Blood Vendetta

by Don Pendleton

  “We can handle it,” Bolan said. “We’re going to get in, get out and get on the plane. We’ll be back in the States in twenty hours. I promise.”

  Bolan heard the big Fed make a skeptical noise on the other end of the line.

  “I don’t like to second guess you, Striker,” Brognola said.

  “But?”

  “But this is reckless. You already accomplished the mission, soldier. It’s time to come the hell home.”

  “I’m not coming home on this one yet,” Bolan said.

  “For the love of— Okay, why the hell not?”

  The Executioner briefed Brognola about Yezhov and the satellites.

  “Hell,” Brognola said.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s never cut and dry, is it?”

  “No...no, it’s not. Can you check it out for me?”

  “Trust but verify. Always a good strategy. But it’s separate from Nightingale—I mean Jennifer Davis, right?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You could send her back tonight, right now, and that wouldn’t affect your next move on Yezhov.”

  Bolan closed his eyes, massaged the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

  “I know where you’re going with this. And you’re wrong.”

  “You don’t identify with her?” Brognola persisted. “Not even a little bit?”

  “The revenge thing?”

  “Not revenge,” Brognola countered. “Justice. When the mob killed your family, you took out the people who caused it. But you kept at it long past the point of revenge. You didn’t stop until you gutted them.”

  “Of course. It was war.”

  “Right,” Brognola said. “Same goes for this lady. If revenge was her motive, she would have quit years ago. That can only sustain a person for so long. She kept fighting, in her own way. I’m no shrink, but I’m guessing Davis didn’t just want justice for herself, her twin sister, her family. She wanted others to have it, too.”

  “To fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves.”

  “Something like that, yeah. Sound familiar?”

  “Mildly,” Bolan replied. “You’re pretty sharp. Maybe you should get a daytime talk show, interview women who love too much, all that stuff.”

  Brognola laughed. “And leave this magic behind? Forget it. Look, I trust you, Striker. Just keep your head clear. That’s all I am saying. It could go fine. It could go badly. Just watch your ass.”

  “Understood. You can get me some information on the satellite?”

  “I’ll have the cyber team dig up what it can and send it to you.”

  “The delay with Davis coming home, will the White House kick your ass over that?”

  “Of course,” Brognola replied wearily. “Regardless, just watch your own ass and get home as soon as you can.”

  * * *

  BOLAN ALLOWED HIMSELF to drift into a light sleep in the chair. The phone in his lap trilled. His eyes snapped open and he brought the device to his ear.

  “Go,” he said.

  “Striker, it’s Barb,” Price said.

  “Hey,” the soldier replied. He shifted in the chair, pressed the palm of his free hand against his right eye, rubbing away any lingering remnants of his nap.

  “You were sleeping.”

  “You know me,” Bolan said. “Sleep’s a relative term when I am in the field.”

  “Of course. Hey, I have something for you.”

  “Great, what is it?”

  “I looked into this whole satellite thing,” she said. “Our new friend’s telling the truth, apparently.”

  “The satellite program’s real.”

  “Right. And more important, the FBI’s counterintelligence people have been tracking one of the scientists, a man named Christopher Rusk, for several months. Guy’s been living really well, even for a physicist. He’s also made two trips to Moscow in the past three years, ostensibly to speak at scientific conferences in those cities. We have our CIA station chief in Moscow, a guy named Mauldin, combing through his files, checking to see whether he has any information on the guy.”

  “He under surveillance?”

  “Sure,” Price said. “FBI tapped his phones and his emails once they opened an investigation into him. We called the special agent in charge. He’s got his people scouring the records, but he’s not hopeful. Rusk has played it extremely safe. They think he may know he’s under suspicion. Emails are clean, same for phone calls. FBI asked if we wanted him rolled up. I said no. You okay with that?”

  “Good call,” the soldier said. “We may need to jerk his chain later. Especially if we want Yezhov to feel a noose tightening from every direction. For now, just have the Feds shadow him, though.”

  “Will do. Mauldin, the CIA guy, is also checking into this whole Sindikat thing,” Price said. “Or rechecking. Apparently, the CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency think it’s a myth. My NSA contacts aren’t so sure.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they know a lot of the Russian oligarchs are in bed with the bureaucrats. That’s old news. Now, whether a select group wants to position itself as a shadow government in Russia or just grab money and power for themselves remains up in the air.”

  “Not sure I see the difference between the two.”

  “Well, the NSA folks aren’t sure whether it’s an organized, concerted effort aimed at controlling the country for the long haul. Or just a loose confederation of crooks hooking up as the need arises.”

  “If it’s the latter, I don’t think they’d mess with the directed-energy satellites,” Bolan said. “Sure, they might steal the technology, sell or give it to the Russians so they could build one—or a half dozen, for that matter. Beyond that, you’re venturing into something much bigger and more organized. This operation has the hallmarks of something bigger, a conspiracy. Keep digging.”

  “Of course,” Price said. “Hal told me you’re taking her to the blast site.”

  “Here we go—” Bolan said.

  “Just be careful.”

  “You know I will.”

  “I do, but it makes me feel better to say it.”

  “I’ll have her on a plane tomorrow. I’ll be back in Virginia sometime after that.”

  “Make it soon,” Price said, before Bolan cut the connection.

  * * *

  WHILE THE SKIES over London remained black, Davis and the others had risen from bed. From his seat in the first-floor dining room, Bolan could hear alarms beep through the floorboards, followed several minutes later by the rush of showers and at least one hair dryer.

  Grimaldi was the first to emerge from upstairs. He wore jeans, a charcoal-gray turtleneck and white canvas sneakers. His still-wet hair was combed back from his face.

  “You look like shit,” Grimaldi said.

  “Thanks,” Bolan replied. “Feeling even worse.”

  Several pictures, aerial shots downloaded from the internet, were strewn over the tabletop.

  “Aerial shots of the square?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “No,” Bolan said.

  “You’ll be sharp as a knife today.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’d you figure out, looking at the satellite shots?”

  Bolan sighed. “There are about a million ways for Yezhov’s men to get us. That’s if some other freelancer doesn’t pop up and try to snatch her first.”

  “You map out an escape route?”

  “Couple of them,” Bolan said. “I’ll explain them to you when McCarter shows up. Hopefully, we won’t have to use them.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Grimaldi hoisted his coff
ee, uncoiled himself from the chair and moved back into the kitchen. Humming, he opened the refrigerator door and scoured its interior for food.

  Bolan had considered ordering McCarter, Grimaldi and Ramirez to wait at the airport, but had decided against it. He knew the men, especially McCarter and Grimaldi, and neither needed nor wanted his protection. And, if something happened to Bolan, someone would need to swoop in and make sure Davis made it to the plane and back to the United States.

  Once everyone gathered downstairs, Bolan briefed the others on the escape routes.

  Grimaldi and McCarter, the two tapped to drive, paid rapt attention. After the briefing, they climbed aboard their vehicles and headed out for the train station.

  McCarter drove his Jaguar, while Bolan and Davis rode in the backseat. Grimaldi drove the black Escalade and Ramirez rode shotgun.

  Eyes turned toward the rear driver’s-side window, Bolan swept his gaze over his surroundings. An M-4 assault rifle fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher stood at an angle in the space between his left leg and the door nearest him. The assault rifle’s muzzle poked into the carpeted floor while the retractable stock rested on the seat cushion next to his thigh.

  “Do you always travel with this much firepower?” Davis asked.

  “At least this much.”

  “What if we get pulled over?”

  “Diplomatic plates. Even with my friend’s erratic driving, the police won’t bug us.”

  “At least if I’m driving, the car will make it back to the States,” McCarter growled.

  “Look,” Davis said, “I know you didn’t have to do this. All of you guys. Realistically, I’m guessing you could have forced me to go back.”

  “We left our chloroform-soaked rags at home, or else you’d be on the plane right now,” McCarter said while cutting the steering wheel left.

  Bolan glanced at the woman, who was opening her mouth to reply, but he beat her to it. “Yes, he’s kidding. Yes, we could have forced you to go. Still could, frankly. But I didn’t want to go that route.”

  “Why?”

  “This way the U.S. government is recruiting you. The other way is an extraordinary rendition. I’ve done both. But in my eyes—and Washington’s eyes, for that matter—you’re not a criminal. If you’re a terrorist, you’ve been terrorizing all the right people.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Second, it’s better if you come of your own free will,” Bolan said.

  “Because?”

  “Because otherwise the chances are you’d comply for a while, then say ‘screw this,’ feel hemmed in and disappear.”

  “Really? And you know this how?”

  Bolan leveled his gaze on her. “I don’t. I’m just pulling all this out of my backside.”

  “He’s a keen observer of human nature,” McCarter chimed in. “When he’s not killing blokes and blowing shit up. Look, we’re almost there. Maybe you two can pick up this deep conversation later?”

  * * *

  “THIS IS STUPID,” muttered the man seated next to Mikoyan.

  Mikoyan plucked the cigar from his mouth, turned and pinned the man under his contemptuous gaze. They were seated inside the cab of a lime-green delivery truck filled with racks of bottled water, the kind used in office water coolers. Fear flickered in the other man’s eyes. He licked his lips, fell silent and stared through the truck’s windshield.

  Satisfied, Mikoyan returned the cigar to his mouth and set his sights back on the train station. The man next to him was beneath contempt, another of Yezhov’s foot soldiers, all spit-and-polish, but no guts, no skills. They’d never played a hunch like he was playing. Chances were the woman had gone underground and wouldn’t surface for days, weeks, maybe even months. Chances were she was too smart to head to this spot, the train station where her sister was killed, on the anniversary of the bombing.

  Chances were...

  But Mikoyan knew better than to let that hold him back.

  For reasons that escaped him, people became attached to one another, built their lives around each other. When they lost someone, they lost their mind, too. Their judgment. That made them unpredictable, but also weak and easily exploited. Mikoyan had figured that out as a boy growing up in a Russian orphanage. Unlike the other children, he cared little whether he had parents. The attachments just complicated things. And he had little patience for complications.

  He thought of the other woman, the former CIA agent, who’d dropped everything to come help her friend. She was still alive for the moment, sleeping off the effects of the drugs she’d been administered. But her drawing breath was a temporary condition. And she was in her current situation because she’d been foolish enough to stick her neck out for another. She would eventually die, at his hands, never knowing her mistake.

  A black Jaguar sped past the truck and grabbed his attention. He had just settled his eyes on it, when a second vehicle—a black SUV—rolled by.

  “Diplomatic plates,” the other man said.

  Mikoyan grinned. “Diplomats don’t use the subway,” he said.

  He activated the microphone hooked to the cuff of his left jacket sleeve. Raising his arm, he spoke into it. “They’re here,” he said.

  * * *

  BOLAN WENT EVA from the Jaguar. He heard a metallic thunk and the trunk lid sprang open. He walked around to the rear of the car, reached inside and removed a black leather briefcase. The specially constructed briefcase contained an MP-5. There were two switches built into the handle; one acted as a safety while the second would trigger the weapon. He’d prefer to remove the weapon from the case, but if he found himself with his back against the wall, he could flick the switch and use the spray-and-pray method of gun fighting. He also carried a second Beretta in a dual shoulder rig.

  He walked around to Davis’s side of the car, eyes scanning the area, and pulled open her door.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  She nodded and climbed from the vehicle. Bolan heard another car door slam. He looked and saw Ramirez had exited the truck and was moving toward them.

  The memorial area was empty at this hour. On top of a rectangular plinth stood the statue of an angel, wings spread wide, body covered in a flowing gown. An open hand was pressed over her heart and she cast a pained look skyward. A shallow, circular pool surrounded the plinth and the statue. A pair of smaller pools stood on either side of the larger one, a fountain of water springing up from the center of each.

  Bolan saw Davis stare up at the angel, heard her swallow hard. He took a couple of steps back and took another look around at the memorial square. A small building fronted by sliding glass doors and large plate-glass windows stood a dozen or more yards from him. Turnstiles and ticket counters were visible inside the train station’s well-lit interior. He guessed the stairs leading to the subway were located farther inside.

  A voice buzzed in his radio earpiece.

  “Check your six,” Grimaldi said. “Possible hostiles. Three of them.”

  Bolan turned slowly, began backing toward Davis. His thumb rested on the stud that acted as a safety for the encased MP-5. Ramirez apparently heard the same radio traffic, as Bolan noticed he was taking a step forward, sweeping back his jacket and reaching for his pistol.

  The soldier spotted three men walking several feet apart from one another in a ragged line across the square. Bolan noticed immediately the man in the middle was unusually tall and pale enough that his face seemed to gleam under the artificial light beaming down from the lampposts. An overcoat hung from the man’s narrow shoulders. With his left hand, the man was pressing a mobile phone to his ear. The man’s right hand was obscured from view. One of the other men wore a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans. The second was decked out in a blue denim jacket, and had a baseball cap pulled tightly over his head.

&nbs
p; The safety off, Bolan rested the ball of his thumb on a second stud that acted as the trigger. By this point, the big American had maneuvered himself between Davis and the three men.

  “I’m going EVA,” McCarter said through the earphones.

  “Negative,” Bolan said. “I’m bringing her to the car. Be ready to move. Same for you, Jack.”

  Bolan grabbed Davis’s hand and started to pull her from the memorial.

  She turned her face toward him, her expression a mixture of puzzlement and irritation. Her lips parted, a question forming. Bolan shook his head.

  “Move,” he growled.

  Her eyes drifted from Bolan’s and over his shoulder. Her eyes widened. Bolan turned in the direction of her gaze. The man in the leather jacket was closing in on them. He raised his hand, which clutched a gun and started to draw down on them.

  Squeezing Davis’s arm, Bolan triggered the MP-5. A burst fired out through a hole in the side of the briefcase. The Executioner swept the briefcase in a tight circle. Bullets struck the man, lancing through his torso.

  As that shooter fell, the soldier’s other two opponents, their weapons in view, sprinted in opposite directions. Each laid down fire that flew well over Bolan’s head. He guessed they were trying to drive him to ground, but didn’t want to chance hurting Davis.

  Three more pairs of hardmen, each of them brandishing pistols or submachine guns, converged from different directions.

  Autofire chattered behind Bolan. He heard someone cry out behind him. He glanced at Ramirez in time to see the guy collapse to the ground in a boneless heap. Crimson entry wounds, glistening under the artificial light, peppered his back.

  “Ramirez! Ramirez!” Bolan shouted into his throat microphone.

  The man lay on his stomach, motionless. Blood seeped from beneath his torso, drained into the groove in the bricks covering the ground, forming dozens of rivers of blood.

  Bolan had no time to linger on the fallen man. His first duty was to get Davis the hell out of there.

  An engine revved to his left and Grimaldi’s SUV jumped the curb and carved a path toward Bolan and Davis. It shuddered as it crossed over the uneven terrain of sidewalks and grass. Concrete barriers jutted up from the ground and formed a circle around the monument. Though meant to look like decorations, they actually were meant to prevent the onslaught of a car bomb. Bolan knew he’d have to get Davis outside the barriers before he could shove her into the rear of the armored SUV.