Deadly Salvage

by Don Pendleton

  Still no guarantees there won’t be another reception party, Bolan thought as he twisted the knob. But staying in the penthouse meant certain capture or death.

  He dropped the magazine in the Glock just enough to release the slide forward. The gun was empty, but anyone he might meet didn’t have to know that. He took off the night vision goggles and slipped them into his inner jacket pocket. Keeping the Glock in his right hand and grabbing the chair with his left, Bolan pushed the door open and found himself in a corridor leading to a stairwell. He paused, listening, but didn’t take the time to push the door flat against the wall.

  He realized his mistake seconds later as he heard a crack and felt the prongs of a Taser hitting his body. He immediately began to seize up, but the momentum of his initial movement, coupled with the spinning motion he’d executed as he’d stepped through the door, allowed him to thrust the chair behind him as he fell. It struck the extended wires and dislodged one of the hooked prongs from Bolan’s jacket, stopping the flow of electrical current.

  Bolan felt the immobilizing tension in his muscles slacken and cease as he hit the floor. His assailant stood over him, still holding the Taser.

  In the instant it took the man to realize the circuit had been broken, Bolan had already thrust his left foot into his groin. The man tipped forward onto Bolan. The guy was large and strong, and he also had a dominant position. The soldier, however, had the initiative, and while his attacker was momentarily disabled, Bolan smashed the Glock into the side of the man’s head twice, then tossed the pistol away. He grabbed him under the arms, shifting his foe’s weight off himself and simultaneously twisting out from under him. As the man tried to get to his knees, Bolan’s fist connected with his jaw.

  Jumping to his feet, the soldier delivered a solid kick to the man’s liver. His opponent grunted in pain and flattened out, temporarily incapacitated.

  At the periphery of his vision Bolan saw two more men running up the stairs. Both held Glock semiautomatic pistols. Bolan grabbed the man spread out before him and hurled him over the railing, sending him down onto the other two. The flying man hit the first guy, causing his Glock to discharge. Both of them fell backward in a heap toward the third man, who had been trying to aim his gun at Bolan. The collision caused him to depress the trigger of his weapon also, but so far both errant shots had missed their intended target.

  Bolan vaulted over the handrail and landed on the stairs. He leaped toward the tangle of bodies and snared the second man’s Glock, twisting it free. He lashed back with the pistol, striking the guy’s temple, so hard that his eyes rolled back in his head.

  The third man tried to bring his Glock in front of Bolan’s face, but the Executioner parried it with his left hand and shot the man under the chin.

  A bloody mist sprayed outward.

  Despite the ringing in his ears from all the gunfire, Bolan registered a cacophony above and behind him. The men in the penthouse had broken through. He scrambled down the remaining stairs toward the next level. Another figure appeared around a corner and Bolan put two rounds into his chest and neck. As the guy fell forward, the soldier put a third round into his head.

  He took the stairs two and three at a time, glancing behind him every few seconds.

  Bullets whizzed past him. As Bolan rounded another corner he fired a shot upward, hoping it would hold them off. He managed to get his cell phone out and pressed the preset number for Tyler.

  The FBI man answered on the first ring. “What do you need?”

  “A little help would be nice,” Bolan said, stopping at the door to the eleventh floor. Lucky eleven. He caught a bit of movement above him and fired another round.

  “They shooting at you?” Tyler asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What can I do?”

  Bolan’s impaired hearing made Tyler’s voice sound a million miles away. “Bring the elevator up to eleven,” he shouted. “Now.” He saw another trace of movement on the stairway and fired again.

  Tyler mumbled something that Bolan couldn’t discern. He put the phone back in his pocket and slipped through the door. He saw the elevators in the middle of the hallway. A fifty-yard dash. He had no doubt his pursuers would be trying to gauge his movements. He pushed open the door he’d just come through a crack, and fired three more rounds into the stairwell. All for show, he knew.

  This weapon was a Glock 21, as well. Twelve-round magazine and one in the pipe made thirteen. He’d done better at keeping track of the expended rounds this time, and estimated that he had two left. If Tyler was on the way up from the lobby, and he didn’t encounter any interruptions, Bolan guessed that the FBI man would reach his floor in about thirty seconds.

  Time enough for a non-Olympic speed sprint, he thought. But then again, in the Olympics they didn’t have to worry about outrunning a bullet.

  He fired one more round to give himself the extra edge and ran down the hallway toward the elevators.

  One round left. Twenty yards to go...fifteen... Turning, Bolan saw the stairwell door being pulled open.

  Ten yards left.

  He twisted as he ran, firing his last round in the direction of the door.

  It slammed shut.

  Five yards...

  Bolan was at the elevators now and saw the middle set of doors opening. He dived inside and saw Tyler stretch his hand out and fire off a quick, 3-round burst with Bolan’s Beretta 93R. The FBI agent pulled his arm back as the door closed and the car descended.

  Tyler’s grin was a mile wide. “I really like this gun,” he said, holding up the Beretta.

  “Just don’t forget where you got it,” Bolan said, straightening his jacket. He unslung the camera he’d taken from Everett’s penthouse and handed it to the agent. “Secure this and tag up with me at the safe house, as planned. And here are a couple more souvenirs.” He handed over the now-empty Glock and the night vision goggles.

  Tyler’s eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets, but he shoved everything into his briefcase, closed it and nodded.

  Bolan watched as the numbers descended along the lit display above. In ten more seconds, the car slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. Lobby level never looked so good, he thought as he adjusted his tie and walked calmly back to the ballroom.

  Chapter 11

  Bolan waded through the crowd to Grimaldi’s side. The arm-wrestling contest was in its final stages. Both Ivan and Steel were covered with sweat, their shirts pulled taut over their hulking bodies.

  “Who’s winning?” Bolan asked.

  Grimaldi gave him a once-over and smiled. “Looks like we did.”

  Bolan caught Ivan’s eye and the big Russian winked. He emitted a keening, primordial growl and Steel’s arm began to sink lower and lower toward the tabletop. Just as the back of his hand was slammed down, Steel stood up and jerked away.

  He muttered something in Russian.

  “What did he say?” Grimaldi asked Kournikova.

  “The pig says Ivan cheated.”

  Grimaldi stepped forward, waving his arms. “You lost, Steel, fair and square.”

  “Get away from me!” Steel’s mouth drew down into a fierce scowl. “Before I break you in half.”

  “Hey, buddy,” Grimaldi said, so close now their chests almost bumped. “Nobody likes a sore loser.”

  “I’ll show you a poor loser,” Steel said, reaching for a champagne bottle on an adjacent table. He grabbed Grimaldi’s lapel with one hand and the neck of the bottle with the other. As he swung
the bottle back, Bolan stepped forward, blocked Steel’s right arm and delivered a picture-perfect right cross to the Russian bodybuilder’s jaw.

  Steel’s eyes rolled upward and his upper body gave a jerking twitch. A second later the bottle slipped from his slack fingers, and his knees folded as he fell onto the tiled floor.

  Grimaldi brushed off his jacket and grinned widely. “I guess that settles that.”

  Everett strolled over and looked down at Steel, who was out cold. He smirked. “Nice punch, Cooper. You and me will have to go a couple rounds sometime.”

  “I feel like we already have,” Bolan said.

  Everett’s eyes swept over him. “Nice polka-dot shirt. Or is that blood?”

  Bolan glanced down at the traces of crimson against the white cotton. “It’s from a bloody nose.” He smiled. “The other guy’s, of course.”

  Everett smiled back, said nothing.

  “Hey, bud,” Grimaldi said, “you owe us a hundred grand. Your man lost, fair and square.”

  Everett switched his gaze to Grimaldi, then back to Bolan. “You two are starting to bore me. Like a couple of real pesky horseflies.”

  “I guess you don’t like to lose any more than Mr. Steel there.” Grimaldi gestured down at the bodybuilder, who was starting to come around.

  Before Everett could respond, Grimes came up to him. “Sir, we have a problem upstairs,” he said.

  “Sounds like something might need your immediate attention,” Bolan commented.

  Everett studied him for a few more seconds, then gestured down at Steel. “Get that tub of shit out of here.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “You know what I do to horseflies? I crush them.”

  “If you can catch them,” Grimaldi said.

  Everett’s mouth drew into a tight line. He turned and walked away. Grimes glared at them before he followed his boss.

  “For a rich man,” Kournikova said, “he has no breeding.”

  “No class, either,” Grimaldi stated.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Bolan said, pausing to give Ivan’s shoulder a congratulatory slap. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome.”

  * * *

  “CHRIST, WILL YOU look at this place?” Everett spit as he, Grimes and two security guards walked through the penthouse. Grimes silently noted that the boss hardly paid attention to the bodies littered throughout the suite. He seemed more concerned about the holes in the walls and the bloodstains on the carpet. Grimes said nothing, figuring the blame would eventually be shifted to him for not planning the capture well enough. It always came back to him.

  “Who the hell is that guy?” Everett asked. “Superman?”

  “Obviously, he is very good at what he does,” Grimes said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Everett barked. “Wait a minute...” He stopped and looked around the den. He pursed his lips and walked briskly to his desk. “Shit. I wonder if he took anything from here. Let me review the videos.”

  Grimes nodded and snapped his fingers. One of the guards went to the ornate wooden stand beneath the flat-screen TV. He squatted down and used a key to open the top drawer, which held a rectangular metal control box. The man pressed several buttons on a plastic remote, and the screen flickered to life. About twenty thumbnail images of the penthouse came into view. Everett strode over and grabbed the device.

  “Give me that!” His voice was a low growl. He scrolled through the thumbnails, found the one he wanted, enlarged it to full-screen and began playing it in reverse. The picture shifted to a low-light, infrared setting. Bodies danced through a violent sequence of shooting and physical combat. A lone figure in a tuxedo—Cooper—stripped a Taser from one of the guards, knocking the man to the ground and taking out two more. Cooper ran to the desk, grabbed something and sprinted into the hallway.

  “Damn it.” Everett turned to Grimes. “Would you look at that? He’s handling them like they’re amateurs. Why didn’t you put some good men on this?”

  Grimes glanced down at the bodies. “They were good men, boss.”

  Everett snorted disgustedly and paused the video, ran it back in slow motion, and then tried to enlarge the frame showing Cooper’s movement at the desk.

  “I know he took something,” the boss said. “But the resolution’s not good enough to see what it was.” He played with the video some more. “You stupid idiot,” he snarled at Grimes. “I thought I told you to take him out, not let him walk away with the goods.”

  Grimes decided it wouldn’t be wise to mention that Everett had instructed them to capture Cooper alive so he could be interrogated.

  “What did he take?” Everett said, twisting his head and staring at the blurry image. He stiffened. “Shit. He took the camera. The one from the yacht.” Everett tossed down the remote. “I told you to get rid of that fucking thing.”

  Grimes said nothing. He didn’t recall that particular order. The last “fucking thing” he remembered about the camera was giving it to Everett for his perusal. He mentally debated an apology.

  “Never mind,” the boss said. “This just speeds things up, that’s all. Where’s the Xerxes now?”

  “Circling in the Greater Antilles,” Grimes reported. “We could go closer, but I’m thinking we should wait for the conference to officially begin, right? Unless you want to consider heading to Miami instead.”

  “I don’t pay you to think, you idiot.” Everett began tracing his thumb and forefinger over the stubble on his upper lip. “Puerto Rico’s the perfect target. Frying millions of Puerto Ricans during the vice president’s visit, combined with our faux Islamist martyr video claiming the territory is a symbol of American imperialism, will force even this weakling we have in the White House to retaliate against the Iranians with a nuke, and my plan will slide into effect.”

  Grimes had heard Everett describe the brilliance of his scheme too many times. He hoped he wouldn’t have to listen to it again.

  “Get me the exact coordinates of the Xerxes,” Everett ordered. “Is the V-22 ready to go?”

  “It is,” Grimes said. He’d personally supervised the check of the aircraft earlier.

  “Verify that it’s been topped off with fuel,” Everett said. “We’ll go back to the compound now. I’ll collect Rinzihov and Monk and take the warhead to the Xerxes. Zelenkov can take himself and his men away in the Hind once we set up the nuke and put the ship on autopilot toward the shoreline. He knows how to fly one of those things, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course,” Grimes said. “He’s Spetsnaz. They’re the equivalent of our special forces.”

  “You know,” Everett said, “I’m getting real tired of hearing that.” He grabbed Grimes by the upper arm and pulled him closer, so their faces were only inches apart. “And you’re going to have to take out Cooper and his friends tonight. I don’t want them reporting what they found on that camera.”

  * * *

  ONE OF THE assignments Bolan had given Tyler and his two associates was to establish a safe house at a neighboring hotel. The one they’d chosen was only a few blocks from the Omni. Close enough to walk to, but far enough away to give them a buffer of privacy. Bolan told the two new FBI agents, Bettinger and Larch, to stay in the lobby and watch for any unwanted company. Ivan volunteered to monitor the back of the building. Bolan then swept their room for surveillance equipment. Finding nothing, he took off his jacket and shirt and checked for injuries. Scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious. Satisfied with his inspection, he pulled on a black T-shirt.

  Bolan asked Tyler to go through the camera’s memory card. “Let me know if you find anything interesting,” he said.

  The agent began reviewing the pictures. His eyes widened. “Would you look at this!” He held the camera toward Bolan. “Pictures of our buddy Grimes and some others, along with a bunch of dead bodies. Looks like they
were on a yacht or something.”

  Bolan looked. It was Grimes, all right, and a couple other men, one of whom Bolan thought might be Vince Tanner. They stood around the bloodied corpses like hunters commemorating some new trophies.

  Grimaldi glanced at the photos over Bolan’s shoulder. “Probably A Slice of Heaven,” he said. “Right?”

  Tyler scrunched up his face. “Huh?”

  “A civilian yacht that disappeared about a week ago,” Bolan said. “Looks like they were taking pictures of Everett’s platform rig and got killed for it.”

  “That’s terrible,” the agent exclaimed.

  “We told you Everett was a bad guy,” Grimaldi said.

  Tyler frowned.

  “We need to get on that platform for a closer look,” Bolan said.

  “We taking another slow boat to China?” Grimaldi asked.

  “Negative. They’ll probably be expecting us now.” Bolan looked at Grimaldi. “Think you could land a helicopter on that platform?”

  “I don’t see why not. I saw an old Mi-24 Hind taking off from there when you two guys were underwater. I remember thinking that a rich guy like Everett could afford something better than old Russian army surplus.”

  “We’ll have to move hard and fast,” Bolan said. “Jack, can you scrounge up a helicopter?”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Acquiring a bird shouldn’t be a problem. But things could get tricky if they cut the lights on the rig,” he said. “Hard to see out on the briny blue at night.”

  “Maybe these will help.” Tyler pulled out the night vision goggles.

  Grimaldi raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively. “Kid, I think I’m beginning to like you.”

  The agent grinned and bobbled his head self-consciously.