Blood Vendetta

Bolan heard a door latch click and he froze. The soldier melted into the shadows and pressed his body against the club.

The rear passenger’s-side door flipped open and a man stepped from the vehicle. The guy was tall and lanky. His bald pate gleamed under the glow from the single exposed bulb moored to the club. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. He slammed his door. A second man stepped from the driver’s seat, a pump shotgun held in his hands. He rounded the rear of the SUV and moved toward the other guy.

“Hope Lockwood’s here,” said the guy with the shotgun. Bolan noticed the man spoke English with a thick accent. “Malakov’s going to have our asses if we don’t bring this guy back with us.”

“Don’t worry,” the bald guy replied. “Lockwood’s here. He’s not the type to run.”

“Gutsy?”

Mr. Shotgun laughed and shook his head. “Try greedy. He’s got his club. He’s got a couple of flats in London and some collectible cars. He won’t leave all that behind. He’d try to swim with gold bricks in his pocket, if he could.”

Bolan ran the numbers. He figured the two guys inside likely would make it to Lockwood’s office in less than a minute.

The soldier stepped from the shadows. The man holding the shotgun apparently caught the movement from the corner of his eye, wheeled toward Bolan’s direction and raised the weapon to his shoulder in one fluid movement. But Bolan had the drop on the guy and triggered the Beretta. The handgun chugged out a tri-burst, the bullets ripping into the guy’s torso. The impact caused him to backpedal a couple of steps before he crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.

The second guy, eyes wide with surprise, clawed underneath his jacket for hardware. The Beretta coughed out another burst and the slugs drilled into the thug’s chest. Even as the guy folded to the ground, Bolan stalked past him to the club’s side door.

The Executioner opened the door and saw it led into a storage room at the rear of the club. The Beretta poised before him, he stepped inside, closed the door. Steel shelves stood one behind the next, loaded with boxes of liquor and snacks. He strained his ears for signs of the two other gunners. The only sound he heard was heavy metal music, muffled but discernible, as it ground out of the club’s sound system. Exiting the storeroom, he stepped into a brightly lit corridor, the same one he’d been through earlier that led to Lockwood’s office.

The Executioner glided down the corridor, past the doors of what he assumed were rooms for private shows. When he got within a dozen steps or so of Lockwood’s office, he heard Lockwood’s voice, taut and loud, emanating through the closed door.

“The bloke had a gun on me, what was I supposed to do?”

“Quiet!”

His fingers wrapped around the knob, the soldier gave it a gentle twist. It moved a quarter inch or so, stopped. It was locked.

The big American stepped back, aimed the Beretta’s muzzle on the lock, fired. The bullet pierced the steel, destroying the lock. Bolan raised his foot, slammed it against the door. It swung inward, the soldier following behind it.

Even as he barreled through the door, Bolan sized up the situation. Lockwood remained, where Bolan had left him earlier, trussed up to the chair. His bodyguard still lay on the floor, sleeping off the beating he’d received less than an hour ago from McCarter. One of the Russians stood before Lockwood, left fist cocked on his hip, right hand clutching a Glock with a sound suppressor screwed into the barrel. The other stood forty-five degrees to Bolan’s right. His back was to Lockwood, while he stared at a small bank of television monitors that Bolan had noticed earlier. Cameras feeding the monitors peeked into the private rooms. An MP-5 submachine gun filled his right hand. The barrel, also fixed with a sound suppressor, was pointed toward the floor. But the commotion finally yanked his attention from the skin show unfolding on the monitors. His gaze was whipping in Bolan’s direction and he was flicking the cigarette away as the MP-5 swung up.

The Beretta sighed once and a hole opened in the Russian’s forehead. The Executioner watched as the man’s body went slack. Even as the shooter collapsed to the ground, a bullet sizzled past Bolan’s neck. The soldier whirled toward the second Russian, the Beretta tracking in on the man. The handgun coughed once and a 9 mm slug lanced into the guy’s shoulder. A cry erupted from his lips and the Glock tumbled to the ground.

To his credit, the man recovered quickly from the pain of the gunshot, he bent down to get the pistol.

But with a couple of long strides, Bolan closed the distance between them and drove a foot into the man’s chest. The Russian shooter fell onto his behind with a grunt. The Executioner set his booted foot onto the man’s lost weapon and centered the Beretta’s muzzle on the man’s forehead.

“Stop,” Bolan said.

Instinctively, the man tried to raise his hands. He winced, grunted and stuck his good hand in the air. The guy glanced at the injury. Bolan looked at it, too, saw a dark shiny stain had formed around the bullet’s entry point. The man shifted his gaze to Bolan.

“I’m bleeding,” he said.

“And I bleed for you,” Bolan said.

McCarter’s voice buzzed in Bolan’s earpiece. In the same instant, both Lockwood and the Russian began peppering Bolan with expletive-filled tirades. The soldier tuned them out and keyed his microphone.

“Go,” Bolan said.

“Outside’s still clear,” McCarter said. “Need me to come in?”

Bolan did and told him so.

Signing off, Bolan turned to the Russian. The guy’s skin had paled from the blood loss and Bolan guessed the man would go into shock soon. He had to move quickly.

“How are you feeling?” Bolan asked.

“I told you I am bleeding, you fuck,” the guy replied. “I’m going to bleed to death.”

Bolan shook his head. “Doubt it,” he said. “Not from that wound. Oh, you’ll bleed. But it would take a while before you actually bleed out.”

Bolan paused a couple of beats. Then he waved the Beretta. “This is a Beretta 93-R. Shoots 9 millimeter rounds. Whisper-quiet, which is nice. I like that. But what I really like is that it fires three bullets at a time. Very handy.”

The man’s gaze was intent on Bolan, but he didn’t seem to be following what the soldier was saying.

“Now the gutshot?” he said. “The one I am about to give you? That’s going to really screw you up. Three bullets can tear the hell out of your organs. Maybe pierce your spine. I’m not a doctor, but you get a wound like that—” Bolan shrugged “—bleeding is the least of your worries.”

Another pause.

“Upside is, you won’t have to worry long. You’ll welcome death.”

Bolan saw the light go on in the guy’s eyes. The Russian licked his lips.

“What do you want?” the man said.

“Information.”

“Fine.”

* * *

THE HINTON TOWER stood among the office towers in London’s financial district. It’s hide of mirrored windows caught the spectrum of lights emanating from traffic signals and streetlights, and corporate signs moored to neighboring office towers.

The Executioner stepped from the shadows of an alley that ran between the Hinton Tower and its closest neighbor, a skyscraper that housed a global bank. A black nylon briefcase hung from his right shoulder. McCarter emerged a heartbeat later, a nearly identical briefcase slung over his shoulder.

Bolan’s ice-blue eyes surveyed the building’s exterior, matched it with the intelligence he’d gained. The thug who had given them this intel worked for a man named Malakov—who just so happened to be a high-ranking associate of Mikhail Yezhov. Malakov, once a tenant in the building, had bought it out of receivership after the bottom fell out of London’s commercial real estate market. That transaction had allowed him to install a tighter security. This included plainclothes, armed guards in the lobby, tougher firewalls on the computers managing the security system and a rooftop helipad to allow for private departures.

“Nice digs,” McCarter muttered.

Bolan nodded.

“You think our boy’s information was good?”

“He was about to bleed out,” Bolan replied. “What do you think?”

“Impending death makes for a hell of a truth serum. Good job bandaging him up, by the way.”

“Thanks.”