Death Gamble Read online

  Back at the office, Rytova was exchanging words with one of the prisoners. Bolan heard the anger in Rytova’s voice as she spoke.

  “For the last time, where is Ivanov?” she asked.

  “Even if I knew, I would not tell you, woman,” the man replied. He paused for a moment. “I recognize you. You’re the crazy bitch who has hit our other operations. They’ve been warning us about you for months. One of your firebombs killed my brother along with several other men in Moscow. I had to return home to bury him.”

  When Rytova paused, Bolan thought he detected a hint of guilt in her voice. “I know of your brother, Victor, and if I killed him, he was a criminal. I have killed no innocent people. Perhaps now that you have lost a loved one you understand what drives me.”

  “You’re just a crazy bitch. A fanatic. That’s what drives you. You’re just like your husband and look where it got him.”

  Rytova’s voice hardened. “If I was a fanatic, you’d be dead already.”

  “Then why am I not?”

  Bolan filled the doorway and pinned the hardman under his icy stare. Next to the Russian thug lay the other gunner, unconscious from blood loss or physical trauma.

  “I’m not a fanatic,” Bolan said evenly, “but I’ll kill you and not think twice about it.”

  Apparently used to intimidating people, the mobster gave Bolan a hard look that broadcast that he wasn’t afraid of the big American.

  Bolan knew he’d fix that soon enough.

  Rytova looked at the Executioner and spoke in a taut voice. “This is Victor Delyagin, a high-ranking member of Ivanov’s organization. If he’s like his brother, Mikhail, then he doesn’t normally mix with the rank and file. We are very lucky to have caught him here.”

  Delyagin’s sour look showed he didn’t share Rytova’s enthusiasm.

  Bolan bracketed Delyagin’s ruddy face in the Desert Eagle’s sights. “I haven’t got all night, Victor. We need to find Ivanov. You can help us. Maybe walk away intact. It’s your play.”

  “You will not kill me. You’re a policeman. Right? Go ahead and arrest me. I have lawyers. I will charge you with police brutality. With murder. I know your threats are empty.”

  Bolan gave him an icy smile. “Glad you’re so confident of that.”

  The Desert Eagle roared once. A .44 Magnum boattail slug burned a path two inches from Delyagin’s ear before punching through a desk at his back. The man drew in on himself and screwed his eyes shut. When his eyes reopened, Bolan stared at him without speaking. The warrior let thunderclap from the big pistol resonate around the room for a moment before he spoke again.

  “I’m not a policeman or a federal agent,” he growled. “So you’d better change your thinking real quick. Where’s your boss?”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  Bolan’s gut told him the guy was playing it straight. “Why don’t you know?”

  Sweat beaded Delyagin’s forehead and his left foot twitched, etching quick semicircles in the air like a windshield wiper cutting through raindrops. His eyes darted between Bolan and Rytova. The warrior guessed the Russian man was weighing whether to spill his guts before Bolan did it for him.

  Her face taut with anger, Rytova moved to the injured man and began checking his wounds.

  Finally, Delyagin spoke. “He calls us periodically, but I don’t know where he is. We never see him. He has safehouses all over the city, the state. He could be anywhere right now.”

  “Give me an example of ‘anywhere,’” Bolan demanded.

  “I have none.”

  Bolan shot him a look of disbelief.

  “It is true,” Delyagin said. “The safehouses are meant to protect him from us as much as from police or rival gangs. He trusts no one except for his small cadre of guards and a handful of his closest lieutenants. He worries that one of us might try to kill him, take over.”

  Bolan weighed the Russian’s words and decided they made sense. Experience told him that the savages he battled preyed upon one another as much as they did on innocents. They considered loyalty and honor things to be bought, sold or traded. Apparently Ivanov realized a bloody coup could take him down at any time, and he’d done what he could to shore up his power.

  Bolan decided to go for broke. “Seems like Nikolai Kursk would frown on a bloody coup.”

  Delyagin’s face went pale. “I know nothing of this Nikolai Kursk.”

  “You’re an awful liar, Victor,” Bolan said. “Truthfully, I’d expect a slug like you to be better at it. We know Ivanov works for Nikolai Kursk. That means you do too. Is Kursk in the United States?”

  “I haven’t seen Nikolai Kursk in years,” Delyagin replied. “He very rarely comes to the United States. He has no need. Ivanov handles his business here.”

  “So why’s Ivanov gone underground? And don’t tell me it’s because he’s anticipating a coup.”

  “He would not tell us. He said to stand by and wait for orders. He calls me each day and checks on things.”

  “You talk to him today?” Bolan asked.

  Delyagin shook his head.

  Bolan walked over to the unconscious gunner and hefted him up in a fireman’s carry. Rytova followed his lead and helped Delyagin to his feet. The man shook her away the moment he stood.

  Minutes later, they’d exited the warehouse and returned to the Pontiac. Bolan palmed the detonator and flicked a couple of switches. The C-4 charges roared as flame and force pulverized windows and bowed or shredded sheet metal walls. Within minutes the hardsite glowed like a professional sports stadium on game night and choked the sky with thick, black columns of smoke.

  Delyagin had his back turned when Bolan activated the explosives. He started at the initial roar and nearly fell over as he tried to turn to see what was happening.

  “What the hell did you do to my warehouse?” he screamed.

  “Tell Ivanov that justice just paid him a visit. And I’m going to keep paying him visits until I get some face time with the guy. Tell him that next time I won’t go as easy on him. Understand?”

  Delyagin turned back to Bolan, licked his lips and nodded. He seemed to regard Bolan with respect, or fear. The Executioner didn’t care which as long as the guy did as he was told.

  Bolan pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, crumpled it and tossed it at Delyagin’s feet. “There’s an address on that paper,” Bolan said. “He’s got two hours to make his decision.”

  His face illuminated by the orange glow of the fire, Delyagin gave Bolan another nod but remained silent. The soldier reached inside his jacket and withdrew one of the throwing knives hidden there. He tossed it about thirty feet to Delyagin’s left. “Go cut yourself loose. By the time you’re finished, we’ll be gone.”

  Bolan spun and walked toward the car. Rytova kept pace with him. “Where are we going now?” she asked.

  “I’ve made my point,” he said. “Now I just need to reinforce it.”

  THE CHOP SHOP WENT down easy.

  Aside from a couple of Ivanov’s gunners, the place was populated mostly with gearheads and spray-gun DaVincis able to repaint, modify and detail a car until even the former owner wouldn’t recognize it. These were blue-collar guys wanting to make a living, something a little better than honest labor at a repair shop might afford them. They were the kind of guys who taped their child’s picture to the lid of their toolbox, but didn’t sweat the source of their paychecks.

  Not stand-up citizens, but hardly killers.

  Mack Bolan knew this going in and planned accordingly.

  He’d hit fast. He’d hit hard. But, as always, he’d be damn careful about who fell in his sights.

  As bold as hell, he bulled his way into the building, navigated a sea of ravaged cars, trucks and sport utility vehicles, and closed in on the guards. In unison, the Russians clawed for hardware while separating and trying to grab cover. Bolan sawed each with a blast from the 12-gauge. By the time the roar from the first shotgun round had died down, the spit of air comp
ressors, the rattle of power wrenches and the murmur of voices had halted, replaced by an eerie, shocked quiet.

  As the second gunner’s corpse hit the concrete floor, a sea of frightened eyes rested on the black-clad killer in their midst. Eyes obscured by mirrored aviator shades, a grim look on his face, Bolan closed in on the workers. A few clutched big wrenches or small sledgehammers in front of them ready to make a desperate play for their lives if it came to that.

  Bolan racked the slide once and shouldered the shotgun. He swept the barrel across the line of men.

  “Go,” he said. “And tell your boss I’ll see him in an hour and a half.”

  The men went.

  Bolan planted the C-4, then detonated it as the rented Firebird raced through the night. The building erupted in a hurricane of smoke, fire and debris as the warrior continued his short-lived blitz of Las Vegas.

  AS MACK BOLAN GUIDED the car to their final target, he noticed Natasha Rytova had fallen silent. She’d been that way since they’d left the weapons warehouse. When he’d announced his plans to hit the chop shop alone, she’d agreed quickly. The destruction of another arms warehouse had gone off without a hitch, but the woman seemed even more withdrawn as they sped toward the last stop of the night.

  Something was nagging her, dividing her attention, and Bolan wanted to know what it was before they made the next hit. He couldn’t afford a teammate whose head wasn’t in the game.

  He cut the wheel to the right, navigated the car into an alley and continued on. It was a shortcut he’d learned during previous strikes in Las Vegas.

  He broke the silence. “Spit it out,” he said.

  The woman looked at him, as though shaken from sleep. She shot Bolan a confused look. “Spit what out?”

  “I mean talk,” he said. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  She stared at her lap. “It’s nothing.”

  “Natasha, I need you to watch my back and vice versa. We’ve got no room for secrets or distractions here. What’s bothering you?”

  She stayed silent for a moment, apparently organizing her thoughts.

  “Delyagin called me a fanatic and the words hurt. That makes me wonder if what he said is true. I worry about what I’m becoming,” she said.

  “Which is?”

  “A murderer.”

  Bolan slid into traffic behind a black Mercedes. A police cruiser appeared up ahead, causing the Mercedes’ driver to stomp on the brakes and bathe Bolan and Rytova in a soft red glare. Bolan tapped his own brakes.

  “You’re not a murderer, Natasha,” he said.

  She stared straight ahead. Her voice sounded wooden. “You sound so sure. How?”

  He shrugged. The Mercedes gained speed, and Bolan accelerated the rental. “You ever kill anyone who didn’t draw down on you first?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Would you?”

  She shook her head. “I’d only kill to save my life. Or to save someone else. I guess even with Nikolai Kursk I always figured I’d shoot him in self-defense. That when I found him, he’d try to kill me and I’d shoot him in self-defense.”

  “You can’t always choose the circumstances,” Bolan said. “But that seems pretty realistic. He’d be happy as hell to murder you.”

  “Does it ever bother you?” Rytova asked. “All the killing, I mean?”

  Bolan didn’t hesitate. “Always. I take no joy in it.”

  He could tell from his peripheral vision that the woman was staring at him. Traffic rolled to a stop at a red light.

  “You have seen a great deal of death in your time,” she said. “I have sensed that about you, Matt. You have great compassion, but you also have seen terrible things. I knew that you were a good man when you disarmed the boy and ordered him to go home. You didn’t want to hurt him, even to save your own life. Dmitri would have done the same thing. He was a strong, capable man, but he also had a good heart. It eludes me how you can keep your heart and do what you do.”

  Bolan nodded. The light turned green. They were another ten minutes from Las Vegas Boulevard, but already garish neon signs advertising towering hotels, casinos and nightclubs were lighting up the night sky. People milled along the streets, and he saw a couple of guys handing out papers advertising prostitutes and escort services.

  Bolan finally spoke. “It’s because I’m human that I do this. There are jackals out there, Natasha. People who hurt, terrorize and kill the innocent just because they can. I can’t—I won’t—sit back and let that happen. Even the ones who’d find my methods abhorrent need me to do what I do.”

  Rytova remained silent and stared out the passenger’s side window. Her gaze seemed to stick on a young couple walking arm and arm along the sidewalk.

  Bolan had made peace with his chosen path a long time ago; Rytova apparently hadn’t. He let her stew for a moment before speaking.

  “Look, Natasha, this path isn’t for everybody,” he said. “You’re quick and good with weapons. You’ve got guts. You’ve proved that tenfold. No one—not your husband or your father—would fault you if you decided to walk away from all this.”

  Rytova nodded. “I just do not want to become an automaton. I killed Delyagin’s brother, and I had completely forgotten about it until tonight. That bothers me.”

  “Delyagin got under your skin by appealing to your conscience. And, because you’re a good person, it worked. Never justify your mission to the enemy. Never expect them to understand your motives. But always know what motivates them. It gives you the edge.”

  “I understand,” Rytova said.

  “Is your heart still in this, Natasha? Because if it’s not—”

  Rytova’s head whipped in Bolan’s direction. Anger flared hot in her eyes.

  “Stop. Do not even say it, Matt. I will not step aside or sit by while you handle my business for me. I will not rest while Nikolai Kursk continues to run free. I was chasing him before you even knew he existed.”

  Bolan kept his eyes on the road.

  The warrior was satisfied—for the moment, anyway. The woman retreated inside herself and Bolan used the silence to run the numbers on the next strike.

  The way he figured it, he’d cost Ivanov thousands, perhaps millions of dollars in just an hour. Plus he’d drawn the kind of attention to Ivanov’s organization that even the most corrupt law officer couldn’t ignore.

  So, he’d gotten Ivanov’s attention.

  Now that the bastard was looking it was time to hit him right between the eyes.

  10

  Mack Bolan rolled the rental into a parking lot several blocks from the Golden Creek Casino. Killing the lights and the engine, he pulled at the trunk release, exited the car and walked to the rear of the vehicle. Rytova met him there.

  Silently, they prepared for battle. Bolan filled the satchel with more C-4 and detonators. The thermite grenades would also be within easy reach in the satchel. The M-16/M-203 combo was ready and waiting inside a carrying case that also contained 40 mm smoke, HE and stun grenades. Underneath his windbreaker, Bolan wore combat webbing with four extra clips for the assault rifle. Rytova took a shoulder bag that contained the Uzi submachine gun and a bandolier of clips.

  They had arrived twenty minutes early for the meet. The mobster would probably have an advance team waiting for them as they walked into the kill zone. Bolan also was betting the guy would put in a personal appearance. Plain and simple, Ivanov would want to see the smoking corpse of the bastard who’d cost him so much money in so little time. It was too big a temptation for the man to resist.

  Carrying their loads, Bolan and Rytova left the parking lot and trekked toward the casino’s hulking shadow, which rose over blocks of restaurants, casinos and other tourist traps.

  According to Brognola, the big casino–hotel complex had thrived for two decades until fire had raged through it and forced its closure a year ago. Ivanov had swooped in and purchased the grand structure from its owners at a fraction of its value cost and immedia
tely sank millions of dollars into renovating it. Word was he expected it to become the crown jewel of his empire after it opened in the next couple of weeks.

  The supernova of colored lights that turned night into day in Las Vegas did little to help Bolan’s sense of security. The unending parade of strange faces filing by only compounded his uneasiness. If Ivanov’s people were working the streets, Bolan or Rytova might be seen well before they reached the building.

  Coming to a side street, they turned right and moved parallel to the casino for two blocks. Along the way, they passed a convenience store and a liquor store, and the smell of grease from fast-food restaurants hung heavily in the air. A group of bikers packed the liquor store parking lot, and Bolan felt their weighty gaze settle on him and Rytova as they passed. Involuntarily, his grip tightened on the handle of the M-16’s carrying case and muscles tensed under his jacket.

  The bikers went silent for a moment as Bolan and Rytova passed. With his short hair, conservative dress and telltale bulges of weapons, Bolan knew his looks screamed “Cop.” But as he watched the bikers with his peripheral vision, he saw no threatening moves, and within moments they were again swearing at one another and breaking bottles against the asphalt.

  “I didn’t get even one whistle,” Rytova said. “I feel hurt.”

  Surprised, Bolan looked at her. She grinned at him, and he couldn’t help but return the smile. “There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said.

  They walked past the hardsite and then another three blocks north before cutting back through a series of alleys and parking lots to get up close to the casino without being seen. Ivanov also owned the lot across from the casino and had razed the area to make room for new restaurants and stores that could leech more business off the hotel and casino patrons.

  Bolan hunkered down next to a bundle of concrete reinforcing rods and set his weapons case on the ground next to him. Opening the case, he extracted the M-16/M-203 combo, loaded the rifle and rammed a 40 mm smoke grenade into the launcher. Setting the assault rifle on the ground, he hefted the launcher and prepared it for use. In the meantime, Rytova was arming herself with the Uzi.