Don Pendleton - Firestorm

“You have an address?”

“Yeah,” Wallace said. “And that info’s on the house.”

“So who’s he arming himself against?” Bolan asked.

“Hard to say,” Wallace replied. “Maybe you guys.”

“Not too many people know we’re here,” Grimaldi said.

“Then maybe something else scared him,” Wallace offered. “Maybe his erstwhile employers parted company with him. Or he just pissed somebody off. From what I know about this little turd, there’s no shortage of people who’d happily snap a cap on his ass for free. Hell, a couple might even pay for the privilege.”

“Which means that someone else is going to be heading out there to talk with him,” Grimaldi said.

Wallace nodded again. “Probably. By the way, Hal gave me a shopping list. I have your gear packed in a helicopter and ready to take you wherever you want to go.”

A smile ghosted the Executioner’s lips. “Thanks,” he said.

“W HAT IS GOING ON ?” Eva asked. Her voice was marked by fear. “Why are you doing this?”

Stephens shot her a withering look. “Shut up and pack,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’ve asked me three times, and it’s the same damn answer every time. So do as I say.”

Anger flared in her eyes, and her lips tightened into a thin line. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared after him for a few minutes while he packed. Stephens could see at least part of this from the corner of his eye, but ignored her, knowing she’d give up quickly.

After several tense seconds, Eva spun on her heel and headed for the bedroom to pack.

Once she was gone, Stephens pulled his shirttails from the waistband of his pants and let them drape around his waist. He reached inside his nearby briefcase, rooted around inside it for a moment until he found his newly acquired Glock still sheathed in a nylon holster. Lifting his shirttails, he clipped the weapon to his waistband and let his shirt drape over the weapon’s butt. He’d already stowed the second pistol in an ankle holster before Eva had returned home. He didn’t want her to see the weapons. He knew she’d panic and bombard him with questions he didn’t want to answer. Maybe he’d tell her more when they got to the United States. Maybe not. But he’d make that decision later. Right now, getting the hell off the bull’s-eye was the main priority. And, if she had any gratitude, she’d shut her mouth and let him handle the situation. He was, after all, doing all this for her and the baby, which was all she needed to know.

He checked his watch and muttered a curse.

“Eva,” he shouted, “get moving! We’ve got to go.”

“Why do we have to go?” she shouted from the bedroom.

“Shut up. Pack. No questions!” he shouted.

The phone on his belt trilled. He cursed again and answered it.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Hello, Mike,” Krotnic said.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Do you like the guns you bought? Do you think they’ll keep you safe?”

Unconsciously, Stephens’s hand dropped to the Glock moored to his hip. “What do you want?”

“I asked you a question,” Krotnic said.

“Why don’t you come up here and I’ll answer it.”

“Sorry,” Krotnic said. “I can’t make it. But I sent some friends over for a visit. I hope you’re a good shot. There are a lot of them.”

The phone went dead.

Doyle pulled open the van’s rear doors to reveal five men seated in the back. The gunners, all togged in street clothes, stared at him, awaiting their orders. He stepped away from the door and gestured for them to disembark.

“Look alive, ladies,” he said. “Got no time for you to be back there, darning your socks, for pity’s sake.”

Silently, the men filed out of the vehicle. Doyle swept his gaze over the whole crew.

Each carried a duffel bag strapped over his shoulder. All the bags contained an identical weapon, a Ruger MP-9, and extra clips. They also carried Beretta 92 pistols fitted with sound suppressors. Every last one of them hailed from a military background, and they were veterans of some of the world’s worst killing fields. This particular group consisted of three South Africans, an Israeli and a Russian, each formerly from the special forces of his respective country.

When it came to technical proficiency, each was a top-notch fighter, unafraid to mix it up with anyone. However, they all had little discipline and even less desire to develop what they did have. They were fighting for money, not cause or country. Doyle knew that made them inherently weaker than traditional soldiers.

A second van rolled in behind them, bits of gravel popping as it approached. The driver guided the vehicle left and parked it next to the first van. A second group of mercenaries joined the first. Doyle had split them into two teams. One would hit the building from the outside. The second would scour the inside for their targets.

“We need to take out the bastard,” Doyle said. “He’s starting to make noises, ones we don’t like. Sounds like he’s starting to have pangs of a conscience.”

A couple of the gunners shot Doyle a knowing smile. He ignored them.

“We find his change of heart unacceptable,” the Irishman said. “Another important point. Your target has a housemate, a young woman who’s carrying his child. We want no witnesses, period. Zero. Variation from that plan is unacceptable. She takes a bullet. If anyone’s too squeamish to drop the hammer on her, speak now or forever shut up. The last thing I need is for one of you nancy boys to choke when you get that stupid wench in your gunsights. Clear?”

He fell silent and slowly dragged his eyes over the motley assortment of hired guns lined up before him, made sure his expression telegraphed heavy doses of disdain for each of them. He wanted them to know that, while they got paid handsomely for their work, he had no personal regard for them. More important, he didn’t fear them or care what happened to them, as long as the mission succeeded.

“You also need to go from apartment to apartment,” he said. “Take out anyone unlucky enough to be home tonight. Do we all understand?”

A couple of them nodded, while others fixed their thousand-yard stares somewhere over his shoulder, like they’d heard enough.

“No questions? Fine, then get your damn asses in that building and raise some hell.”

T HE E XECUTIONER WAS a block away from his destination when he spotted several hardmen entering the apartment building through the front door. The sight of them set off his combat senses. The warrior brought the com-link to his lips and pressed the talk button.

“Jack?”

“Go, Sarge,” Grimaldi replied.

“I’ve got five guys entering Stephens’s building.”

“Weapons visible?”

“No. I’m acting on instinct.”

“Good enough for me,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan signed off. He trekked toward the building until he reached the fire-escape ladder, jumping up to grab the bottom rung in his powerful grip. Once his other hand got hold of it, he pulled himself up the ladder, hand over hand, until his foot could gain purchase on the lowest rung. Bolan reached the top of the ladder and pushed through a square opening that led onto the first landing. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the next level.

Slipping off his jacket, he wrapped it around his fist and lashed out at a windowpane. The glass disintegrated and fell inside the apartment on the other side. Bolan was through the window in seconds. He tossed aside the jacket and fisted the Beretta 93-R as he crossed the sparsely furnished apartment. No lights were on and it appeared to be empty.

Before he reached the door, he spotted shadows as they edged past the door. He halted in midstride and listened. The shuffle of feet registered with him, but he heard no one speaking.