Читать книгу Blood Vendetta - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

Chapter 4

Malakov hung up his phone. His ever-present scowl deepened. The Russian, who’d been a bodybuilder and hockey player in his youth, remained thick in the shoulders, neck, arms and legs. He moved with a silence and grace that belied his size.

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.”

“Gutsy?”

Mr. Shotgun laughed and shook his head. “Try greedy. He’s got his club. He’s got a couple of flats in London and some collectible cars. He won’t leave all that behind. He’d try to swim with gold bricks in his pocket, if he could.”

Bolan ran the numbers. He figured the two guys inside likely would make it to Lockwood’s office in less than a minute.

The soldier stepped from the shadows. The man holding the shotgun apparently caught the movement from the corner of his eye, wheeled toward Bolan’s direction and raised the weapon to his shoulder in one fluid movement. But Bolan had the drop on the guy and triggered the Beretta. The handgun chugged out a tri-burst, the bullets ripping into the guy’s torso. The impact caused him to backpedal a couple of steps before he crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.

The second guy, eyes wide with surprise, clawed underneath his jacket for hardware. The Beretta coughed out another burst and the slugs drilled into the thug’s chest. Even as the guy folded to the ground, Bolan stalked past him to the club’s side door.

The Executioner opened the door and saw it led into a storage room at the rear of the club. The Beretta poised before him, he stepped inside, closed the door. Steel shelves stood one behind the next, loaded with boxes of liquor and snacks. He strained his ears for signs of the two other gunners. The only sound he heard was heavy metal music, muffled but discernible, as it ground out of the club’s sound system. Exiting the storeroom, he stepped into a brightly lit corridor, the same one he’d been through earlier that led to Lockwood’s office.

The Executioner glided down the corridor, past the doors of what he assumed were rooms for private shows. When he got within a dozen steps or so of Lockwood’s office, he heard Lockwood’s voice, taut and loud, emanating through the closed door.

“The bloke had a gun on me, what was I supposed to do?”

“Quiet!”

His fingers wrapped around the knob, the soldier gave it a gentle twist. It moved a quarter inch or so, stopped. It was locked.

The big American stepped back, aimed the Beretta’s muzzle on the lock, fired. The bullet pierced the steel, destroying the lock. Bolan raised his foot, slammed it against the door. It swung inward, the soldier following behind it.

Even as he barreled through the door, Bolan sized up the situation. Lockwood remained, where Bolan had left him earlier, trussed up to the chair. His bodyguard still lay on the floor, sleeping off the beating he’d received less than an hour ago from McCarter. One of the Russians stood before Lockwood, left fist cocked on his hip, right hand clutching a Glock with a sound suppressor screwed into the barrel. The other stood forty-five degrees to Bolan’s right. His back was to Lockwood, while he stared at a small bank of television monitors that Bolan had noticed earlier. Cameras feeding the monitors peeked into the private rooms. An MP-5 submachine gun filled his right hand. The barrel, also fixed with a sound suppressor, was pointed toward the floor. But the commotion finally yanked his attention from the skin show unfolding on the monitors. His gaze was whipping in Bolan’s direction and he was flicking the cigarette away as the MP-5 swung up.

The Beretta sighed once and a hole opened in the Russian’s forehead. The Executioner watched as the man’s body went slack. Even as the shooter collapsed to the ground, a bullet sizzled past Bolan’s neck. The soldier whirled toward the second Russian, the Beretta tracking in on the man. The handgun coughed once and a 9 mm slug lanced into the guy’s shoulder. A cry erupted from his lips and the Glock tumbled to the ground.

To his credit, the man recovered quickly from the pain of the gunshot, he bent down to get the pistol.

But with a couple of long strides, Bolan closed the distance between them and drove a foot into the man’s chest. The Russian shooter fell onto his behind with a grunt. The Executioner set his booted foot onto the man’s lost weapon and centered the Beretta’s muzzle on the man’s forehead.

“Stop,” Bolan said.

Instinctively, the man tried to raise his hands. He winced, grunted and stuck his good hand in the air. The guy glanced at the injury. Bolan looked at it, too, saw a dark shiny stain had formed around the bullet’s entry point. The man shifted his gaze to Bolan.

“I’m bleeding,” he said.

“And I bleed for you,” Bolan said.

McCarter’s voice buzzed in Bolan’s earpiece. In the same instant, both Lockwood and the Russian began peppering Bolan with expletive-filled tirades. The soldier tuned them out and keyed his microphone.

“Go,” Bolan said.

“Outside’s still clear,” McCarter said. “Need me to come in?”

Bolan did and told him so.

Signing off, Bolan turned to the Russian. The guy’s skin had paled from the blood loss and Bolan guessed the man would go into shock soon. He had to move quickly.

“How are you feeling?” Bolan asked.

“I told you I am bleeding, you fuck,” the guy replied. “I’m going to bleed to death.”

Bolan shook his head. “Doubt it,” he said. “Not from that wound. Oh, you’ll bleed. But it would take a while before you actually bleed out.”

Bolan paused a couple of beats. Then he waved the Beretta. “This is a Beretta 93-R. Shoots 9 millimeter rounds. Whisper-quiet, which is nice. I like that. But what I really like is that it fires three bullets at a time. Very handy.”

The man’s gaze was intent on Bolan, but he didn’t seem to be following what the soldier was saying.

“Now the gutshot?” he said. “The one I am about to give you? That’s going to really screw you up. Three bullets can tear the hell out of your organs. Maybe pierce your spine. I’m not a doctor, but you get a wound like that—” Bolan shrugged “—bleeding is the least of your worries.”

Another pause.

“Upside is, you won’t have to worry long. You’ll welcome death.”

Bolan saw the light go on in the guy’s eyes. The Russian licked his lips.

“What do you want?” the man said.

“Information.”

“Fine.”

* * *

THE HINTON TOWER stood among the office towers in London’s financial district. It’s hide of mirrored windows caught the spectrum of lights emanating from traffic signals and streetlights, and corporate signs moored to neighboring office towers.

The Executioner stepped from the shadows of an alley that ran between the Hinton Tower and its closest neighbor, a skyscraper that housed a global bank. A black nylon briefcase hung from his right shoulder. McCarter emerged a heartbeat later, a nearly identical briefcase slung over his shoulder.

Bolan’s ice-blue eyes surveyed the building’s exterior, matched it with the intelligence he’d gained. The thug who had given them this intel worked for a man named Malakov—who just so happened to be a high-ranking associate of Mikhail Yezhov. Malakov, once a tenant in the building, had bought it out of receivership after the bottom fell out of London’s commercial real estate market. That transaction had allowed him to install a tighter security. This included plainclothes, armed guards in the lobby, tougher firewalls on the computers managing the security system and a rooftop helipad to allow for private departures.

“Nice digs,” McCarter muttered.

Bolan nodded.

“You think our boy’s information was good?”

“He was about to bleed out,” Bolan replied. “What do you think?”

“Impending death makes for a hell of a truth serum. Good job bandaging him up, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“Seems a little counterproductive, this whole shooting-people-then-tending-to-their-wounds thing,” McCarter said.

Bolan shrugged. “Made a deal with the guy. Not sure he deserved to live, but I made a deal. I don’t think he’s going to bother anybody for a while. MI5 was going to send in a cleanup team, take him to a hospital. They’ll extradite him.”

“So we can shoot him again, at another time in another place.”

“Gives us something to look forward to,” Bolan said.

“True that.”

By this point, the soldier and McCarter had reached the line of glass doors leading into the tower’s lobby. Despite the hour, the revolving door spun easily, spitting Bolan, then McCarter, into the lobby. A handful of men and women, well-groomed professional people in suits, strode purposefully in a dozen different directions through the lobby. This didn’t surprise Bolan. The Russian had told him that Malakov ran a massive energy-and-stock futures operation on the building’s first two floors. With the staff making trades globally, people populated the building around the clock.

A pair of burly men togged in navy blue sport coats, gray slacks and red ties were seated behind an information desk that stood in the middle of the lobby. The Stony Man warriors approached the desk. The guards, who’d been talking, fell silent and looked at Bolan and McCarter.

“Help you?” the younger man asked.

“Have some documents to drop off,” McCarter said. He patted his briefcase to emphasize the point.

“Documents for who?”

“Apex Trading,” McCarter said. “On the twenty-second floor.”

“I know what floor it’s on,” the man said. “Who at Apex?”

“Ed Haggar.” Kurtzman had grabbed the names with an internet search and fed them to Bolan.

The young man shook his head. “Don’t know him.”