Night's Reckoning Read online

  He was greeted with silence. Bolan paused, nerves on edge but calm enough to play the waiting game.

  “You may come in, whoever you are. But carefully. I warn you, I am armed.”

  Bolan’s lips quirked—he recognized the voice. Slowly, holding the Micro-Uzi at a nonthreatening angle, he turned and stood in the doorway.

  Two guards lay on the floor, unconscious. Seated on the bed, legs casually crossed, an AK-47 nestled on his lap, Vijas Grozny sniffed appreciatively as he took in the man facing him.

  “So, we meet again, as they say. You know, I like your style, but I have no idea what you want from me. Just that you keep turning up in buildings where I am held prisoner. Which, frankly, is not an everyday occurrence, even in the life I have lived. So, in case we don’t get the chance again, tell me—what is your fascination with me, man in black?”

  Chapter 5

  From the outside, it would have seemed to any passersby that nothing had occurred within the safe house. The walls were thick and had also been reinforced and soundproofed as part of the security measures taken. More than this, the fact that it was recessed within its own grounds gave it privacy and the necessary distance to kill any sound. Anyone standing where Bolan’s car had been parked would have been completely unaware of the conflagration within.

  What they would have noticed, however, were the three cars that turned into the street at speed, pulling up before the old house. Two of them flanked the buildings on either side, while the third turned head-on into the driveway before scattering gravel with a hard-braked stop.

  The doors of the cars opened—four men emerged from each of the flanking vehicles, and three from the car head-on. Each of the men pulled a ski mask down and inserted nose plugs. The driver of the lead car turned to his men and indicated channels down the side of the house where they should move, finishing with a gesture that made his intention to take down the front door of the house abundantly clear.

  To emphasize this, the took a grenade from his pocket and pulled the pin, tossing it underhand in a gentle arc that saw it fall in the recessed porch of the old house. It rolled slowly and came to rest against the door, spinning back only an inch or two before it detonated.

  The door, frame and surrounding brickwork disappeared in a haze of smoke, which, as it cleared, showed a twisted metal sheet and frame that revealed further security measures—precautions that had been only partially successful, as the doorway was only partly uncovered.

  The lead man roared, half in frustration and half as a rallying cry as he urged the two men with him into the dust cloud, and those at the sides of the buildings into faster action.

  Bolan had been deliberate in keeping his actions as undetected as possible—the tactics of these guerrillas were the reverse. They didn’t care if they were noticed. Their aim was in then out with the maximum impact and no regard for either visibility or collateral damage.

  Which, seeing as they numbered eleven, and there were presently only two men capable of resistance within the walls of the house, could be something of a problem.

  * * *

  A FEW MINUTES earlier, Bolan had removed his gas mask so that the recumbent Grozny could see his face.

  “A good job,” the soldier commented mildly, indicating the incapacitated guards. “Care to share why?”

  Grozny shrugged. “Trust. A simple matter. I have none.”

  “Then should I expect a standoff with you?”

  Grozny chuckled. “Perhaps. But you are different. You are working with these people but are not one of them. It is an interesting stance and one that I find intriguing. You are for hire? A mercenary, perhaps?”

  Bolan shook his head. “That’s the last thing I am. But you are right in one thing—I work with these people at the moment, but I’m not with them. There are holes all over the security of the International War Crimes Tribunal. My job is to make sure you reach trial.”

  “And these,” Grozny interjected, “that was their objective, apparently.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt their integrity,” Bolan said crisply, “but I might doubt the integrity of those who know they are here. Best if we operate on a need-to-know basis on this one. That’s why I made sure they only had superficial wounds, just to put them out of the game.”

  “Considerate of you—not so considerate with the Serbs who rescued me from incarceration. I seem to recall that most of them are now resting six feet beneath the ground.”

  “I didn’t put them all there,” Bolan murmured. “I think you know that.”

  Grozny laughed; a low rumble that ended in a cough. “I have some issues with those who would seek to put me on a pedestal. I ask myself where they were for the two decades that I was in hiding.”

  “Looking for you like the war crimes commission, maybe?”

  Grozny shrugged. “Perhaps... But I still keep my ear to the ground, and I know they were a nothing organization. A splinter of a splinter. No money, no friends and no credibility. So where do they suddenly get the resources to mount such a raid? Why do they come to me out of nowhere, when until a year ago they never so much as mentioned me? The idea of escaping prison was appealing, but what would come afterward? Maybe not so much...”

  “You think that they wouldn’t install you as president of their new state?”

  Grozny chuckled again. “I might be installed, but would I serve?”

  “Interesting thinking. So what are your options?”

  “Perhaps—”

  Bolan never got to hear those options. At that moment an earsplitting roar echoed from the front of the house.

  * * *

  THE THREE SERBS hammered their way through the metal sheeting and were into the hallway. Down the side entrance that Bolan had left open, four men entered, but not without hesitation at how easy it was. On the far side, the four men allocated to that area made their way down the blank wall running along the building and round to the back garden. Here they came up against the closed French windows. Unaware of the ease with which their colleagues were making progress, they wasted little time in blasting the doors open with bursts of fire from their BXP-10 SMGs. The drapes, shredded by the ordnance, revealed the heavy metal grille beyond, which was taken out by blasts at the corners, tearing hinges.

  Wisps of smoke from the grenades loosed by Bolan a few minutes before still lingered in the air, and caused the Serbs to falter, momentarily taken aback by the lack of resistance and the uncanny quiet as their own fire died away.

  The four men who had taken the side entrance, and those from the rear of the house, had visual contact. Exchanged glances and shrugs revealed their confusion. The three men who had entered by the front then came into view. The heavyset man who was their leader—and who knew more than any of them the true meaning of this attack—gestured to them to take the rooms on the ground floor, and also for two of them to venture down to the basement past the ruined doorway.

  While four of the men scoped the rooms on the ground floor and found them deserted, the two who descended to the basement found a scene that took them by surprise. The room had housed the comms and surveillance equipment for the house, but which was presently out of operation, while three men lay unconscious on the floor, their seats scattered across the bare boards. They were breathing, but were out cold.

  More confused than before, the two Serbs hurried back up the stairs until they were in the hallway, where their confused glances met with those of their companions, all equally unsure of what had occurred.

  Their leader, at the foot of the stairs, had more of an idea. Scowling, he indicated that most of them stay back, while gesturing for two to join him. He had little doubt that the hand behind this was the same as had taken out his men the last time they had secured their target.

  This time, his men would be ready.

  * * *

&nb
sp; GROZNY HAD BEEN on his feet, the AK-47 in a stance that habit had allowed him to easily slip into, moving toward the window and flattening himself beside it, staring out to the street beyond. Bolan had moved across to the doorway, stepping out into the hallway, leading with the Micro-Uzi. Despite the earsplitting detonation, his hearing was still clear enough to discern the footsteps that pounded through the floor below. They weren’t being subtle, and were obviously in a hurry, but nonetheless would be slowed by surprise at their lack of resistance.

  The question was this: what would their next move be? Would they have more caution, or could he expect a rapid frontal assault?

  Moving back into the bedroom where Grozny was leaving his position by the window, the two men came together and spoke in hushed, rapid tones.

  “Three cars out front, one in the drive. Unless they’re expert, which I doubt, the amateurs have left no one on guard.”

  “Planning on a quick hit,” Bolan murmured. “In, out, and no need to watch your back.... Figure we can get down the front of the building?”

  Grozny shook his head. “No footholds, besides I can’t do that shit since my leg went ten years back. The only way I can do this is to go through them.”

  “Great,” Bolan said grimly. “It’s about three, maybe four, to one.”

  Grozny gave a vulpine grin that was more of a sneer. “I took out twenty men once, so—”

  “Save it. You’ll need all the breath you have.” And when Grozny looked quizzical, Bolan added, “You’ll see. Just follow me. We’re going to have to be as subtle as the enemy. Maybe less so...”

  * * *

  THE HEAVYSET SERB took a smoke grenade from the pocket of his combat jacket. With only nose plugs and no goggles, he couldn’t risk CS with his own men. He was at a disadvantage heading up the stairs, which made an easy target for anyone nestling at the top. On the other hand, in a building like this there was no other way out, and considering the guards they knew of had been taken out of the equation, there was only one man they were likely to be facing. Unless Grozny opted to side with him—something that the heavyset Serb would not have found surprising.

  He primed the grenade, carrying his BXP-10 nestled in the crook of his arm, and started to ascend the stairs slowly, listening for any indication of life from above. At his back, the second man followed, gulping down his fear as the sweat prickled his brow. The adrenaline from a full-on assault had been replaced by trepidation at something unexpected, and the tension was telling on him. He risked a look down to where the rest of the Serbs waited. They looked about as confident as he felt.

  Risking that look meant that the second man missed the moment when the concussion grenade hit the stair carpet at his feet with a dull thud, rolling against the toe of his boot.

  He looked stupidly at it, and then at his leader. The heavyset Serb opened his mouth to yell, but before any sound could escape he was obliterated from his compatriot’s view by the detonation of the concussion grenade.

  * * *

  BOLAN COULD SENSE, rather than see, that the enemy had started their ascent. Their caution was what he would have expected, and it played right into his hands. He primed the grenade and gently lobbed it over the stair rail before stepping back into the doorway of the bedroom, pushing Grozny back so they were both within the room before he pushed the door shut and opened his mouth to equalize pressure, gesturing that the aging warlord do the same. Grozny, realizing what Bolan’s tactic was, quickly complied as the grenade detonated beneath them. The concussion below made the floor shake below them.

  Bolan indicated to the warlord that he follow, acknowledged by a nod from Grozny, before pulling the door open and heading for the top of the stairs. The grenade should—in the enclosed space of the hallway below—have taken out anyone who was in the vicinity. The only problem would be if any of the invading party had been in a separate part of the house.

  Time to worry about that later. Flicking the switch on the Micro-Uzi so that it was on rapid fire, Bolan came down the stairs with his back to the wall. The bottom was obscured in smoke and the bodies of two men. One had taken the full force of the blast, and the heavier man lying a yard from him had been shielded enough to still be alive, if out of action.

  As he descended, Grozny a few feet apart and with his own AK-47 trained into dangerous spaces, the soldier opened fire with a spray ’n’ pray pattern that was intended to take out anyone within range or drive them back.

  Beyond the heavyset man’s prone body lay the open front doorway, a mass of twisted metal and splintered wood, but with enough of a gap not to slow them down. Which was good. Because despite Bolan’s own efforts at unobtrusiveness, the arrival of the Serbs and his need to get past them would no doubt have raised an alarm that would have a Koninklijke detachment speeding toward them even as the thought crossed his mind.

  His own car sat just a couple of hundred yards down the road. If they could make that without being impeded, they had a chance of getting away.

  Bolan made the bottom of the stairs and hit the floor, using the bodies of the two prone men as cover. He took in that the passage to the rear of the house was littered with men who had been taken out by the concussion grenade. If there was anyone left standing, they were concealing themselves.

  This was a suspicion that was confirmed by the chatter of a BXP-10 and the smack of shells into the plasterwork and wood of the wall behind and above him.

  He cursed to himself. Dealing with this would waste precious seconds. He laid down a suppressing fire and felt for a smoke grenade. No time to flush out and eliminate the remaining enemy—only enough to stop them from firing on Grozny and himself as they exited the scene.

  The aging warlord, seeing what Bolan was doing, moved his own position so that although he was shielded from fire emanating from the back of the passage, he was able to get enough of an angle to fire back far enough to take chunks out of the wall near the doorways to the back room and the cellar, on either side of the hall.

  Bolan, appreciative of the assistance, ceased his own fire as he fished out the smoke grenade and primed it before rolling it over the bodies providing his cover, and along the hallway. As it detonated and laid down a thick blanket, he could hear the sound of one man struggling to breathe, despite the nose plugs that he must be wearing.

  Rising to a crouch, Bolan laid down a suppressing burst. Grozny moved down to the foot of the stairs and gestured for Bolan to move out, taking over the bursts of fire as he did so.

  Out in the clean air, Bolan could see that the immediate area was deserted—Grozny had been correct in his assessment. Yet, Bolan still moved to the end of the driveway and the gateway with caution. In the distance he could hear sirens.

  Despite the carnage behind Bolan, and the approaching police force, the area was still quiet, suburban and deserted. It was incongruous, and yet it would allow them to get to his car with alacrity.

  Looking back, he beckoned to Grozny, who was backing out of the doorway. With a final blast of covering fire, the aging warlord turned and strode across the driveway until he was at Bolan’s side.

  The soldier indicated his car. “Keep it frosty, Grozny.

  We don’t want any innocent bystanders caught up in this.”

  “My friend, I do not want anyone caught up in this, innocent or otherwise. I just want to get away.”

  The two men moved out into the street and made their way toward the car. Bolan was acutely aware of the encroaching sirens, and also of the fact that they were completely exposed in this suburban street. The quiet now seemed unnatural. There must be some people who were home, and if so, they had elected to stay out of the way while a firefight happened on their doorstep. Bolan was relieved—the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with some well-meaning but misinformed passerby.

  As they approached the car he remembered that he had hit the central
locking. With no intention of having to use the car again, he wasn’t sure if he had left the keys in the raincoat, which still lay under a bush around the block. But it was with no little relief that he found them as they were on top of the car, and so was not forced to risk noticeable damage in effecting entry.

  Grozny slid into the front passenger seat beside Bolan as the soldier hit the ignition and put the vehicle into drive. He put the AK-47 out of view as Bolan pulled out into the road and tossed the duffel bag on the backseat.

  “I take it that we will be headed in the opposite direction to the sirens,” Grozny queried.

  “Absolutely. And I’ll be sticking to the speed limit religiously.”

  “Of course. I take it this was not your original plan?”

  Bolan shook his head. “No worries. I can return to that once we evac the immediate area. It’d be a shame to tangle with the good guys.”

  “You know who they are?” Grozny asked with ill-disguised humor.

  “Mostly. The real question is—do you? Did you ever?”

  Grozny’s disgruntled silence in response came as a relief as the soldier took the car away from the scene and the onrushing police.

  * * *

  THE SAFE HOUSE was toward the south of Den Haag and took them just over an hour to reach, Bolan making sure that they hadn’t picked up a tail at any point. It was unlikely, but an outside possibility if anyone in the suburbs had noted the make or license plate of the car. Not wanting to leave himself open to being traced via an unsecured line, the soldier refrained from calling Grimaldi. The ace pilot had been on standby, and expecting a call. Bolan knew that he would be itchy, wondering if something had gone wrong. Despite this, the soldier elected to maintain silence.

  They pulled up in a poorer area of town, where blocks of apartments erected in the 1980s replaced the elegant town houses of the area they had recently vacated. This was more akin to the area where Grozny had been taken after the prison break, and the warlord smiled as he got out of the car.