Don Pendleton - Zero Option

The car swung around a vehicle ahead, the driver having decided to speed up.

“Hey, ease off the gas pedal, Buchinsky. Remember what the man said. Low profile. Don’t attract attention. Remember? Piss off the enemy in this town and the mothers give you a speeding ticket and ask all kinds of questions.”

“And the answers would have to be pretty damned good to explain asshole back there.”

“No need to insult our guest,” the gunman said. “He could turn out to be important.”

“Looks like a shit nobody to me,” Buchinsky said. “Give you odds he won’t have a thing to tell us. Waste of time picking him up. We should dump him in the Potomac right now.”

“Just do what I tell you, Buchinsky.”

Buchinsky muttered to himself, flexing his massive shoulders.

Bolan watched the city slip by. He wasn’t certain where they were. Buchinsky was ducking and diving, moving about the road system with ease. Taking side roads and sometimes seeming to double back on himself. The trip lasted almost twenty minutes. Then Buchinsky slowed and rolled the car down a ramp that led to a basement parking area beneath a large office building that displayed For Rent signs on the outside. As the car cruised across the parking area, Bolan glanced out the side window. The place was deserted except for a couple of cars standing near an access door at the far end. Buchinsky parked near the other vehicles.

The gunman climbed out and walked around to Bolan’s side. He opened the door and indicated for him to get out. The soldier dropped his bag on the seat and stepped out.

“Stay here and keep an eye out. We don’t want any surprises,” the gunman said to the driver.

“Suits me,” Buchinsky said.

The gunman guided Bolan to the access door. They went through and found themselves confronted by stairs and an elevator door.

“Elevator,” the gunman said.

Bolan pushed the button and heard the elevator start its descent. The door opened and he stepped in with the gunman close behind. Once they were inside, the soldier was instructed to push the button for the eighth floor.

THE LARGE OFFICE SUITE held a desk and a few plastic chairs. Three men stood at the room’s wide windows, looking out through the glass at the rainy night. They turned as Bolan and his escort entered the office.

“This him?”

Bolan had already identified the speaker. He was exactly as Grimaldi had described, from his physical size down to the bruise on his left cheek. He moved away from the others, his gaze fixed on Bolan, checking him out and making a swift assessment of the Executioner.

“He say anything?”

The gunman shook his head. He stood a few feet back from Bolan, the handgun held steady, making no concessions even though they were no longer alone.

The blond man paused in front of Bolan, his hands clasped at his back.

“You know why you’re here, Belasko?”

“Maybe you’d better tell me.”

“Questions. You’ve been asking questions. At the charter strip. Talking to the gate man. Then the car-rental agency. Now why would you want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Why would I?”

“Maybe you’re looking for someone. Same as us. Douglas Buchanan? Or maybe you know where he is and your job is looking out for him.”

“Sounds more likely,” one of the other men said.

Bolan glanced across at him. He had a cut lip that looked very sore. Jack again.

“Ask him if he knows where Buchanan is.”

“Fair question.”

Bolan remained silent.

“So what’s the answer?”

The blond man’s lips tightened against his teeth. He sucked in his breath, glancing over his shoulder at the gunman who had brought Bolan in. The Executioner picked up the sound of rustling clothing, heard the gunman grunt and knew that a blow was being aimed at him from behind.

Bolan held for the briefest of moments, then bent at the waist, felt the rush of air as the gunman’s swing passed over his shoulder, then lunged upright. He saw the gunman’s arm blur into view as it passed harmlessly over his shoulder. He made a grab for it, twisting and jerking down so that the arm was brought across the top of his shoulder. Pushing to his full height, Bolan snatched the Glock from his adversary’s fingers, then yanked down hard on the man’s arm with enough force to break the bone. The gunman’s scream of agony was cut off abruptly when the muzzle of the Glock was jabbed against his chest and a .45 round drilled through his heart. The moment he pulled the trigger, Bolan dropped to a crouch, the Glock tracking in on his next target.

A lean guy, sporting a blue sport coat over a tan shirt, hauled a handgun from a hip holster. He raised the weapon in a two-handed grip, seeking Bolan, but the Executioner had already changed position and his newly acquired pistol fired first. The .45 slug caught Blue Coat in the throat, taking away a large chunk of flesh. The wounded gunner flopped backward, striking the window behind him. The glass bowed slightly under the impact, then threw the dying man facedown on the carpet.

Bolan had already located his next target, seeing Blue Coat’s partner clawing for his own weapon. He placed two .45 slugs in the guy’s lower torso, driving him to the floor in a spray of blood and a lot of pain. A third shot to the head put him out of his misery.

The blond man had already moved, turning, ducking as he lunged for the door. He went through a fraction of a second before Bolan could track and fire, and by the time the Executioner cleared the door the corridor beyond was empty.

Bolan made for the door that gained him entrance to the stairs. He went down fast, conscious of his partial exposure, yet knowing he had to get clear of the building before possible reinforcements showed up. He had no way of knowing if the blond man had additional backup, and he didn’t want to find out.

He hit the fourth-floor landing. As he turned to take the next flight of stairs, the access door was banged open and a pair of armed men rushed onto the landing. Bolan knew he couldn’t take the stairs without catching a bullet in the back. He spun, reaching out with his left hand. He put his palm over the closest face and pushed hard, ramming the guy’s skull against the concrete wall. The man gave a grunt of pain, slumping to his knees, gun falling from his hand. The second guy eyed Bolan, then made the mistake of checking out his partner. The soldier saw the guy’s hesitation, as slight as it was, and took his chance. It was, as always, seizing the moment, and turning it to his advantage. He turned fast, coming around from the right. Bolan’s forearm struck the guy’s gun hand, knocking it up and back. Maintaining his sweep, Bolan stiff armed his left fist into the guy’s throat, hard, feeling flesh and cartilage cave in. As the guy began to choke, Bolan grabbed his gun arm and twisted, until the joint snapped. The guy screamed, a harsh, ugly sound due to his crushed throat, and dropped his gun, which fell into Bolan’s waiting hand.

The other gunner had started to climb to his feet, clawing his fallen weapon from the floor. His eyes were searching the area immediately behind him as he completed his stand. The last thing he saw was the raised gun in Bolan’s fist, then the world blew up in his face as the weapon was triggered twice, putting both slugs into the guy’s head. The impact knocked him back against the wall and he hung for a moment, surprise etched across his face. Then he slid down the wall, leaving behind a trail of bloody debris. As he hit the floor he gently toppled face forward.

Bolan bent over the corpse and picked up the fallen handgun—another Glock 21. He slipped it into a pocket, then frisked the guy for any extra magazines he carried. He also located the guy’s wallet and pocketed it for future reference.