Soviet Specter

by Don Pendleton

  Knowing he would be taking her away from Rikers, he had pulled the navy blue suit from the first hanger he came to in her closet and added a pair of dark blue shoes he suspected she wore with it.

  Bolan had no intention of setting up a base of operations at Polyakova’s apartment. Whoever wanted the woman dead wasn’t going to give up now, and as soon as word leaked out of Rikers that she was gone, the gallery-apartment would be the first place the next assassins checked. They would stop only long enough for her to pack additional clothes and for him to talk things over with Seven.

  Bolan hadn’t decided whether he wanted the DEA man along on the rest of the mission. And he wanted to make that decision before Johnny Seven knew his plans. If he wasn’t going to be along for the long haul, there was no sense in his knowing what was about to go down.

  The sun had fallen, casting the city into darkness. The rain grew stronger as they entered Greenwich Village. Home to artists, poets, writers and musicians, it also claimed its share of freaks, weirdos, drug peddlers and criminals of all varieties. Bolan drove the Highlander slowly through the crowded traffic as the sights and sounds of the eccentric residents drifted through the windows. Many of the pedestrians had taken refuge from what was beginning to be a downpour, but many more ignored the rain, some seeming even to glory in it.

  They passed a long line of street venders who had closed the side panels over the stalls to protect bagels, hot dogs, sandwiches and a thousand other items from the rain. Luiza Polyakova’s art gallery was in the middle of the block, squeezed between a Jewish delicatessen and a silk-screen T-shirt shop. Bolan drove past the darkened front window, turned at the corner, then cut into the alley running behind the three businesses.

  Having been there before, the soldier already knew the gallery shared a common parking lot with the deli and silk screener. Through the falling rain, he now saw several other vehicles on the wet asphalt, and half-hid the Highlander between an old Volkswagen and a newer Plymouth sedan. Even if word had already hit the streets that the woman was out, Bolan saw no way the rented Highlander would be recognized by anyone looking for her. But there was no sense in taking chances. In any case, he didn’t plan to be at the gallery long.

  Bolan, Polyakova and Seven hurried through the rain to the shelter of a green awning over the back door. The Russian pulled out a ring of keys. Bolan heard the buzz of a burglar alarm kicking in as soon as the door opened, and saw the digital pad mounted on the wall as they entered. Polyakova tapped a code into the control pad and the buzzing stopped. The rooms inside the building were dark, and her hand moved toward the light switch. Bolan reached out, taking her hand gently and stopping her. “Leave them off,” he said. “No need to announce to the world that you’ve come home.”

  The woman nodded her understanding. In the dim light her eyes flickered up at the soldier and Bolan felt the electricity pass between them. He let go of her hand just as gently as he’d taken it and she turned away, embarrassed.

  But Bolan had also seen a flicker of fear return to her face during the second their eyes met, and he knew that she was well aware that the threats to her life were far from over. There would be more, and they would be potentially even more dangerous than what had happened on Rikers. The men who came next wouldn’t be hampered by, or have to work within, the limitations imposed by prison security.

  Polyakova led them into the darkness. Bolan followed, trailed by Johnny Seven. The soldier felt his way with one hand on the wall, while his mind was on the killers he knew they would face in the next few days. One of the many Russian groups known now as the Russian mafiya had forced Luiza Polyakova to help them. But she wasn’t one of them, and they couldn’t afford to let her cut a deal with the attorney general’s office to turn state’s evidence.

  There was only one way to ensure that didn’t happen. Just like the old saying about dead men, dead women told no tales.

  They passed through a small office at the rear of the building and entered the gallery. Bolan remembered it from earlier in the day. The rest of the ground floor was one large room with dozens of rows filled with oil paintings and watercolors displayed on easels. More paintings had been mounted on the walls, and scattered about the room were sculptures—some free-standing, others on hardwood stands. The entire front of the building was glass, and unlike many of the shops throughout the city, the gallery hadn’t resorted to barring itself in at night.

  The rain continued to pound the building as Polyakova led Bolan and Seven up a staircase in the semidarkness. When they reached the second floor, she inserted another key into a door. A moment later, they were standing inside the woman’s apartment. It was even darker than the gallery and hallway.

  Bolan reached out, taking the Russian’s hand as she automatically reached again for the switch.

  “Oh,” she said in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “Do you have an interior room?” the soldier asked. “One with no window onto the street or alley?”

  In the dim light her eyebrows dropped slightly in concentration. “No. Well…the bathroom, but—”

  “The bathroom is fine,” Bolan said. “Show us where it is. Then I want you to pack enough clothes for a few days. Keep it simple. We need to get out of here as soon as we can and regroup someplace else.” He stuck his hand inside his coat and came out with a small flashlight. “Here,” he said. “Take this. And remember about the lights.”

  Polyakova nodded, switched on the powerful beam and then led them down the hall. The building was old, and the bathroom much larger than would have been found in a more modern structure. A tall grandfather clock in the hallway ticked loudly as they passed. Bolan waved Seven through the opening, then turned back to the Russian woman. “Don’t take long,” he said. “Whoever wants you dead has good contacts at Rikers. For all we know the news that you’re out may already have been leaked.” He thought of the concern the woman had shown for her appearance earlier and realized packing could turn into a whole night’s event if he didn’t cut off the problem. “And keep it light. One suitcase.”

  She looked up into his eyes as if he’d asked her to do the impossible. “One suitcase?” she said. “I can’t even—”

  “One suitcase, Luiza. Now hurry.”

  Bolan closed the door behind him and switched on the light. He turned to see a large claw-foot bathtub against one wall.

  The sudden brightness caused both men to squint as their pupils adjusted. The only seat was the toilet and Seven had taken it. Bolan moved to the side of the big bathtub and leaned back, facing him. The apartment fell silent, the clicks of the grandfather clock in the hallway the only sounds.

  The Executioner had read through Johnny Seven’s DEA personnel file on the plane to New York, and found that he had a somewhat unusual background for a federal law-enforcement officer. He had grown up in the slums of Buffalo, where his father had earned a decent living as a freelance magazine writer but dropped the family’s existence to welfare-level by being an unlucky gambler. The boy who would someday be known as Johnny Seven had stayed away from the cards and dice, and finished high school. He then spent four years at NYU majoring in journalism. He’d worked as a reporter for several small newspapers in the Buffalo area, then given up the pen for the gun when his application to the Drug Enforcement Administration had been accepted.

  That had been nearly two decades ago. The name “Johnny Seven” hadn’t come from any gambling-father connection. John Jameson had acquired that appellation from his gun of choice for undercover drug deals and as a backup weapon. In addition to his DEA-issue SIG-Sauer P-220, Seven toted a four-inch Taurus revolver. The .357 Magnum wheelgun had been the first to break the six-shooter mold and had a seventh hole in the cylinder.

  In addition to the grandfather clock on the other side of the door, Bolan could now hear the sounds of drawers opening and closing. He studied the DEA agent for a moment.

  He still hadn’t decided whether or not he wanted Seven along with him on this
mission. Someone covering his back was always a good thing—as long as it was the right someone. The wrong man became deadweight at best, and a nightmare in the worst-case scenario. What had caught Bolan’s attention in the personnel file, and made him question the wisdom of letting Seven join the party, were the reports of insubordination sprinkled throughout the file.

  That could mean that Seven was a troublemaker. If that was the case, Bolan had no use for him. On the other hand, it might just as readily mean that Johnny Seven was an independent thinker who had conflicted with some of the by-the-book bureaucrats in supervisory positions within the DEA.

  Seven’s file also contained several complaints about the use of excessive force, but while several hearings had taken place, no disciplinary actions had been executed against the DEA agent. Again, that could mean one of two things—he was either one of the sadistic cops who enjoyed hurting others or he was a man who intended to get the job done even if he had to break a few rules. Bolan wouldn’t tolerate a sadist. But he knew that he’d have more excessive-force complaints than any cop who’d ever lived if he answered to an established law-enforcement agency.

  Johnny Seven had been staring at the floor but now he glanced up and saw Bolan looking at him. Bolan stared deep into the eyes, trying to get a read on the man’s brain and even his soul. His instincts told him that Johnny Seven would be a good man to have along. So he decided to lay things on the line and let the man decide for himself whether or not he still wanted in on this case.

  “You’ve got a decision to make,” Bolan said. “Decide now whether you want to stay or walk on this thing.”

  Seven bristled visibly, his face and the top of his bald head turning red as blood flowed to the skin. “Why would I walk?” he asked. “It’s my case, and I didn’t invite you in on it in the first place. Or are you trying to tell me you’re taking this case over completely?” He took several short, angry breaths. “I don’t doubt that you can.” He glanced at the pocket where the Executioner carried his cell phone. “You’ve got the stroke to do it, but I don’t have to like it.”

  Bolan stared back at him. “No,” he said. “You don’t have to like it. But if you stay, you have to do what I tell you, when I tell you. With no questions.” He paused a moment. “I’ve looked through your file. You seem to have had some problems with that in the past.”

  Rather than anger the DEA man further, the words brought an outright laugh to Seven’s face. His chest shook slightly as he said, “Yeah, I’ve had some trouble taking orders in the past. From idiots. If you get a chance to check that file closer, you’ll see that all of those problems came from two supervisors. Both were guys who climbed the back staircase to rank with little or no actual street experience.” The chuckling stopped and his face grew serious. “Check and see how I did when Cookerly was my SAC. Or Addington or Applegate. Those were supervisors who’d seen the elephant. I respected those guys. I’d have followed them into hell, and on several occasions, I did.” The DEA man sat up a little straighter and continued to meet Bolan’s stare. “You strike me as a guy I could follow into hell, Cooper. Don’t take that as ass-kissing—I don’t do that for you or anybody else. It’s just a simple fact.”

  “There’s more than that you need to consider,” Bolan said. “I doubt that I work like anyone else you’ve ever teamed with.”

  “In what way?” Seven asked.

  “I don’t just bend the rules, sometimes I break them. Other times I shatter them completely.”

  The two men continued to lock eyes. Finally Johnny Seven said, “I don’t really know you yet, Cooper, but I saw what you did back there on Rikers. You were unarmed, going up against two men with guns. I respect that. And that means I respect you. I’ll take your orders, and if I end up breaking a few rules or even laws to get the job done, it won’t be the first time.” Slowly he nodded his head and the scowl on his face began to fade. “Count me in.”

  While Seven had made a big mistake in how he’d tried to handle Polyakova during interrogation, Bolan’s overall impression of the man was good. Again his instincts told him he had made the right decision by giving Seven a chance to be included.

  Before he could say more, there was a soft knock on the door. Bolan opened it to find Polyakova standing there with a suitcase the size of Yankee Stadium on the floor next to her. “I’m ready,” she said. She looked like a frightened sparrow as her eyes fell to her feet.

  The rain continued to beat down on the roof overhead as Bolan reached out and took both of her hands in his. “Look at me,” he said.

  The beautiful Russian woman looked up.

  “We’re going to get you out of this mess,” the soldier said. “Trust me.”

  The emerald eyes betrayed a mixture of emotion—fear, confusion and righteous anger among them.

  “I do trust you,” she answered.

  Bolan gently dropped her hands and picked up the suitcase. The apartment was silent except for the tick of the grandfather clock as he led the way down the stairs.

  They were halfway down the steps to the art gallery when the front window exploded.

  FIRST THROUGH THE WINDOW came a thunderstorm of broken glass, the shards sparkling like diamonds in the streetlights outside the gallery. It was followed by the rain from a real thunderstorm as heavy sheets of water soaked everything within six feet of the front wall.

  Then came three men with guns.

  The burglar alarm had gone off the second the window broke, activating both the sound and motion sensors Bolan had seen throughout the gallery. But the shrieking, nerve-grinding screech that now raged throughout the room seemed to have no effect on the first man who leaped through the opening. Wearing a dark bomber jacket, he hit the ground on his shoulder and rolled to his feet like a gymnast. In the half-dark room, ten feet from the stairs, Bolan could see the barrel of a large handgun extending from his fist.

  The Executioner had instinctively lifted Polyakova’s huge suitcase in his hands when he’d heard the sound, and now he hurled it down the steps at the intruder. The hard leather case, which he guessed weighed at least fifty pounds, hit the man in the chest, knocking him two steps back. The gun in his hand went off, the round sailing away to rip through several canvas oil paintings before drilling into the wall. The man caught his balance, and began to turn the gun back toward the stairs.

  The Executioner had drawn the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from the holster on his hip. Bolan fired twice, the muzzle-flash lighting up the darkened gallery like bolts of lightning from the storm. Bolan couldn’t tell where he’d hit the man—the points of impact were lost in the darkness beyond the flashes—but he heard the long-barreled handgun fall to the floor as the man in the bomber jacket took a few more paces backward before collapsing.

  Two more men vaulted through the broken plate-glass window. As the burglar alarm continued to scream in their ears, the Executioner turned quickly to Seven and Polyakova behind him. “Get her back upstairs!” he shouted over the noise of the alarm.

  By the time he had turned back around, more gunshots had added to the pandemonium. Bolan felt a round zip past his eyes as his head turned. Raising the big hand cannon, he squeezed the trigger and another Magnum hollowpoint round roared from the Eagle and dropped a tall, shadowy figure in a dark trench coat. A gasp of final breath escaped the man’s lips, somehow finding its way through the noise to the Executioner’s ears.

  Bolan swung the big automatic to the side and popped another round into a shorter, wider shape. Again he couldn’t tell where he’d hit the man, but it hadn’t been a kill shot. The thicker shadow dropped to one knee and tried to bring the pistol in his hand back up.

  The Executioner lowered the Desert Eagle, then raised it slightly until he felt the barrel come on the mark. It was no different than pointing a finger, and his next two rounds drove the man from his knees to the floor.

  Outside the shattered window, thunder boomed like the angry shouts of a hundred giants. Lightning flashed just as a new face peered ar
ound the corner of the broken window. Bolan swung the Eagle that way, but before he could pull the trigger the target had jerked back onto the sidewalk. A second later, running footsteps splashing water could barely be heard around the alarm, wind, rain and the thunder.

  Bolan moved carefully down the stairs, the Desert Eagle again aimed at the men on the floor. It had been too dark to see where his rounds had hit, and “dead bodies” had been known to come back to life to kill men who thought they’d survived. When he reached the floor he slowed even further, sliding carefully across the tile and stopping briefly next to each body on the floor. The hand cannon stayed up and ready as he jammed a finger into the throats of the men. He detected no pulses.

  As he hurried to the window, sporadic gusts of wind threw rain into Bolan’s face. The Desert Eagle held tightly against his ribs and aimed outward, he looked up and down the block—deserted except for a mangy hundred-breed mongrel who sat passively across the street as if the gunfight had been staged for his personal entertainment. Satisfied that no second wave of gunmen was about to strike, the Executioner stepped out through the broken glass.

  Barely visible through the downpour, he saw a running figure two blocks down dart around a corner.

  Something caused him to suddenly twirl back around. He stepped back through the window into the half-lit gallery, the burglar alarm still blaring in his ears. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew there was at least one more of the enemy, alive and well, within the room.

  More rain drove through the window, soaking the Executioner’s back as he retraced his steps back into the gallery. Behind him, in the distance, the wail of police sirens added to the pandemonium already filling his ears.

  Bolan moved cautiously behind a row of paintings, looking between the canvas toward the staircase he had just descended. It wasn’t Seven’s or Polyakova’s presence he’d felt just now. Seven had taken the Russian woman back up the stairs as he’d ordered, and he’d have seen them if they’d come back down. He crept up and down the row, moving back and forth until he had reached a vantage point from which he could view the entire room. No one.