Unless, of course, they killed him first.
He crossed the street and moved in, under cover of the night. The neighborhood lay north of downtown Nicosia, and it had been occupied for generations by the city's affluent elite. The homes were large, by Balkan standards, built with breathing room between them, walls dividing neighbors and accentuating the distinction of the neighborhood from Nicosia's standard residential press. If the abodes were something less than mansions, if they offered less than total privacy, at least their tenants had escaped the teeming warrens of the lower classes.
Sarkis had a prime location, with his house set back away from traffic and screened by olive trees. The wrought iron gates were closed across a gravel driveway leading to his door. The grounds were relatively small — two acres, more or less — but that spelled status for a city dweller. And, the Executioner was quick to note, it also gave the home team ample opportunity to lay a trap.
If Bolan had an edge, it had to be surprise. Makarios couldn't be certain he was still alive. At worst the pusher would suspect a foul-up, but he'd be hoping for the best. He might be reassured by Sarkis, or the Lebanese might kick his ass for running under fire. Whichever way it went, they wouldn't have the time to mount a new offensive now.
He found the dealer's telephone connection, scrambled, halfway up the pole, and used his vantage point to scan the grounds. No foot patrols were visible, and Bolan took his chances, squeezing off two silenced rounds to clip the cable. That accomplished, he reversed directions, scaled the six-foot wall and hesitated long enough to whistle for the nonexistent dogs before he dropped inside.
He found the first guard urinating on some ornamental shrubs, and solved his bladder problem with a single round behind one ear. A second man, closer to the house, was lighting up a cigarette when Bolan helped him kick the habit with a slug dispatched from skin-touch range. The smoker had an Uzi slung across his shoulder, with a pair of extra magazines tucked through his belt, and Bolan claimed them as the spoils of war.
The odds were looking better all the time.
He circled wide around the large three-story house, approaching from the rear. Lights burned behind a number of the windows, but he met no more sentries on the last leg of his trek. The blinds were drawn upstairs, and no one moved behind the downstairs windows as he left the cover of the trees, advancing in a rush across the strip of manicured lawn. Tall, sliding doors gave access to the house from a veranda, and he tried them, startled to discover that they weren't locked.
Chalk up another fumble for the opposition.
Bolan slipped inside and closed the sliding door behind him, leading with his Uzi, feeling slightly foolish as he got the drop on half a dozen empty chairs. It was a smallish, casual dining room, illuminated dimly by a pair of fixtures mounted on the wall. The overheads were dark, the table bare. Connecting doors to Bolan's right and dead ahead were closed.
He crossed the dining room and tried the right-hand door for starters, finding that it opened on the kitchen. Stainless steel and polished copper gleamed from racks above a good-sized range, reflecting tiny images of Bolan as he scanned the empty room. A double-door refrigerator hummed to life as Bolan made his exit, moving on.
Beyond the second door he had his choice of left or right, along a corridor with paintings on the walls and thick shag carpet underfoot. The lights and stairs were to his left, and Bolan ventured off in that direction, following the Uzi, eyes and ears alert to any warning signals of impending danger.
Like the gunner on the stairs.
The guy was halfway down, descending silently, when Bolan crossed his field of vision. The discovery was simultaneous, or nearly so, and the Executioner saw his adversary reaching for a pistol as he swung the captured Uzi up and into target acquisition. There would be no time to switch in favor of his side arm, with its silencer, and he was dead unless he stopped the gunner's play.
So be it.
Bolan stroked the trigger of his submachine gun, ripping off a short, precision burst that stitched his enemy across the chest and put him down without a whimper. Somewhere overhead, a startled voice was shouting questions, rallying the troops, and Bolan knew he had no time to spare. All hope of a surprise forgotten, literally shot to hell, he started up the stairs.
* * *
"This way."
Makarios glanced back at Sarkis, saw him pointing to the left, and veered in that direction, covering the empty hallway with his Walther automatic. They were safe, or should be, on the topmost floor, but he didn't believe in taking chances where his safety was concerned.
Below them on the second level of the house, a burst of automatic fire revealed that Sarkis's men had found the enemy. Makarios felt dizzy from the rush of questions swirling in his mind. How many raiders were there? Were they cronies of Belasko's? Had they somehow followed him without his knowledge?
If not, then it could only mean that Sarkis was the target. The thought was reassuring, until Makarios remembered his position. He'd doubtless be mistaken for a member of the Sarkis household, either guest or staff, and from the sound of things downstairs, the raiders meant to leave no witnesses behind. By running to Rashid, he'd unwittingly become a target in the shooting gallery.
The stairs were twenty feet in front of them, guarded by a solitary gunman who stood on the landing. Gunfire echoed in the stairwell, and as Makarios watched, a stray round clipped the banister, diverted from its course, and struck the ceiling overhead. A stream of dust and plaster filtered down, then petered out and stopped.
"Your place is here," Sarkis informed him, nodding toward the landing and its solitary guard. It took a moment for Makarios to realize that he was being left behind.
"Where are you going?"
"I have calls to make. Razmara must be warned."
"But, I…"
"Stay here!" the Lebanese commanded in a tone that caused Makarios to wince. "You needn't be afraid this time. My soldiers will protect you."
Sarkis turned and stalked away before Makarios could formulate an answer. Fury brought the color to his cheeks, and when he turned around, the solitary gunner shifted his eyes away from an examination of the man his master had humiliated.
Balancing the Walther in a sweaty palm, he moved to stand against the railing, listening to sounds of combat from the second floor. As if on cue, the gunfire faltered and died. Could it be over? Did the sudden lull spell victory or death? How long before a frightened neighbor called police?
Not long.
He jumped, surprised, as shooting suddenly erupted on the floor below. The gunman at his side regarded Makarios with a look of thinly veiled contempt, then turned his full attention in the direction of the stairwell. Stepping closer to the rail, the young man raised his submachine gun, braced the stock against his shoulder, covering the stairs.
Below, a gunman — one of those employed by Sarkis — hit the stairs full tilt, his face contorted by exertion. Halfway up, he turned to fire a parting shot and lost his balance, nearly falling as he lurched against the banister. Before he could recover, half a dozen rounds of automatic gunfire ripped through him and punched him backward in a lifeless sprawl.
The young man at his elbow cursed, but held his ground. Makarios had seen enough, and he ignored a second curse that was directed at his back as he retreated. Surely there was somewhere he could hide, with all these empty rooms. And where had Sarkis gone? He must have reached Razmara by this time. How long could warnings take?
He tried the first door, found it locked and veered across the hall. This time the knob turned easily beneath his hand, and Makarios stuck his head inside the bedroom, frightened at the thought of running into Sarkis. Theoretically an equal of the Lebanese, Makarios knew Sarkis could be unpredictable and violent in a crisis situation. If he witnessed Spyros in the act of disobeying his command…
The room was empty.
Hesitating on the threshold, Makarios turned in time to see the young man on the landing die. He didn't hear the fatal
shots, but witnessed their result: a spray of crimson from a head wound, and the gunner twisting, falling, holding down the trigger of his weapon as he melted to the floor.
Makarios was torn between reaction and retreat. If he was quick enough, he might be able to surprise the enemy while they were vulnerable on the staircase. On the other hand, he still had time to find himself a sanctuary — underneath the bed, a closet, anything — before the raiders reached his floor.
He split the difference, crouching in the doorway with his gun arm braced against the wall, his sights trained on the landing. He had seven rounds and one spare magazine before he was defenseless. Could he stop them all? Could he stop one?
The dealer offered up a prayer to long-forgotten gods and settled down to wait.
* * *
The Uzi's last six rounds had gone to kill a gunner on the stairs, and Bolan knew he had no time to cast about for other magazines. They would be waiting for him on the floor above — Makarios and Sarkis at the very least — and any stalling now would only let them plan a better ambush.
Bolan dropped the empty submachine gun and drew his Beretta as he started for the stairs. Without a stun grenade or two, there was no easy way to do it. He'd have to take the staircase any way he could, and that meant dropping anyone who tried to stop him.
How many hostile guns? It was the question you could never really answer, going in without a recon, but he had no options left. It was the stairs or nothing, and he hadn't come this far to turn back empty-handed.
Bolan visualized his move and then made it, pounding up the stairs and past the fallen gunner's body, twisting as he ran to bring the landing under fire. He'd been ready for a firing squad, prepared to kill as many as he could before they cut him down, and he was startled to behold a single lookout, staring down the barrel of a compact submachine gun.
The warrior triggered two quick rounds before his adversary had a chance to fire. The shooter's head snapped back, and impact drove him off the rail, his weapon spraying walls and ceiling as he fell. More cautious now, expecting the appearance of a backup gunner, Bolan tried to cover both the landing and the stairs behind him as he climbed.
He took the last three steps in a determined lunge and threw himself across the landing, rolling into touchdown as a pistol opened up with rapid, close-range fire. The sniper had a precious edge, but he was firing carelessly, like something from a grade B Hollywood production, and his haste gave Bolan time to aim a well-placed double punch.
He recognized Makarios in profile as the dealer fell. No other weapons joined the party, and he scuttled over to the doorway where Makarios lay on his back, his arms flung out, red blotches soaking through his shirt. The guy was fading fast, but he was conscious. Bolan slipped a hand beneath his head and lifted him so he could breathe a little easier.
"Where's Sarkis?"
Was the dealer trying to respond, or merely grimacing in pain? It hardly mattered, for the light went out behind his eyes as Bolan watched and he became a deadweight in the soldier's hands.
That made it door-to-door, and Bolan started with the closest one at hand. The lock surrendered to a flying kick, and Bolan crossed the threshold in a crouch, retreating just as swiftly from the empty storage room. He checked another pair of bedrooms, getting nowhere fast, ears straining for the wail of sirens that would force him to evacuate.
The fourth door opened outward like a closet. It was locked, and Bolan cracked the mechanism with a silenced round before he whipped it open, stepping back to cover the enclosure from an angle.
Stairs.
He felt a burning in his gut, the knowledge that his major quarry might have already slipped away.
Descending into darkness, Bolan kept his automatic leveled, ready for a surprise at any moment. It was possible he might have missed his prey, that Sarkis could be hiding somewhere on the floor above, but he'd learned to trust his instincts under fire. His gut was telling him that the dealer would attempt to slip away while Makarios and the home guard took the heat.
What kind of lead would Sarkis have? If he'd bailed out at Bolan's first encounter with the troops downstairs, he'd be free and clear by now. The soldier's only hope lay in confusion, indecision and delay. Makarios would certainly have been a factor slowing Sarkis down.
How much?
The stairs ran out, and Bolan faced another door. Ground floor or basement? He tried the knob and found the door unlocked. He took a long, slow breath, expelled it softly, counting down the doomsday numbers in his mind. Leaning forward in a crouch, he pushed off.
The first shot gouged a tunnel in the doorjamb, several inches to the right of Bolan's face. He felt the sting of flying splinters, ducked and rolled before a second-round correction drilled the space where he'd been standing. As the floor came up to meet him, the warrior had a brief impression of the room: acoustic tiles on walls and ceilings, a fluorescent fixture overhead, a makeshift operating table in the middle of the floor, the darting figure just behind it, angling for another shot.
The gunfire echoed loud in Bolan's ears, confined within the soundproof chamber. Bolan squeezed off silenced rounds in answer, striking sparks as one slug struck the stainless steel operating table, veering off to drill the wall. He kept himself in motion, scrambling around the table as his adversary circled clockwise, like some lethal parody of a lecher chasing his secretary around her desk.
It had to end, and swiftly. On an impulse, Bolan changed direction, veering counterclockwise, taking Sarkis by surprise. For something like a heartbeat, they were face-to-face, their weapons leveled, fingers tightening on triggers.
Bolan got there first, with three rounds fired so rapidly they lifted Sarkis off his feet, the dealer's single shot exploding harmlessly in space. He fell against the wall and slithered down into a seated posture, leaving bloody skid marks in his wake. His eyes were open, locked upon a private view of hell.
The operating table captured Bolan's full attention now. Its occupant was bagged for transport, lumpy and misshapen in a giant burlap sack that was discolored with his seeping blood. Before he pulled the drawstring, Bolan knew what he would find inside the sack, and yet he had no choice.
The battered face of Nikos Kiprianou was relaxed in death, released from the ungodly pain that had consumed his final hours. Bolan pulled the burlap back to scrutinize the other damage, feeling instantaneous regret that he couldn't raise Sarkis from the dead and kill the bastard one more time, with feeling.
How much had the dealer learned from Nikos? When it came to that, how much had Nikos really known? He was Bolan's contact in the embassy, of course, and that would certainly have been enough to seal his fate — and Bolan's — with the syndicate. Had Sarkis telephoned the news to his associates outside of Cyprus? Was Hussein Razmara on the run?
The young man on the table had absorbed prodigious punishment before he died. Assuming Sarkis hadn't carried out the mutilation for his personal enjoyment, that would indicate that Nikos was resistant to interrogation, holding out as long as possible before he broke. How long? It had been nearly seven hours since they parted, Nikos dropping Bolan off at his hotel. Allowing time for several contacts, with the ultimate betrayal, there had still been ample opportunity for Sarkis to alert his partners.
Time.
It was the final enemy, impervious to any weapon in the soldier's arsenal. When time ran out, the game was over. Simple. No debate and no discussion.
Bolan tugged the burlap back in place and left the two dead men together. The police would sort it out or not, depending on their own involvement with the smuggling operation. The warrior had no interest in their progress, rounding up the small fry. He was bent on larger game, and one of his intended targets still remained at large in Nicosia.
He had nothing to lose, except his life.
Chapter Twelve
Hussein Razmara's home lay east of Nicosia in a landscape marked by rolling hills. The Shiite spokesman cherished solitude, avoiding the conspicuous display of wealth
that Sarkis and Makarios had cultivated while alive. From everything that Bolan knew about Razmara, he was dedicated to the revolution in his heart and mind. If anything, he may have been more zealous than the ayotollahs in his observation of the strictest Muslim doctrines. His fanaticism made him doubly dangerous, an enemy to reckon with.
The Executioner had taken time to arm himself before he left the Sarkis household, picking up another submachine gun and a quantity of extra magazines from fallen sentries. He was still in his blacksuit, with his jacket covering the shoulder rig, the SMG and ammo clips laid out beside him. As he left town, he made a point of scrupulously following the traffic laws, aware that any routine stop would quickly escalate into disaster.
The police would be at Sarkis's now, and if the Lebanese hadn't found time to warn Razmara of his danger — if the dealer recognized the danger — the authorities might know enough to make a call themselves. A few of them at least were certain to be on the pad with Sarkis and Makarios. The sudden termination of their off-the-record contract might forestall a tip to the Iranian, but Bolan wouldn't count on any favors.
All he needed was a chance, one shot, before he took his act across the water into Lebanon. Loose ends on Cyprus would compound the danger in the second phase of his assignment, and he knew that if Razmara was allowed to live, he would establish new connections by the time the week was out. It wasn't Bolan's mission to disrupt the pipeline; rather, he'd been commissioned to destroy it at the source. It would defeat his purpose if the Nicosia outlet should remain in operation while he made his run against the Bekaa hardmen.
Bolan saw the lights before he came within a mile of the Razmara compound. Pulling off the road, he stashed the rental in a grove of trees and locked it, trusting isolation to protect his wheels from thieves and vandals. Carrying the submachine gun and the extra magazines, he took a shortcut overland and saved himself a quarter mile. In minutes Bolan stood atop a hill behind Razmara's house, examining the layout of the grounds.
Assault Page 13
