Читать книгу Treason Play - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Bolan crept up the stairs of the three-story apartment building, screams still echoing in his ears.

He fisted the Beretta 93-R, raised it in front of him, let it lead the way. As he neared the top of the stairs, another scream—this one more frantic and agonized—stabbed into his ears, lingering.

The solider muttered a curse. He already was losing time and likely was at risk of blowing the mission. From the third-floor landing, he heard the rumble of a throat clearing. Hugging the wall, he crept about halfway up the final flight of stairs, stopped and listened for a couple of heartbeats. A throat cleared again and the sole of a shoe scraped against the floorboards.

Bolan surged up the final steps. As he crested the stairs, he spotted a beefy man, his hair slicked straight back, coughing into a clenched fist. The guy apparently sensed the motion and wheeled in Bolan’s direction. His hand grabbed for a pistol holstered on his hip.

The Beretta sighed and a trio of subsonic 9 mm rounds lanced from its barrel. The swarm of slugs stabbed into the man’s mouth and cheek and exploded from the back of his skull in a spray of crimson. The guard’s legs suddenly turned rubbery and his body collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap. A Glock slipped from the man’s lifeless fingers and thudded to the floor.

The soldier cursed under his breath, but continued to march toward the source of the agonized screams.

In a perfect world, he would have preferred to have caught the guard unaware and put him down soundlessly with a knife to the throat.

In a perfect world, yeah. As if the soldier had ever seen such a thing.

Here in the real world, there was every possibility that the noised had alerted the band of killers hiding out in the apartment, every possibility he’d lost the element of surprise. So, okay, it was time to try the direct approach. Kneeling next to the corpse, he dug through the man’s pockets until he found a wallet, which he pocketed, figuring he could comb through its contents for possible intel later, and a ring of keys. Stepping near the door, he pressed his ear against it and listened.

By now the screaming had stopped, but he heard murmurs of conversation. It was impossible to decipher the words or to discern the emotional state of the speaker. As best he could tell, Nawaz Khan or whoever had outfitted this slaughterhouse, had positioned a couple of security cameras on the building’s exterior, but nothing inside, at least nothing he could see. It was possible the guys inside had no idea their comrade had just been gunned down.

His fingers curled softly around the knob and he tried to turn it, but found it locked. His mind flitted back to the ring of keys he’d found on the dead guard, but he dismissed the notion immediately. He had no time to test half a dozen keys in the hope that one of them might open the door. To hell with it, he decided. He needed to move now.

The Executioner tapped the Beretta and set loose a trio of slugs that chewed into the doorknob and lock. The tattered lock only held the door closed barely and Bolan hammered it with a kick of his booted foot.

The door flew inward. Bolan followed right behind it. Icy-blue eyes took in his surroundings and he saw he was in a room furnished with a card table, a trio of metal folding chairs and a big blue plastic cooler. Two gunners, one seated, one standing, were also in the room.

A slender man in blue jeans and a red T-shirt who’d had his back turned when Bolan stormed the place, whirled. His hand snaked out, something black gripped in it. The Executioner’s Beretta coughed out a line of bullets that lanced into the thug’s chest, causing him to fall in a boneless heap. The hardman who’d been sitting on a chair simultaneously dived sideways and squeezed off a couple of shots from his automatic pistol. The slugs whistled within inches of Bolan’s skull. The soldier returned the favor with another triburst from the Beretta that pulverized the man’s chest and caused him to slump to the floor in a heap.

As the man hit the floor, the Executioner was in motion. First, he checked a small adjoining room and made sure it was empty. Then, retracing his steps, he returned to the entryway before veering into another corridor that branched off from the open area. Bolan took a step forward and a foul but not unfamiliar smell registered with him, causing his nose to wrinkle.

A pair of doors lined the right side of the corridor and another door stood to the left. Light spilled into the dark hallway from beneath the two doors to Bolan’s right. The soldier snapped a fresh clip into the Beretta and checked through the rooms, but found them unoccupied. He crossed the hallway and, with the Beretta leveled in front of him, and gave the third door a closer look. It had been pulled closed, but not latched.

Standing off to one side, Bolan nudged the door open with a toe. This time the smell smacked him like a sledgehammer. It was a mixture of excrement and charred flesh and God knew what else. The contents of Bolan’s stomach began to push at the top of his throat. He swallowed hard and pushed his way into the room. With a sweeping gaze, Bolan took in the room’s interior.

The plastic painting tarps that covered the floor crunched under the soles of his shoes. A hospital bed, side rails pulled up, stood in the middle of the room. Surgical instruments—scalpels, forceps, a small saw—stood on a wooden nightstand, the top covered with plastic sheeting. Next to the traditional surgical tools lay a soldering iron and a small torch.

Bolan fixed his gaze on the figure on the bed, felt his stomach clench as he took in the horrible sight. Death’s rigor had caused the arms to curl up. Strips of skin, uniform in length and cut with precision, had been peeled from the chest, abdomen and forearms. The exposed tissue, still wet with blood, glistened beneath the big halogen lamps that burned overhead. Flesh seared by the soldering iron was black and puckered. Thick hair soaked with blood was matted against the skull. Blood had soaked the mattress beneath the man and pooled beneath the surgical bed.

The soldier marched around to the other side of the bed and studied the man’s profile. The crazy butcher responsible for this savagery had left the one side of the man’s face untouched. Bolan studied the man’s features so he could confirm his identity.

The soldier set his jaw to hold back the rage that boiled inside him.

He keyed his throat mike. “Eagle One,” he said.

“Eagle One,” Jack Grimaldi replied. “Go, Striker.”

“I found the package.”

“And?”

“Expired,” Bolan stated.

“Damn.”

“I took out multiple targets up here,” the soldier said. “We’re missing at least one. As best I can tell, these guys all are muscle. Whoever did this—” he snapped a look at Terry Lang, then looked away “—isn’t among them.”

“You know this how?”

“The muscle’s clothes weren’t bloody,” he replied. “I heard Lang’s last death screams, so whoever did this likely had no time to wash off. Keep an eye out. The sadistic bastard who did this may still be in the building or will be exiting it soon.”

Bolan found a discarded pile of clothes lying in one corner of the room. He guessed they were Lang’s and searched the pockets, but found nothing inside them. Exiting the torture room, the soldier returned to the hallway. From outside the building, he could hear the murmur of car traffic and the hum of an air conditioner.

He took a couple more steps and suddenly his combat senses screamed for his attention, followed by the grunt of someone exerting himself. The soldier whirled and glimpsed a large shape hurtling toward him. Metal glinted, a knife blade poised to fall on the soldier. Bolan reacted, taking a step back. The blade whistled through the air just an inch or so from his face. The attacker pressed his advantage and stabbed at Bolan twice more, the frenzied action forcing the soldier to take a couple of steps back.

The guy slashed wildly at the Executioner and continued to press forward. Bolan sidestepped the attack and drove his fist into the guy’s floating ribs. The man grunted and fell back, his eyes bulging with fear. His free hand flew up to cover his injured ribs. A scream of pain and fear exploded from his mouth as he renewed his attack. He lunged at Bolan, the tip of the knife hurtling at the Executioner’s midsection. The soldier stepped aside and the gleaming blade whooshed past his torso, slicing open the nylon windbreaker he wore, but leaving his flesh intact. The soldier drove another fist into the guy’s now-injured ribs and heard his opponent gasp with pain. The man dropped the knife and spun away.

Bolan drew the Beretta and leveled it at the man. The knife fell to the floor with a clatter and the man brought his hands up.

“You and I,” Bolan said, “are going to talk.”

BOLAN WENT TO THE stainless-steel sink in the torture room. He filled a white foam cup with cold water from the tap and returned to the hallway where Ayub Sharif lay in the hallway.

By now, Grimaldi had arrived. He leaned one shoulder into the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Bolan stood over Sharif and threw the contents of the water into the guy’s face. Sharif’s eyes popped open and his expression quickly flashed through shock, fear and finally rage as he took in his surroundings and assessed his situation. He looked at Bolan, then at Grimaldi and finally back at the Executioner.

“Hello, Ayub,” Grimaldi said, his voice irritatingly bright. Sharif raised his forearm, dragged it across his face to wipe away the water that had been splashed on him.

“You know my name,” he said. Though Bolan knew from his intel that the guy was a native of Pakistan, he spoke English with no trace of an accent. “How do you know my name?”

“Big fans,” Grimaldi said.

“Your work speaks for itself,” Bolan said. “Best cutter this side of Jack the Ripper. Besides, we have a file on you.”

“Who are you?”

“Why don’t you let me ask the questions?” Bolan said. “That’s what I’d do if I were in your position.”

“My position. And just what position might that be?” Sharif asked.

“Royally fucked.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Bolan said. He jerked a thumb at the room where Lang had been tortured to death. “You killed Terrence Lang. Did it in cold blood. Kidnapped him. Tortured him. For God knows what reason. I could put a bullet in your head, dump your body in the river and celebrate with a steak dinner.”

Sharif licked his lips. A sheen of perspiration had formed on his forehead and had beaded on his upper lip. “You can’t prove I killed him.”

Bolan knelt in front of Sharif. He rubbed his chin and studied the guy for several seconds. Finally he shook his head slowly, as though overwhelmed with disbelief.

“Sharif,” he said, “I can’t tell whether you’re brave or stupid. Truth be told, I don’t care which it is. You have blood under your fingernails. Your clothes and shoes are splattered with blood. Your file says that your best skills are torture and interrogation. So if you want to tell me you didn’t kill Terry Lang, fine. I can live with that.” Bolan slipped the Beretta from his shoulder holster. “I’m not here to put you on trial. The burden of proof I require before blowing your head off is light. I mean, life’s too short for heavy burdens. Am I right?”

“What’s in it for me?”

Bolan shook his head. “One breath, two breaths. Who knows?”

Grimaldi chimed in. “Best speak truth to power, Sharif.”

Sharif scowled. Bolan watched as the cutter stared at his lap, thumbnail of one hand digging under the other while he considered his situation.

“Maybe I need to clarify,” Bolan said. “I don’t like you. You’re a monster preying and profiting on the misery of others. You wore out my patience three minutes ago. If I had more time, or was a better interrogator, I’d establish a rapport with you, earn your trust, make you a lot of promises. I don’t have that kind of time. So answer my questions. What’s the game here?”

“He poked his nose into Khan’s affairs.”

“And?”

“Khan didn’t like it.”

“News flash.”

“I mean, he betrayed Khan.”

Bolan’s brow furrowed. “Betrayed. You mean, they were working together?”

“That’s what Khan thought. I mean, Lang was working through an intermediary, but Khan thought he had him, had leverage over him.”

“What kind of leverage?” Grimaldi asked.

“When Lang first started poking around Khan’s operations, Khan thought the guy was just another journalist sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. We tried to throw him off the trail. We sent a couple of people his way, ones who gave him bad information, tried to send him in the wrong direction.”

“And?” Bolan asked.

“And it didn’t work. Not for long, anyway. Sure, he might follow the lead for a little while, but then he always came back around, asking the right people the right questions, going to the right places. It was uncanny.”

“And Khan considered this a betrayal?”

Sharif shook his head. “No. After a while, Khan got tired of playing games with him and started having his people do their own digging, build their own case. Khan started to believe Lang was getting his information from an intelligence source or multiple sources.”

“You thought he was a spy.”

“Well, wasn’t he? I mean, look at you two. You’re not reporters, are you?”

Grimaldi looked at Bolan and grinned. “Pretty perceptive for a psychopath.”

He turned to Sharif. “So Khan decides Lang’s a spy and has him killed. And here we are. How’s that a betrayal?”

“I don’t know all the details.”

“But you know some,” the pilot replied.

“The way I understand it, Khan never knew for sure Lang was a spook or at least working with spooks. He made inquiries with his old ISI contacts, but they had nothing much on the guy. He’d been in Islamabad for a while, but their records had always pegged him as a journalist and nothing more. But Khan wasn’t convinced, so he decided to try recruiting him.”

“As a double agent,” Grimaldi said.

Sharif nodded. “He wanted to see just how much Western intelligence really knew about him and he figured that, if Lang knew something, he’d share it, maybe even take bad information back to his handlers. If the right pressure was applied.”

“Clever,” Bolan said. “Risky, but clever.”

“Too clever by half. Khan underestimated him. We thought we were turning him, but he was using us, penetrating the organization further all the time. He got what you Americans call the family jewels. Pieced together the organization’s structure, found out who Khan did business with, what he sells and where. Surely some of this information you’ve seen.”

Bolan gave a noncommittal shrug. “Khan knew all this stuff was going out the door?”

“Not at first, but he got the idea after a while. Hey, Khan had been an intelligence agent himself and had run operations against India while he was with the ISI. He knew the score. He’s no fool.”

“Not if he surrounds himself with top-shelf talent like you,” Bolan said. “Didn’t Khan think it was risky killing Lang? Who cares whether he was a reporter or a spy? Either way he’s dead, and now you have me and a bunch of other folks breathing down your neck. Seems like a bad trade to me.”

Sharif’s lips parted as he prepared to reply to Bolan. Before he could utter a sound, though, a small dark hole opened on his forehead, followed an instant later by the sound of glass breaking. Bolan whirled toward the sound and spotted the window behind him disintegrating in a waterfall of glass shards.

Grimaldi grabbed hold of Bolan’s windbreaker and gave it a hard yank, causing him to reel backward. A bullet sizzled through the air and pierced the space where he’d been standing only a moment before.

Once the Executioner hit the ground, he rolled across the floor and got out of direct site of the now-shattered window.

Grimaldi simultaneously was on the move, his hand filled with a Browning Hi-Power as he sought cover. Bolan saw from the corner of his eye that his friend was safe, which freed him to deal with the shooter. Three more rifle slugs lanced through the window and drilled into the floor and walls. None of them came close to hitting the Stony Man warriors, though the shooter did succeed in keeping them out of sight of the window.

The shooting was over in a matter of seconds.

“You okay?” Bolan asked his old friend.

“Yeah. You?”

The Beretta leveled in front of him in a two-handed grip, Bolan was up on one knee, looking through the window and scanning the rooftops of nearby buildings. A trained sniper himself, his mind was running through a rough series of calculations, trying to determine the angle from which the shots had come so he could best identify the building from which the shooter had attacked. He saw no movement on any of the nearby rooftops, but within a couple of seconds thought he’d identified the sniper’s perch.

He shot to his feet and moved toward the window. By the time he’d reached it, he heard tires squeal from the street below. He looked down in time to see a forest-green sedan rocket out of a nearby alley, cutting off an oncoming car before disappearing in traffic.

“There goes our shooter,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan nodded. He stowed his weapon, ran outside and crossed the street to the alley from where the green sedan had shot into traffic. He searched the building’s perimeter while Grimaldi continued to watch from above.

Minutes later Bolan keyed his throat mike. “I got nothing,” he said. “But I do hear sirens. I guess it’s time we made our exit.”