"You're Gabe Hoban?" the woman asked, looking at the ID pin on his jacket.
"Yeah," Ris replied in a rough manner that was supposed to have ended further attempts at conversation. The shock of blond hair reminded him painfully of Helene.
"Lucy Crain," the reporter said as she stuck out her hand and named the paper she worked for. "This isn't your first time here, is it?"
Ris looked at her as he took the hand. Lucy stood well below his shoulder even though he slouched against the wall. Had he done something to give himself away?
The woman smiled at him. "I mean, you're so cool about everything, like you've got your mind on a zillion other things. Me, I've got goose bumps twice thinking about this."
He shifted against the wall and felt the reassuring weight of the SIG-Sauer in his jacket pocket, balanced by the heaviness of the two Misar MU-50 G hand grenades in the other. The jacket had been specially tailored to accommodate all of the items, just as the security man who planted the weapons on Ris when he was patted down at the door had been carefully selected to guard the pressroom at the White House that day. A lot of long-distance planning was paying off now, and Ris was surprised at the easiness of it.
The door near the podium opened abruptly and Secret Service men filed into the room, followed by the President and Gorbachev, who smiled and waved at the gathered reporters with practiced ease.
Ris felt a dark stirring at the back of his mind as something coldly familiar seemed to reach slick tentacles around him, through him, taking charge of his body. For a moment he seemed to linger outside of his body, almost large enough to fill the whole room by himself. Then he was trapped within the confines of flesh again, aware that his heart was thudding and his breathing had become more rapid.
"Damn it," Lucy Crain said as she stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the other reporters who had risen from their seats to honor the two world leaders. "We'll never be able to see a thing from here."
"It will open up in a few moments," Ris promised as he slid his hand around one of the spherical Misar grenades, tracing the toggle switch. He fisted the SIG-Sauer in his other hand. He'd pitch the grenade into the assembled reporters first to create confusion even as he was emptying the pistol's clip into the two leaders. Then he'd toss the second grenade up by the podium in case there were any survivors. If everything worked as planned, there would be enough confusion to permit him to leave the White House and board the federally marked helicopter that would land on the White House lawn for him. Once in the specially designed bunker only minutes outside of the Washington, D.C. area, he'd radio Kettwig and have the man signal the satellite. It would be Ragnarok within the hour. Even if Ris didn't survive the assassination attempt, Kettwig would trip the special frequencies. The world would die only to be reborn.
Just as his father had promised.
* * *
Bolan ran, pulling Helene along behind him as he followed the trio of Secret Service men down the halls of the White House to the pressroom. He knew from radio contact with Hal Brognola that the President and Gorbachev were already in the room.
He wished he didn't have to bring Helene along, didn't have to use her for the Judas goat he needed. But the warrior couldn't take the chance that Fenris Thomas had disguised himself somehow. Once Bolan showed up in the room, or anyone made the attempt to remove the President or Gorbachev, he knew that Fenris Thomas would explode into action.
He kept the Desert Eagle tucked in close to his body, holding it in his right hand under the jacket he'd borrowed from Grimaldi.
"I can't go on," Helene gasped.
Tightening his grip on her wrist, Bolan encouraged her. "You've got to. It's only a little farther." He looked ahead, watching as the three Secret Service men pushed people out of the way and waved others down.
"I'm going to be sick," Helene moaned, leaning into Bolan.
The girl's unexpected weight knocked the Executioner off stride, and he almost went down. His hand came from under the jacket with the .44 as he braced himself against the wall at his side. A woman behind him saw the gun and screamed.
Had the scream carried into the pressroom? Bolan wondered as he hid the Desert Eagle from view again and continued running. He wrapped his arm protectively over Helene's shoulders. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. They made another corner with Bolan almost carrying her.
Bolan looked at the side door that allowed the President to come and go freely from the pressroom. Brognola and Bowen, the CIA man, stood to one side.
A man separated himself from the crowd of Secret Service agents and flipped open an ID as he stepped in front of Bolan. "Harrigan," the man growled as he reached for Helene's arm, "head of the Secret Service. We'll take over now." The .45 in the agent's hand said he wasn't going to take no for an answer.
* * *
"Father?"
"Yes, Ris?"
"Did it hurt?"
"What?"
"Dying."
"Who's going to die?"
"I think maybe I will."
"Why do you think that?"
"I don't know."
"You're defeating yourself, boy."
"No."
"Yes. Never think of failure. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"If you do this, you will live forever."
"I know. You've told me."
"Now, come, boy. A pact. Between you and me."
"Not the knife, Father."
"Don't cry, Ris. Remember, this is your promise to me."
* * *
Ris pushed the dark voices back, tried to remember that all that had been said long ago. But it was coming true today. And he would do it. For his father.
He freed the grenade as he pulled the SIG-Sauer. Then the back door ripped open and drew his attention.
Without warning, Bowen stepped forward and kicked the Secret Service man in the crotch, dropping the man instantly. He lowered the little stuttergun to waist-level and held it on the other agents. Brognola backed his play at once.
"Go," Bowen said. "I know we've had our differences in the past, Belasko, but you've made a believer out of me. And this idiot isn't going to fuck things up now by staging a glory play."
Bolan didn't hesitate. He looked at Brognola, knowing his friend and the CIA section chief were placing their jobs and maybe their freedom on his ability to take out the assassin without anyone being hurt. He flattened against the wall, listening to someone introduce the President. It had to be now, and there was no margin for error. "Helene?"
She looked up at him, gave him a brief squeeze of reassurance, then nodded.
One shot.
Bolan opened the door, trying to shield Helene as much as he could from whatever possible danger was on the other side of the door. Surprised faces looked at him from the podium, and astonishment was written on every reporter's face that could see him. He searched the myriad faces hurriedly. Where was Ris?
One shot.
In another war one shot sometimes had cost him three or four days of hard work and penetration, as well as several lives. If a mission was scrubbed, it was carried out later. But there would be no «later» this time.
"There!" Helene shrilled in his ear, pointing.
Bolan swiveled his body, melding with his weapon, totally focusing on the one shot he would get before the press of reporters swept the big blond man who stood at the back from his view. He watched Ris's hands clear his jacket pockets, saw the pistol and grenade.
The .44 bucked against the Executioner's palm, the flat-nose hollowpoints ripping his target's face to bloody shreds. He held the pistol steady, at arm's length as he watched Ris Thomas fall to the floor, leaving a bloody shadow on the wall behind him.
Suddenly Helene was sobbing against his chest, reminding him that innocents were never safe in a madman's war. And that was one thing Bolan fought for every time he journeyed to the hellgrounds — the preservation of the innocents from the savages. Even then, he thought as he looked at Ris Thomas's
corpse, no matter how much blood a warrior shed, or how willing he was to sacrifice himself for the cause, he couldn't save them all.
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