Don Pendleton: Nuclear Storm

Although he was sure he could take out both of obvious and covert bodyguards without receiving a scratch, Bolan nodded. “You could, but the State Department would just send someone else to find you. Why not save both your bodyguards the trouble of disposing of me, and the U.S. government the trouble of flying someone else halfway around the world, and just come with me now?”

The diminutive scientist stared at Bolan for a few seconds, then roared with laughter. “I’ve never met a suit with a sense of humor before. Sit, sit, have a drink. You want anything else—a woman, a man, a boy, coke, hash, dust?”

Bolan slid in between Dae-Jung and the beautiful, almost-passed-out Filipino woman next to him. “I’ve only come for one person. Now that I’ve found him, it’s time to go.”

Dae-Jung poured sake into two cups, his hand trembling slightly. He looked several years older than the CIA’s most recent picture of him. Bolan wasn’t sure if that was due to the stress of being on the run, or due to living a 24/7 party lifestyle for the past few weeks.

Dae-jung picked up one of the glasses and stared into the liquor as if he might be able to see the answer to his problems in it. “I worked for those bastards and our glorious leader for twenty-four years, always maintaining the party line. I did all right, too—cars, summer homes, even vacations. But when my daughter and her entire family starved to death in 2008, well, there’s only so much a man can turn a blind eye to, right?”

Bolan nodded. “I would agree with that.”

Dae-jung suddenly held out the sake cup to him. “Before I agree to anything, you must drink with me. Otherwise, I will order my bodyguards to have you killed.” His smile said he was joking, while his eyes, suddenly clear and piercing, said he wasn’t.

Bolan accepted the glass and held it up. “To your daughter and her family—may they rest in peace.”

The drunk scientist clinked his glass against Bolan’s, spilling a rivulet of liquid down the side, then downed the shot in one gulp. Bolan followed suit, feeling the smooth rice wine heat his palate as it slid down his throat. He placed the empty glass back on the table and watched Dae-jung.

“Can I stay in Las Vegas? I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas!” the doctor proclaimed loudly as he grabbed a magnum bottle of champagne and refilled his glass.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Always aware of the bodyguard, Bolan leaned closer to the small Korean. “However, it would be in your best interest if we were to leave now. Doubtless there are others who are looking for you as well who don’t have your well-being in mind, and if I was able to find you, they will soon, too.”

Dae-jung swigged his champagne, a drop trickling down his chin. “I’ll party tonight, then go with you tomorrow morning, sleep on the flight over.”

“With all due respect. Doctor—” Bolan was interrupted by Tokaido’s voice in his ear.

“Striker, you’ve got armed men coming down the hall—shit, they just took out both guards outside the door! They’re gonna be inside any second!”

Chapter 2

Bolan was already standing, trying to lift the drunken scientist to his feet as the bodyguard pushed through the crowd of women to intercept him.

“Hostiles are outside. You’d better check the door!” The bodyguard frowned at Bolan’s orders, but the big man wasn’t deterred. “Get over there now!”

The guard’s indecision cost him dearly. As his gaze flicked to the door, the woman Bolan had pegged as an undercover bodyguard drew a dagger—apparently ceramic, to bypass the metal detector—from a secret compartment in the bottom of her small purse, stepped behind the bodyguard and slit his throat. The man clasped both hands to his spurting neck as he sank to the floor, already dying. The woman bent over him, her hand darting inside his tux jacket for his pistol.

As men and women reacted to the cold-blooded murder, some screaming, others trying to get out of the way, Bolan stepped toward the Asian assassin and snapped a kick into her face like he was punting a football. The woman arched backward as she flew through the air, blood flying from her crushed nose. She landed on an ottoman and slid off, out cold.

Bolan moved to the dead bodyguard, scooped up the dagger from the carpet and drew the man’s pistol, a compact HK P-2000. He drew the slide back just as there was a commotion at the door—a sound like tearing cloth, followed by the crunch of splintering wood. The Executioner walked to the doctor, who was looking around befuddled as his party disintegrated into chaos. “What’s happening?”

Bolan didn’t reply. He grabbed him by his silk shirt and hauled him over the back of the couch, climbing over it and crouching as the sound of silenced gunfire could be heard on the other side of the room. More screams and shouts followed, along with angry commands yelled in Mandarin, then Korean, then English.

“Nobody move! Stand up! Everyone keep your hands where I can see them!”

Hearing the shouted orders, the confused doctor raised his hands and tried to stand, but was pulled back down by Bolan. “Doctor, I’m going to need you to stay here for the moment, all right?”

“Sure, Mister…whatever you say.”

Bolan kept one ear on what was going on in the rest of the room while he contacted Tokaido. “They’re inside, multiple gunmen. Can you give me a sitrep on where they are in the room?”

“Negative, Striker. I counted four gunmen in the hallway, but there are no cameras inside the suite. No one’s outside but the dead guards, so they must all be in there. I’m afraid that’s all the data I have right now.”

Crawling to the edge of the long couch, Bolan peeked out just enough to see two pairs of combat boots walking up and down a line of dress shoes, high heels and lots of bare feet. He couldn’t see the second pair of shooters, but muffled screams and shouts gave him a pretty good idea of where they were. More threats and the smack of a fist or gun butt on flesh were followed by crying and the addition of more feet on the floor, leaving Bolan with an even bigger problem—if he tried to take out the gunmen, there was a good chance he might hit one of the partygoers. While the chances were excellent that none of the attendees were completely innocent, as far as he knew none had done anything to warrant getting killed on this night either. But without being able to see where the gunmen were standing, it was too risky to engage them. The last thing Bolan wanted was a bloodbath in the opulent suite.

“Where’s the doctor? You have one minute to produce him, or we will shoot one of you each minute he’s not brought out.”

Hearing this, the doctor started to stand again, but Bolan pulled him back down. “Let me go—” he said before Bolan clamped a hand over his mouth.

“You have to stay down and keep quiet!” Dae-jung tried to move his head, fumbling at Bolan’s fingers. “Are you going to stay here and be quiet?” The doctor nodded, so Bolan took his hand away.

“I’m not going to let innocent people die because of me!” he whispered.

“I’m not either, Doctor, but you have to trust me.” Spotting the edge of the floor screen next to the couch, Bolan got an idea. “Please, just stay here for another minute. If I get killed, you can do whatever you want, okay?”

“Okay.”

Bolan began edging behind the screen, which was only a few inches from the hotel room wall. He couldn’t move very fast without risking bumping into his cover, which would most likely get the screen and him both stitched with bullets.

“Fifteen seconds! Where is he?” the threat and demand was repeated in Korean and Chinese.

Bolan shimmied behind the screen as fast as he dared. When he reached the second one from the end, he stopped and pressed the tip of the ceramic blade to the cloth in front of him.