Soviet Specter

by Don Pendleton

  It was a good thing he did. The fire from the submachine gun stopped, then reappeared a split second later. This time it faced the Executioner, and a steady stream of 7.62 mm rounds sailed over his head to the left—to the exact spot where he’d been a second earlier.

  From the other side of the room, Bolan heard muffled whispers. Suddenly the sound of running feet broke the silence that had fallen over the gallery since the last burst of machine-gun fire had died down. Two sets of feet, one heavier than the other. Polyakova and Seven were heading toward the photography room the Executioner had just come from.

  A third set of feet now took off in the same direction. Bolan raised the Beretta to fire, started to pull the trigger, then let up. The footsteps had crossed in front and to his side, and now he couldn’t be certain that Polyakova and Seven were not in his line of fire. The Executioner knew he had to be close to the front door now, couldn’t be far from where he’d seen Smith-Williams start to turn on the lights for the whole building.

  For a split second, Bolan considered it. Sudden illumination would startle the hit man and, even more importantly, temporarily blind him. But Bolan knew it would also startle and affect the vision of Polyakova and Seven, so he discarded the idea. Such strategy might make sense if he already had his target in his sights. But he didn’t. No, they were better off in the dark.

  The Executioner took off running, weaving his way through the dimly lit art displays. He made the best use he could of the dim light, as he moved back toward the door to the photo area.

  When he reached the last row of paintings and could see the door, it became obvious that Polyakova, Seven and the hit man had already entered the rear room. He started to follow, then changed course and headed back toward the doorway to the main hall. From there, he could circle around and enter the photography area from behind them. If any of them tried to leave the room, they would run right into him. He would keep his eyes open, and if he saw his partners, it would afford him an opportunity to move them to safety and get between them and the hit man.

  And if he saw the hit man first, he would kill him.

  Again Bolan moved down the hall, his back to the wall. When he reached the archway into the photography room again, he paused. Go in after them or wait? He wasn’t sure. There were pros and cons both ways. But his hunch was that Seven would try to herd the woman out of the room, and away from the man with the Soviet submachine gun.

  He would wait.

  A few seconds later, the Executioner heard the footsteps again, but the sound was distant and unclear. And the feet were moving so slowly it was impossible to tell if it was one person or two making them. He took a deep breath and held it, not wanting even the sounds from his own lungs to cloud his hearing. The footsteps continued. He still couldn’t decipher whether they were made by friend or foe.

  Then came the eerie creak of a door opening near the back of the photography room. It had to be the door to the office. Was it Polyakova and Seven Bolan heard? Or the hit man?

  Whoever it was became immaterial as gunfire broke out once more. From where he was, the Executioner could see only the reflection of the flashes in the glass of several pictures. The roars of both the PPD and Seven’s SIG-Sauer met his ears. As he turned the corner into the photography room the entire area lit up in fire, the muzzle-flashes multiplied by their reflections in the picture frames.

  With only sound to guide him, Bolan picked out the general area from which the 7.62 mm rounds were coming. He triggered a 3-round burst that way, then did it again. Then again, and again, until the Beretta’s slide locked open, empty.

  In less than two seconds he had dropped the empty box and slammed another magazine up the grips. He thumbed the slide release to chamber a round, then sent another fifteen 9 mm hollowpoint slugs flying after the others. By the time he had reloaded again, he could hear voices across the hall in the watercolor room. Low. Whispering. Unless the hit man was so crazy he talked to himself, it had to be Seven and Polyakova. It had been them at the door to the office, and now they had crossed through the room, past Smith-Williams in the chair and the dead man on the desk, and exited the other door into the other side of the building.

  Bolan had started that way to join them when he felt an old familiar pressure against the side of his face. It had happened many times over the years when bullets passed within millimeters of his head. It was strange, like a wall of air pushing against him. And it was always followed a hundredth of a second later by the explosion, proving that bullets traveled faster than sound.

  Diving to the ground, the Executioner rolled to his side as more autofire ripped over his head. He looked back into the photography room to see it lit up once again by fire from the barrel of the PPD. The weapon cycled 800 rounds a minute, and that was enough to keep the glass in the picture frames dancing with bizarre strobes of light.

  Then, for a brief second, in what looked like hundreds of glass-covered frames, the Executioner saw the face of the hit man.

  A smiling demon.

  Bolan triggered the Beretta twice, sending six hollowpoint rounds scattering through the easels but with little hope of hitting his man. He was in a carnival house of mirrors, and picking out the real face among the imposters was impossible. The hard-man had no such problem—Bolan was still out in the hall, away from the confusing reflections. It was a no-win position, and he rolled to the side, behind the wall, and out of sight.

  The gunfire stopped.

  The Executioner checked the remaining two magazines for the Beretta, knowing if this kept up he would soon have to switch back to the Desert Eagle. Silence was the only advantage he’d had so far, and as soon as the Eagle screamed out its first thunderous .44 Magnum, even that small edge would be gone. He wondered how many of the 71-round drum magazines the man carried with him. The average man could carry two, even three, before the extra weight became a problem. And the bulky man the Executioner had seen in the hallway at the hotel had been far bigger than average.

  Temporarily safe behind the wall and out of sight, Bolan looked across the hall toward the watercolor room. Somewhere inside he knew Seven was trying to get Polyakova to safety. But if the Executioner tried to cross to the door leading directly to them, he would be exposed through the doorway to the photo room again. This time, the hit man would be waiting.

  Bolan rose to his feet, quietly walking backward down the hallway, away from the door to the photos. He would again try to circle behind his partners, entering the other side of the building through the sculpture room and then crossing through the adjoining door into the watercolors. With any luck, he might be able to reach them while the hardman still thought Bolan was in the hall.

  The Executioner turned sideways, crossing one leg over the other, the Beretta and his eyes still aimed at the door through where the last burst of gunfire had come. When he reached the entrance to the sculpture room, he ducked inside. He had taken only two steps when he saw a sparkle of light suddenly dance off the barrel of a revolver as it rose to his face right in front of him.

  The Executioner reached out with his left hand, grabbing the gun by the cylinder and sliding his little finger back over the frame. The hammer had been on its way back, and now it fell on Bolan’s flesh, biting into the skin. There was just enough light for him to see the Harris tweed cap perched on top of Seven’s head.

  “Sorry,” the DEA man whispered. He released the grips and Bolan took the Taurus, working his finger out from under the hammer. “Where’s Luiza?” he asked in a low voice.

  Seven shook his head in the near darkness. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I lost track of her in there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the watercolor room. “I thought she’d come in here so I came after her.”

  “We’ve got to find her,” the Executioner said. “Now.”

  The DEA man nodded.

  “Take the front half of the room,” Bolan ordered. “I’ll take the back. Are you sure she came this way?”

  Johnny Seven
shook his head. “Not sure. I just couldn’t find her back there. So I tried here.”

  The Executioner took off, moving along the rows of statues, busts and other sculptures. The light was a little brighter this close to the street, and it gave the stone heads and faces staring back at him an almost unearthly cast. He was tempted to call out for the Russian woman, but he knew if she could hear him, so could the hit man.

  When he had worked all the way back to the common door to the watercolors, Bolan paused. He had thoroughly searched his half of the room, and he had to assume that a DEA agent knew how to search a room, too. He hadn’t found the woman, and he had heard no sound behind him to lead him to think the DEA man had any better luck.

  The woman wasn’t among the sculptures. Somehow Seven had lost track of her in the watercolor room and jumped to the conclusion that she’d come in there.

  Then he heard the scream.

  “Help me—”

  Luiza Polyakova’s shrill plea for help, suddenly cut off like that, sent a primitive surge of hatred through the Executioner. He didn’t know who the man was, only that in some way he was tied to Gregor and the head Russian in Moscow. Bolan would have traded a year of his life to have the man’s throat in his fingers right now. He started to sprint forward, then halted. Anger and hatred would do nothing to assist Polyakova right now. But it could do a lot to blur his judgment, and it almost had.

  Forcing himself to relax, he pushed all emotion to the back of his brain. He had to think clearly. His next few moves would be crucial. They would either leave the woman alive or dead.

  “You!” A heavily accented voice screamed out in the darkness. “American! Did you hear that?”

  Bolan’s eyes narrowed, straining to look forward into the murky light through the doorway to the watercolor room, toward the area the voice had come from. Unless the acoustics were playing tricks on his ears, the woman and her captor were to the right of the door, and no more than twenty to thirty feet away. Finally, Bolan shouted out, “I heard.” Then he moved two steps to his side and another two forward, crouching behind a giant statue of an ancient Celtic Druid.

  The man with the PPD would be keying on his voice, too, hoping to get off a shot. But no shots came. Instead the man holding Polyakova yelled out, “You and the other man! Come forward, then, if you want her to live!”

  The Executioner felt a creeping presence behind. He didn’t bother to turn—it could only be Johnny Seven. The DEA agent stepped to his side behind the statue, waiting for Bolan to tell him what to do.

  The problem was, the Executioner didn’t know what to do at this point.

  “Did you hear me?” the voice in the watercolor room demanded.

  Again Bolan paused. The accent was curious—Eastern European, yes. Similar to Russian, and probably influenced by spending a lot of time in Russia. But not quite Russian. This man was from one of the satellite countries that had once made up the old Soviet Union. “I heard you,” the Executioner said. “I can come forward, but my partner’s dead. You shot him.”

  A hideous, satanic-like laugher came from the other room. “You Americans,” said the hit man. “I cannot help but love you in a curious way. You lie quite well.” There was a pause, then the man said, “I will count to ten. During that time, you will lay down all of your weapons and begin to walk forward. Both of you. If I don’t see two men in the doorway by the time I reach ten, I will kill the woman.”

  “How do I know you haven’t already killed her?” the Executioner demanded.

  Bolan heard the man whispering. Then Polyakova’s trembling voice called out, “Matt! I am here!”

  “Are you all right?” Bolan asked, stalling for time, trying to come up with a plan of some kind.

  But the woman didn’t answer—the man with the Soviet machine gun did. “You have heard her voice. That is enough. Now, put down all weapons and walk forward or she dies!”

  “I’ll come,” Bolan said. Then, trying one last time, he added, “But I told you, my partner is—”

  “One!” the man shouted. “Two! Three…”

  Bolan turned to his side. “Stay here until you hear shots,” he whispered to Seven. “I’ll try to move left once I get through the door. He’s to the right.”

  Johnny Seven looked up at him. His face reflected a strange mixture of fear, courage, hope and determination. “How do I keep from hitting her in the dark?” he asked.

  Bolan shrugged. “Just do your best. At this point, we’ve got to take the chance. If we don’t, she’s dead for sure.”

  “Four!” came the voice from the other room. “Five! I don’t hear any movement on your part!”

  “I’m getting rid of my weapons!” Bolan shouted. Drawing the Desert Eagle, he let it fall noisily to the floor. “Now, I’m coming forward.” He made sure his steps could be heard on the tile as he walked toward the door.

  The Executioner held the Beretta in tightly to his side, hoping it would remain invisible in the darkness. What he was about to attempt had a one-in-a-hundred chance of succeeding. But it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. He would allow himself to be framed in the doorway, and the second he did the man would cut loose with the PPD. Bolan would have to hope he could somehow survive that volley long enough to pinpoint the man’s position—again by the flash signature of the subgun. He would also have to pray that there was enough light to discern the man from Polyakova, and that he would have a decent angle to return fire without killing her.

  Bolan recalculated his odds. One in a hundred was far too generous. One in a million seemed more on the money.

  As he moved the last few steps toward the doorway, the Executioner took a deep breath and prepared himself. He had to assume at least some of the full-auto fire he was about to walk into would hit him. He had to hope there were no head shots or other immediately incapacitating injuries. Even injured, even dying, if he could just live long enough to save Polyakova, he would accept death, and even embrace it.

  Suddenly he was at the door. He stepped into the passage between the two rooms with no regrets.

  The volley of fire he had anticipated came, but Bolan was surprised to see it hit wide to his left, far along the wall. At almost the same time, he heard the gruff voice of the hit man scream, “Ahh! Bitch! I will kill—”

  Bolan turned in the direction of the muzzle-flashes, raising the Beretta. He could just make out a blurry shadow as it staggered to the side of an easel, away from a smaller form. It was a good shot, clean. His finger tightened on the 93-R and the trigger moved rearward.

  But a split second before the gun was about to detonate, the smaller silhouette jumped in front of the sight picture. In a flurry of movement, Polyakova appeared to be hammering her balled fist into the larger shadow.

  Bolan let up on the trigger and raced toward the two shadows. As he ran, he saw the man push the woman away from him. She reeled into two of the easels, knocking them backward into the oncoming Executioner. One of the watercolors flew off the stand, flying into Bolan’s face.

  The picture was light and did no damage. He swept it away. But it had blocked his vision for a second, and by the time he could see again, the hit man was gone.

  Running footsteps sounded in the main hall. “Johnny!” Bolan yelled. “He’s coming your way!” A quick exchange of gunfire sounded.

  Bolan knelt quickly next to where Polyakova had fallen. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  The woman lay on the floor, furiously wiping her hand back and forth against her mouth. “I am fine,” she said.

  The Executioner left her where she was and raced after the fleeing man. By the time he reached the front door it was open, and there was no one to be seen on the street.

  A low moan came from the sculpture room as Bolan ran back toward the woman. Johnny Seven lay just inside the door. The Executioner cut into the room and dropped to one knee.

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” Seven said. “I think. I hope.”

  “Can you
walk?” Bolan asked.

  Seven reached up and grabbed Bolan’s arm. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m as anxious to find out as you are.”

  Polyakova came through the door to the watercolor room as Bolan lifted the man to his feet. She had come across the Desert Eagle on the way, and now she handed it to him as if giving him a poisonous shake. She was obviously shaken by her short stint as a hostage but didn’t look to have been physically harmed. But Bolan noticed that she still continued to wipe her lips with her hand.

  The bullet that had dropped Seven had missed the bone, and done little more than skim across his thigh. The velocity had knocked him from his feet, but the wound wasn’t life-threatening.

  As it seemed to happen every five minutes since this mission began, police sirens now sounded, nearing the art gallery. “We’ve got to get out of here,” Bolan said. “I’m going back for Smith-Williams. You two head for the street.” He glanced down at the blood on the DEA man’s leg. A cab was out of the question. “Luiza, help him. Johnny, you know how to boost a car?”

  The DEA man nodded.

  “Do it,” the Executioner said. “Go back to the hotel. I’ll grab the Briton and meet you there.”

  Polyakova took Seven’s arm and he limped out into the hall, then toward the front door.

  Bolan sprinted back to the office, knowing every second counted now. He had to get Smith-Williams out of there before the police arrived. Once the boys were there, the gallery owner would shut up tighter than a clam, and Bolan would never learn who the Russian connections were.

  Ripping open the door, Bolan switched the light back on and turned to the chair where he’d left the art-and-drug dealer.

  Raymond Smith-Williams still sat where the Executioner had left him. But the fear on his face was gone. Instead he wore a moronic-looking grin, and Bolan had to wonder what had crossed his mind in the second before the barrage of bullets ended his life.