Blood Vendetta Read online

  A guard who’d been farthest from the small explosion spotted Bolan as he emerged from the stairwell. The guy swung up his assault rifle, but Bolan put him down with a fast burst from the H&K. He then took down the other three security men as they struggled to regain their senses after the blast from the stun grenade.

  Sensing a presence at his six, the soldier whipped around. He saw McCarter stranding behind him. He greeted the Phoenix Force commander with a nod.

  They moved for the door. Bolan studied it for a moment, saw it was sealed with a card-swiping system. He turned to McCarter, who was already moving to one of the fallen guards. He knelt next to the dead man, rolled the guy onto his back and searched through one, then the other breast pocket of the man’s shirt. He stopped and held up a white card with a magnetic strip running down one side.

  Hauling himself to his feet, McCarter handed the card to Bolan. The soldier took it and waited while McCarter slipped a pair of night-vision goggles over his eyes.

  Bolan keyed the microphone. “Lights,” he said.

  Everything went black. Bolan slipped on his own NVGs, hoped the security system ran on a different circuit and dragged the card through the reader.

  * * *

  THE LIGHTS WENT OUT, replaced by an impenetrable blackness. Chernkova felt his stomach plummet. He held his breath and waited for the backup lights to switch on, counting to ten in his head. The lights never came on. The gunshots outside the door had faded away a minute or more before everything went dark.

  A sick feeling seized his gut and blood thundered in his ears. If his people had ended up on the winning side of the skirmish outside his door, Chernkova knew they would have alerted him, told him he could relax. Their silence told him he stood alone.

  He heard a mechanical hiss. The doors were opening.

  * * *

  BOLAN GRABBED ONE of Chernkova’s forearms and spun the man around. He slammed an open palm into the space between the Russian’s shoulder blades. The blow caused Chernkova to stumble forward without falling to the ground. He caught himself just as the lights came back on and wheeled around toward Bolan, right hand balled into a fist. He threw a punch at Bolan’s gut. The Executioner leaned back slightly and let Chernkova’s knuckles brush through empty air. A heartbeat later, the soldier’s fist shot out and connected with Chernkova’s rib cage. Bones snapped under the impact. The arms smuggler’s eyes bulged. He belched out the contents of his lungs and stumbled back a couple of steps. He wrapped his arm protectively over his injured ribs. His face was flushed red and a sheen of perspiration filmed his forehead.

  Bolan unsheathed the Beretta and leveled it at the bridge of the other man’s nose.

  “Hoped we could do this the easy way,” Bolan said. “Apparently not.”

  “Easy, hell,” Chernkova said. “You’re going to kill me.”

  Bolan shrugged slightly. “Nothing hard about that. Ask your security team.”

  Chernkova tried to straighten up, but the movement sparked pain in his ribs and caused him to wince.

  “You don’t scare me,” he said.

  “Not even a little?” Bolan asked. “Then you’re a fool.”

  “Who the hell are you? You come in here and destroy my life’s work, everything I built with sweat and toil.”

  “And innocent blood,” Bolan said. “Enough of that to fill a couple of oil tankers.”

  “That what this is about?” Chernkova asked. “You want a pound of flesh. I do something to you? Maybe something to your family?”

  A smile ghosted Bolan’s lips. “You overestimate yourself. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d never heard of you. Twenty-four hours from now, I won’t remember you existed. Looking forward to that, frankly.”

  Chernkova licked his lips. He kept his arm folded protectively over his broken ribs. Bolan saw that he winced any time he took a deep breath. His eyes darted from Bolan to McCarter and back to the Executioner. He was sizing up the two men. The Russian finally locked his gaze on Bolan.

  “You came here for a reason,” Chernkova said. “You want something. I don’t know what, but you came here for a reason. I have something you want. Am I right?”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “Tell me what it is. I’ll get it for you. This doesn’t have to go badly for any of us.”

  Bolan looked at McCarter. The latter met Bolan’s gaze and shrugged.

  The Executioner turned his face back toward Chernkova and pinned him with a stare. “There’s no us in here,” Bolan said. “Get that through your head. There’s just you. You’re all alone and you’re screwed. Just how screwed depends on whether or not you give us what we want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Information.”

  Chernkova smiled and nodded his head vigorously. “Information? If that’s all you wanted—”

  Bolan cut him off. “Not all,” the soldier said. “Consider it a down payment.”

  “On?”

  “Keeping your miserable existence.”

  “Of course. Anything you need.”

  “We’ll get to that. For right now, though, just answer a question. You ran several shipments to a man, a Russian, in the last forty-eight hours. Where did you take them?”

  Chernkova hesitated. Bolan guessed where the guy’s mind was going and knew it was time to bring him back to reality.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Bolan said. “You’re thinking, you don’t want to give up Yezhov because he’ll kill you. He’ll hunt you down and murder you. Or, more likely, I’ll have some other bloodthirsty bastard come for you.”

  Bolan paused a couple of seconds. Chernkova opened his mouth and Bolan silenced him with a gesture.

  “Shut. Up. Anyway, I can’t argue with that. If Yezhov was here right now, he’d kill you. No question. But here’s the thing—he’s not here. He’s somewhere else. You need to worry about me and my friend here. Because, in case you haven’t noticed, we also will kill you. Your security team would attest to that—if they could. Unfortunately, they’ve caught a severe case of dead and are a little short on insight.”

  Bolan brought his head down and leveled his gaze at Chernkova. “You understand me?”

  Chernkova nodded, the movement small and resigned. “Yezhov has a compound. It used to be a bear-hunting lodge, but it shut down many years ago.”

  “Where is it?” the soldier asked.

  The Russian muttered the coordinates. The Executioner committed them to memory and he guessed McCarter did likewise.

  McCarter broke his silence. “What did you take there?”

  “Ammunition and weapons, but also food and other provisions. I think he’s planning to be there for a little while. I wasn’t sure why. He has several places around the world, each as nice as the last. The resort is a shit-hole. But it’s well built and protected. He has three rings of walls around the main house. We had to land the planes outside those rings. He has light antiaircraft capabilities. MANPADS. And though his radar capabilities are rudimentary at best, mostly for supporting the airstrip operations, he does have them.”

  “Keep going,” Bolan said.

  “We still had one more shipment going to him. Mostly bullshit. He has three Italian sports cars, and some antique hunting rifles that have been in his family for decades.”

  “Where’s the plane?”

  “It’s in our west hangar, already loaded,” Chernkova said.

  “Give me the tail number.”

  Chernkova reeled it off and Bolan made a mental note of it.

  “You did good,” the warrior said.

  During the intervening silence, Chernkova fidgeted in his chair, before saying, “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  “All what?” the Executioner asked.

  Chernkova made a sweeping gesture at the r
oom around them, but Bolan guessed it was meant to encompass much more.

  “All this,” he said, scarlet splotches reappearing on his neck. “Flying in here, killing my security team. Destroying one of my warehouses. I spent years building all this and you destroyed it in a matter of hours.”

  “Good work that,” McCarter said.

  “Fuck you. I’m trying to say it didn’t have to go this way. I would have told you what you wanted without you doing all this.”

  “Somehow,” Bolan said, “I doubt it. Call me a cynic, but I think two hours ago you were feeling like the master of the universe. Two hours ago, you would have told us to go screw ourselves, and probably tried to kill us. But, now that your whole world’s in flames and your back’s against the wall, you’re all about compromise.”

  Chernkova looked furious. “Just drop it,” he said, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

  “One more thing,” Bolan said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you would have spilled everything you knew without us dropping a hammer on you, I doubt it, but let’s pretend that’s true. Well, tough. I looked at your record. You have shipped weapons to backwater civil wars everywhere. Put guns in the hands of twelve-year-olds who were killing and raping villagers because the kids were jacked up on cocaine forced into their bodies by some psychopath warlord. And, given the chance, you’d be doing the same thing this afternoon.”

  Bolan paused for a couple seconds, considering his words.

  “Here’s the point,” he said. “Maybe you and I could have struck a deal. Maybe I could have flown in here with suitcases filled with millions of dollars in cash. Maybe. But, frankly, I’d just as soon fly in here and burn your little operation to the ground, like we did. Oh, and you’re penniless, too, by the way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean your bank accounts,” Bolan said. “They’re frozen. Maybe you can get your buddies at the Kremlin to apply some diplomatic pressure, get them unfrozen. That shouldn’t take more than a year or two.”

  “You bastard!” Chernkova shouted.

  Bolan shaped his right hand like a gun, aimed the extended forefinger at the Russian and dropped the thumb. Deep furrows formed in Chernkova’s forehead, telegraphing his confusion.

  “Body’s dead,” Bolan said. “Head just doesn’t know it yet.”

  The soldier turned on a heel and headed for the door. McCarter fell in behind him.

  Enraged, Chernkova jumped up from his chair, knocked it to the floor. With a growl he lunged at the table, grabbed one of the Kimber handguns and swung up his shooting hand.

  Bolan wheeled around, the Desert Eagle in his grip. A thunderclap filled the room and a large red hole opened in Chernkova’s chest. The boat-tail slug shoved him back. As he tumbled backward, his forefinger tightened on the trigger and the gun cracked. A single round drilled into one of the computer monitors. The arms smuggler crashed to the floor in a heap.

  Chapter 16

  The muffled beep of someone working the keypad outside her cell door registered with Davis. The locking bolt slid back. Her stomach plummeted with fear and her heart began to race. The door opened and revealed two guards. One of them, a tall, lanky man with straw-blond hair, marched through the door.

  “Come,” he said.

  When she hesitated, his hand snaked out. Steely fingers wrapped around her biceps and he yanked her to her feet. The urge to knee him in the groin flared inside her. Before she could, though, he spun her around and shoved her against the wall. By then, the second guard, short and muscular, his head bald and lumpy, had stepped inside her cell. The two men wrestled her wrists together and handcuffed her, the cold steel rings biting into the skin of her wrists.

  “You bastards!” she yelled. “Let me go!”

  One of the men laughed. Thick, rough fingers grabbed the back of her neck and turned her toward the door, propelling her through it with a hard shove.

  The guards led her through a series of corridors. With each step, the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears grew louder until she swore it drowned out all other sounds, save for the thudding of the guards’ footsteps.

  They reached a smooth steel door. She felt the grip on her neck loosen. When the hand drew away, the air cooled the sweat that had gathered under her captor’s grip. The bald man came around from behind and jabbed a series of numbers into the keypad. When the lock gave way, he fanned open the door and stepped aside. A flat palm pounded her back, just between the shoulder blades, and she stumbled through the door. The guards followed her in.

  A big man wearing a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, black slacks and black wingtip shoes stood inside. His thick arms were crossed over his massive chest. A thrill of fear raced through her as she realized the man was Yezhov. She recognized him from the pictures she’d found on the internet.

  His small eyes followed her as she entered. The bald guard guided her to a folding chair and pushed her into it. She felt the cold steel seat and back pressing through her clothes, chilling her.

  The well-dressed man unfolded his arms and closed the distance between them. He stopped a couple of feet from her, crossed his arms again and stared down at her. The starched fabric of his shirt made a scratching noise as his arms moved. His eyes didn’t seem to blink. She detected traces of his cologne in the air.

  “It’s been a long chase,” he said. “A long and tiring one. And expensive, too. Let’s not forget that. You’ve cost me a small fortune.”

  Davis silently stared down at her lap. He reached his right hand out and grabbed her chin. Making a pincer of his forefinger and thumb, he squeezed her chin hard and tilted her face up. His dead eyes studied her for several seconds.

  “You’re smaller than I expected,” he said, finally. “Pretty, probably beautiful if you did something with yourself.”

  His grip eased and she jerked her head away. His lips twisted into an ugly smile as he stepped back from her.

  “Now, your sister, she was—” he stared up at the ceiling and rubbed his chin, as though searching for the right word “—beautiful, glowingly so. Of course, that happens when you have something growing inside you. She had something growing inside her, correct?”

  She heard one of the guards guffaw from behind.

  The fear evaporated and her muscles tensed with anger.

  “You son of a bitch,” she growled through clenched teeth. Before she could think better of it, she shot up from the chair. A pair of open hands descended on her shoulders and shoved her back into the seat. The guard kept his hold on her shoulders and kept her pinned in the chair.

  Yezhov stepped forward again. This time his face hovered six inches or so from hers. His breath felt hot against her cheek. The expensive cologne did nothing to cover the rotting-meat quality of his breath, as though death were bundled inside him, making up his core. She returned his unyielding stare. It was obvious to her that he saw her only as an obstacle, a thing that stood between him and the latest shiny object he coveted.

  The eyes alternately chilled and angered her. He hadn’t killed her sister, but someone like him had. A man out for a payday, one glad to wipe out whole families for a few dollars in his bank account or some extra points in an ideological battle. She’d been fighting bastards like Yezhov for years, hitting them where she believed it hurt most, in the wallet, always striking quickly and surreptitiously. They never saw her coming, which was how she liked it. But this time, faced with evil, when she should have been scared, she was just pissed.

  “My dear,” he was saying, “you have an anger problem. It needs to be fixed.”

  “Fix this,” she said.

  Gathering saliva in her mouth, she spit it at him. The glob of liquid splattered against his cheek. He screwed his eyes shut and reflexively drew his head back a few inches.

  His face darkened and his open hand la
shed out and struck her cheek. The force whipped her head hard to the right. She turned her gaze back on the Russian. He loomed over her, hand drawn back and ready to strike again. When his hand struck her face again, she ground her teeth together, unwilling to yelp with pain, to give the bastard the satisfaction. After another hit, he stepped back and studied her. The skin of his neck and cheeks, a deep scarlet, telegraphed his anger. Otherwise, his expression remained flat.

  He turned and walked to a nearby table and picked up a white towel, which he used to mop the sweat from his forehead and neck. He tossed the towel back onto the table, turned halfway and looked at Davis.

  “You are tough,” he said. “I have a feeling you could take several more hits before you give in, tell me what I want to know.”

  “You haven’t asked any questions.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right. Consider this first part payback, a preview of what you can expect if you decide to tough it out.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “But I have something that I think will change your attitude.”

  He picked up a black rectangular device that she recognized as a tablet computer. Without looking at her, he crossed the room, moving in her direction while running his index finger over the computer’s screen. He stopped a couple of feet from her, looked at the screen, smiled and turned it in her direction.

  She gasped. On the screen was a short video of Maxine Young, shot from the waist up. She lay on her back on a bed. Her eyes were closed and her hair mussed. Davis could tell from watching her chest rise and fall that Young was breathing—at least for the time being.

  Yezhov let her watch it for several seconds before he turned on a heel and carried the tablet back to the table.

  Turning back around, he pinned her with his gaze.

  “So I can continue to beat the hell out of you. Fine with me. And I’ll kill your friend. Or you can answer my questions and save her life.”