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  “I wouldn’t have had you down as an architectural expert,” Bolan commented. “There’s a point to this, right?”

  “Absolutely. With so many large buildings—most of which are in isolation—that have built-in security, why would Freedom Right choose to take a house that is in the middle of a city and is surrounded by newly constructed buildings that are crammed with curious and snooping idiots?”

  Bolan said nothing for a moment. The intel Bulganin had given them included an address that was only a few blocks from Bolan’s hotel and a couple from Dostoyevsky’s bar. The thought that they were operating so close by created problems. Taking down the terrorists without triggering an incident involving police and civilians was unlikely.

  If Freedom Right had heavy-duty ordnance on the premises, then the chance of severe collateral damage was increased. Bolan guessed that the group had chosen Tallinn for the simple reason that they wanted to hide in plain sight, and despite the security offered by one of the many castles in isolated locations, this would make comings and goings paradoxically more likely to be reported.

  On balance, Bolan could see why they had chosen to stay in the city. He told the Russian this and was met with a wry grin.

  “Maybe so, but I tell you something. Our job would be easier if it was somewhere out of the way. I don’t want to be firing in two directions, you know?”

  They pulled up at the back of the Russian’s bar and took the ordnance they had purchased from Bulganin out the trunk of the sedan. Bulganin had not charged them for the intel but had made it a condition that they bought merchandise from him. The Russian had murmured that it was hardly as though he had books to keep and taxes to pay, but Bolan figured that all men love a system, especially those whose very survival had depended on keeping tabs on everything in their lives.

  They carried the canvas-wrapped bundles through to the back room of the bar as a second sedan pulled up behind them, and the slab of meat who was Bulganin’s bodyguard got out and followed them in.

  “Do we really have to have him?” Bolan murmured as the guy stood by the door, looking as though he was standing guard and saying nothing, his face immobile and unreadable.

  “Part of the deal.”

  “There are too many conditions on this,” Bolan commented.

  “Life is compromise, my friend,” his Russian friend stated. “Speaking of which...”

  Lana walked through from the bar area and looked them up and down. Her eyes lingered on the slab of meat by the door.

  “You said those days were over,” she hissed. “Like everything else, you lied.”

  “I did not lie.” The Russian shrugged. “Circumstances change.”

  “Nothing can justify this change,” she snapped, turning on her heel and returning to the bar before the Russian had a chance to reply. He stopped momentarily in his task and watched her go.

  “Maybe you should have a few words with her,” Bolan suggested.

  The Russian shook his head. “There is no time. Besides, she always goes off like this, no matter what. By the time we have resolved this, one way or the other, then she will have come around. Let us just hope that I am here to receive her apology,” he finished with a wry smile.

  The bodyguard joined them at the table as the Russian dragged back a rug on the floor and opened a small trapdoor, under which he kept boxes containing grenades and SMGs, as well as spare magazines of ammunition and a selection of handguns. As he heaved some of the boxes onto the table, the bodyguard looked at him. His expression didn’t change, but the Russian could read him.

  “Don’t worry, Igor. I have no intention of setting up an operation in competition with your employer. I just like to be prepared in event of emergencies.”

  The three men supplied themselves, selecting ordnance and checking that their selections were in working order. They continued in silence. Only when they were equipped did Bolan indicate that Dostoyevsky should produce a tablet and call up maps of the locale.

  “I love Google Earth,” the Russian deadpanned as they studied the location from the bar to the house where Bulganin told them Freedom Right was located. It was a ten-minute walk from the bar to the early twentieth-century three-story house where Freedom Right had their secured headquarters. Situated just off the city center, in an area that had escaped regeneration because of its architectural heritage, the building stood as part of a terrace that ran the length of the street. To the rear, it backed onto the yard and carport of a new apartment building. That would enable them to access the back as well as the front.

  Igor spoke, indicating areas on the screen while he did, in a voice that was surprisingly high and clear for his appearance.

  “They have watchmen on the top story, always. Working in rotation. The basement is where they have their ordnance—I have delivered here many times for Dimitri. Andrus and Velio have their quarters on the second floor. Central in the building, with metal reinforced doors and walls against blast. They are the brains. Without them, the others are just meatheads. If we isolate or eliminate them, then picking off the rest will be simple. The main thing is to cut off access to the basement. They usually carry only handguns or maybe an SMG in the house. They feel too at ease. We can use that.”

  Bolan nodded in approval. “I can see why Bulganin wanted you on board,” he said.

  “Dimitri likes a job done quickly and with a minimum of fuss.” Igor shrugged. “May I suggest you take the front, while I cover the back?”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Dostoyevsky mused. “Perhaps you would like to put us together so that you can fulfill your own agenda?”

  Something that may perhaps have been a smile flickered across Igor’s face. “You can have your suspicions. The truth is that I know the building better than you, and I can secure the basement from the rear while you attack the front and move up. Look—” he indicated an area that was blurry on camera “—at the rear of the apartment building there is a service area for trash. The wall there is low. I will go over the wall. There is an old coal cellar delivery door that has a loose bolt. I know that because I loosened it. I can get into the house from here and secure the area they use for ordnance.”

  “Now why would you want to make it easy to break into your best customer?” the Russian queried.

  “Keep your enemies close, your friends closer, like Bulganin said,” Bolan answered for Igor. “Am I right?”

  “You understand my employer well,” Igor agreed. “Now, if we are ready, I suggest we go.”

  * * *

  WHILE BOLAN, DOSTOYEVSKY and Igor discussed their forthcoming assault, Bulganin sat in his study under the illumination of a desk lamp, staring into the darkness and brooding. This was a situation that did not reflect well on him, no matter what may occur. Freedom Right had brought attention to Tallinn that he did not want. They had be removed and with as little fuss as possible.

  And yet, if the American and Dostoyevsky took them down, the repercussions from any evidence remaining could still be damaging to him.

  Damage: that was the very word. Limitation, by association, was the next in his mind.

  He picked up the phone.

  * * *

  THE DOOR BURST OPEN and Velio flicked on the light. Andrus sprung upright, his eyes unfocused.

  “I know, I know,” the Freedom Right second-in-command said, forestalling his commander. “This is important. Bulganin.”

  “What does that Russian scumbag want?” Andrus growled.

  “For a Russian, he’s not so bad. Or maybe just cautious. The Americans are here. One of them, at least. With a Russian ex-mercenary in tow. They’re taking us down.”

  “How do they know where we are?”

  “What do you think?”

  Andrus was already dressed and checking his HK as he replied, “I can guess. At least he had th
e grace to warn us. Get the stupid Norwegians ready. Evac as soon as possible, red alert on the watch.”

  As Velio hurried to complete his orders, Andrus racked his SMG and cursed. In truth, it meant little more than bringing operations forward by a few hours, but at what potential cost?

  * * *

  “ARE YOU CERTAIN his name is really Igor?” Bolan asked as they approached the front of the building on foot.

  “Cooper, it may seem strange to your Hollywood-trained mind, but Igor is not just something Bela Lugosi is called in old horror movies. It’s actually a name with a great and distinguished history to it.”

  “But come on, the way he looks...”

  Dostoyevsky shrugged. “Fair point. He does fit the part, and Dimitri is not a man without a sense of humor, no matter how twisted.”

  They came from the main street, walking abreast and making no attempt to hide themselves. As far as they were concerned, they were not expected; attempting subterfuge when there was little cover would only attract the watchmen’s attention. Dostoyevsky carried the RPD under a canvas cover, while Bolan had a duster borrowed from the Russian covering his blacksuit and hiding the bulk of an HK, a mini Uzi, and a holstered Desert Eagle pistol, as well as a string of smoke and explosive grenades across his web belt. He checked his wristwatch. According to the time, Igor should be, right now, underneath the building they were approaching. He counted off until chaos broke loose.

  But when it did, it was not as he expected.

  * * *

  IGOR WALKED BRISKLY through the carport at the rear of the apartment building and hauled the trash cans out of his way, scaling the wall with one heave of the muscles in his arms and shoulders. He had an HK and mini Uzi strung across his chest, and was still wearing his suit. He ignored the ripping of the jacket as he dropped into the yard at the back of the house.

  He looked up at the sightless windows. Swiftly he made his way to the trapdoor, which he pried open before dropping into the cellar area. So far, so good. He made his way across the coal cellar to the door leading into the basement area. The door was unlocked, and he opened it cautiously. There was no sound from the other side, and he stepped into the narrow corridor, sliding the HK from his shoulder and into his slablike fist.

  Perhaps a little too late. He froze at the sight of the two Estonians who stood at the end of the corridor, covering him with their own SMGs.

  “Surprise...” one of them said, grinning.

  * * *

  “MOVE, NOW,” ARVO commanded. Hades and Visigoth moved quickly, but with the jerky motion of men who were unsure of exactly what they should be doing. As they passed the open door at the end of the corridor, they could see a suited man being beaten by two Estonians. He had something to do with their sudden mobilization.

  “Back way,” Arvo snapped, guiding them where Igor had been dragged and out through the cellar. They moved across the yard and up over the wall to the carport, where a black truck was parked.

  “Here’s one we prepared earlier,” the Estonian said as he unlocked the vehicle.

  The three men got in, and Hades took the keys from the Estonian, firing up the engine.

  “Why the change in plan?” he asked hesitantly. “We’re going to get there a day before—”

  “No questions, just drive. Things change. You want your friend back, right?”

  Hades knew that there was more going on than he and Visigoth had been told but was too scared to probe further as he guided the truck out onto a deserted road. He knew he was right as he heard the distant chatter of SMG fire.

  One thing was for sure: the sooner he hit the highway, the safer he would feel.

  * * *

  THE FRONT OF THE HOUSE exploded into life. Literally, for the top story windows were blown out by an avalanche of SMG fire that peppered the street below, and caused Bolan and Dostoyevsky to rush for the nearest cover. There they could cut down the angle and make themselves smaller targets.

  It also trapped them and prevented any forward progress unless they could stop the fire from above. It was covering fire, and the soldier was sure that it was cover for an evacuation operation. He had been expecting an explosion from within that would have signaled Igor reaching the basement armory.

  Two options: Igor had double-crossed them, or else he had been expected and had been double-crossed by his boss. Bolan could expect nothing less of Bulganin, though he had neither the time nor the inclination to work out his labyrinthine motives. Right now, they were pinned and needed to make some space to attack the front.

  Dostoyevsky had unwrapped the RPD machine gun and set it up, using the 100-round drum to lay down covering fire. He sat behind the tripod-mounted weapon, firing steadily and using its bulk as cover as he edged out from the side of the building to get a better angle.

  Bolan could see what the Russian was doing and, keeping low, Bolan headed across to the far side of the street, zigzagging to make a harder target while taking two grenades from his web belt. One was an explosive grenade, the other a smoker. He moved along the front of the buildings opposite the house, the gunfire from the top story pocking near by, the windows shattering around him.

  The soldier ignored the showers of glass and eyed the third-story windows, estimating the distance. He lobbed the explosive grenade, following it with the smoker before the first bomb had a chance to detonate. He then picked up speed and moved farther down the street and away from the Russian, using the doorway of one house as a makeshift shelter, turning away as both grenades went off within seconds of each other. He could feel the heat of the blast and the shock wave, and hear the crash of glass, framework and masonry as the top of the building crumbled outward onto the street below.

  Before the billowing cloud of dust had a chance to settle, he had turned back to the target building and was making for the front entrance. The chatter of SMG fire from above had ceased, as had the steady and regular thump of the RPD. Through the dust cloud he could see the Russian moving to join him, having deserted the RPD in favor of greater mobility. In the sudden silence that followed the blast, the distant sound of the city at night seemed strangely at odds with the clamor that had recently cut through it.

  The front of the building appeared empty and deserted. Anyone who had been on the top floor would have been neutralized by the double blow of explosion and choking smoke to follow—Bolan had intended this to drift through the whole of the top floor and drive anyone left up there downward to meet them—but he had expected some kind of rearguard action to be taken up by anyone on the second floor.

  The complete lack of any sign of life after the explosions did not, somehow, ring true. There was something wrong, but what it might be would only be revealed when they entered the house.

  The Executioner leveled his HK and blew out the ground-floor windows with three bursts that peppered the interior, driving back any unseen foe. He flattened himself against the wall on one side of the door as Dostoyevsky arrived and did likewise on the other.

  The two men exchanged glances, and Bolan nodded. The Russian’s face was split by a grin that let slip how much he had missed this kind of action, before he stepped out and raised one foot, crashing it against the door to judge resistance before hammering SMG fire into the area of the lock. He crashed his foot a second time, and the door gave way to reveal an unlit corridor.

  With a sharp intake of breath, they plunged into the darkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Quick, follow me,” Andrus gasped as the smoke began to drift down from the top floor and envelop the men on the one below. He beckoned to Velio to follow him as he began to clatter down the stairs, passing men on their way up, carrying SMGs.

  The second-in-command had been issuing orders and attempting to rally troops thrown into a state of confusion by the double whammy of the explosion and smoke. He barked a few m
ore commands and then hurried after his chief.

  “Where are we going?” he yelled.

  “We’re getting the hell out of here,” Andrus returned. “You think these guys can hold out?”

  “There are only two out there as far as I can tell.” Velio shrugged. “They have surprise on their side, but we got numbers. We should be able to take them down.”

  “Yeah? I don’t believe we can do that after Norway. We need to safeguard the hardware for the main attack. Come on.”

  Grabbing his second-in-command and dragging him in his wake, the Freedom Right chief made his way down to the basement and through to the area where Igor had been captured. There were no signs of a struggle here now, and it was so quiet compared to the carnage unfolding above as to be sedate. Andrus led Velio out the same way that the Norwegians had come earlier.

  “We shouldn’t be leaving them,” Velio said with a pang of conscience, looking back over his shoulder as they emerged near the wall at the far end of the yard.

  “They know the score. This is a war, and sacrifice is necessary. If we are to achieve our aim, then all must be prepared to sacrifice themselves to the greater good.”

  Andrus was already halfway over the wall as he spoke. Velio stood at the foot and gave him a cynical look.

  “That’s easy to say when we’re running in the opposite direction of the firefight,” he gritted out.

  “There’s no time to argue here,” Andrus told him. “If we are to make a sacrifice, let it come in Moscow. Then the glory will be ours.”

  Velio hesitated. It was necessary for them to recover the hardware and make for the real target, but still he felt uneasy about leaving his men behind. There were cells across Estonia and many men who would be willing to lay down their lives for Freedom Right—the men in the house behind him were part of this and not alone in their desire—yet still Velio would prefer to stay and engineer a way out.