“The right thing, yeah?” Twain scoffed. “Well, that’s me, isn’t it? Mind me own business, don’t I. Look after number one.”
“Not the same.”
“It wouldn’t be, to the likes of you,” Twain said. “You almost had me in New Orleans, you know.”
“How did you get away?”
“Concealed fire escape,” Twain said. “Built into the south face of the building. Perfect for those little emergencies.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Curious George, aren’t you?” Twain grinned. “No harm in telling you. Trofimov wanted to make sure his little treasure trove was well-guarded. I came to see to it personally.”
“And then hid yourself until the fighting was over?”
“What am I, stupid?” Twain said. “It was obvious since you first came on the scene, wasn’t it, that I was up against serious heat. You rolled over us in New Orleans. You were rolling over us here. What’s one more gun? I figured, let the boys handle it, yeah, and if they don’t, well, live to fight another day, or something like that.”
“But you’re here now.”
“Can’t hide forever,” Twain said. “And when I saw her, well…here and I guess I’m just a hopeless romantic.”
He leaned in close, making a show of smelling Delaney’s hair. She flinched, but didn’t cry out. She was, in fact, holding herself very still. That was smart. If Bolan got the chance to go for one of his guns, he would take the shot. She had seen him shoot often enough to know just how good he was. She was gambling that he’d be able to take out Twain while missing her.
“There’s no point to any of this,” Bolan said. “Give it up, Twain. Harm a federal agent and you’ll die for it, one way or another.”
“You’re forgettin’,” Twain said gleefully, “I’m already running me a tab where that’s concerned. Now back off, boy-o, or I plug the bitch, make no mistake.”
“What do you want?” Bolan said.
“Well, now, that’s a good question,” Twain said thoughtfully. “You’ve destroyed my work, my job and my employer. I may have another offer on the table, I suppose—” he shook his head “—but I don’t fancy taking it. A little too much stress for a lad like me. Which means, really, whoever you might be, that the only option left to me is, well, sheer meanness.”
“You can live through this.”
“Assumin’ I want to,” Twain said. “You have got me curious, boy-o. Tell me, where are the rest of your people?” He looked left, then right.
“There are no others,” Bolan said.
“You’re joking,” Twain said, staring at him. “You mean to tell me that all of it, everything, was just you? You and this bit of fluff here?”
Bolan shrugged.
“I don’t believe it,” Twain said. “One man? One? Takes down an organization the size of mine, takes Trofimov and everything the man has built with him by himself? Nah, man, nah, I ain’t buyin’ that. You’d have to be ten feet tall and bulletproof to begin to pull that off. And you, well, forgive me, boy-o, but you’re just a man, from the look of you.”
Delaney, perhaps sensing that if she was to have any chance at all, she would have to act, threw an elbow backward into Twain’s face, hurting him just enough to break free of his hold. His Desert Eagle went off. Bolan was already whipping his own .44 Magnum handgun from its Kydex holster. Twain had just enough time to shove Delaney aside. She went down.
Twain, rather than try to duel Bolan, hurled himself at him, slamming into the soldier with all the force of his stocky, muscled frame. The two men went down. Bolan lost his Desert Eagle, and Twain’s own weapon hit the dirt of the fake village. Bolan tried to grab for the Beretta, but his adversary snapped open an OTF automatic knife that appeared in his hand. The razor-sharp blade sliced through the leather of Bolan’s shoulder harness and into the shoulder, as well, cutting deep. He gritted his teeth and twisted free, but the Beretta was lost. Twain laughed and kicked the weapon away, still wrapped in what was left of Bolan’s shoulder harness. He crouched with his switchblade low in front of his body, moving around the soldier in easy, slow circles.
Bolan’s hand fell to the Boker Applegate combat knife in his waistband. He drew the double-edged blade, holding it reversed in his hand.
“Well, now,” Twain said, “that’s more like it! Give us some sport before the end of it all, eh?” He advanced. Bolan danced back, mindful of his footwork, his eyes cutting to Delaney’s body in the dirt not far away. Twain followed his gaze, tried to exploit the distraction by lunging forward. Bolan slapped the arm away but wasn’t fast enough with his counter cut, missing the extended limb with the blade of his knife.
Twain tried crouching and throwing dirt at Bolan’s face with his free hand, but the Executioner was waiting for that and simply turned his head aside. The Irishman tried to rush in once more, but Bolan nicked him with his counter slash.
“A scratch,” Twain taunted. “You’ll need more than that for the likes of me.”
“No one else has to die,” Bolan said. He could see in Twain’s eyes that he was wasting his time. The mercenary had no compassion even at his most lucid, but he was close to hysteria now. It was different from the cold hatred that had enveloped Kwok Sun. Twain was just feeling mean and hoping to inflict some pain. After losing everything, after failing so spectacularly, he was hoping to spread some misery. He had stopped caring about the consequences. That much was clear from his manner.
Twain lunged with the knife. Bolan sidestepped, slapping the knife hand way, but the Irishman was fast, and countered before Bolan could neutralize him. The two men danced around each other, Twain slashing and stabbing, Bolan holding back, looking for an opening.
Bolan tried for a fight-ending comma cut, but Twain was faster. He took a glancing slash to his chest, barking in pain as the blade bit into him.
“Take me a piece at a time, why don’t you?” he roared. He stabbed again and again, but each time Bolan ducked back.
“Last chance,” Bolan said.
“Do you know what I’ve learned, big man?” Twain taunted, slashing with the knife. “There’s nothing worth caring about. There’s nothing worth doing. There’s nothing worth believing. All there is, is getting by. That and making sure you’re the top dog, yeah?” He lunged again. Bolan delivered a vicious slash to the inside of the man’s arm. Twain howled and clutched the wounded limb, backing off a few paces. He dropped his knife.
“I’ll spare your life if you give up,” Bolan told him.
“You ruddy bastard,” Twain said, breaking out in a cold sweat. “Kill you dead, I will, and then I’ll take that little FBI bitch right on top of your cooling corpse, and see if I don’t!”
He swung with both hands, slamming his meaty fists into Bolan’s ribs. The Executioner grunted under the onslaught. Twain managed to kick the soldier’s leg out from under him. Bolan went down.
Twain bent and scooped up the 93-R from where it had fallen, ripping it from what was left of its holster using his left hand.
“You’re better than I thought you’d be,” Twain said. “So now I’m just gonna kill you.”
The boom of a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle reverberated through the studio. Twain was rocked in place. Blood began to spread from the wound that had appeared in his chest.
Bolan shifted the knife in his grip. He stepped in and drove his knife, underhand, deep into Twain’s stomach, up under the rib cage.
The rush of air that escaped Twain’s mouth sounded like a balloon deflating. The Irishman gasped and let out a low moan, falling to his knees. The Beretta spilled into the dirt. Both of Twain’s hands went to the hilt of the knife still jutting from his belly. He seemed to be pulling on the handle, but he couldn’t withdraw the knife. He looked up at Bolan plaintively.
“Here…now,” he croaked. “How was that…fair…?”
“Fair doesn’t enter into it,” Bolan said.
Twain fell forward into the dirt and was still.
Bolan
hurried to Delaney’s side. She had dragged herself to one of the two Desert Eagles. He gently took the gun from her hand and set it aside, holding her upright against him.
“Doesn’t kick so bad after all,” she said.
“You saved my life,” he told her.
“Bullshit.” Delaney coughed. “You’d have managed. But I thought I would save you some time.”
Bolan’s hands came away soaked with blood as he held her. Twain’s shot had done its deadly work.
“How bad is it?” She looked at him. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“It’s bad.” It was worse than that; it was fatal. The bullet had severed her spine, if Bolan was any judge of the shot placement.
“Anything…is there anything that can be done?”
“No,” he said truthfully.
“Don’t sugarcoat it, Cooper.” She laughed weakly. “Give it to me straight.”
“I’m sorry,” Bolan said.
“Cooper.” She started coughing, badly. Then she looked up at him. “I’m…I screwed up, didn’t I?”
“No,” he said, and he meant it. “You did just fine.”
“We got him? We got Twain?” In Bolan’s arms, her skin was like ice.
“We got him.”
“Go and get…Trofimov,” she said weakly. “I want to know…you got to the end…and made him…pay.”
“I will,” Bolan told her. “I will. I promise.”
The cold she was experiencing was from the blood loss. There really was nothing he could do; the wound was too bad. He’d seen damage of this type before. Even if she were rushed to a hospital, even if she’d been shot in an emergency room, there was no way to undo the damage dealt her. Her life was ebbing away.
“I…want to know who you are, Cooper.”
“Don’t try to talk,” he said.
“No, Cooper,” she said. “Please. I’m… This is it for me. I want to know.”
“My name is Mack Bolan.”
Her eyes widened. “Mack Bolan? But you…died…”
“No,” Bolan told her. “I didn’t. I’ve been fighting for what’s right. Just like you did.”
“I…I did, didn’t I?”
The light left Delaney’s eyes. She stared up at him in death, seeing nothing more.
“Yeah, kid,” Bolan said softly. “You did.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mack Bolan closed the driver’s door of the rented SUV. He left the truck parked across the street. Looking up at Trofimov’s headquarters, he took off his field jacket. He checked the Beretta 93-R and placed it in the canvas war bag slung over his shoulder. Then he checked first one, then the other Desert Eagle he carried with him. The first weapon was his own; the second was the one that had belonged to Gareth Twain, the weapon Agent Delaney had used to save his life. He thrust the second Desert Eagle into his waistband, forward of the Kydex holster that carried his own.
His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He flipped it open and put it to his ear.
“Striker here,” he said.
“Striker,” Barbara Price said, “I thought you’d want to know that the cleanup operations in Jacksonville are complete. Our people on scene have recovered an impressive amount of evidence against Trofimov. There were several boxes of financial records with the gold and jewels stockpiled there. The cleanup teams also found raw video footage. There’s more than enough to damn Trofimov several times over.”
“I thought as much,” Bolan said.
“Also, Agent Delaney’s body has been retrieved, as you requested,” Price said.
“You’ll see to it she makes her way back home?”
“We will,” Price said. “I’ve contacted the Bureau to make the specific arrangements. She had specific instructions in place, should anything happen to her in the field.”
“Make sure they know, Barb,” Bolan said. “Make sure they understand.”
“I will,” Price said. “Striker, there’s one thing you should know.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s likely they’ll want to deny the specifics of the operation. When you consider just how far up the chain this goes, it’s very unlikely the full truth will ever come out.”
“She deserves to be remembered for what she did,” Bolan said. “She was a good agent. She was a good soldier.”
“I know, Striker,” Price said. “I know.”
“I have to go now, Barb,” Bolan said.
“I can arrange for a tactical team on-site to back you up,” Price told him. “Trofimov’s got nowhere to go and nothing to save him. We can bring in support on this.”
“No,” Bolan said. “I’m doing this myself.”
“Striker…”
“No. If you send a team,” Bolan told her, “they’ll be too late. I’m going now.”
There was a pause on the other end. Finally, Price said, “All right. Be careful.”
Bolan closed the connection.
It was time to put a stop to Trofimov and his evil once and for all.
He walked across the street, his weapons in full view. There weren’t too many people in the area, and he was grateful for that, but most of what was about to go down would be contained to within Trofimov’s building.
He pushed open one of the series of tall glass doors leading into the lobby of the TBT building.
Several armed men looked up in surprise.
The lobby was crawling with uniformed SCAR mercenaries. Two of them were stationed behind the front desk. Bolan, in the moment he had to take in the scene, saw no civilians, no TBT employees. It was even possible Trofimov had ordered them all sent home. The site was an armed camp. The Russian, or perhaps Twain operating on Trofimov’s behalf before coming to Jacksonville to meet his fate, had turned the building into a fortress. No doubt Trofimov was somewhere in the building, hoping that the number of gunmen between him and the outside world would be enough to prevent justice from finding him.
Bolan would show him just how little good those troops would do.
The pregnant pause drew out, as the mercenaries staring at Bolan struggled to decide just what to do. This wasn’t normal; the enemy didn’t just walk into your midst and take a long, hard look at you, daring you to do something about it.
Not unless that enemy was the Executioner.
“Justice Department,” Bolan announced, drawing both Desert Eagles, wielding one in each hand. “Everybody on the floor.”
The mercenaries brought up their weapons.
Bolan leveled his Desert Eagles and fired. The .44 Magnum slugs cracked, thunder rolling across the lobby, as the Executioner put jacketed hollowpoint slugs through the faces of two of the nearest gunners.
Chaos broke out. Every armed mercenary in the open space began to fire his weapon. Various weapons of war sprayed the area. Empty brass clattered on the expensive, polished tiles. Men fell, dead and dying. Mack Bolan walked through the hailstorm of deadly fire, an unstoppable ballistic machine, relentlessly and inexorably exacting judgment, justice and revenge on those protecting the traitor Trofimov.
The black-clad soldier was one man, but Trofimov’s guards couldn’t seem to target him, couldn’t seem to bring their guns to bear on him. He would fire, move, dance between them, always in motion, always firing. Where he went, .44 Magnum death preceded him, his enemies falling like dried leaves in an autumn wind.
“Take him! Take him!” a voice shouted. Bolan whirled, aimed and punched a .44 Magnum slug through the speaker.
He heard a few random shouts in Chinese and filed that fact away for later examination. Right now, in the heat of combat, he had time only to act and react, to do unto others before they did unto him.
The lobby became a slaughterhouse as Bolan continued to move and fire. The two Desert Eagles bucked in his hands, the big .44 Magnum slugs burning down gunner after gunner. They were streaming from the stairwells now, responding to the firefight. Bolan ran for and leaped behind the front desk as bullets from his enemies’ Kalashnikovs chewed up the w
ood veneer.
He landed on top of a dead man and next to a wounded one. The mercenary still alive had lost his weapon. He threw himself at Bolan and tried to wrap his fingers around the soldier’s throat. Bolan raised his arms, still holding his pistols, up and through the opening between the man’s forearms. He broke the hold and then pressed the muzzle of one of the Desert Eagles to the man’s chest, pulling the trigger.
A grenade bounced over the edge of the front desk and very nearly into his lap.
Bolan didn’t think. He grabbed the bomb and whipped it with all his strength up and out, into the lobby proper, where it exploded in midair. Shrapnel blasted into a pair of gunners, eliciting screams of agony.
The return fire stopped.
Bolan swapped magazines in the Desert Eagles. He counted to ten before sticking his head up a fraction and ducking back down again. He drew no fire. Rising to his feet, a .44 Magnum cannon in each hand, he surveyed the devastated lobby of the TBT building.
He was alone with the dead.
His plan, such as it was, hinged on blitzing the enemy, taking the initiative with audacity and the willingness to confront Trofimov’s people with overwhelming deadly force. He vaulted the front desk again, his combat boots crunching on empty brass casings.
The nearest of the dead men still clutched a Kalashnikov. Bolan holstered one of the Desert Eagles and shoved the second in his waistband. He picked up the AK and liberated several loaded banana magazines from the man’s waistband. He put the magazines in his war bag and checked the assault rifle’s magazine. Replacing it, he drew back the bolt just far enough to verify that a round was chambered.
All right.
The elevator doors opened. Bolan crouched and, with the Kalashnikov at waist level, held the trigger down and sprayed the interior. The SCAR personnel inside fell on top of each other as they spilled out, their weapons falling from their hands.
Bolan spotted a combat knife on the belt of one of the dead men at his feet. He drew the blade and used it to jam open the doors of the elevator, wedging the blade between the door seam and its electric eye. The door made a grinding noise, metal on metal, as it tried and failed to close against the foot of sharpened steel jamming the works. Satisfied, Bolan left it and checked the single stairwell leading up.
Don Pendleton Page 23
