Blind Justice Read online

  Bolan had picked up the sentry’s SMG—additional firepower was something he would never eschew. As he closed in on the house he assessed the acquired weapon; the made-in-Belgium FN P90 was a modernistic bullpup design. Chambered for 5.7 mm ammo contained in a translucent plastic top-mounted magazine, with a 50-round capacity, capable of semi or full auto fire, this weapon had a suppressor screwed to the barrel to reduce noise. Bolan checked the weapon and found it set and ready to use. He slung his own MP-5 across his back. The fifty extra rounds the P90 would provide was not to be dismissed. As he had no idea how much opposition might be inside the house the additional ordnance was welcome.

  Bolan stood against the wall next to the door the sentry had exited. He was going inside to rescue Rachel Logan. Anyone who stood in his way would pay the ultimate price. His initial attempt at bringing the woman and her son to safety had failed. He wasn’t about to let that happen a second time. Bolan had made a promise to Ray Logan and he refused to accept defeat. The cop had put his life on the line in order to bring Kendal and his associates to justice. His family had been drawn into danger through his actions, and Bolan’s promise to see his wife and child safely delivered back to Logan would not be allowed to fall by the wayside.

  Bolan checked the door handle. It moved easily and the door swung open at his touch. He pushed it fully open, standing to one side. The lit passage ran for no more than ten feet before it terminated in a rising flight of stone steps. Bolan eased inside, closed the door, spotted a slide bolt and secured it, preventing anyone from moving in behind him. The steps led to a second door, partially open. Bolan edged it wider and checked out the hallway beyond. There was a door on either side, and the passage widened into a generous entrance hall, with the main doors on the far end. The doors set in the short passage yielded nothing but utility closets.

  The question Bolan asked himself was simple—if the Russians had Rachel Logan in the house, where was she located? They needed to question her about two things—the location of her husband and the information he had hidden away. Bolan didn’t fool himself into believing they would inquire in a gentlemanly manner. The fact she was a woman would have no effect on them—most likely the opposite. Rachel’s femininity would be used against her. Bolan tried not to dwell on what they might do to her, but he was powerless to wipe images from his mind of former victims, some who had been friends. He had seen the things men were capable of doing to female captives. He would move heaven and earth to prevent them being visited upon Rachel Logan.

  Bolan reached the end of the passage. The entrance hall spread out in front of him, with doors to the left and right, and a wooden stairway to the upper floor. He picked up the sound of heavy bootsteps coming from his left. A stocky figure, SMG slung over his shoulder, emerged from an archway. The man carried a steaming mug in his right hand, but he allowed it to drop as he saw Bolan’s black-clad figure and clawed for the SMG. The mug was still falling when Bolan hit the guy with a short burst from the suppressed P90, the silent slugs ripping into the guard’s torso. The man fell back, his face expressing shock. Despite his severe wounds he managed to yell a loud warning.

  “Intruder.”

  Bolan knew enough Russian to recognize the word, and any thoughts of a quiet approach vanished.

  The wounded man, on his knees, made another try for his weapon. Bolan’s second burst ended that, spinning the man across the floor to slump against the wall, leaving a blood trail in his wake.

  The response to the sentry’s warning yell was fast and noisy. Bolan heard the thump of boots from the floor above, as two armed figures appeared at the head of the stairs. He dropped to one knee, angling the muzzle of the P90 and raked the area with solid fire. The two armed men were no more than three steps down when Bolan’s spread caught them, 5.7 mm slugs thudding into flesh and breaking some bone in the process. One flopped back and stayed where he was. The other man dropped, slid down a couple of steps, then turned over and fell the rest of the way, doing more damage to his already bleeding body. The click of a door made Bolan turn and he faced another armed figure, sleeves rolled high on his brawny arms. The man snatched at an auto pistol tucked into his pants. His mistake had been to leave the weapon there before stepping through the door. Bolan triggered the P90, his long burst stitching the guy from stomach to throat. One of the 5.7 mm slugs ripped through his body to sever his spinal cord and he dropped to the floor and lay motionless.

  Raised voices informed Bolan he was still under pressure. He tried to make out what was being said, but the distance lowered the level of speech. In essence, he was going to have to take on more of Koretski’s shooters.

  A fleeting thought—was the man himself in the house?

  Maybe even the guy he’d just dropped?

  Bolan threw a swift look at the downed man. He saw a short-necked, shaven-headed individual. No, not Koretski. The Russian boss was a tall, athletic man, with a head of thick blond hair.

  The stutter of a full-on SMG burst through the Executioner’s thought. He had been scanning his surroundings and registered a new shooter emerging from one of the closed doors. This guard came running, shouting wildly as he confronted the big American, his own P90, without a suppressor, jacking out loosely aimed shots that scored the tiled floor. The slugs hit with vicious snaps of sound, splintering the tiles and flying off at angles. Bolan felt something sear his right upper arm, tearing through the close weave of his blacksuit before scoring his flesh. Bolan held his weapon firmly, tracked the shooter and put him down with a couple of bursts that turned the guy’s knees to a bloody mush, bone and fragments of flesh exploding from the wounds. The man’s yelling turned to screams as he collapsed to his knees, screaming even more when his knees slammed to the floor. For a moment his eyes met Bolan’s and he had a brief glimpse of pitiless blue before Bolan’s follow-up burst took his face apart and cored in to blow out the back of his skull in a moment of scalding agony.

  Bolan came fully upright. He could feel warm blood streaming down his arm from the wound there. He dropped his gaze and checked the P90’s magazine. He could see he was below halfway through the fifty shots. Still enough to be going on with before he needed to bring the MP-5 into play.

  He realized a heavy silence had fallen over the house—no sounds of additional shooters. Unless any survivors had decided on a silent approach. He made a 360-degree check of the hall and the landing of the upper floor.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps the personnel in the house had been reduced because Koretski’s main team was still out looking for Ray Logan. Bolan abandoned the theories. No point wasting time wondering.

  He looked down at the man who had faced him from the room on his right. The double doors were only partly open, light spilling out from the room. Bolan moved on silent feet until he was able to peer through the gap between the doors.

  He picked up on labored breathing. Not harsh like a man, softer, but betraying agitation.

  Rachel?

  Bolan toed open the closest half of the doors. It swung in and revealed a well-furnished room. Thick curtains drawn to shut out the night. Chairs and furniture had been pushed back to leave a wide circle of carpet. Two people stood in the exposed area.

  One of them was Rachel Logan. Her arms and hands were held limply at her sides. She had been stripped naked. She stared at Bolan, eyes wide and moist with tears. There was a large, inflamed bruise on her left cheek, the discoloration already spreading to her eye which was swollen almost shut. Blood ran from the side of her mouth. An open gash plumped her lower lip. Bolan saw, too, bruises over her ribs. It took a great deal of control to stop himself from rushing forward to her aid.

  He was prevented from doing anything because of the second person in the room. Medium height, lean and with a shaved skull. He had sunken cheeks above his thin mouth, and sharp eyes that were fixed squarely on Bolan. He wore a neat suit, tie and
immaculate shirt. He had a slim-bladed knife touching Rachel’s throat. Already a thin line of blood had run down her smooth flesh where the tip of the blade had pricked the skin.

  Bolan knew who the man was.

  Vigo Stone.

  Kendal’s running dog. The one they called The Enforcer. The cold killer who had slaughtered Marty Keegan and left his tortured body for his fellow cops to discover.

  And here he was to implement his brutal technique on Rachel. Bolan, attracted by something shining against the light, glanced to the side. On a low table, resting on an unrolled towel, were Stone’s tools. The scalpels and the pincers. Cruel steel instruments ready to be used on Rachel’s vulnerable flesh.

  “You’ve noticed,” Stone said. “Nice collection.” His tone altered, became harsh. “From the lack of resistance out there it looks like you took down all of Koretski’s home boys. I told him to leave more. Now get rid of the arsenal, Cooper. Everything. If you try to screw around with me I’ll cut the bitch’s throat. You know I will. Your call.”

  “Don’t…don’t listen to him, Cooper,” Rachel said. Her voice was hoarse, close to a whisper.

  “Oh, I think he will. Look what he went through to get you out of that forest. Cooper, the senator was pissed at the way you took out his best people. All those dead bodies littering the countryside. He’s not pleased. And Koretski is slightly annoyed, too.”

  “I’m all cut up about that.”

  “You might live to regret that phrase,” Stone said. “Now get rid of the weapons.”

  Bolan shed his armaments and combat harness and dropped them on an armchair nearby. The Tanto knife was last.

  “Now move away. We wouldn’t want you doing anything foolish like trying to go for one of them, would we?”

  Bolan sidestepped well clear of the armchair.

  “You showing up, Cooper, has made things difficult. Or easier. Depends on how you look at it,” Stone said. “I tie you up and let you watch. Or I tie the bitch up and work on you. I don’t think she’ll be able to stomach that long before she tells me what I need to know. Win-win for me either way. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re sick, Stone.”

  Stone smiled. “I wouldn’t be in this line of work if I wasn’t. Believe me, Cooper, that’s the truth.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “For God’s sake, Stone, do something,” Rachel snapped. “Just stop talking. Listening to you makes me want to throw up.”

  “Feisty, isn’t she?” Stone taunted. “Makes me figure it will be a shame to cut her up. Truth is I’m getting used to her butt pressing against me the way it is. Be a shame to give that up. But business is business.”

  Bolan saw the knife move fractionally from Rachel’s throat as Stone’s concentration wavered.

  He also saw the color that flooded her cheeks. Saw muscles tense in her naked body and he knew she was about to do something.

  Rachel jerked her head to one side, away from the threat of the knife. At the same time she pulled herself out of Stone’s grip around her slim waist. Her strong body turned about as she swiveled on one foot, right arm swinging in a powerful roundhouse punch that connected with Stone’s left cheek. It landed with enough force to make him step back, but not before his knife hand lashed out at her. Rachel gave a shocked gasp as the keen blade sliced across her shoulder, opening a long gash that began to bleed.

  In that hectic moment Bolan dug his heels into the thick carpet and powered forward, his blacksuited body closing the gap before Stone had a chance to gather himself. Bolan slammed into the man and they were both catapulted across the room, crashing into a table, rolling across it and dropping to the floor on the other side. As they hit the floor Stone grunted, Bolan’s weight holding him down.

  The knife. Get the damn knife.

  Bolan saw the blade rise and snapped out his left hand, fingers reaching to grip Stone’s hand. He gripped the wrist, closing his strong fingers and twisted hard. Stone struggled, body writhing beneath Bolan’s. The killer was lean but there was a lot of toned muscle there. His appearance was deceptive. Bolan maintained his grip, increasing his twisting motion. He saw the determined gleam in Stone’s eyes. The guy was not going to quit easily, despite feeling the bones in his wrist start to grate as Bolan’s action continued. Stone made to add his free hand to his right in order to overcome Bolan’s grip, then apparently changed his mind and pounded his fist down at Bolan’s face, clipping the Executioner’s cheek. Bolan’s head rocked from the blow and he felt flesh tear, blood start to course down his face. Stone grunted with the effort, drew back his arm to follow up with a second blow. Bolan had expected this and gathered himself, pushing up off the floor and throwing Stone off balance. Stone rolled free, jerking his knife hand clear of Bolan’s grip. As the hit man pushed to his feet Bolan followed suit and they faced each other across a few empty feet of space. With a sneer on his face, Stone formed into a slight crouch, the blade held forward, still and deadly. There was no fancy waving of the knife, no suggestion to Bolan which way the man was going to move. Bolan stayed motionless himself, his eyes on the knife, watching and waiting for an opening. He knew that when his time came the window of opportunity would be small and would close with speed.

  Stone came in fast, his knife aimed at Bolan’s torso, intended for a deep cut that would rip into the Executioner’s intestines. Bolan didn’t attempt to stop the blade with his hands. He launched an unexpected leg sweep that arced round and hammered his opponent’s knife wrist, catching it on the inside. Bolan’s boot thudded home, Stone gasped at the intense pain as wrist bones were snapped. The knife spun from his fingers. It was still in midair when Bolan’s other leg swept round and caught Stone in the ribs. He staggered from the impact. Before the man had time to recover Bolan stepped in. His left hand grasped the front of Stone’s jacket, pulling him upright and placing him directly in line with Bolan. The Executioner’s bunched fist slammed into Stone’s face repeatedly, drawing blood and crushing his lips. The killer’s cheek and eye caught more punches, his resistance starting to weaken under Bolan’s relentless assault. A final blow sent Stone stumbling backward as Bolan let go of his jacket. Unable to stop himself Stone crashed into a glass-fronted display cabinet standing against the wall, the wood spacers snapping and thin glass splintering as Stone struck it, showering him with glittering shards. He hung upright for long seconds, then swayed forward, his face a bloody, ruined mask of blood and torn flesh. He might have stepped forward to confront Bolan if…

  If the unexpected, thunderous crackle of auto fire had not filled the room. Stone caught the intense burst of fire in his torso and chest, the burning impact of the 9 mm slugs searing through his body, a number exploding through his back, the force of the sustained volley driving him back into the shattered cabinet before he dropped to the floor, blood soaking through his expensive suit and creeping out from beneath his ravaged body.

  The Executioner turned.

  Rachel had picked up the MP-5 that Bolan had been forced to put aside. She cradled the SMG in her slim hands, face taut with the anger she had expended, breasts rising and falling with agitation. Her trigger finger was still pulling back as if she expected the weapon to fire again. Bolan crossed to her and laid his big hands over the MP-5, easing it from her grip.

  “You got him,” he said softly. “He won’t hurt you any more. Let it go, Rachel.”

  She stared at him for long moments before releasing her grip on the weapon, stepping back.

  “He had that coming. He got off easy,” she said. “I wish I could…”

  She suddenly became aware of the thin knife cut in her shoulder. Blood was still oozing from the wound, running down her naked body. Bolan examined it. He slid his Tanto from its sheath and checked the heavy drapes covering the windows. He yanked one aside and found the thinner lining cloth o
n the other side. Using the Tanto he cut strips from the liner. He wadded a section and handed it to Rachel to press against the wound. On the other side of the room he spotted a drinks cabinet. He found bottles of vodka on the shelf. He took one and removed the cap.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  Rachel watched as he soaked another wad of cloth with the clear liquid.

  “What?” she asked as he stood over her.

  “You like vodka?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you’re going to hate it now,” Bolan said, and moved so quickly she had no time to react. He lifted her hand from the knife cut and pressed the vodka-soaked cloth against it, holding it firmly in place.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Rachel gasped, eyes widening as the raw vodka seeped into the wound. She snatched at Bolan’s wrist, trying to remove it, but his strength was greater. Tears rose in her eyes as he pushed her hard against the chair back so she was unable to move. She understood what he was doing, but saw no reason to enjoy it. Biting back against the burning sensation she concentrated on something else. “Is Tommy safe? Cooper, is he okay?”

  “Tommy is safe,” Bolan said. “Probably back with Ray by now. You’ll be able to see him soon.” He eased the soaked pad from her shoulder, checking the gash. The bleeding had slowed. He applied a fresh pad, then used more of the cloth to form a bandage that held it in place, winding it over her shoulder, under her arm, then securing it.

  Rachel steadied her breathing, watching as he turned aside, crossing to retrieve her clothes from where they had been thrown to the floor. He handed them to her. Rachel held them, frowning until realization hit her.

  “Oh,” she murmured, then began to pull them on.

  Bolan left her to it. He treated the score mark on his arm with another vodka-soaked pad, easily handling the expected sting, and then bound it with more of the cloth. The soft pulse of pain reminded him he was still alive and capable. He reloaded his MP-5, then picked up the Beretta and his knife. He spotted Rachel’s Colt Commander on a desk at the far side of the room and brought it to her after checking the magazine. She glanced up from lacing her boots.