Deadly Salvage

by Don Pendleton

  At least the kid hadn’t said anything about the little break and enter caper that Bolan had planned. Maybe he was wising up faster than Grimaldi had predicted.

  * * *

  STEEL HAD REMOVED his tuxedo jacket and was flexing his pectoral muscles, making the ruffles on the front of his white shirt dance. He glared at Ivan, who met his gaze calmly. Wanting to buy Bolan as much time as possible, Grimaldi stepped beside Ivan and pointed to Steel’s fluttering chest muscles.

  “You ever thought about doing commercials?” he said. “If this movie flops, you’ve got a great future with Victoria’s Secret.”

  “What?” Steel asked, his mouth twisting downward.

  “Bra commercials.” Grimaldi cupped his hands in front of his chest. “What size do you run? About a 55 B?”

  Kournikova giggled.

  Steel, obviously enraged, reached for Grimaldi’s hands, but Ivan grabbed Steel’s left wrist.

  “First, you deal with me,” he said.

  Steel pulled his arm away and the two men went back to their glaring contest.

  A good, old-fashioned stare-down, Grimaldi thought. This is working out better than we’d hoped. Pretending to adjust his jacket, he glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Plenty of time. The two men hadn’t even sat down yet.

  * * *

  WHEN THE ELEVATOR stopped at the fourteenth floor, Bolan noted that the shaft extended a good forty feet above him, but he couldn’t see an opening to the penthouse. A series of metal bars forming an X separated this elevator shaft from the one next to it. He took out his small flashlight and shone it upward. As he traced the wall of the adjacent shaft, the beam swept over a closed elevator door about six feet up and to his left. Clearly, only one elevator shaft opened onto the fifteenth floor. And it wasn’t the one Bolan had chosen.

  Still, the single-elevator access made sense. Everett probably had a key-controlled override installed in that car so he could summon the elevator and keep it solely for his own use.

  Bolan moved across the top of the car and grabbed the X beams just as the elevator began its quick descent. He watched it going down toward the lobby, then carefully adjusted his feet and gripped the angular beams, climbing toward the closed door. Within seconds, he had established a precarious position on the metal braces. Reaching across the empty space with his left arm, he was able to grab hold of the metal frame that housed the elevator doors where they would retract into the wall. He placed the toe of his left dress shoe onto the thin, concrete ledge along the bottom of the door frame. It was perhaps an inch wide.

  With one leg still braced on the support beam, Bolan was too spread out to reach the metal rod that opened and closed the doors. Adjusting his stance, he managed to wiggle a few inches closer, and tried again for the rod. His fingertips brushed against it, but he was still too far away. The effort made his foot slip off the small ledge, but his strong grip on the X beam kept him from falling. It was a long way down, he noticed, as his left foot and hand swung out over the dark shaft. He took a deep breath and tried again for purchase on the tiny ledge. He managed to reestablish his foothold, but the distance was still too great to allow him to get a safe grip on the elevator doors.

  The clock’s ticking, he thought. Bolan gathered his strength for an all-or-nothing lunge. He hung suspended in space for a split second before his fingers closed around the metal rod. Pulling himself forward, he got both his feet onto the ledge and flattened himself against the door.

  Now would be a good time to get this thing open, he thought. Moving in small increments, Bolan extracted the thin metal pick from his pocket once again, but as he brought it up to insert it in the door release mechanism, it slipped from his fingers, cascading downward for six or seven seconds before clattering on top of the elevator car at lobby level. He stayed frozen, hoping the noise hadn’t alerted anyone.

  After about thirty seconds, he cautiously reached upward with his right hand, nimbly exploring the metal catch that locked the door rods in place. Ten more seconds ticked away on his mental clock before he managed to find and press the right mechanism. The tension in the rod slackened and he felt the twin doors pop apart ever so slightly. He worked his fingers into the expanding crack between the doors and pushed, shifting his weight forward and landing on his hands and knees on the plush carpeting of the penthouse floor. He was in a small foyer with doors on either side. Straight ahead of him, a hallway led to another door. Although the foyer was lit, the hallway was dark. Bolan glanced to his left and saw there was no button to summon the elevator. Instead, the ornate housing plate displayed only a slot for a key.

  Guess I’ll be taking the stairs, he thought as he let the elevator slide closed behind him. He moved down the hallway. The door at the end was locked, but it succumbed to the tip of Bolan’s knife in half a minute. He cautiously stepped into the room and discovered a massive, darkened den replete with sofas, leather chairs, an enormous flat-screen television, and a huge, cluttered desk off to the left side. Bolan paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He wished he had a pair of night vision goggles, but obtaining proper equipment had been somewhat problematic on this trip. He slipped his small, but powerful LED flashlight out of his pocket and swept the room.

  Nothing moved. He scanned the ceiling for cameras and saw two small, opaque PTZ bubbles. If the cameras were being monitored and the lenses were equipped with infrared filters, Everett and his staff would soon know he was in the penthouse, if they didn’t know already.

  * * *

  STEEL AND THE OTHER big Russian man faced each other across the cleared-off table, fists locked. They’d been arm wrestling for a good five minutes, Grimes noted, and so far neither had budged. Steel’s face was covered with sweat and the veins along his temples and neck stuck out. The other man was obviously feeling the strain, too. They had both removed their tux jackets before starting, and now their white shirts looked ready to split apart at any second.

  Everett seemed to be eating this stuff up. He stood close to the pair, like some impromptu coach, egging his boy on, making a big show of it. Grimes knew the boss was aware that Cooper was probably trying to sneak upstairs during this charade.

  Grimes felt the vibration of his cell phone on his hip. He reached down and removed it from its holder.

  Intruder is in penthouse, the text read.

  So Cooper had gained access that quickly. The guy was good. Of course, the way he’d handled Boudrous’s goons and Matyelshenko at the plateau ambush had been an indication that this was no neophyte. But now the real trap was about to be sprung.

  Let’s see how he does upstairs on his own and unarmed, Grimes thought. Unless he’d managed to sneak a gun under that tight-fitting tuxedo.

  Proceed with interception, he texted back. Capture alive if possible.

  Roger that.

  Grimes caught Everett’s eye as he looked up, and gave his boss a slight nod. Everett returned it and his smile grew wider.

  “Come on, come on,” he yelled. “You two guys gonna sit there and play all night? I’ll make it interesting. Fifty grand to the winner.”

  That’s the boss for you, thought Grimes. Always raising the stakes.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD JUST gotten to the desk when he heard the elevator doors sliding open almost noiselessly behind him. He moved swiftly to the den door and flattened himself against the wall next to it.

  A gloved hand holding a Taser extended through the doo
rway. Bolan saw the profile of a man wearing night vision goggles. The soldier quickly depressed his flashlight switch with his thumb and shone it directly into the man’s face, causing him to recoil. The front of the Taser exploded, sending the two wired prongs flying uselessly into space.

  Bolan grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him forward and simultaneously sending a hard kick into the guy’s solar plexus. When he grunted and slumped forward, Bolan snatched the Taser from his grasp, then shone his flashlight into the narrow hallway. Two more men in night vision goggles were running in his direction. Bolan swung the bright beam into the eyes of the next man in the line just as the guy yelled, “Freeze. Put up your hands!” This one held a Glock 21.

  If you’re going to shoot, shoot, Bolan thought. Don’t talk about it.

  He stepped forward, stripping the expended cartridge from the front of the Taser, which he used to stun the second man. Bolan caught a glimpse of the third assailant pulling off his goggles as he removed his own Glock from its holster, so the soldier pushed the second man into him, which blocked the shot that echoed in the narrow hallway. Bolan’s fist collided with the third man’s temple. He stumbled into the wall and staggered forward, still holding the Glock. Bolan dropped the Taser and delivered an uppercut to his chin, and the third man collapsed in a heap.

  Bolan kicked the Glock away from him and grabbed the second man’s gun. Satisfied that these three were down for the count, he turned and lifted the first fallen adversary out of the doorway, stopping to pluck the night vision goggles from his face, and slammed the door shut as he stepped back into the den. As Bolan ran back to the desk he saw what had piqued his interest before: a camera fitted with a long lens.

  Better not to leave totally empty-handed, he thought as he snatched it from the desktop. He slipped the camera strap over his head so it was secured under his right arm as he ran. More movement came from behind him, and an unknown voice yelled, “Halt!”

  Another guy who’d rather talk than shoot, Bolan thought as he fired a quick round from the Glock through the doorway. He sprinted across the room toward an adjacent hallway that appeared to lead toward the corner of the building. As with the rest of the hotel, there were likely emergency stairwells on both sides.

  At least I hope there are, he thought, as several rounds zipped past, puckering the wall next to him. He crouched and kept moving, suddenly aware that he’d trapped himself in an elongated kill zone. He noticed a gymnasium on his right, sealed off by two metal doors with large glass windows.

  No wonder Everett was in such great shape. He didn’t even have to drive to the gym.

  Bolan spied an open door to his left. He curled inside it and switched the Glock to his left hand and extended the gun around the jamb, exposing as little of his body as possible.

  The three men had recovered and were rushing down the hall toward him.

  Now they’re the ones in the kill zone, Bolan thought as he squeezed off two rounds at the center mass of the first man. The guy took two more steps and stumbled.

  Bolan elevated his aim, acquiring a sight picture of the second man. He squeezed off another round and saw the man’s goggles explode as his head jerked backward. He collapsed on top of the first man, who was trying to get up.

  Body armor, thought Bolan. He fired two more rounds at the third guy, who ducked through the gym doors and fired back half a magazine.

  Bolan crouched and shot the first man in the forehead as he aimed his pistol in the soldier’s direction.

  More rounds tore into the wall near Bolan’s head.

  Too close for comfort.

  He returned fire, estimating that the Glock had a 13 round capacity. He’d lost track of how many of them were gone. Seven, maybe? No time to drop the mag and check. He knew his assailant might decide to take the initiative and charge forward. Or the guy could stay put and wait for the backup that was most likely on its way.

  Bolan fired one round down the hallway. The man returned fire.

  Four shots. This guy wasn’t worried about running low on ammo. Bolan timed the sequence of the shots as he got ready to spring forward. He figured he had five rounds left, so he fired off two behind him as he dashed down the hall toward the final doorway. Hopefully, it would lead to that emergency exit he was counting on.

  Bolan veered slightly to his right. In a highly stressful firefight, the shooter’s rounds tended to go down and to the left. Of course, that was based on the assumption that the guy was right-handed. It would be just my luck to draw a southpaw, Bolan thought as several more rounds zipped by him. He dived the last three feet into the adjoining room, doing a somersault and then rolling to his right again.

  Bolan lay prone, stretching the Glock out in front of him. He reached up and flipped down the visor for the night vision goggles, and the darkened hallway suddenly became crystal clear in varying hues of green. Two men were running toward him. Bolan squeezed off one round, catching the first guy in the left thigh. A dark spray burst from the man’s pant leg. Bolan adjusted his sight picture and shot the second man high in the chest, hoping the round would penetrate even if this guy was wearing a vest. The man jerked back as if he’d been hit, then kept on coming, firing rounds from his handgun as he ran.

  Bolan elevated his sight picture, zeroing in for a head shot, and squeezed off another round. This time the green-hued picture showed an explosion of dark mist around the man’s head. Momentum carried him one more step before he crumpled.

  The slide was locked back on Bolan’s Glock. Empty and no new magazine. He debated rushing down the hall to retrieve one from one of his fallen adversaries, but the thought of wasting time searching made the move seem unwise. Seconds later, this decision was vindicated as a new set of rounds whizzed by him. Bolan managed to swing the heavy wood door closed, and twist the lock.

  Good thing Willard likes his privacy, he thought.

  He found himself in a modestly furnished bedroom: dresser, chair, bed. Bolan ran across the room and began searching for an emergency exit, but all he found was a full-length mirror and a solid wall.

  He heard yelling and footfalls in the hallway, then someone tried the doorknob. A body crashed against it seconds later, but the lock held...for the moment, anyway. Bolan glanced down at the Glock in his hand and then to the wall in front of him.

  No ammo, no exit.

  * * *

  GRIMALDI FELT SWEAT cascading down his body inside his shirt. The two big guys had been at it for a good ten minutes, but neither seemed to be getting the upper hand. He hoped Bolan had found something worthwhile on his little expedition. Jack hoped even more that his colleague was on his way back by now.

  He moved next to Kournikova. “How much longer do you think Ivan can hold out?” he whispered.

  “As long as he needs to,” she said. “Steel is an oaf. Ivan is playing with him. I told him to draw it out.”

  Grimaldi checked out the two contestants for himself. If Ivan was playacting he should get an Academy Award nomination for sure. The veins in both their faces, necks and arms looked as if they’d been filled with collagen.

  Grimaldi locked eyes with Everett, who seemed to have noticed his conversation with the Russian agent. The rich man grinned and yelled, “Come on, somebody do something! I’ll make it a hundred grand.”

  A hundred thousand, thought Grimaldi. Damn. He was tempted to jump in and offer to arm wrestle the winner.

  With Everett’s pronouncement, Mark Steel leaned forward,
obviously trying to exert the pressure needed to beat his opponent. Ivan shifted his weight, too, their heads almost touching as they continued to snort in each other’s face.

  I hope they didn’t forget their breath mints, Grimaldi thought, trying to ease his worry with a bit of humor. Still, he knew Bolan could take care of himself in virtually any situation and come out on top.

  Besides, he thought. This is just a simple recon break-in. Pretty much routine. What could go wrong?

  * * *

  BOLAN MOVED OVER to the large window and tore away the curtains. In the distance, the twinkling lights of the harbor greeted him. No inviting ledge outside. He looked to the side, craning his neck to see that the roof was about fifteen feet above him. Even if he could break the glass, he had no way to secure a rope to the side of the building. Climbing up—or down—wasn’t an option.

  The door shook in its frame. His assailants would be gaining access in seconds. He shoved the dresser onto its side, sliding it over to brace the beleaguered door. That might buy him a few more precious seconds.

  Bolan scanned the walls again. He had to be missing something. Everett wouldn’t have a penthouse with no emergency exits. If the elevator went out of service, there had to be another way down, aside from rappelling or paragliding. Bolan’s eyes landed on the mirror again. He ran to it and tapped his knuckle against the surface. It produced a hollow sound, suggesting there was no wall behind it. This wasn’t a mirror at all, but a window. This must be the guest bedroom, Bolan realized as he smashed the Glock against the glass. So much for Everett’s voyeurism.

  The pane shattered, revealing a small room containing a couple folding chairs. More importantly, Bolan spotted a door at the far end. He stepped through the frame and reached the door in three quick steps, grabbing one of the chairs on the way. A solid strip of light shone through the gap at the bottom of the door, showing no signs of movement on the opposite side.