Don Pendleton - Meltdown

Racing back through the room, he closed the door softly behind him and mounted the stairs. Waiting at the head of the staircase, he tried to overhear the conversation as the new arrivals entered the house. There was too much racket: chairs scraping, and the stamping of snow off several pairs of feet. A woman's voice asked who wanted coffee. As much as he wanted to get a look at Glinkov, it would have to wait. He'd be back. The warrior knew discretion and good judgment counted for much in an unending war. Glinkov would have to keep. First, he had to find Rachel. Closing the door behind him, Bolan slipped back through the window and out onto the deck. The wind had begun to howl, and the snow stung as it whipped across the deck. Already there was an inch of new snow on the ground. The Executioner was thankful for the turn in the weather. No doubt they'd be looking for him soon, but the privileges of rank meant they'd have their coffee before worrying about whether Bert was comfortable in the outbuilding. And Bert would never feel the cold again. Enough was enough. Mack Bolan was fed up. He'd been pushed to the wall, and it was time to push back. He had to believe that Rachel was still living, and therefore he had to keep searching for her. He would start at a couple of the safehouses. Tossing them one by one, he would tug on Glinkov's chain a little. Send him a message. If anything happened to Rachel Peres, no place in the world would be safe for the KGB man. Not even Moscow was off-limits to Mack Bolan. He'd been there before, and he'd go again.

The first stop was in the East Village, not far from Rachel's apartment. A flophouse for the disaffected, members of most radical movements had used it at one time or another. As the times had gotten tougher, the place had gotten more militant.

Bolan had seen a dozen centers like it over the years.

It was the kind of place where everyone slept with a gun under his pillow. A man could have a roof over his head if he knew the right catchphrase or spouted the current antiestablishment rhetoric. But he had better sleep with one eye open. Few of the groups tolerated one another, no matter how similar their "political" positions. Violence was what they knew best, and practiced most often.

Bolan sometimes wondered whether it might not be easiest to arm them all to the teeth, then stand back and let them fight among themselves. And he'd take on the winner for breakfast.

The People's Hostel was about to receive a visitor, an armed transient, like so many others. But they had never seen the likes of the Executioner. Parking around the block, Bolan made sure he had a clean approach to his rented Camaro. He'd be leaving in a hurry. A back alley ran through the block and passed the hostel on one side. Dressed in his nightsuit, Bolan blended with the shadows as he jumped for the lowest rung of the fire ladder. He hauled himself up, the old iron squeaking under his weight.

The five-story building was dilapidated. The window frames hadn't been painted in a long time, and they'd worn bare. Putty fell in chunks from around the glass. Moving swiftly, Bolan climbed to the roof, pausing once at each level to check a window. Most were dark. It was difficult to tell how many people were inside. The more the merrier crossed his mind, but it was too reckless an attitude for the work he had to do. It was possible that Rachel was inside. But even if she wasn't, it was a place to start. The underground grapevine would blossom as soon as he left. Tales of radical heroism would distort what happened, but Glinkov would read between the lines. And the Russian was undoubtedly looking for him already.

The tar-and-gravel roof was covered with litter.

Scraps of snow still lay in the nooks and crannies, but it was possible that the rasp of his shoes might still be heard below. On tiptoe, Bolan moved toward the fire door. Most roofs in the neighborhood were used for drug deals, and the doors were usually open. This one was no different. Its hinges didn't even squeal as he tugged on the handle.

Inside, the light was dim. Overhead, a single bulb, more suitable to a refrigerator, revealed the stairs and enough graffiti to cover a subway car.

Working his way down, Bolan stopped at the landing on the top floor. His listened for a moment, but heard nothing. Only one room had a door, and it was open. Checking each room in turn, he found them all empty.

The next floor was wide open. The walls had been taken down, and the place was used for storage.

Cartons were piled everywhere. A quick look told Bolan the place was an armory. Guns and ammunition were stacked in one corner. It seemed carelesseauntil he reached the next landing. A steel door barred the way. Before even turning the knob, he knew it would be locked. It was.

He knew there would be grenades and plastique in the storeroom. The latter would come in handy now.

Back on the fourth floor, he found the plastique and cut a block of C-4 big enough to take out the door. In a half-empty carton there were detonators, wire and radio transmitters.

Rigging the door to blow on the first attempt, he quickly planted the plastique, set up a detonator and reclimbed the steps. In one open crate he found a half-dozen Ingram MAC-10 submachine guns. Selecting one, he checked it out. It was a bit rusty, so he pulled another from the crate. This one was satisfactory.

He fitted the SMG with its bulky sound suppressor. Now for ammunition. On steel shelving against one wall, Bolan found several cases of ammunition. He grabbed several clips and stuffed them into his coat pockets. He was as ready as he'd ever be. Standing away from the stairway, he pressed the button. Before the smoke had cleared, he was at the bottom of the steps and through the splintered doorway. The Ingram ready, he checked both ends of the hall. Below, he could hear footsteps. The surprise wouldn't last long. He kicked in the first door he came to, but the room was empty. As was the next. In the third, a man was sitting upright in bed, the covers drawn up to his chin. He was groggy, uncertain of where he was.

"What the hell's going on, man?" he asked.

"I'm looking for somebody," Bolan growled.

"If it ain't me, I can't help you, man."

"It's not you, pal," Bolan snapped. He slugged the man in the forehead with the Ingram. The man would sleep through.

Out in the hall, shouts echoed up the stairs. As Bolan kicked in the fourth and last door, two men ran into the hall from the stairwell. Both were armed.

Bolan stepped through the doorway just ahead of a burst of gunfire. Several slugs tore into the wooden doorframe, sending splinters in every direction.

"Cover me," one of them shouted. Bolan could hear footsteps pounding toward him. The guy bounced through the doorway. Like an idiot, he had put himself between his quarry and his companion. Bolan squeezed off a burst from the Ingram. The .45 caliber slugs ripped into the commando, knocking him back into the hall again. Stitched by the hellfire from collar to belt, his spine had been severed in three places.

A rain of slugs poured through the doorway. Bolan slid along the wall, making certain he was out of the line of fire.

When the gunner paused to change magazines, Bolan burst through, squeezing off a short burst to keep the guy's head down. He raced toward the stairs and dived headfirst past the opening. Spraying fire down the steps as he sailed by, Bolan caught his adversary by surprise. He waited long enough to be certain that the guy was out of action, and then slipped back to the stairwell. The second gunner lay sprawled on the stairs. His eyes were rolled back, as if trying to look through the ugly, round red hole in the middle of his forehead.

Grabbing the guy's gun, Bolan jammed a new clip into place, then reloaded his own weapon and slung it over his shoulder. Stepping over the dead man, he worked his way down to the second floor.