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  As the soldier moved into the main chamber, the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Acting on instinct, he wheeled right and caught sight of one of the Yezhov’s thugs swinging a shotgun muzzle toward him. Bolan caressed the trigger and his weapon spat out a fusillade of 5.56 mm fury that ripped into the man’s chest. The man’s finger tightened on the shotgun’s trigger and it boomed once, the blast ripping into the air.

  The soldier caught the partial reflection of a second shooter moving in a jagged length of mirror fixed to a nearby wall. The hardman was bringing an assault rifle’s muzzle to bear on Bolan.

  The soldier threw himself forward onto the ground. He rolled onto his back, locked his weapon’s sights on the other man and cut loose with a fast burst from the M-4. The concentrated fire chewed the man’s chest open, caused red geysers of blood to burst forth, before his body sank to the ground.

  Ejecting the M-4’s magazine, the soldier tossed it aside and grabbed another from his web gear. Before he could feed the magazine into the rifle, autofire erupted from above. Bullets hammered into the ceramic tiles covering the floor, pulverizing them and cutting a line toward the Executioner.

  He hurled himself into another roll. In the same instant, he slammed home the magazine and chambered a round while moving across the floor. By this point the shooter had responded to Bolan’s evasive moves. The line of autofire followed Bolan, ripping apart the floor like a buzz saw chewing through soft pine wood.

  Bolan caught a break and was able to grab some cover behind one of the long-empty concrete planters situated around the room. The hard rain coming at Bolan pounded into the planter’s exterior, eroding his cover. When a pause in the gunfire came, the soldier crawled around the side of the planter and, looking up at an angle, glimpsed Yezhov as the Russian withdrew from sight to reload his weapon.

  Running in a zigzag pattern, Bolan squeezed off fast bursts that lanced out to the balcony. Slugs ripped into the tops of the overturned tables or struck the guard rails, sparking and whining off the steel. Yezhov popped into view unloading another blitz from his AK-47 and forcing Bolan to ground, taking refuge behind a waist-high wall that once had separated the kids’ pool from the main one. Bullets pummeled the wall. Bolan’s teeth ground together as he rode out the onslaught.

  When the gunfire again subsided, the warrior popped up over the wall and fired off a round from the grenade launcher. The round arced and struck the floor of the balcony before it began spitting out white smoke.

  The stairwell leading to the balcony lay a dozen or so yards ahead. With his adversary blinded, Bolan launched to his feet and closed the distance between himself and the stairs. The M-4 held level before him, he slipped through the door and up the stairs.

  * * *

  YEZHOV INSTINCTIVELY flinched when the metallic object struck the balcony. When plumes of white smoke began to hiss from it, he bit off a curse and loaded his final magazine into the AK-47. He guessed the American would be on the balcony in a matter of moments. Squinting, he scanned the smoke, eyes and rifle barrel moving in unison, but saw nothing. He knew better than to think his adversary had disappeared. Cooper might look for a strategic retreat if injured or absolutely overwhelmed by sheer numbers, but he wouldn’t run from one man with an AK-47.

  The big American had come for the woman, as Yezhov had guessed he would. But Yezhov had known that wouldn’t be enough for the American. He would have been surprised and, yes, disappointed had the man pulled off a rescue and simply disappeared.

  Between the Sindikat trying to hijack an American satellite program and snatching the woman, Yezhov guessed this man wanted his blood and wouldn’t leave without spilling it.

  Thus far, he had not disappointed Yezhov. Though the Russian had to admit he’d been surprised more than once by the American’s seemingly boundless tenacity, skill and deadliness, not once had he been disappointed by the other man. And, considering that Cooper had nearly destroyed his empire, Yezhov would neither underestimate his adversary nor be sorry to see him go. No, like the bears that broke the rules of the hunt and killed their pursuers with sheer ferocity, Yezhov would destroy this man, leaving his bloodied corpse for the carrion to feast on.

  The smoke stung his eyes, but had finally begun to dissipate, when Yezhov found the rear wall of the balcony. He edged along it, using it as a guide. Only one stairwell and one door led to and from the balcony. Cooper would have to use them. That meant Yezhov had to put himself within striking distance of that area without getting too close.

  Motion in the corner of his eye caused Yezhov to whip his head right. A shadow, still hard to make out in the haze, was moving. With the AK snug against him, he twisted slowly, deliberately toward the shadowy form.

  * * *

  BOLAN CREPT THROUGH the door and onto the large balcony. The smoke had begun to dissipate so that he could at least distinguish the outlines of the overturned furniture closest to him. Something scratched against the smooth floor. Bolan tensed and stared into the smoke. A pair of rats scurried from hiding, splitting apart from one another and running around either side of the warrior.

  Bolan exhaled. What had scared them from hiding? Him or Yezhov?

  Reaching into his pocket, the Executioner drew out three spare 9 mm bullets. He tossed the shells to his right and they rattled across the floor.

  A line of gunfire erupted from within the smoke, slicing the air just behind Bolan. The bullets flew close enough that the big American guessed Yezhov had seen him and wasn’t just responding to Bolan’s attempt at a distraction. The soldier dropped into a crouch and squeezed off a short salvo of 5.56 mm rounds toward the muzzle-flash. Yezhov responded by unleashing another torrent of autofire at Bolan. The soldier darted left and let loose with more autofire. He saw the other man’s silhouette suddenly stiffen up and jerk in place under the onslaught from the M-4.

  The Russian collapsed to the ground, his AK-47 clattering across the floor.

  The M-4 at his shoulder, Bolan slowly closed in on the other man. Bolan saw Yezhov’s fingers fumbling with a pistol holstered on his hip. The warrior tapped out a fast burst from the M-4. The rounds punched into the other man’s skull and killed him.

  Chapter 20

  Leo Turrin sat on his back patio on a cushioned chair, a large umbrella protecting him from the afternoon sun. The undercover Fed wore a flowered shirt, the tails hanging loose, hiding the .38 revolver fixed to his belt. The fabric of his white linen slacks rippled in the breeze blowing across his property. A plate with a half-eaten turkey sandwich and the crumbled remains of some potato chips stood on the table. Next to it was a glass filled with a splash of Scotch and two ice cubes. The bottle of Scotch, a bucket of ice and another glass lay within easy reach.

  Turrin didn’t usually drink at lunch. He preferred to keep his mind sharp for a couple of reasons. First, his ideal retirement didn’t consist of an endless string of afternoons spent in a drunken stupor. Second, after decades of living a double life, it was a matter of preservation. It was a rare day when he didn’t receive a phone call from one of his former mob colleagues, most of them retired, too, just looking to wile away some time talking about the old days. He’d woven a web of elaborate deceits both to gather information and to deflect suspicion. He hadn’t made it this far only to blow everything with an ill-considered comment that sparked suspicion among his old colleagues.

  He worried little about the repercussions for himself. Living on the edge as he had, Turrin had resigned himself to an early death. The resignation had allowed him to count every day he spent vertical as an undeserved blessing. So, no, the consequences for him carried little weight. But he had no illusions. Most of the people he’d consorted with over the years on the mob side of the ledger were human jackals. If they became suspicious of Turrin, they’d go after not only him, but also his family. Sure, if something happened to him, the Sarge would go scorched e
arth, exact payback that far exceeded the crime. But it wouldn’t bring Turrin’s family back.

  So, yeah, he could forgo the afternoon cocktail most days. Today, though, he was treating himself to a drink. He’d just heard from Washington that he was in line for a meritorious service award from the attorney general for his undercover work. So he’d let himself have just one.

  He picked up the glass, raised it to his lips. Before he could sip from it his phone trilled. He looked at the number flashing on the handset, swore under his breath and set down the drink. Duty called. The Executioner had asked him to tie up a loose end for him. Turrin had agreed to do so without hesitation.

  He picked up the phone, but cast one last, longing look at the Scotch.

  “Hello?”

  “Leo Turrin. You son of a bitch,” the voice on the other end said.

  “Angelo Vacchi. I can’t change my number fast enough to keep you away.”

  Vacchi, the retired head of La Cosa Nostra’s East Coast operations, let go with a hearty laugh.

  “Hey, I’m just returning the call. How you been, Leo?”

  “Living the damn dream, my friend.”

  “That’s the spirit, kid. Retirement treating you okay?”

  “Be better if the old lady let me play more golf. I got in three days at the links last week. You believe that?”

  “Unbelievable,” Vacchi said.

  “She wants me to take ballroom dancing lessons. You believe that?”

  Vacchi laughed some more before it devolved into a smoker’s hack. Turrin had heard through the grapevine that Vacchi had lung cancer, had retired because of it, in fact. Vacchi had installed his son into the throne, but word was the guy wasn’t measuring up. Most of Turrin’s golf matches over the last few weeks had been spent with other wise guys, trying to find out whether the younger Vacchi was about to get dethroned and, if so, who was going to take his place.

  “Ballroom dancing? Good God, Leo the Pussy, ballroom dancing. Western civilization’s crumbling before my eyes.” He coughed twice more. When he spoke again, his voice sounded weaker. “So what’d you call me for, kid? You feeling nostalgic?”

  “I come bearing gifts,” Turrin said. “I got a nugget of information for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Believe it. You know that crazy bitch, the one stealing all the money with the computers?”

  “Sure, what’d they call her? Nighthawk?”

  “Nightingale.”

  “Whatever. I heard she was on the run.”

  “Old news, buddy. She’s on a slab,” Turrin said.

  “Dead? No shit.”

  “No shit.”

  “How you know this?”

  “I’m clairvoyant,” Turrin replied. His grin was audible in his voice. “You know me. I have sources.”

  “In other words, you’re not going to tell me.”

  “Those are good words.”

  “Not many people, Leo, I let tell me no,” Vacchi said.

  “I don’t ask for much, Angelo. And we both know who has your back,” Turrin said, squelching an urge to cross his fingers. His eyes flicked to the digital recorder hooked into the phone.

  “You’re a good kid,” Vacchi said. “Forget I asked. Hey, humor an old man and tell me what happened.”

  “That I can do.” Turrin leaned back in his chair, set his feet on the table.

  “And here’s the reason I want to know,” Vacchi interjected. “She stole money from me.”

  Turrin cocked his right eyebrow. “No kidding. How much she get?”

  “Forget about it.”

  “C’mon, Angelo, just between us girls,” Turrin said.

  “Shit, Leo.”

  Turrin let a few seconds of silence build between them, knowing Vacchi wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut.

  “Three million dollars. She took three million dollars.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it. Hell of it is, she stole it from one of my construction companies. Not a shell company. Nothing I was washing money with. Every penny of profit was legit.”

  “Damn,” Turrin said, forcing himself to sound sympathetic.

  “Once my accountants figured out the money was gone, I lost it. Not my finest moment. I figured it was an inside job, ordered my people to beat the bushes until they found the bastard who stole my money. Even hired a team of—what’s the word?—forensic accountants to go over the books. We couldn’t nail it one hundred percent, but there was one guy who made me suspicious. My guys sweated the little bastard, but he swore he didn’t do it. I figured he was fucking with me. I had him, well, you know—”

  “Dismissed.”

  “Exactly,” Vacchi said.

  “Don’t worry. It’s a secure phone.”

  “You I don’t worry about, kid. A lot of these young fuckers coming up through the ranks, I sweat bullets over them. But not Leo Turrin.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So give. What happened?”

  “Black Aces,” Turrin said.

  “Black Aces?”

  “Black Aces. She was holed up in a little motel in a border town in south Texas. Place was abandoned—she was the only one inside. Black Ace got her location, swooped in and took her out.”

  “They get a body?”

  “Pieces and parts. Apparently, the Ace shot her, cut off the extremities and took them with him. No teeth. No fingerprints. That’ll make the Feds pound their heads against the wall, huh?”

  “Serves them right. What’d he do with the hands?”

  “Not sure. They’re out their somewhere, probably hanging from the guy’s rearview mirror. Long and short, though, is the woman is dead and gone.”

  “We sure?”

  “My source said he saw pictures of the head. It’s all legit.”

  “And your source is?”

  “Impeccable. Let’s just say he lost even more than you did.”

  “The money?” Vacchi asked hopefully.

  “Gone forever, I guess. Never a happy ending.”

  “Ah, hell, I’ll take it, I guess. But a three-million-dollar bite leaves a hell of a scar.”

  “Understood.”

  Turrin heard a woman calling for Vacchi.

  “Hey, gotta jump, Leo. The little lady’s hollering for me.”

  The two men said their goodbyes and Turrin hung up the phone.

  “You think he bought it?” a voice asked from behind. Even though Turrin recognized it almost immediately, the surprise still startled him. He twisted around in his chair until he could see the big man who’d sneaked up on him.

  Mack Bolan, arms crossed over his chest, was leaning against the house. Mirrored aviator shades obscured his eyes. He was togged in a short-sleeved black polo shirt, dark blue jeans and black leather sneakers. Like Turrin, his shirttails hung loose well past his waist. Turrin assumed Bolan carried either the Beretta or the Desert Eagle holstered beneath the shirt.

  “Thanks for that,” Turrin said. “I’ll go change my underwear now.”

  “Sorry,” Bolan said. “I would have said something, but the thought of you dancing left me speechless.”

  “You heard that? You’ve been there that long?”

  “I didn’t want to distract a master in action.”

  “I can lay a line of B.S.,” Turrin said. “Hope you learned a thing or two.” He leaned forward and grabbed his drink. The ice cubes had nearly melted, eliciting a scowl from him. “Anyway, to answer your question, yeah, he bought it. For reasons I can’t fathom, Angelo trusts me implicitly.”

  “You’ve done him a good turn along the way.”

  “Once or twice,” Turrin said. He tossed the watered-down Scotch into the grass, set the empty glass on th
e wrought-iron table.

  “He’ll tell everyone else?” Bolan asked.

  Turrin grinned. “Only everyone he sees or talks to on the phone. Angie has an unfiltered pipeline between his ears and his mouth. Everything that goes in the ears, comes out the mouth within a matter of minutes. I’ll bet within twenty-four hours he’s told a dozen people. And they’ll tell a dozen more.”

  “And on and on.”

  “Right. If he actually understood the internet, he’d post it there.”

  Turrin leaned forward, poured himself two fingers of liquor into the glass, clawed a single cube from the ice bucket and dropped it into the drink. He poured his old friend an identical drink and slid it across the table to him.

  “What about Wonderland?” Turrin asked, referring to Washington. “Are they leaving young Leo out here to do all the work?”

  Bolan shook his head. “In a few hours, Brognola will issue a fake memo confirming her death. It will include most of the same details you just told Vacchi.”

  “In less colorful language.”

  “Naturally.” Bolan picked up the Scotch, waved it under his nose. He rarely drank, but it smelled good. He took a small swallow, enjoyed the taste.

  “You like?”

  “I like.”

  “It’s mob hooch. Hope that doesn’t color your viewpoint on it.”

  “I’ll try to look past it.” He set the glass on the table, but not too far out of reach. “The memo will name another Black Ace as the source. That takes the focus off you.”

  Turrin whistled. “You’re going to finger an Ace as a mole? He’s dead meat.”

  Bolan shrugged. “He’s a mad dog. Got a victim list as long as my arm. Good riddance. The CIA also plans to issue a top-secret briefing to other intelligence agencies. That goes to the State Department’s intelligence analysis shop. They’ll circulate a classified briefing to their various outposts, demanding that it be kept hush-hush.”