Executioner - Blood Circle Part 7

The waitress returned with a slice of mud pie. Bolan waited for the waitress to leave as the Russian agent attacked her dessert. "Your department was tracking the Red Falcons' activities in Bosnia before we became aware of them."

"Yes."

"What kind of targets would they choose in the United States?"

The Russian put down her fork. "As far as our intelligence was able to determine, the Red Falcons' agenda toward the United States is to punish you for your air attacks on Serbian positions outside of Sarajevo, and to drive you out of the conflict through terrorist actions."

The Executioner already knew that. "What kind of targets?"

A line furrowed Svarzkova's brow. "We believe their targets would be mission specific, rather than random."

Bolan frowned. "You mean targets directly linked with United States involvement in the former Yugoslavia."

"We believe so."

The Executioner calculated. He agreed with the findings of Russian Intelligence. The Red Falcons had an agenda, and random violence wasn't Igor Baibakov's style. He was a hunter; difficult targets wouldn't deter him. He would enjoy the challenge. That might be in their favor. The giant might well suffer from target fixation. The key now was to find his mafiya pipeline, and figure out his most likely U.S. targets.

Svarzkova pushed her empty dessert dish away. "Delicious."

Bolan put money on the table. "Come on. I have to contact my people."

The Russian looked at him closely. "You have had a thought."

"Yes, but I need to run it through the works and see what they can come up with."

"Do you think a?" She trailed off as she looked at Bolan's face.

"What is it?" He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a device approximately the size of a personal pager, it had a small series of lights and a tiny readout display. The device had buzzed in his pocket, and when Bolan looked at it, the top little red light was blinking at him.

Svarzkova peered at the device. "What is it?"

Bolan looked out past the restaurant doors. The motel they were staying at was two blocks away. "Someone is in our room."

Her hand went unconsciously under her jacket. "You locked the door?"

Bolan peered at the blinking light. "I did. And I put the Do Not Disturb sign on the k.n.o.b."

She glanced toward the street. "What do you wish to do?"

"If someone tracked us here, then they probably watched us go to the prison. If they know that, they probably watched us come in here, as well."

"Who would do this?"

There were only two possibilities. "it might be someone tracking our activities from another government agency."

The Russian's gaze narrowed. "But you do not believe so."

"No. Let's go out the back and take a look."

Svarzkova nodded and followed Bolan through the back of the restaurant. The cooks looked up as they went swiftly through the kitchen and went to the back door. Bolan drew the Beretta 93-R and stepped into the darkness. The day's clouds had pa.s.sed, and the night was clear and cold. There were few lights in the alley behind the restaurant, but the moon was out and the stars were very bright. Bolan heard the whisper of metal leaving leather as Svarzkova drew her pistol. He moved to the side of the restaurant and examined the parking lot. It was almost nine o'clock, and a few cars were still there. His eyes were drawn to a brown van parked on the street by the lot's one exit. The windows were tinted. The vehicle hadn't been there when he and Svarzkova pulled in.

The Russian whispered at his elbow. "What do we do?"

"Go around to the other side of the restaurant. I'll wait sixty seconds for you to get in place. Then just back me up in whatever I do."

The Russian agent nodded and moved swiftly back down the alley. Bolan looked closely at his Bronco, and his eyes narrowed. An occasional wisp of mist came from behind the right front wheel well. He and Svarzkova had been in the restaurant for an hour, more than enough time for the engine to cool.

It was someone breathing in the cold night air.

Bolan mentally counted sixty and stepped out with the Beretta extended in both hands. "Freeze! Police! You're surrounded!"

A man rose from behind a station wagon two s.p.a.ces from the Bronco and leveled a shotgun. The Beretta chugged as the Executioner squeezed off a 3-round burst. The first bullet shrieked sparks off of the station wagon's hood, and the second two stood the man up and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Bolan tracked the muzzle of the Beretta back to the Bronco as a man rose from behind the wheel well. The brown van's sliding door slammed back on its tracks, and thundering flame lit up the interior from the muzzles of several shotguns. Muted screaming came from inside the restaurant at the sound of the gunfire.

The soldier faded back around the corner as a hail of bullets smashed into the bricks of the restaurant's corner wall. The sound of a handgun firing on rapid semiautomatic suddenly broke out from the far side of the restaurant. In the parking lot a man screamed. Hearing the sound of feet running on pavement between the roaring of the shotguns, the Executioner came around the corner and flung himself p.r.o.ne.

Bits of brick rained down as a pattern of buckshot slammed into the wall overhead. One of the men from the van was running forward firing his shotgun as fast as he could pump the action. Bolan put the front sight of the Beretta on his midriff and fired. The man lurched as the 3-round burst st.i.tched up his body, and he fell on top of his shotgun as he collapsed in a heap.

Bolan rose to one knee and tracked the Beretta for targets. A man with a shotgun crouched behind a large pickup as a handgun barked from the other side of the restaurant. The man flinched as the pickup rocked with the bullet strikes. He popped up when the pistol fell silent and slammed his shotgun across the hood. The soldier aimed low and squeezed the Beretta's trigger. The man jerked and flailed as the burst climbed up his calf and thigh. He collapsed back under cover, clutching a leg full of 9 mm hollowpoints. His shotgun still lay on the pickup's hood. Bolan nodded and ejected the Beretta's nearly spent magazine. He slid in a fresh clip and slapped it home. A shotgun roared by the van.

A gunman stood between two cars and made the amateur's mistake of lowering his weapon to pump the action. Bolan cut him down with a burst from the Beretta as he raised it again. Svarzkova's weapon barked from the side of the restaurant, and sparks flew from the body of the attackers' van and its side mirror blew apart. A moment later the winds.h.i.+eld imploded under the barrage, as well. Inside the van a man in the driver's seat fired back at Svarzkova with a handgun, the engine roaring as he put the vehicle into gear with his free hand.

The sliding door was still open, and from his angle Bolan could see the driver's seat dimly silhouetted through the shattered window. He aimed at the middle of the bucket seat and put two bursts through it. The driver jerked and slumped forward as the engine revved down to an idle.

The parking lot was suddenly quiet except for the screams coming from inside the restaurant and the moans of the fallen. Bolan kept the Beretta leveled. "Svarzkova!"

The Russian agent shouted back. "I am all right!"

Bolan stepped into the parking lot. He had personally accounted for five of the a.s.sailants. He scanned the immediate area. The man by the Bronco lay unmoving. Another gunner lay facedown near the entrance to the restaurant, his shotgun a few feet away. Svarzkova came out of cover with her smoking pistol in both hands, and Bolan spoke without taking his eyes off the scene. "I counted six, plus the driver."

Svarzkova looked out at the street. "Yes. I had the same."

The man by the pickup screamed in agony, and the words weren't in English. Svarzkova straightened as she heard her language and marched over to him. The man lay on his side, clutching his bleeding leg. He feebly reached a hand toward the shotgun lying on the hood. Svarzkova kicked his hand away and knelt on his chest. She leaned close to his face. "Mafiya ?"

The man cursed and clutched at his wounded leg. Svarzkova yanked his head back by his hair and shoved the smoking muzzle of her 9 mm weapon between his eyebrows. "Mafiya ?"

The man gritted his teeth at the hot metal between his eyes. "Da! Da! Mafiya!"

"Lieutenant!"

Svarzkova released the man and rose. "Yes?"

"The police will be here soon, and the FBI will be right behind them. Let them handle the interrogation."

"Give me five minutes, and he will tell me everything we need to know."

Bolan shook his head and glanced around the scene. "No. Think about it. They came for us with shotguns, in a restaurant parking lot. They're amateurs, Lieutenant, like you said, cowboys. They'll know little or nothing, and have been told less. Torturing a suspect will get you deported, and we still have business to attend to."

She heaved a deep breath as his words sunk in. "Yes. You are correct. These are not Red Falcons or Baibakov's men. These men were contracted out." She ejected her magazine and pushed in a full one. "What do we do now?"

"Let's see how many we have left alive, and then let me do all the talking with the police."

The Russian nodded in the affirmative. "Yes. Exactly so. Will there be problem?"

"I doubt it." Bolan looked down the street. "I'm willing to bet whoever was in our room has taken off, but I want to make sure."

The Executioner glanced around again at the carnage as a pair of police cruisers screamed onto the scene. He needed to have a talk with Kurtzman.

Aaron Kurtzman whistled over the satellite link as Bolan recounted what happened. "Baibakov moved faster than anyone antic.i.p.ated. You're lucky he didn't come for you himself. Our friend wouldn't have botched it up like those mafiya yahoos in the parking lot."

The Executioner was all too aware of that. The Russian hit men's amateur status had contributed greatly toward his and Svarzkova's survival.

Kurtzman paused in thought. "Why do you think he didn't do it himself?"

Bolan had considered that. "He and the Red Falcons have an agenda. I don't think he was willing to expose himself this early in the game. Leavenworth is a small town in the middle of Kansas with limited escape routes. Once whatever they're planning is in motion, though, I think all bets are off. He'll come for me if he can."

"We should have foreseen him staking out Ramzin. Logically it was our first step."

"It's easy to forget he's talented, as well as a psychopath, and I didn't see him setting up something that fast, either. Let's both make a note not to underestimate him again."

"So what's your plan now?"

"We pick up Ramzin and see what he can dig up for us from the Russian mafiya. Someone has to have heard something if hit men have been hired, and some of the big operators can't be too pleased about Baibakov running a terrorist operation stateside. It could be very bad for business."

"What can I do for you on this end?"

"Russian Intelligence thinks that whatever the Red Falcons and Baibakov are planning will be mission specific rather than a random act. Their mission is to punish us for our involvement in Bosnia, even more importantly, to drive us out. I need you to come up with a list of likely targets they might go for."

Kurtzman paused as he warmed up to the subject. "That's an interesting set of parameters."

Bolan nodded. "I can't guarantee them, but it's what Russian Intelligence believes and I agree with it, particularly with Baibakov involved."

"No. There's no guarantee with fanatics and psychopaths, but it's logical, and it might actually give us a list of targets we can actually defend."

"Great minds think alike."

"You're flattering yourself, Mack."

Bolan grinned. "I'm counting on that, Bear. I need the short-list, as quick as you can come up with it."

"I'm already on it. Hunt and Akira are here at the Farm, and I'll roust Carmen out of bed. I'll send the idea back to Hal and see what the Feds can come up with from their end. We'll crunch the data, and I'll see if I can have something for you within twenty-four hours."

Bolan nodded. "I'll contact you as soon as I have anything else on my end. Striker out." He closed the link and turned to the motel-room door. When he and Svarzkova had arrived, they had found the door crudely jimmied open. The dresser drawers had been quickly ransacked and the rest of the room roughly searched, but the pair had kept everything except clothes and their personal weapons in the Bronco. Whoever had broken in had vanished. A quick electronic sweep had revealed no bugs.

"You can come in now," Bolan called out.

Svarzkova entered looking vaguely perturbed. She hadn't liked waiting outside while Bolan contacted the Farm. "The FBI is outside. They say they will post guards here at the motel for us for the night." She stared at the com-link. "You are finished."

Bolan stowed the satellite link back in its aluminum case. "For tonight. By the way, you did very well in the parking lot."

The Russian brightened slightly. "Thank you. You did very well also."

Bolan glanced out the window. The lights atop Leavenworth prison's ma.s.sive walls were dimly visible in the distance. "You take the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

Svarzkova followed his gaze out toward the penitentiary, a line furrowed between her eyebrows. "Tomorrow we take Major Ramzin."

Bolan nodded and the agent's voice lowered slightly. "We must be very careful of Ramzin. He is not to be trusted. He is Spetsnaz. They were trained to operate behind enemy lines and infiltrate their targets. He speaks English fluently and has some Spanish he learned cross-training with Cuban troops, as well. He is well versed in escape-and-evasion tactics. I am certain he is entertaining ideas of killing us and escaping."

The Executioner's gaze stayed fixed on Leavenworth prison. He had no illusions about Ramzin's trustworthiness, either. In the hunt for Igor Baibakov, he would be a two-edged sword.

10.

The guard presented Bolan with a sixth doc.u.ment. "And this one."

The Executioner signed with another unreadable scrawl. He had well over a dozen of them, and they would challenge even the cleverest handwriting a.n.a.lysis.

The guard nodded as the soldier handed him back the clipboard. All of the forms had been completed. It was no longer his responsibility. "He's all yours, sir."

Major Pietor Ramzin shuffled forward. He looked quite different out of his orange prisoner's uniform. He wore a dark turtleneck and sport coat, and he had shaved his beard and mustache. Bolan waved at his chains. "Unshackle him, but cuff his hands."

The second guard unlocked his waist and ankle chains, then cuffed Ramzin's wrists in front of him. Bolan took the key and motioned toward the door. "Come on."

The two men walked outside and went to the gate. Svarzkova stood by the Bronco, and she gave Ramzin a hard stare as he walked outside the prison. The Russian major paused outside the gate and stared up into the Kansas sky. He took a deep breath.

Bolan glanced up at the clear sky himself. "Smells better out here, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Much better." He peered at Bolan. "I have your word I will not be sent back here if I cooperate, yes?"

The Executioner looked him in the eye. "You have the promise of the United States government. You cooperate, you go home. You screw up, you grow old and die in there."

"I understand. But what of you? You do not desire to take vengeance on me?"

Bolan regarded Ramzin without emotion. "You cooperate, you go home."

The major looked into Bolan's stare for clues, but he could read nothing beyond the stony countenance. He nodded slowly. "Very well, Let us get on with it."

Bolan opened the Bronco's pa.s.senger door. "You sit in front with me."

Ramzin climbed into the truck and glanced in the back seat. Valentina Svarzkova sat behind him with her CZ-75 9 mm pistol c.o.c.ked and locked in her hand. Ramzin grunted and turned his glance back to the road. "We must go to the airport."