Читать книгу The Judas Project - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

He parked outside the hotel and went inside. At the desk he asked for Natasha Tchenko’s room. The clerk was unhelpful until Bolan flashed his Justice Department badge. After that the clerk was only too eager to help. Bolan took the elevator to the third floor and made his way to the Russian agent’s room.

He stood at the door, about to knock, when he noticed scuff marks in the pile of the carpet. Bolan crouched. The pile had been disturbed by twin trails of deep indentations. The pile had not had time to return to its normal position, so the marks were fresh. They could easily have been made by the shoe heels of someone being dragged away from the room. Bolan was about to move when he picked up sound from inside the room. He rose to his feet, opening his jacket and taking out the Beretta 93-R. He checked the selector switch and set it to single shot.

He tapped on the door.

“Room service, miss. Your coffee and sandwiches.”

Bolan heard movement as someone approached the door. He heard the interior lock being released and the door was pulled ajar. A lean male face peered at him, scanning Bolan’s clothing.

“You are not room service.”

The accent was Russian. Bolan drove his full weight at the door, pushing the guy backward. He stepped inside, heeling the door shut behind him, then followed through as the surprised guy went for the handgun tucked behind his belt.

Bolan back-fisted the guy across the side of the jaw, following with a solid kick that slammed into his opponent’s exposed stomach. The man grunted, still trying to pull his handgun free. The Executioner caught a handful of his shirtfront and hauled the guy close, then slammed the Beretta across the side of his skull. The Russian stumbled to his knees, his handgun slipping from his grasp. Bolan kicked it out of sight under the bed, then planted a foot against the guy’s rear, shoving hard. The Russian skidded across the carpet, burning the side of his face on the pile. Bolan knelt astride him, one knee hard in the guy’s spine. He caught a handful of the thick black hair and hauled the man’s head up and back. The cold muzzle of the 9 mm pistol ground into the Russian’s flesh, just behind his right eye.

The Russian cursed in his own tongue.

“You’re in America, talk English.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I see you have a good grasp of the language,” Bolan said. “See how good you are answering questions?”

The man stiffened as Bolan pushed down harder with his knee.

“What?”

“The woman. Where did they take her?”

“I do not know.” The guy twisted his head around to speak. Bolan saw blood running down his face where the Beretta had landed.

“Start to remember. I’m not going to spend too much time on this.”

The Russian bucked violently, dislodging Bolan, and they rolled across the carpet, each trying for the advantage. The Russian seemed oblivious to the gun in Bolan’s hand as he twisted and squirmed in his attempt to break clear. He managed to get clear, but instead of making a break he threw himself back at Bolan, arching above him, reaching out with both hands. His move was badly mistimed, giving Bolan the opportunity to draw up both legs, then slam his feet against the guy’s lower body. The big American put his full strength into shoving the man away. The force of the move lifted the Russian off his feet and launched him backward across the room. The outer wall brought him to a bone-crunching stop. The Russian’s breath exploded from his lips as the back of his skull impacted against the wall.

Bolan gained his feet and bent over the Russian. The man was barely conscious, breath gusting roughly from his lungs.

He searched the Russian’s pockets and found nothing of great interest until he came across a folded piece of paper that looked as if it had been torn from a pad. On it was a telephone number and some writing in Russian.

Bolan took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Aaron Kurtzman’s direct line. After a series of relay cutouts, Kurtzman picked up.

“Bear, I want a telephone number trace fast. I think it’s a Grand Rapids local number.” He read off the number. “I’ll stay on the line.”

While he waited Bolan crossed to the bed and retrieved the gun the Russian had dropped. It was a Glock. He checked the mag and found it full. He tucked the pistol in his belt.

“Got your location,” Kurtzman announced.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s an old office building in downtown Grand Rapids.” Kurtzman gave him the address. “Hey, do you have a navigation system in your rental?”

“Yes.”

“Write down these coordinates. Feed them into the unit and it should guide you direct to the address.”

Bolan wrote the numbers on a pad he found on the bedside cabinet.

“Thanks, Bear. Tell Hal I’ll update him when I get the time.”

Bolan cut the connection, then punched in the number for Rick Hollander. When the detective came on the line, Bolan didn’t give him time to ask questions.

“Natasha Tchenko’s hotel. Her room. You’ll find a guy there. I suggest you call an ambulance. Make sure he stays under guard.”

He cut off instantly, left the room and made his way down to the hotel lobby. Outside he climbed into the rental, tapped in the reference numbers Kurtzman had supplied and watched as the navigation system adjusted its display. The map showed where he was and the route he needed to take to locate the address.

“God bless technology,” Bolan muttered as he pulled into the flow of traffic.

RUNDOWN AND DESOLATE. Broken windows. The frontage littered and graffiti covered. The building exuded despair. Even the For Rent sign had quit trying, sagging loosely from the wall.

Bolan parked a couple of hundred yards down the street from the entrance to the basement parking garage. He eased out of the vehicle and made his way across to the down ramp. There was no time for an extended recon of the place. If the men who had taken Natasha Tchenko were anything like the one back at the hotel, finesse would not be a job requirement. From what he had already learned about these people they had little regard for human life.

The Executioner walked slowly down the ramp, spotting a couple of cars parked close to the access doors. The garage was shadowed, the air musty and damp. Water dripped somewhere, and the concrete under his feet was dusty. Sound echoed. He pushed through the doors and into the building proper. He made for the stairs next to the bank of elevators, noticing the scuff marks in the accumulated dust. As he catfooted to the next landing, Bolan eased the Beretta from its shoulder holster and moved the fire selector to 3-round-burst mode. He pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor beyond.

A number of doors lined the corridor, and his attention was drawn to scuff marks in the dust leading to one. Bolan pressed against the wall to one side and reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, keeping the bulk of his body away from the flimsy wood panels. The second he felt the door free itself from the latch he paused, lowering into a crouch. He slowly began to push the door open from floor level.

The crackle of autofire confirmed he had chosen the right room. The upper panel of the door was torn to shreds by the volley of 9 mm slugs passing through it. The angle of the shots told Bolan the shooter inside the room was standing directly in-line with the door. When the firing stopped, he hit the door with his left shoulder, driving it back against the inner wall. The shooter stood in front of him. Bolan’s arm was stretched forward and he hit his adversary with a 9 mm trio, chest high, the slugs coring in to puncture the heart. The guy stepped back, his expression revealing shock before he toppled to the floor.