Ripple Effect

Stairs just inside, and Bolan led the way, knowing that Talmadge had a flat on the third floor. The stairs were solid, maybe concrete under threadbare carpet, so they didn’t squeak.

On three, Bolan let Dixon take the lead, moving along a narrow hallway redolent with smells of cabbage, pork and something else he didn’t want to think about. Maybe a version of despair.

Talmadge had found a place to hide where no one would expect to find him.

No one but the Executioner.

Dixon stood off to one side of the door and nodded.

Bolan reached across to knock.

NOTHING. THE RAPPING ECHOED back at them but brought no answer from inside the flat. No shuffling feet, no verbal challenge. No gunfire.

Nothing.

Dixon watched as his partner reached around the jamb and knocked again, more forcefully. They waited half a minute.

Still nothing.

“Keep watch,” Bolan said as he knelt before the door, extracting something like a wallet from one of his pockets. Dixon saw him open it and withdraw slender lock picks, then turned his full attention to the undemanding task of covering the hallway.

No one had emerged from any of the other flats to catch a glimpse of who was knocking on their neighbor’s door. He guessed it was that kind of place, where people minded their own business and resented nosy neighbors. Even so, he paid attention to the stairs and to the other doorways, keeping one hand on his Smith &Wesson in its belt holster.

Ready to shoot at the first sign of a hostile move.

What a day it had been, and not over yet!

In training, back at Quantico, Dixon and some of his classmates had talked about what they would do if they were ever placed in killing situations, where the only rule worth mentioning was door-die. With one exception, Dixon reflected, they’d been young males, full of piss and vinegar. Without exception, all of them had vowed to tag and bag all enemies of the United States if given half an opportunity.

Now Dixon had been graced with such an opportunity, and he’d surprised himself. He wouldn’t say the killings had been easy necessarily, but neither did he have the sickly feeling he’d expected, like an overdose of early childhood guilt. The shootings had been self-defense, beyond a shadow of a doubt, involving criminals or terrorists. He hadn’t started it, and he was definitely glad to be alive.

“You ever face a situation where it’s them or you,” his range instructor had remarked on one occasion, “make damn sure it’s them.”

Amen.

But he was nervous, like a restless sleeper waiting for his upstairs neighbor’s second shoe to drop before he dared to close his eyes. And Dixon couldn’t shake it.

Was it simple fear of getting caught? Of what came next? What if he—?

Click!

He turned and found the door open, Cooper crossing the threshold with his Glock in hand. A beat behind the action, Dixon drew his Smith & Wesson and followed, covering the left side of a smallish living room while Cooper took the right.

Gene Talmadge wasn’t home.

Dixon inferred it from the silence, then confirmed it with a hasty room-to-room search that left no piece of furniture unturned. He checked the tiny bathroom, while Matt Cooper scoured the closets and looked underneath the bed.

Their man was gone, with roughly two-thirds of the clothing from his bedroom closet. In the bathroom, Dixon found no toothbrush, no shampoo, no comb, no mouthwash.