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  Moving in a crouch, Bolan stepped farther into the room, searching it for other threats. The close-quarters shotgun blast still rang in his ears, but beyond that, Bolan heard a strained voice emanating from an as-yet-unseen radio handset. The soldier moved to the closest fallen guard, kicked the shotgun away and knelt next to the man. Hands sifted through the dead man’s pockets, but came up empty. The soldier noticed a thin gold chain looped around the man’s neck. With a curled index finger, he lifted the chain, saw a key and a card with a magnetic strip hanging from it. Curling his fingers around the chain, he yanked it hard and it broke. Discarding the broken chain, he pocketed the key and the card. The soldier gathered up the dead man’s radio. He moved to the other corpse and shoved the man’s keys, card and radio into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  Coming to his feet, he strode from the room. McCarter stood in the hallway, the MP-5 at the ready as he stood watch.

  “Anything?” the Briton asked.

  With a nod, Bolan handed McCarter a key, a card and a radio. The former SAS commando stuffed the key and the card into the pocket of his khaki pants, and held on to the radio.

  “Keys or the card probably operate the penthouse elevator,” Bolan said.

  At this point, Bolan detected an edge of panic in the voice coming from the radio.

  “You realize they’ve heard us.”

  “Probably,” Bolan said. “Considering Malakov’s line of work, I’m guessing there’s soundproofing between the floors. Enough to muffle a shotgun blast? Maybe not. Regardless, they’ve lost contact with two men. They’re going to react.”

  The radios went silent.

  A grim smile played over McCarter’s lips. “That’s a good sign.”

  * * *

  OVER THE YEARS, Malakov had bragged more than once that his living room could hold his childhood apartment five times over. The room, with its vaulted ceilings and contemporary furniture, hummed with activity as he entered. He watched with grim satisfaction as security guards jogged in different directions through the room, taking up positions behind overturned tables, guns trained on the elevator. The security chief waded into the bustle. With the practiced smoothness of an orchestra conductor, he used hand signals to move individual gunners into their position. The man had been one of Russia’s best special forces commanders before Malakov had recruited him to lead his private security detail. The man had taken an already decent cadre of security guards and whipped them into top shape.

  Malakov swept his gaze over the room again. He counted at least a dozen men, most armed with submachine guns while a few clutched Glocks or other handguns. Some had donned Kevlar vests and ballistic helmets.

  He spun on a heel, strode to his office. A grim smile played over his lips.

  Nothing would get through that, he told himself. Nothing.

  Chapter 5

  Bolan was crouched to one side of the elevator door. His heart rate and breathing accelerated with each passing moment. Blood thundered in his ears. The soldier willed his breathing to slow, his thoughts to remain rational, despite the bucket loads of adrenaline being pumped into his system.

  He glanced across the car, saw McCarter pressed against the wall beneath the control panel, body coiled tightly.

  The car slid to a stop. Bolan tensed.

  As the doors hissed open, he keyed the microphone.

  “Now,” he whispered.

  The doors parted halfway before the first shots lanced into the elevator car. The familiar rattle of submachine guns, accompanied by the occasional crack of a handgun, sounded from outside the elevator. A hail of bullets swarmed into the confined space. Slugs tore into the walls at the rear of the elevator car, shredding the interior. Bolan ground his teeth, waited.

  Suddenly, the relentless pounding from a helicopter’s chain gun pealed in the night. Glass shattered and swarms of bullets ripped through flesh. From the first rattle of the chain gun, Bolan counted to ten.

  The withering fire stopped almost as quickly as it had begun. Bolan tossed the flash-bang grenade through the door. The orb struck the floor with a clatter. One of the already panicked shooters let loose with a terrified scream. Within a couple of heartbeats, the weapon exploded with a flash of white light and a loud bang.

  Bolan uncoiled from the floor. From the edge of his vision, he could tell McCarter was also in motion. The Executioner moved in a crouch through the elevator door, the MP-5 hunting a target, while his ice-blue eyes took in the mayhem that lay before them. Unrelenting gunfire had disintegrated windows. The muted sounds of nighttime traffic filtered through the openings. Glass shards littered the floor and the furniture. Bullet holes pierced a bar that stood along one wall. The fabric of couches and chairs had been ripped apart.

  Dead shooters lay on the floor, torsos and limbs rent by the merciless assault. Other bodies were draped over furniture. Motion caught Bolan’s eye. He swerved his head to the left, saw two gunners, bodies bloodied. One man was curled in a fetal position, groaning. A second lay on his back, his body convulsing as life slipped away. With bursts from the MP-5, Bolan ended each man’s suffering, dispatching them to hell. McCarter’s own weapon fired and he took out two more wounded men.

  Bolan rolled through the room, left the slaughter in his rearview mirror and moved into a corridor that led off the main room. He found another shooter, one thigh chewed up by autofire, sprawled on floor, a pool of blood widening beneath him. Judging by the crimson smear staining the hardwood floor, Bolan guessed the man probably had dragged himself from the shooting gallery in the main room, seeking refuge here. The body was still. Bolan knelt next to the fallen man, rolled him over. Sightless eyes stared up at the warrior. Bolan checked for a pulse, found none. A bullet must have hit an artery and caused the man to bleed out, Bolan thought.

  McCarter already had moved past the soldier and was checking the rooms that led from the hallway. Bolan stood up and began doing the same, clearing two.

  Bolan quickly felt impatience welling up inside him. They’d made a hell of a noise getting here, and the soldier wanted to grab Malakov and get the hell out of here quickly. The last thing he needed was a confrontation with the British authorities. That meant not waiting around for them. He figured Brognola could smooth it over, eventually, but the soldier couldn’t afford to have his wings clipped even for a short time.

  By this point Bolan had switched the MP-5 to a one-handed grip and removed a second flash-bang grenade from inside his jacket. One room remained unchecked. Bolan and McCarter took up positions on either side of it. The Executioner nodded at McCarter, then toward the door, and held up the flash-bang. The Briton nodded his understanding, ready for what came next.

  * * *

  SWEAT BEADED ON Malakov’s scalp and streamed in rivulets down his face. It slicked his palms, which were wrapped around the Uzi’s pistol grip. Fear cinched steel bands around his chest, drew them tight and forced his breath to come in shallow pulls.

  He wasn’t afraid, he assured himself. He’d been in at least a dozen firefights in Chechnya and later when he ran black ops inside the state of Georgia during its brief conflict with Russia.

  It’s just the surprise, he told himself. The adrenaline that surged through him.

  He’d heard the brief explosion of gunfire. Even muted by the walls, his trained ear still could tell it was a large-caliber machine gun. The thrum of chopper blades only confirmed it.

  Who the hell were these people? They weren’t locals, he thought with certainty. They’d not handle a raid like this—hitting him with two armed men and a helicopter. They’d stream in, togged in police uniforms and armed with search warrants. Besides, he’d greased enough palms that, were something like this coming down, he’d have known about it ahead of time. The CIA? It was possible, he supposed. He’d been shipping weapons to the Taliban, both in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Sam
e went for al Qaeda. But he’d encountered Agency spooks before. They might try something like this in Mogadishu, but not in the middle of London.

  Before he could follow the train of thought any further, a loud thump at the door snagged his attention, caused his stomach to plummet. He wheeled toward the door, saw the wood around the knob splinter. The door whipped open.

  He raised his weapon, curled his finger around the trigger.

  * * *

  MCCARTER SPUN AWAY from the kicked-open door, flattening himself against a wall just outside it.

  A blast of submachine-gun fire lanced through the doorway. Bolan judged it would have struck McCarter in the chest had he not moved. The Executioner was coiled low to the floor, against the wall next to the door, his arm lashed out and around its frame. Fingers uncurled and released the grenade.

  The gun fell silent. An instant later, a loud pop sounded from within the room. A white flash flared through the doorway, momentarily overtaking the other lights before it receded.

  The soldier peered around the door frame. Inside the room, he saw Malakov, his Uzi still in his grip, but aimed at nothing. His free hand was cupped over his corresponding ear. He looked dazed. Bolan surged into the room, crossing it in quick strides. McCarter was a couple of steps behind.

  “Drop it!” Bolan ordered.

  Malakov, still dazed, looked in the soldier’s direction. Bolan tensed, wondering for a moment whether the guy would make a fatal play. The Russian unclenched his fist. The Uzi dropped to the floor with a clatter and he raised his hands.

  * * *

  BOLAN GAVE MALAKOV a hard shove between the shoulder blades. The force hurtled him through the door and onto the rooftop. Jack Grimaldi’s chopper stood on the helipad, the blades whirring.

  Once he caught his footing, Malakov, his hands bound behind him by plastic handcuffs, turned around toward the Stony Man warriors.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. He had to shout to be heard above the growl of the helicopter’s engines and the thrum of the spinning blades. “Where are you taking me?”

  Bolan closed the distance between them, grabbed Malakov by the biceps and spun him around. He jabbed the muzzle of his MP-5 into the guy’s ribs to end the conversation, and then marched him to the helicopter.

  The soldier saw the helicopter’s side door stood open. Chad Ramirez, one of the Stony Man blacksuits, stood in the doorway. A skilled pilot and a former U.S. Air Force special ops soldier, Ramirez had been Grimaldi’s copilot for the long trip from Virginia to London. With quick, efficient moves, Ramirez grabbed Malakov, shoved him into a seat and fitted a safety harness on him. McCarter shut the door. Bolan dropped into the seat next to Malakov and strapped himself in.

  Grimaldi took the bird into the air and flew it from the city’s center. A short while later, he put the helicopter down at a small airport on the outskirts of London. The Executioner, McCarter, Grimaldi and the Russian disembarked from the aircraft. As soon as they’d put several yards between them and the helicopter, Ramirez took the craft up into the air, spun it forty-five degrees, gunned the engine and flew into the darkness.

  Bolan knew Ramirez was supposed to take the craft to a potato farm owned by a CIA asset, who’d agreed, for a price, to store it in one of his barns. A car would be waiting to whisk Ramirez away.

  A pair of black SUVs stood on the tarmac. McCarter broke away from the group, double-timed it to one of the vehicles and climbed into the driver’s seat. The rear hatch popped open.

  Malakov looked at the cramped space, then at Bolan.

  “You’re not putting me in there!” he protested.

  Bolan’s right fist lashed out and struck the Russian in the temple. The guy’s eyes rolled back in his head, his knees buckled and he sank to the ground.

  Bolan and Grimaldi hefted the guy and stuffed him into the space. Bolan grabbed the edge of a navy blue blanket that dangled over the back of the nearest seat. Yanking it down, he covered Malakov and shut the hatch. Bolan watched Grimaldi climb into the front passenger seat and shut the door. McCarter gunned the engine. The SUV lurched forward and was rolling across the tarmac even as Bolan made his way to the second vehicle. By the time he’d climbed into the driver’s seat, the crimson glow from the taillights of McCarter’s SUV were shrinking in the distance.

  * * *

  THE SAFE HOUSE WAS a vacant apartment located on London’s east side, on the second floor above a small computer repair shop.

  Malakov sat on a couch, feet flat on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back. An electric fan whirred in the background. Bolan had turned on the television to add more background noise. Small devices built into each window emitted high-pitched sound waves that caused the glass to vibrate, an old trick aimed at foiling eavesdroppers.

  The soldier stood in front of Malakov. Five feet or so separated the two men. Bolan, hands hanging loose at his sides, stared down at the Russian, who returned Bolan’s cold stare with one of his own.

  McCarter sat at an oval-shaped dining table, the top scarred with deep gouges in the caramel-colored wood. He’d lined up four magazines, each on its side, on the tabletop. He clutched a fifth magazine in his left hand and with his right loaded the first of thirteen rounds into it. Grimaldi stood in the kitchen, lanky frame leaning against the sink, and puffed on a cigarette.

  Malakov all but ignored the other two men and focused on Bolan, apparently convinced that the big American was running the show.

  “For why do you bring me here?” the Russian demanded, his accent thick.

  McCarter, without looking up from his work, snorted. “To admire your command of English.”

  “What?” Malakov asked, his voice a snarl.

  “He means cut the crap,” Bolan interjected. “Your father was the Soviet Union’s ambassador to London. You lived here more than you did Moscow growing up. Even went to Oxford. Save the language-barrier act for someone who believes it.”

  Malakov didn’t blink.

  “That was before the GRU shipped you off to Chechnya, right?” Bolan said.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Malakov said.

  “Understatement,” Grimaldi said.

  The Russian whipped his head toward the pilot, the skin of his neck turning a deep scarlet.

  “What did you say?” he demanded.

  Grimaldi yawned and swigged coffee from a mug.

  Malakov turned his gaze back in Bolan’s direction. “You’ll regret this.”

  Bolan pivoted on his heel, walked to the table where McCarter sat. He grabbed one of the chairs, carried it back to the spot where he’d stood a few moments ago and set it on the floor, its back facing Malakov. The soldier dropped into the seat, a thigh jutting from either side of the chair’s back, forearms resting on the top rail of the chair’s back. He shed his jacket and draped it over an arm of the couch.

  “Why is Yezhov so hell bent on getting the Nightingale?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t tell me such things.”

  “Too bad for you.”

  Malakov licked his lips.

  “He doesn’t tell me such things,” he repeated. This time, though, Bolan thought he detected an edge in the other man’s voice.

  “He still looking for her?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Like I said, cut the crap,” Bolan said, emphasizing each word.

  A rivulet of sweat trickled down from Malakov’s temple.

  “He still looking for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Getting his own hands dirty?”

  “What?” Malakov paused. “Is he doing it himself? No, he has people do it for him.”

  “The looking?”

  “The looking.”

  “And the killing.”

  “I don’t know—” Malakov a
pparently caught himself and paused. “He has other worries.”

  “He’s the big-picture guy.”

  “He has other priorities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Those are—what’s the expression?—above my pay grade.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  The soldier felt his own impatience rising, tinged with uncertainty. Either Malakov was really as out of the loop as he professed or he was jerking Bolan around. The latter scenario struck Bolan as the most likely one. Regardless, things were not going to end well for Malakov.

  The Executioner heaved a sigh, stood up and drew a bead on the Russian’s forehead with the Beretta.

  “Sorry,” Bolan said, his voice sounding anything but. “I’ve had my crap quota for the day.”

  Bolan saw something flicker in Malakov’s eyes before it was gone again.

  “You would kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you what I know.”

  “Massive data dump,” Bolan said. “Thanks.”

  Malakov shifted slightly in his seat. Bolan could all but hear the wheels turning in the guy’s head.

  “Perhaps it’s how you ask the questions,” Malakov said. “It has been a long, difficult night.”

  “Here’s my counter,” Bolan said. “Stop jerking me around. Answer my questions, fast. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s no bargaining table between us.”

  Bolan waited several seconds in silence, letting Malakov consider his words. He heard the scratch of a lighter being struck and a heartbeat later caught the first whiff of Grimaldi’s cigarette. In the same moment, he heard McCarter feed a magazine into what he assumed was the Browning, heard the Phoenix Force commando working the slide, chambering a round.