Don Pendleton - Meltdown

Rachel had mentioned somebody named Peter. The skinny guy must have been the man she had met — the one who had huddled with Parsons. There was something familiar about him, too. His general build. The way he moved. The face meant nothing, though. And Bert. Bolan knew his kind by type. The no-nonsense hardman. Long on brawn, a little light on brains. It might be possible to throw him off his guard long enough to get free. But he couldn't do it with Bert sitting there staring at him.

The guy was guzzling beer, letting some of it run down over his chin. He'd already had a few. With a little luck, Bolan thought, he might nod off. Or have to relieve himself. Anything to give Bolan a little time. The guy's eyes were heavy, and his head lolled to the side occasionally. He was going to fall asleep, as long as Bolan didn't do anything to arouse suspicion. And as long as the scarecrow didn't come back. Bolan discreetly surveyed the room, taking inventory. Mostly garden tools and a few bottles and cans of insecticide and plant food. Somebody, Parsons no doubt, was more concerned about the health of his plants than that of his neighbors. It was hard to understand how someone could lavish attention on flowers and yet be willing to unleash nuclear poison. Assholes like Parsons were so egotistical that they failed to realize they were likely to die in their own traps. They thought they were too smart, that they were above it all. More often than Mack Bolan cared to admit, it was the schemers who got off scot-free. It never mattered to them how many soldiers died in a war, as long as the generals were safe. Bolan had to get his hands free. He bunched his muscles and wriggled his arms slightly, then relaxed. The ropes felt a little freer. Bert roused himself and took another swig of beer, ignoring Bolan completely. Bolan clenched his fists, unclenched them and clenched again. The ropes on his wrists were the loosest. If Bert would drift into a fog, Bolan could free his hands. He worked silently. Patience was paramount. As long as Bert noticed nothing, it might be possible.

Bert's head fell to his chest, and he started to snore. Bolan tugged vigorously at the rope, chafing his knuckles. A little more leeway was all he'd need.

While he worked, Bolan eyed the contents of the room again. Getting free was only half the battle. As soon as he got up, he'd have to know what he was going to do. Bert might not be sleeping that soundly. Glancing again to a table at one end of the shed, Bolan examined the bottles. He could just make out the letters P-R-U-S-S on a two-quart jar. It had better be what he hoped.

Another tug, and the rope slid down off his right hand. The cord on his upper arms still prevented him from moving but with his free hand he quickly loosened the rope on the other. Bert was snoring peacefully. Bolan wriggled now, stretching against the cord to bring the slack into play around his upper body.

A final shrug, and the ropes fell to his waist.

He slid one arm out of their coils, then followed it with the other one. Bending slowly, he worked anxiously at the knots binding his feet. If the other man returned it would all be for nothing. He sure as hell wouldn't get a second chance. The knot was stubborn, resisting his nails and scraping at his fingertips. Finally, the knot budged. He pulled at the loosened coil. It came away in his hands, just as Bert shook himself. It was now or never.

Bolan leaped the length of the shed, searching in the shadow thrown by his own body for the two-quart jar. He found it and turned in time to see Bert raising his machine pistol. With all his strength, Bolan hurled the jar. It caught Bert on his collarbone with enough force to shatter the glass. The gun fell to the floor of the shed as two full quarts of prussic acid spilled over Bert. It splashed in his face and eyes, beginning its corrosive attack. Bert clawed at his eyes as he emitted a deafening howl. His hands blistered as the acid ate away at his skin. The Executioner moved to the corner, grabbing a pitchfork and charging toward his blinded opponent. Like a medieval jouster, Mack Bolan brought his makeshift lance to his shoulder and then drove it home. Bert gagged and began to gurgle.

Bolan put all his weight on the pitchfork, driving its tines into a wooden window frame behind Bert and pinning him to the wall. Blood bubbled and drooled out of his mouth as Bert gasped for air like a landed trout. A tine of the pitchfork had pierced his throat on either side of the larynx. His eyes bulged as blistered fingers struggled to pull the pitchfork free. Bolan swept the machine pistol from the floor. Holding it tightly against Bert's chest, he fired a short burst. The rain of death punched through the rib cage into the heart, and Bert struggled no more. His limp body sagged, pulling the pitchfork out of the dry wood of the window frame as he pitched forward, his fall arrested by the farm implement's handle. He paused momentarily, as if in slow motion, then slipped sideways to the floor.

Bolan moved toward the door and opened it slightly. There was no sign that anyone had heard the struggle, or the short burst from the Skorpion.

Bert had been more useful as a sound suppressor than as a human being. The moon was gone, and it had begun to snow again. Swirls of snow blew through the open door of the shed, collecting on the floor. His head ached, but he had to know if the scarecrow had been telling the truth. Crossing the snow-crusted lawn in a hurry, he climbed the stairs to the deck for the second time that night. But Bolan knew this time they wouldn't be expecting him. Slipping in through the same window, he spotted Big Thunder and his Beretta on a night table. He holstered both guns and stepped through the door out into the hallway. The earlier voices were silent now, and the house seemed deserted. If they were waiting for the Russian, someone should certainly be around. All Mack Bolan wanted was one man, and some information. He had to find Rachel. Now that they thought they had him, Parsons and his men might decide they didn't need her as bait any longer.

If she were still alive. Descending the stairs two at a time, he burst into a lower hallway. Still no sign. He stalked his own shadow down the hall toward an arched doorway. The room was dimly lit, and empty. Where the hell were they? At the other end of the hall was a closed door. He approached the door carefully, pausing to listen. From inside, he heard the sound of heavy breathing. Deep and irregular, it sounded as if the person were heavily sedated. Turning the knob, he pushed through the door. There was a small reading lamp over the only cot that was occupied. A man lay on his side, facing away from the door. An open book lay, pages down, on the sheet beside him. The room smelled of medicine and alcohol. It was a hospital smell-an odor Bolan would just as soon never smell again. He bent over the sleeping man. Ready to smother any sound the patient might make, Bolan hefted a pillow in one hand, his Beretta in the other. As he reached out, the man stirred. Groaning, he rolled onto his other side. Bolan drew in his breath sharply. Eli Cohen had had a rough time of it. His face was badly bruised. Several wounds marked the smooth, dark complexion. Both eyes were black and blue, as if the man's nose had been broken.

What in hell was he doing here?

While he debated whether to risk waking the battered man, he heard the sound of feet scraping on the front porch. There were two sharp, almost angry voices. He recognized the scarecrow, but the other voice was unfamiliar.

Probably Glinkov.

There was no way he wanted to risk a shootout under the current circumstances. Rachel wasn't here, that was clear. Cohen was, but he didn't know what that meant. Until he did, he would file that knowledge. It was significant, Bolan knew, but of what? Even if Cohen were on the right side, he couldn't risk compromising him. He had to get out.