Читать книгу Deadly Contact - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

The entrance to Malivik’s building was reached by climbing a short flight of stone steps. Dukas got to the door without incident. Pushing inside she stopped in the lobby of the building aware of a sick feeling in her stomach. She considered the fact that she might be well out of her depth.

She climbed to the third floor apartment. No light showed under the door. Dukas took the keys from her friend’s bag and opened the door. Through the gap she could see the room was in darkness, the gloom broken only by the pale light coming through the window. Dukas reached inside and clicked on the light. The room had been disturbed, furniture out of place and objects strewed across the floor.

And from behind the leather couch a bare arm, streaked with blood, jutted at an odd angle.

“Please no,” she whispered. “Not Tira.”

Her plea was too late. When she stepped around the couch, she immediately recognized her friend lying in a wide, congealing pool of dark blood.

She was naked. Her clothes slashed and cut away by the same brutal blade that had ravaged her flesh, leaving her butchered and bloody. Her throat had been deeply cut, the flesh peeling back in a moist, glistening layer.

About to move toward the body, Dukas drew back. There was nothing she could do for her friend now.

Dukas reached into her pocket for her cell, then picked up a whisper of sound from the other side of the room. She realized she was not alone. She turned for the door, catching movement out the corner of her eye—a fast moving figure coming out of the bedroom, heading directly for her.

She reached the door and yanked it open. An arm snaked around her neck, the impact of her assailant’s body pushing her into the door frame. She stumbled, pulling her attacker with her as he maintained his grip. On her knees, she threw out one hand to grip the door frame. She could feel warm breath on the back of her neck that drew her anger as she recalled everything that had happened—the men at her apartment, discovering her dead friend and now this unprovoked attack. It gelled into a moment of pure, reflex rage.

Dukas drove the back of her skull into her attacker’s face. It hit hard and she heard him gasp, the arm around her neck loosening. She pulled free, pushing to her feet and turning to face the man. Still on his knees, temporarily engulfed in the blinding pain of his bruised nose, he was vulnerable. Dukas didn’t hesitate. She raised her right foot and slammed the heel of her boot into his mouth. He fell back, his face bloody, and in that instant she turned and ran.

Dukas raced along the corridor to the stairs, almost throwing herself down the steep flights, trying not to think about what she had left behind. She reached the lobby, barely able to stop herself from crashing into the front door. She fumbled for the handle, pulling it wide, and faced a dark figure blocking the entrance as she went through.

She hadn’t considered the man upstairs might have a partner.

Her forward rush took her headlong into the newcomer. His arms came up to grip her, but to steady her, not to imprison. Even in the flash of panic she knew to trust the voice when he spoke.

“Easy now, Erika, I’m on your side.”

“She’s dead. Tira’s dead,” Dukas cried.

She felt the man’s hands on her shoulders. The gesture helped to calm her. He eased her around and she felt herself being guided to a corner of the lobby.

“I think he was still there. In her apartment,” she said.

“Let me worry about him. You wait here.”

“With more of them liable to come through the front door? I’ll feel safer behind you.”

Mack Bolan saw the determined expression in her eyes.

“Watch my back then,” he said.

He eased the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder rig and held it against his right thigh as they started up the stairs, Bolan taking the lead.

Behind him Dukas offered directions and Bolan followed them. The apartment door stood ajar, the lights still on. As he reached the door, he saw the blood smear on the frame. Fresh blood was still seeping down the wood frame.

“You hurt?” he asked, indicating the blood.

“Not me, him,” came the matter-of-fact reply.

He toed the door open, his gaze covering the interior. Even from the door he could see the bloodied arm jutting from behind the couch. Bolan reached out and pushed the door wide, senses tuned to pick up any sound from inside.

He did pick up something. Not from inside the apartment, but from the corridor—sudden movement. Dukas gasped as she became aware herself. Bolan turned, swinging the 93-R around. He saw two armed figures converging on the apartment, weapons up and ready.

He gave them credit for that. Whoever they were, they had been a step ahead. His first instinct was to protect Dukas, and he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and shoved her out of harm’s way.

And then from inside the apartment another figure materialized from behind the open door, something in his raised right hand. Bolan sensed it swinging toward him, heard the whoosh of disturbed air. He tried to pull himself aside, but the heavy object slammed down across his right shoulder, numbing it. He was barely able to keep a grip on the Beretta. His attacker muttered in frustration, swung the club again and this time connected with Bolan’s skull. The blow drove Bolan to his knees. The third blow put him facedown on the carpet and every light in Washington went out.

THE EXECUTIONER’S AWARENESS RETURNED gradually. His initial conscious reaction was to the savage pulse of pain inside his skull. It occupied his elusive thoughts and he remained still, some deep instinct telling him to assess prior to acting.

He played dead, accepting that it was a disturbing analogy. His first cogent thought centered on Erika Dukas. Where and how was she? It was something he would need to verify very soon.

He began to filter in extraneous sound and movement.

Low talk. Casual movement.

He cracked open an eye, saw the world come slowly back into focus.

He was still in Tira Malivik’s apartment, lying against one wall. The first thing he made out was the couch. Tira Malivik’s body had been behind it, but the body had been moved and the couch dragged forward to cover the bloodstain.

A man was lounging on the couch, staring at the television, the sound turned low. A second man wandered into view, a filled glass in one hand. From the way the pair was acting Bolan guessed they were on their own. He didn’t dismiss the possibility of there being others, maybe in one of the other rooms—maybe keeping watch over Dukas.

The man on the couch rose and crossed the room to stand over Bolan. He saw the man had a bloody nose and a cut around his mouth.

“Hey, Kimble, maybe you hit this asswipe too hard,” the man said. His voice was slightly blurred due to his injured mouth.

“Do I look as if I care?”

“I mean he might not be able to talk. Billingham isn’t going to be pleased about that,” the first man replied.

Two names so far, Bolan thought. Kimble. Billingham.

One paid help, the other the ringmaster.

“Get him on his fuckin’ feet,” Kimble said. “I’ll make him talk.”

The nameless man hauled Bolan upright with ease. Bolan could feel the toned muscle under the man’s street clothes. There was strength there. The Executioner offered no resistance. He was not quite ready to make his own physical contribution yet. The man dragged him to the couch and dumped him with little grace.

Kimble reached behind himself and produced Bolan’s Beretta. He leaned over and rapped the muzzle against Bolan’s cheekbone. “C’mon sleeping beauty. Talk time.”

Bolan opened his eyes and stared up at Kimble. He held his gaze and despite his bravado—and the gun—it was Kimble who broke contact.

Bolan pushed himself into a sitting position. “Is the woman all right?” he asked directly.

“Hey, it speaks,” Kimble crowed.

“Well?” Bolan said.

“Don’t get pushy. We ask, you answer,” Kimble said.

“Right now your priority is thinking ’bout yourself,” the other man said. “Like how long you might stay alive.”

“Is she okay?” Bolan asked again.

“Jesus, this freak has a one-track mind.”

“Yeah, well, his ID has him down as some kind of Justice agent,” Kimble said. “You know what that means. They’re just fancy cops, and cops have simple minds.”

“The woman,” Bolan persisted.

“Christ,” Kimble said. “Look, pal, she ain’t here. Right now she’s fine, but how long depends on the way she answers some questions.”

The other man reached into the pocket of his dark pants and produced a switchblade. He pressed the button and the slim, shining blade snapped into position. His face took on a sudden change, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he flexed his muscles.

Kimble reached in a pocket and produced a bundle of plastic ties. “Let’s get this done.”

No time for working on a strategy. Bolan saw the lines of engagement change. Talk was over. He came up off the couch, fighting back the wave of nausea that rose within him.

Bolan’s right foot swept up, and the toe of his shoe drove into the knife wielder’s groin. The blow was without mercy, delivered with every ounce of strength the Executioner could muster. The man made a high-pitched squeal of pain. The kick stalled him long enough for Bolan to continue his move, his body swiveling so that he came face-to-face with the startled Kimble. Bolan’s hands reached out and caught the Beretta by the barrel. He twisted and pulled, hearing Kimble’s trigger finger snap.

Kimble howled as Bolan shouldered him aside, turning about to face the nameless man. The big man, one hand clutching at his groin, was already on the move, lurching in Bolan’s direction. The glittering switchblade was slashing the air as he closed in. Bolan raised the 93-R and pulled the trigger. The Beretta chugged a 3-round burst, the 9 mm slugs punching into the man’s chest. He twisted away from Bolan, dropping to his knees, then went facedown on the carpet. He jerked a few times before subsiding with a long, harsh sigh.

Turning away, Bolan made Kimble the focus of his attention, making sure the man could see the unwavering muzzle of the Beretta.

Kimble panicked. This was not how it was supposed to go down.

Moving behind him, Bolan closed an arm around Kimble’s neck, tight enough to make the man struggle for air. He put the muzzle of the Beretta against the side of the man’s head and pressed hard, letting the warm metal gouge a raw circle in his flesh.

“Think about this, Kimble. Your buddy is dead. You saw how quick it happened. Consider that when you start to answer my questions,” Bolan said.

He let the man think about it for a while. Bolan slackened his grip on Kimble’s neck and the man sucked air in greedily, like a swimmer escaping drowning. He maintained pressure on the Beretta’s muzzle, making sure Kimble stayed aware of his precarious position.

“Simple question. Where do they have the woman?” the Executioner asked.

Kimble knew his life depended on his reply. He was under no illusions. He had seen how easily this man had killed his partner and knew that same fate awaited him if he failed to give the right information.

“If I tell you, can we make a deal?” he asked.

Bolan didn’t answer. Instead he dug the muzzle of the Beretta deeper into Kimble’s flesh, turning it enough to break the skin. Kimble felt the warm trickle of blood from the tear.

“Where do they have the woman?”

“No deal, huh? Look, what if I send you to a certain address and she isn’t there?” Kimble asked.

“Then I’ll come back and we’ll start over. You aren’t going anywhere, Kimble. So make certain I hit the correct location,” the Executioner warned.

“If my people find out I sent you, I’m dead anyway. They’ll come after me.”

“No, they won’t. I can promise you that.”

The tone was neutral but the implication was clear. Kimble knew if this man went after the woman, it wouldn’t matter who stood in his way.

Bolan stepped away from Kimble and stood facing him, the Beretta still trained on the man.

“Your choice, Kimble. Give me what I want, and I’ll cut you a break. Screw me, and you’ll wish I’d killed you right here and now.”

Kimble stared into the cold blue eyes and he saw his own fate mirrored there.

“You genuine on that? Leaving me alive I mean?”

“I never lie, Kimble.”

There was something in the guy’s voice that made Kimble believe him.

“Then we have a deal.”

Bolan gestured with the pistol and walked Kimble across the room. He made him sit on the floor next to the heavy radiator piped into the wall, then picked up the plastic ties Kimble had let drop to the floor. He handed one to Kimble.

“Around your ankles. Make sure it’s tight.”

“Jesus, my finger’s broke. How can I—”

“Your choice, Kimble. I still have bullets in this gun.”

Bolan waited until Kimble did as he was instructed, then fashioned a loop with a second plastic strip. He bound Kimble’s wrists together, then took more strips and secured the bound man to the thick steel pipe running from the radiator to the solid floor.

“Now tell me where she is and how many are with her.”

When Bolan had the information locked down he rose to his feet, holstering the Beretta, then turned to leave.

“Hey,” Kimble called, “how do I get out of this?”

“If the information is genuine, I won’t be back. I’ll leave a message with my people to come and get you.”

Kimble’s anger burst like an unchecked flood.

“You fuckin’ told me you don’t lie. I give you what you want, and you toss me to the cops? What kind of a deal is that?”

“It’s what we agreed, Kimble. You give me the right words, I don’t kill you. That stands. I didn’t say anything about letting you walk away from this.” Bolan paused to stare the man down. “You want to renegotiate the terms? You still have nine fingers left.”

Kimble fell silent, figuring he’d worked the best deal he was likely to get. He watched the tall man leave, and reasoned he was better off where he was. He didn’t envy the snatch crew. He tried not to imagine what was going to happen when the unexpected visitor showed up at the abandoned farmhouse.