Nuclear Storm

Dae-Jung poured sake into two cups, his hand trembling slightly. He looked several years older than the CIA’s most recent picture of him. Bolan wasn’t sure if that was due to the stress of being on the run, or due to living a 24/7 party lifestyle for the past few weeks.

Dae-jung picked up one of the glasses and stared into the liquor as if he might be able to see the answer to his problems in it. “I worked for those bastards and our glorious leader for twenty-four years, always maintaining the party line. I did all right, too—cars, summer homes, even vacations. But when my daughter and her entire family starved to death in 2008, well, there’s only so much a man can turn a blind eye to, right?”

Bolan nodded. “I would agree with that.”

Dae-jung suddenly held out the sake cup to him. “Before I agree to anything, you must drink with me. Otherwise, I will order my bodyguards to have you killed.” His smile said he was joking, while his eyes, suddenly clear and piercing, said he wasn’t.

Bolan accepted the glass and held it up. “To your daughter and her family—may they rest in peace.”

The drunk scientist clinked his glass against Bolan’s, spilling a rivulet of liquid down the side, then downed the shot in one gulp. Bolan followed suit, feeling the smooth rice wine heat his palate as it slid down his throat. He placed the empty glass back on the table and watched Dae-jung.

“Can I stay in Las Vegas? I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas!” the doctor proclaimed loudly as he grabbed a magnum bottle of champagne and refilled his glass.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Always aware of the bodyguard, Bolan leaned closer to the small Korean. “However, it would be in your best interest if we were to leave now. Doubtless there are others who are looking for you as well who don’t have your well-being in mind, and if I was able to find you, they will soon, too.”

Dae-jung swigged his champagne, a drop trickling down his chin. “I’ll party tonight, then go with you tomorrow morning, sleep on the flight over.”

“With all due respect. Doctor—” Bolan was interrupted by Tokaido’s voice in his ear.

“Striker, you’ve got armed men coming down the hall—shit, they just took out both guards outside the door! They’re gonna be inside any second!”

Chapter 2

Bolan was already standing, trying to lift the drunken scientist to his feet as the bodyguard pushed through the crowd of women to intercept him.

“Hostiles are outside. You’d better check the door!” The bodyguard frowned at Bolan’s orders, but the big man wasn’t deterred. “Get over there now!”

The guard’s indecision cost him dearly. As his gaze flicked to the door, the woman Bolan had pegged as an undercover bodyguard drew a dagger—apparently ceramic, to bypass the metal detector—from a secret compartment in the bottom of her small purse, stepped behind the bodyguard and slit his throat. The man clasped both hands to his spurting neck as he sank to the floor, already dying. The woman bent over him, her hand darting inside his tux jacket for his pistol.

As men and women reacted to the cold-blooded murder, some screaming, others trying to get out of the way, Bolan stepped toward the Asian assassin and snapped a kick into her face like he was punting a football. The woman arched backward as she flew through the air, blood flying from her crushed nose. She landed on an ottoman and slid off, out cold.

Bolan moved to the dead bodyguard, scooped up the dagger from the carpet and drew the man’s pistol, a compact HK P-2000. He drew the slide back just as there was a commotion at the door—a sound like tearing cloth, followed by the crunch of splintering wood. The Executioner walked to the doctor, who was looking around befuddled as his party disintegrated into chaos. “What’s happening?”

Bolan didn’t reply. He grabbed him by his silk shirt and hauled him over the back of the couch, climbing over it and crouching as the sound of silenced gunfire could be heard on the other side of the room. More screams and shouts followed, along with angry commands yelled in Mandarin, then Korean, then English.

“Nobody move! Stand up! Everyone keep your hands where I can see them!”

Hearing the shouted orders, the confused doctor raised his hands and tried to stand, but was pulled back down by Bolan. “Doctor, I’m going to need you to stay here for the moment, all right?”

“Sure, Mister…whatever you say.”

Bolan kept one ear on what was going on in the rest of the room while he contacted Tokaido. “They’re inside, multiple gunmen. Can you give me a sitrep on where they are in the room?”

“Negative, Striker. I counted four gunmen in the hallway, but there are no cameras inside the suite. No one’s outside but the dead guards, so they must all be in there. I’m afraid that’s all the data I have right now.”

Crawling to the edge of the long couch, Bolan peeked out just enough to see two pairs of combat boots walking up and down a line of dress shoes, high heels and lots of bare feet. He couldn’t see the second pair of shooters, but muffled screams and shouts gave him a pretty good idea of where they were. More threats and the smack of a fist or gun butt on flesh were followed by crying and the addition of more feet on the floor, leaving Bolan with an even bigger problem—if he tried to take out the gunmen, there was a good chance he might hit one of the partygoers. While the chances were excellent that none of the attendees were completely innocent, as far as he knew none had done anything to warrant getting killed on this night either. But without being able to see where the gunmen were standing, it was too risky to engage them. The last thing Bolan wanted was a bloodbath in the opulent suite.

“Where’s the doctor? You have one minute to produce him, or we will shoot one of you each minute he’s not brought out.”

Hearing this, the doctor started to stand again, but Bolan pulled him back down. “Let me go—” he said before Bolan clamped a hand over his mouth.

“You have to stay down and keep quiet!” Dae-jung tried to move his head, fumbling at Bolan’s fingers. “Are you going to stay here and be quiet?” The doctor nodded, so Bolan took his hand away.

“I’m not going to let innocent people die because of me!” he whispered.

“I’m not either, Doctor, but you have to trust me.” Spotting the edge of the floor screen next to the couch, Bolan got an idea. “Please, just stay here for another minute. If I get killed, you can do whatever you want, okay?”

“Okay.”

Bolan began edging behind the screen, which was only a few inches from the hotel room wall. He couldn’t move very fast without risking bumping into his cover, which would most likely get the screen and him both stitched with bullets.

“Fifteen seconds! Where is he?” the threat and demand was repeated in Korean and Chinese.

Bolan shimmied behind the screen as fast as he dared. When he reached the second one from the end, he stopped and pressed the tip of the ceramic blade to the cloth in front of him.

“Time’s up! You, come here! Get over here!” Bolan heard the smack of a fist or hand striking flesh, and gritted his teeth as he slowly drew the knife down to make a slit big enough to see through. When he put his eye to it, however, all he saw was a herringbone pattern.

One of them was standing right in front of him! However, Bolan immediately realized that wasn’t a problem, but a stroke of good fortune. Quickly he enlarged the slit until he could see the back of the man’s head.

“All right, last chance! Where is Dae-jung? Fine—she dies now!”

Bolan slipped the barrel of his pistol through the slit, the muzzle only an inch from the man’s skin. Placing the ceramic blade between his teeth and his free hand on the screen, he squeezed the trigger.

As soon as the shot went off, Bolan shoved the screen over, the ruined artwork falling on the dead gunman. Instantly he took in the scene. A group of about thirty partygoers huddled against the wall, with three gunmen in the room, two standing a few feet behind the leader, who had an Asian woman in a crimson slit sheath dress next to him, a pistol at her temple. As Bolan had expected, the three shooters stared at him with wide eyes, having been taken by surprise at their partner’s head suddenly exploding and spraying blood and brains all over them.

Also, as Bolan had hoped, except for man with the hostage, he had a perfect line of sight on the other two killers.

He lined up his pistol on the farthest one and shot him in the head, then tracked the second one and put two into his chest as he was bringing around his submachine gun. Both bodies dropped to the floor before the sound of Bolan’s shots died away.

That left him and the lead hit man, who was using the woman as a shield. “Don’t move or she dies!”

Bolan was pretty sure he could take out the man without getting the woman killed, but movement near the attacker’s foot caught his attention. The Samoan, his chest stained red from his wounds, was pulling his bulk along in the hallway. He left a thick red trail behind him, but was almost close enough to grab the man. He just needed a few more seconds.

Bolan kept his pistol trained on the small part of the gunman’s face that he could see. “I don’t want anyone else to die, but I can’t let you take the doctor out of here either.”

“He’s not going anywhere.” The hit man was starting to aim his pistol at Bolan when the Samoan plunged a butterfly knife into his target’s foot. The man screamed and his pistol went off target as he shoved the woman away and turned to shoot his attacker. He never got the chance.

Bolan squeezed the trigger of his HK pistol once. The .40 caliber bullet cored the hit man’s head, spraying the people nearest to him with more bits of bone and brain matter as the corpse fell to the floor, causing a few screams and cries from several women.

The Executioner was moving before the body landed, walking to one of the men and grabbing his submachine gun, an oversized pistol with a second handle that he recognized as a Brugger & Thomet MP-9. Both of the covering gunmen were armed with the same weapon and carried a spare 30-round magazine. Bolan tucked the HK into the small of his back and grabbed everything, tucking the spares into the pockets of his suit jacket. Then he ran back to the couch and got the scientist on his feet.

“Time to go, sir.”

“If you say so.” Keeping one of the TMPs ready, Bolan had slung the other one over his shoulder and used his free hand to support Dae-jung as they headed for the door. The doctor pasted a smile on his face and addressed the group. “I thank you all for coming, and suggest that if you don’t want to be here when the police show up, you should leave immediately.”

“Two minutes after we’re gone.” Bolan added, seeing several of the guests edging toward the door. One look at him and the lethal-looking submachine gun in his hand, and they all stopped in their tracks.

Bolan kept moving the Korean toward the door, stepping around the motionless Samoan. Dae-jung gasped when he saw the huge body. “Felipo’s dead?”