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  Just as in the front, all of the units of the motel had their window curtains tightly drawn. Away from the noises of the street, Bolan could hear radios playing and more than one television set turned up loud. He spotted no hidden sentries.

  His eyes shifted to the motel office, saw no movement and he pressed forward. He cut to his right now to finish circumventing the building. Tan had told Bolan that Sanders and Sable were holed up in room 11.

  Fat drops of rain began to fall on the broken pavement of the motel parking lot. Reaching unit 11 Bolan paused, head cocked to one side as he listened. He heard the sound of a television set coming from inside the target room. The noise overrode any other sounds that might have come from inside the motel unit.

  Bolan looked at the door with the burnished metal, twin numeral ones set into it. The door was cheap wood, the paint was peeling and no spy hole had been bored into it. However, the window next to the door would allow the occupants to peek through the curtains and look out to see who was at the door.

  Bolan was at a disadvantage. The occupants of the room would be able to identify him before he had any inkling of who was on the other side of the door. Tan had seemed genuinely cooperative, genuinely afraid. That meant nothing. Bolan thought of retreating back to the car and keeping the place under surveillance for a while.

  He rejected the idea. If he had been tailed to Tan’s apartment, then he could already be compromised. If time hadn’t been of the essence, then the DNI would have sent someone else to ferret out what was going down here in Grozny. Sable had been sitting on a treasure trove of information, even before she had presumably gotten possession of Garabend’s laptop.

  Bolan made his decision to act. He stepped over to the window and rapped his knuckles against the dirty glass pane. He stepped back so that he had an equal field of vision between anyone opening the room door or pulling back the window curtain to peek out.

  Bolan heard the volume on the television set in the room being turned down. A shape cast a distorted shadow across the hanging curtain. He heard a voice murmur something indistinct. A second voice, equally faint, answered. The shadow moved away from the curtain.

  Bolan prepped for any possibility. Adrenaline flooded his body.

  An olive-skinned, masculine hand grasped hold of the curtain hanging in the window. Time stretched out as the man drew it back. Bolan caught movement as the person inside the room shifted to peek around the curtain. A pair of black eyes met Bolan’s own blue ones. Both sets of eyes widened in recognition. The Executioner snarled at the driver of the Audi and the other man released the curtain.

  The Glock appeared in Bolan’s fist. He stroked the trigger repeatedly, sending half a dozen rounds through the window as he skipped backward. Glass shattered under the impact of his 9 mm rounds. A burst of automatic gunfire erupted in answer from inside of the motel room.

  A brilliant flame of unsuppressed muzzle-flash splashed behind the curtain. Bullets ripped through the air around Bolan and sailed out across the parking lot. The Executioner went to one knee and fired a tight trio of bullets into the curtain. He heard shouting as his rounds found a target, and then the curtain was ripped aside as a body crashed through and rebounded off the windowsill.

  Bolan shifted to the left, putting himself at an angle to both the window and the door. From his vantage he had a good view of a large segment of the room. Figures moved inside the confines, and he hurriedly searched for some sort of cover.

  There was nothing. There was no cover for him to get behind, nor any he could outrace a fusillade of bullets to reach. He was caught in the open by opponents who wielded superior firepower. Two men rushed forward, Bizon-19 submachine guns up at the ready.

  Bolan threw himself flat out on the pavement, brought up his Glock and sighted from the prone position. He squeezed his trigger coolly and an untidy third eye opened up on the forehead of one of the gunmen. A red mist appeared behind the man’s head and he crumpled forward, his submachine gun tumbling from slack fingers. The falling man’s corpse fell halfway out through the shattered window.

  The second gunman flinched as his comrade’s sticky, hot blood and brain matter splattered across his face. The man’s triggered burst sailed wild as he jerked in surprise at the gore splatter. Bolan shifted his pistol’s aim to center mass and pulled the trigger on the Glock twice.

  The man staggered backward like a punch-drunk fighter, arms flailing wide. Bolan brought down the muzzle of the Glock, sighted and put a final round through the man’s throat. He was driven down by the kinetic force of the 9 mm bullet.

  Unsure of how many others might be in the hotel room, Bolan rushed forward. He heard shouts coming from the other rooms around him, a woman screamed, and doors were opened and then slammed shut again. He knew that within minutes, heavily armed Grozny special police units would be on their way.

  The front door to the room next to the gunmen’s popped open, and a shirtless man with a sagging stomach and a walrus mustache looked out. A clear glass bottle was still clenched possessively in one fat fist. Bolan twisted at the hip, centering his Glock on the man. The fat Russian’s face dropped in surprise.

  “Get back in the room!” Bolan shouted in Russian.

  The man staggered, throwing himself backward, and slammed his door shut. Bolan shifted his attention back to room 11. The inside of the room was fully engaged in flames, and Bolan realized the fire would spread quickly. People would have to get out of their rooms immediately or face being burned alive.

  The soldier began to back away from the room toward where his car sat parked across the street. Black smoke poured out through the shattered window and billowed up into the sky. Flames licked at the edges of the window, completely unaffected by the slight rainfall. Bolan turned sideways away from the room, still watching it, and began to move at a faster pace back toward his vehicle.

  A gunman came through the window screaming. His Bizon-19 submachine gun fired wildly as he leaped over the sill. Bolan again threw himself flat as a wild, ragged spray of rounds slapped out in his direction. He hit the pavement hard and grunted.

  Thrusting his arm out straight, Bolan rolled onto his side as he tried to target the charging man. Still firing, the man shuffled toward the nominal protection of a dented car. He went to one knee behind the bumper of the vehicle and brought his weapon to his shoulder.

  Bolan didn’t hesitate. He rolled onto his stomach and took his Glock in both hands. His first shot hit wide of the gas hatch. His second punctured it. A jet of gasoline shot out of the hole in an arc and splashed the ground.

  Bolan squeezed his trigger twice and put two more bullets through the bleeding gas tank. The second bullet ignited the flammable gases trapped inside the tank. A ball of flame erupted out and was followed hard by a wave of concussive force.

  The gunman was knocked clear of the car by the force of the explosion. His hair ignited and he rose screaming, dropping his submachine gun and slapping at the flames licking around his head. Bolan quickly reloaded, then dropped him with a precise 9 mm slug to the head.

  Bullets ricocheted off the pavement a yard to the front of where Bolan lay prone on the asphalt. He pivoted his head toward the building and saw a gunman standing in the doorway of the motel room. The man had been sighting in on Bolan when the vehicle had gone up. His burst had been knocked wide in his surprise at the sudden force of the exploding automobile. He’d cringed from the rolling heat, one arm thrown up protectively over his face.

  Bolan twisted, rolling up onto his left shoulder and bringing his pistol to bear on the target. He pulled the trigger once and the man’s frame shuddered. Blood spurted from a hole in the gunner’s upper thigh, and he sagged against the door frame. The man swept up his weapon as Bolan sighted in again.

  The Executioner fired and hit the man in his stomach, then put a second 9 mm bullet into his sternum. The man’s clothes billowed out under the twin impacts and he dropped, collapsing inward on himself. Blood pumped out rapidly in a growing pool
around his body. His weapon clattered against the sidewalk, skittering past the door to the motel room. His eyes fixed open.

  Bolan rose. In the distance he heard the sound of sirens. He turned and sprinted for his car. He’d been set up. Anger burned inside him as hot as the flames that devoured the car and building behind him.

  He ran across the street and slid behind the wheel of his car. He threw the still smoking pistol on the passenger seat beside him and pulled his car keys from his front jacket pocket. The engine roared to life.

  Bolan heard the shriek of sirens and looked up in his rearview mirror. Red lights spun on the top of the compact police car that was arriving first on the chaotic scene. Slower moving, but more heavily armored, troop carriers would be following behind the lead cars. If the first officer on the scene decided the situation warranted it, Sikorsky gunships could be mobilized almost immediately from military bases around Grozny.

  Bolan tensed, then relaxed as the car shot past him and turned into the parking lot of the now fully engulfed motel structure. Bolan stepped on the accelerator and turned his vehicle in a tight semicircle. Straightening, he smoothly powered his car down the street. He checked his mirror. An overweight woman in a loud housedress had run from the motel office. She rushed up to the police car and began frantically pointing in Bolan’s direction.

  The soldier pushed the accelerator to the floor. He had to make his escape before the police got a good look at his vehicle or its license plate. Once he had procured the motel’s address from Tan, Bolan had taken city maps and planned both his approach and a successive series of escape routes depending on likely variables. He hadn’t had time to drive any of the routes, but he had worked to memorize them. Under pursuit now, Bolan immediately launched into one of his preset blueprints for evasive action.

  He locked up his rear wheels and spun the car in another tight circle, keeping his transmission in a lower gear. Straightening, Bolan punched the gas and shot down a narrow secondary street. Two city blocks down he repeated the maneuver, shooting into a service alley. His speed was dangerously high as he sought to execute his turns before the following police cruiser could spot his taillights and pursue.

  His tires screamed in protest as Bolan attempted the near ninety-degree turn. As soon as the nose of his car was pointed in the right direction, he trod on the accelerator. The tires caught and Bolan speed-shifted up through two successive gears. He blasted out of the alley and onto a dark and narrow street.

  Slamming the vehicle into position between other automobiles on the avenue, he gunned the car forward, ignoring the angry blasts of horns. He wove quickly in and out of the light traffic, keeping to right-hand lanes for the quick turn whenever threatened by stops or intersections.

  In the rearview mirror Bolan could see a column of black smoke rising into night. The silhouette of the city’s skyline was backlit by the fire. A yellow fire engine screamed past him in the other lane followed by a security vehicle filled with armed soldiers. On the street, pedestrians emerged from bars and apartment buildings to stare and gossip.

  Bolan arranged his features into a grim mask and drove deeper into the city.

  11

  Bolan entered Sylvia Tan’s apartment building.

  He carried his silenced Victor .22 out and ready, held down by his leg. Enough time had passed that, by now, Tan had to know her trap had backfired. Bolan had circled the building before entering and had encountered no surveillance teams on the street.

  The lights of Tan’s apartment were off, as was the whole of her apartment building. Televisions and stereos had all been shut off as the inhabitants of the building put their children to bed and retired themselves.

  Bolan mounted the stairs leading to Tan’s apartment. If she was smart, she’d already fled, Bolan figured. In which case he needed to make a careful search of her residence before moving on to follow down other leads. If, for some reason, the woman had failed to flee, then Bolan would be forced to take up the trail where he had left off.

  Reaching the second floor, Bolan stopped at the corner of a wall and reconnoitered the dark hallway. It was empty and silent, with soft overhead fixtures providing a subdued illumination. Bolan looked toward Tan’s doorway where a bar of dark space separated the edge of the door from the jamb.

  Bolan scowled to himself. There was no good reason for Sylvia Tan’s front door to be standing open at one o’clock in the morning. Had she simply run, leaving her door open? Was she there, waiting with a weapon? Had someone been sent to clean up the mess? If so, who?

  Bolan started down the hallway. He held his pistol up and ready and he walked carefully, back to the wall, trailing hand out for support. He moved slowly, crossing one leg over the other. He chose to hug the inside wall because he estimated that if someone was covering the hallway from just inside the door, the person would have to shift or even open the door farther to get off an accurate shot, giving him a warning.

  Moving down the hall Bolan felt naked and exposed under the overhead lights. Any resident looking out his or her peephole as he passed would see him clearly, pistol out and ready. The alternative, keeping his pistol hidden and approaching the door openly was too suicidal to even be considered at this point.

  Reaching the door to Sylvia Tan’s apartment, Bolan halted. He cocked his head, listening. He could hear nothing from inside the apartment through the open door. Pressing against the wall for support, Bolan carefully placed the heel of his right foot against the edge of the door.

  After a long, tense moment Bolan pressed firmly with his heel, pushing it down toward the floor. The partly open door swung wide without the slightest hint of resistance and almost noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Bolan waited for a moment, poised for action.

  When no reaction was forthcoming, he carefully slid down until he was crouched beside the now fully open door. Bolan put his free hand down and pivoted smoothly around it. He leaned over to the side in a base runner’s stretch, trailing leg cocked outward to help keep his center of balance, enabling him to shift in either direction quickly.

  Bolan shot a brief glance around the door before pulling his head back again. He had seen nothing, no figures, no movement. Slower this time, Bolan peeked around the corner and took a longer look. He scanned the interior of the apartment. A breeze stirred the curtains of the window he had opened earlier. Other than that, he detected no motion.

  The Executioner stood and quickly stepped through the doorway and into the room. He slid his back against the wall just inside the door, under the light switch Sylvia Tan had tried to use so futilely earlier that same evening. He swept his pistol around in muscle memorized patterns of movements, efficiently clearing his zones.

  Finding nothing, Bolan rose and gently closed the door. He didn’t turn on the lights—if Tan had even reconnected them—for fear of alerting any sentries set to survey the building, or on the off chance that someone was still here, hidden deeper in the living quarters. Bolan began to methodically move around the apartment, clearing each room before moving on.

  He headed through the living area into the kitchen. He cleared the main bathroom and a hall closet. He moved into the guest bedroom Tan had remodeled into a small office, the office where Bolan had found the classified institute documents. That room was clear, as well. Warily, Bolan approached the final door at the end of the hall. It had been pulled shut and no light shone from underneath it.

  Bolan held up his silenced pistol. The bulky cylinder of the sound suppressor rested even with the rise of his cheekbone. The pad of his finger tip rested confidently on the trigger of the weapon, taking up any slack in the pull. The weapon was close enough that he smelled the mellow scent of the oil he had used to lubricate the pistol.

  At such close range the hollowpoint ammunition would more than compensate for the light powder charge and small caliber. Bolan had used it to devastating effect in the past. He reached out and grabbed hold of the handle to Sylvia Tan’s master bedroom. He flexed his grip and slowly
twisted it open.

  The door swung easily under his hand, revealing a bedroom cloaked in darkness. Bolan paused in the hall, listening, and then entered the room, his pistol tracking. He moved past a dresser and then the large bed. The drawers to the dresser were open, and articles of clothing hung haphazardly from them. The covers on the bed were thrown back and a pillow lay forgotten on the floor.

  Bolan crept deeper into the room. He checked an open closet, saw only coats and sweaters. He closed the closet door and went forward. His shoes made no sound on the thick bedroom carpet. The loudest noise in the place was the sound of his own breathing. He crossed the bedroom and reached the door to Tan’s en suite bathroom.

  Bolan turned the handle and pushed the door wide. The open curtains of the bathroom window let the soft illumination from the street into the little room. He saw the figure immediately and dropped his pistol to cover it. Sylvia Tan stared up at him.

  In the ambient light her eyes were open and glazed with the film of death. Her jaw hung slack and her skin glowed softly, like the alabaster of a statue. Bolan’s gaze traveled down from her face and took in her neck. The nylon cord wrapped there bit cruelly into her throat, and the flesh had swollen up and pushed over the rope where her bodyweight pressed hard up against it.

  The cord was looped around her neck and tied to the crank handle of the open bathroom window. Her arms hung loose by her side, and her knees were splayed open. Only the nylon cord kept her perched upright on the toilet.

  She wore no more than a flimsy negligee, almost see-through, and clearly intended for a lover’s eyes and not lounging around the house on some lazy Sunday morning. Her hair hung loose in silken tresses.

  Did she deserve to die in such a manner?

  The woman had been a traitor. Whether for ideals or for money, or even for love, Bolan couldn’t say. But Sylvia Tan had betrayed her trusts.

  End of story.

  Bolan squatted, sliding his pistol into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He ran his eyes over every square inch of the woman that he could make out in the uncertain light. Was this act a suicide or had someone silenced a liability? The question was vital and its answer imperative.