Don Pendleton - Blood Vendetta

His hockey teammates had called him “Juggernaut” because, despite his size, he’d glided quickly, forcefully across the ice, and pounded his opponents. A whitish, ropelike scar ran from his temple to the bottom of his jaw, a leftover from his days as a Russian special forces soldier when he’d forced himself on a Chechen woman. She tried in vain to stop him by hitting him in the side of the head with his own vodka bottle. He still recalled how the bottle had shattered. He’d been too drunk to feel the sting of his flesh tearing open, but the haze of alcohol and time had done nothing to dim the memory of his blood bursting forth in a crimson spray on himself and the woman. A rare smile tugged at the corners of his mouth when he recalled how his blood had heightened her terror and his ardor.

Every once in a while, after he’d downed a few drinks, when talk amongst his comrades inevitably turned to sexual conquests, he’d shared that story. Occasionally, it yielded laughter, but more often than not he’d found his comrades greeted the tale with stunned silence. He chalked up their reaction to what he considered Russia’s uptight sexual culture, where people repressed their primal urges. Sometimes his countrymen mystified, even disgusted him.

Hands moving on autopilot scrambled for and located a cigarette. He lit it, took a couple of drags and stared through the windows, which ran nearly from floor to ceiling, of his London penthouse. He saw from his faint reflection he was scowling again and he viewed it like the return of an old friend.

Something was wrong. John Lockwood had sounded different. Granted, he always was an uptight prick, more balls than brains, but loyal to whomever filled his bank account. Malakov had made the British prick a rich man over the last several years and had asked for nothing other than his loyalty.

Now the big Russian worried that he’d lost that. If so, that was a problem because, while he’d tried to keep as much information as possible from Lockwood, he’d had to know at least a little bit.

Enough to do whatever job Malakov had tossed his way.

If he was—how did the Americans say it?—going off the reservation... Malakov didn’t finish the thought. He already knew in his gut how that play would end.

Two members of his security detachment, a couple of former Russian paratroopers, were seated at a large circular table. They smoked cigarettes, drank coffee and played cards. Malakov shook his head in disgust. Lazy bastards, born to be followers, he thought.

“Vasili,” he snapped.

A compact man with neatly trimmed black hair and pale skin whipped his gaze in Malakov’s direction.

“Sir?”

“You’re my security chief, yes?”

Vasili looked confused. “Yes, of course.”

“Yet you sit there playing cards. You think this is—what?—a retirement home? You are ready to retire, it seems.”

“No, sir, of course not.”

“Maybe you consider playing cards working. Maybe for someone as dim as you, that is the case.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir.”

“So I am wrong,” Malakov said. He allowed some menace to creep into his voice.

“Of course not,” Vasili said, shaking his head no. “Perhaps I can do something for you?”

“Perhaps. John Lockwood. You do remember him, yes?”

“Of course.”

“I find myself troubled. Not afraid, but troubled. I want to speak with Lockwood. Find him and bring him here.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and Vasili, bring me a couple of the girls, too. I feel bored and would like some company. Perhaps tonight I can make new memories for myself.”

* * *

BOLAN AND MCCARTER were seated in the Briton’s new Jaguar, parked across the street from John Lockwood’s strip club. Kurtzman had come up with Lockwood as a possible source of information on Yezhov since he had worked within the Russian’s crime ring for years. Bolan looked at the car’s steering wheel. “Nice car.”

“Don’t even think about it, mate,” McCarter said. “I don’t even like you being in the same country as one of my cars. You’ll drive it over my dead body.”

“Only if there were no other escape routes.”

“Funny,” McCarter said, swigging from his can of Coke. “Laugh riot is what you are.”

McCarter stared through the windshield. Bolan followed his gaze and saw a trio of women. All were dressed in low-cut blouses, short skirts and stiletto heels, huddled together near the mouth of an alley, talking.

“Normally, I hate stakeouts,” McCarter said, grinning. “Don’t like to sit still this long. But considering the view, I am willing to make the sacrifice.”

Bolan nodded, but said nothing. No doubt, the women who’d stopped by the car were attractive. They’d dutifully flirted and joked with the two men until it became apparent they were not going to make a sale. Then they’d moved on.

“You two are either cops or fags,” a young redhead had snapped.

“Wrong on both counts,” McCarter had called after her.

Finally, thirty minutes later, the women had stopped coming by.

McCarter again turned to Bolan. “You know, it’s going to look suspicious, us just sitting out here. Being a John isn’t a spectator sport, last I checked. We’re going to get pegged as cops.”

“You thinking of sampling the merchandise?”

“Anything for the cause,” McCarter said. “No, I’m just thinking we may want to move on, if nothing happens. Maybe find another spot to watch the goings on.”

Bolan nodded. “You’re probably right.”

McCarter grabbed the ignition key. But before he could turn it, a black SUV cruised by, streetlights gleaming white on the vehicle’s tinted windows. The SUV slowed at the mouth of an alley next to Lockwood’s strip club, turned. Bolan glanced at McCarter, who was also watching the vehicle. Then he popped open his door and went EVA.

He darted across the street. Tires squealed against the pavement as drivers braked hard to avoid hitting the warrior. Irritated drivers honked their horns or flashed their bright headlights at Bolan. The soldier tuned them out and focused his attention on the alley.

Once he’d made it to the sidewalk, he noticed the tail end of McCarter’s Jaguar as the vehicle sped to the nearest corner, slowed and turned. He unzipped his coat, reached inside and drew the Beretta from its shoulder holster, but kept the gun hidden beneath the jacket.

Bolan walked along the front of Lockwood’s club. When he reached the alley, he stopped and peered around the corner. The black SUV stood in the alley. The vehicle’s engine idled, belching a whitish exhaust from the tailpipe.

Two shadows disembarked from the vehicle and walked toward the club. One of them opened the club’s side door and both figures disappeared through it.

Bolan keyed his throat microphone.

“Two just went inside,” he said. “Unsure if we have any more in the vehicle.”

“Roger that,” McCarter replied.

Bolan heard a door latch click and he froze. The soldier melted into the shadows and pressed his body against the club.

The rear passenger’s-side door flipped open and a man stepped from the vehicle. The guy was tall and lanky. His bald pate gleamed under the glow from the single exposed bulb moored to the club. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. He slammed his door. A second man stepped from the driver’s seat, a pump shotgun held in his hands. He rounded the rear of the SUV and moved toward the other guy.

“Hope Lockwood’s here,” said the guy with the shotgun. Bolan noticed the man spoke English with a thick accent. “Malakov’s going to have our asses if we don’t bring this guy back with us.”

“Don’t worry,” the bald guy replied. “Lockwood’s here. He’s not the type to run.”