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  The bearded man kneed Bolan in the groin. The pain and nausea danced upward, but the Executioner fought it off and smacked his fist into the side of the bearded man’s head. They rolled over again, each struggling for a dominant position.

  Bolan managed to use his legs to kick the man off of him. The man rolled to his feet with the grace of a gymnast. Bolan stood, too, bringing his arms up to block a high roundhouse kick from his opponent. Bolan shot out a kick of his own, but the bearded man moved out of range. He smiled as he advanced, an expression of utter confidence on his face.

  Bolan’s left side ached, each breath accompanied by a numbing pain. He switched to a southpaw stance, keeping the injury farther away. The bearded man feinted with a front kick, then swiveled his body, snapping a roundhouse that smashed into Bolan’s left arm and chest. His injured ribs were on fire.

  The Executioner shot a right jab at the bearded man, clipping his cheek.

  The man swung a left hook over the jab and caught Bolan on the temple. The soldier’s legs wavered for a millisecond, then he delivered a one-two punch to the other man’s body. The man swung with an uppercut, but Bolan slipped it. As the punch whizzed by, he delivered a solid right hook to the bearded face.

  His opponent sagged slightly, spitting blood, but then came right back, grabbing Bolan and smashing a knee into the Executioner’s side. His injured side. Bolan gritted his teeth and gripped his opponent’s jacket. Harai Goshi, the sweeping hip throw, flashed through Bolan’s mind, and he pivoted and executed the judo move.

  The man flipped over Bolan’s back, landing on the floor.

  Bolan tried to kick him in the head, but he rolled away, countering with a punch aimed at Bolan’s groin.

  The Executioner twisted his leg to absorb the impact. It still felt like getting hit on the thigh with a ball-peen hammer. He sent another kick at his opponent and this time caught the bearded man in the chest as he was rising, sending him backward. He rolled over and away, coming up about four feet back with Bolan’s discarded Beretta and the full magazine.

  A glint of triumph shone on the bearded man’s face as he hit the ejection button, dropping the spent magazine, and inserted the full one. He pulled once on the end of the slide, sending it forward and chambering a fresh round.

  “This time I aim for your fucking head,” the man said, spit shooting from his torn lips as his arm straightened with the Beretta.

  Before Bolan could react a huge hand grabbed the bearded man’s right foot and jerked him off his feet. He fell face-first to the floor as a mountain moved behind him and huge fists rained down on the bearded man’s back and head. But he rolled over, pointed the Beretta at the giant and fired. The big man continued to throw punch after punch, the front of his shirt a field of torn, bloody holes. His movements slowed and the bearded man kicked away from him, twisting to point the pistol in Bolan’s direction.

  As the bearded man turned the Executioner threw his Espada knife, the blade sinking into his throat. He lurched to the side, hitting the wall. Bolan lunged forward and ripped the Beretta from the other man’s hand.

  The Executioner pointed the pistol at the top of the bearded man’s head and pulled the trigger. His assailant collapsed to the floor. As rapidly as he could, Bolan shuffled down the hall to the room and pulled open the door. The briefcase sat open on a desk. Bolan moved over to it and saw that it was some kind of radio transmitter. The dials had been set to a certain frequency and a panel of lights flickered, one of them displaying the red numerals of a descending countdown.

  0009...0008...0007...

  Bolan scanned the transmitter for a kill switch.

  0006...0005...

  Seeing none he raised the Beretta, pointed it toward the mechanism and pulled the trigger several times. Sparks flew as the jacketed rounds drove through the plastic and metal, and the screen depicting the red numerals suddenly went black.

  Bolan waited about ten seconds more...

  No big bang from upstairs.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding.

  Epilogue

  Stony Man Farm

  BOLAN SLOWLY LOWERED himself into a chair on the near side of the conference table in the War Room, across from Brognola. Grimaldi sat beside him. A network of creases and wrinkles spread over Brognola’s face as he looked across the table.

  “How are your ribs?” he asked.

  “Sore,” Bolan said. “But, thanks to Kevlar, without any accompanying holes.”

  Brognola nodded. “Well, I thought I owed you guys an update.”

  “Actually, you owe us a helluva lot more than that,” Grimaldi said. “But who’s keeping track?”

  Brognola laughed. “Well, as you probably figured out, the Russians are denying the whole thing.”

  “What?” Grimaldi said. “How can they do that? Those were Russians we caught trying to set off that dirty bomb.”

  “True,” Brognola said, “but here’s the kicker. The Kremlin is saying it just broke up a ring of Chechen terrorists who claimed responsibility for the bombing at the WDC conference. They’ve sent a copy of the video to our State Department. The foiled attack was supposedly in retaliation against Grodovich and the Russian government for the murders of his ex-partner, Yuri Kadyrov, and the Robies. Apparently they were all Chechen nationals, with the exception of Yuri, who was half Russian.”

  “And the guy with the transmitter?” Bolan asked. “You find out anything about him?”

  “Just another Russian mercenary working for the highest bidder,” Brognola said. “Again, according to the Russians.”

  “What a bunch of horseshit,” Grimaldi said. “And believe me, I know horseshit when I smell it.”

  Brognola laughed. “I’ll bet you do.”

  “Seems kind of farfetched that the Chechens would have the reach,” Bolan said.

  “Yeah,” Grimaldi added. “And what about that smelly son of a bitch?”

  “Vassili Greggor Stieglitz,” Brognola said. “A cabinet member of the Bureau of Economic Affairs in the Kremlin.”

  “We’re going to prosecute him, right?” Grimaldi said.

  Brognola looked down at the table and shook his head fractionally. “He was released two hours after you guys grabbed him.”

  “What?”

  “The Russians asked for him to be returned under the provision of diplomatic immunity,” Brognola said. “The President had no choice.”

  “More horseshit,” Grimaldi said.

  “You know how things work, Jack,” Bolan said. “Don’t let it get to you.”

  “Aww, I knew I should’ve clipped that little SOB when I was holding him for the coppers.” Grimaldi shook his head.

  “Even the worst rain cloud can have a silver lining,” Brognola said. He leaned forward and pressed a button on the remote and the large screen rolled downward. Brognola pressed another button and the overhead projector clicked on. “I was saving the best for last. I got this from a source inside the Agency. He knows a guy, who bribed a guy, who has a source at Krasnoyarsk prison.”

  He clicked his mouse and a picture of three men appeared. All were dressed in the black prisoner garb of Detention Center Six. One of the men was bald and the other two, both powerfully built, were holding his arms with wide grins on their faces. The bald man’s face held a look of sheer terror.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Grimaldi asked.

  Brognola nodded. “Your buddy Stieglitz.”

  “Looks like the Russians had him pegged as their perfect fall guy,” Bolan said. “In case the best-laid plans went wrong.”

  “Yeah,” Brognola said. “Their president made a personal call to ours saying how he had rooted out the terrorist corruption in his cabinet and so on and so forth. Stieglitz was just their patsy.”

  “That poor bastard.” Gr
imaldi clucked sympathetically. “I guess he didn’t get away with much after all. You know, I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “And then, there’s this.” Brognola opened his briefcase and pulled out an item wrapped in newspaper. Unpeeling it, he took out the murky stone that Grodovich had given Bolan.

  “It’s a synthetic,” Brognola said. “Still valuable but not worth as much as a natural diamond.”

  “Just like I always say,” Grimaldi said. “Diamonds aren’t forever.”

  “Unlike the forever war of good against evil,” Bolan said as he pushed himself up from the chair. It was time to get back to it.

  * * * * *

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  First edition October 2015

  ISBN-13: 9781460385449

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Michael A. Black for his contribution to this work.

  Uncut Terror

  Copyright © 2015 by Worldwide Library

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