisman’s head as he drove his knee into the man’s face.
Talisman ran an arm across his mouth, wiping at the torrent of blood that cascaded down his lips and chin from his broken nose. He stared at the blood staining the back of his hand. Swaying a bit, he flashed Bolan a smile.
“I’m going to kill you for this,” he said.
The gunrunner threw a punch at Bolan’s head. The Executioner rolled with the blow, but gave up ground as Talisman closed in. A glint of steel registered with Bolan. He threw down a low block that stopped his adversary’s knife strike cold while also shooting an uppercut into the African’s jaw.
Talisman staggered back against the wall, but used the surface as a launching pad for another strike. Careening toward Bolan, he slashed at the air and let out a thunderous shout. But he was shaky enough that Bolan sidestepped the attack and drove a fist into the bigger man’s kidney as he sailed by.
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