view, the barrel of his SMG hunting for a target. In addition to his gun, half of his face and one of his shoulders was visible.
A burst of gunfire screamed down the hallway, but again left Bolan and Turrin unharmed.
The H&K churned out a short burst. The bullets drilled into the gunner’s exposed shoulder. A cry of pain burst from the guy’s mouth. His weapon fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Surging to the doorway, Bolan caught the guy on his knees. The fabric covering the man’s left shoulder was ripped and darkened with blood. His hand was under his jacket as he struggled to pull something free.
Bolan’s right foot lashed out and caught the man in the chin. The kick knocked the guy backward and caused him to land on his injured shoulder, eliciting another yelp from him.
Bolan moved through the door and locked the H&K’s barrel on the man’s chest.
The hardman froze and then tried to raise both hands. The move apparently sent bolts of pain coursing through him because he inhaled sharply and grimaced. Prying his eyes open, he raised his good hand.
Bolan reached down, grabbed a handful of the guy’s jacket and yanked him to his feet. He spun the guy and shoved him face-first against a wall.
Looking at Turrin, he said, “You do the pat-down.”
“Jesus, why do I always have to frisk these guys?”
“Nimble fingers.”
Scowling, Turrin stepped forward and searched the man. His hand disappeared under the guy’s jacket and came out with a Walther .380. Handing it to Bolan, he continued the frisk, ultimately turning up a couple of magazines for the Walther and a folding knife.
He pocketed the knife.
Bolan ejected the magazine from the Walther and tossed it aside. He then threw the empty pistol in the opposite direction.
Bolan turned the guy around.
The soldier pulled a field dressing from his pocket. Unwrapping it, he handed it to the man, who took it and gingerly placed it on his wound.
“You speak English?” Bolan asked.
“Yes.”
“Where’s the woman?”
The man hesitated. Bolan reached out and pushed down on the hand the man was using to hold the dressing in place. The man grimaced and moaned, bending slightly at the knees.
The captive cursed in French.
“Let me ask again,” Bolan said. “Where is she?”
The guy pushed himself up to his full height. He leaned against the wall for support, but glared at Bolan.
“Downstairs,” he said, forcing the word through clenched teeth.
“Downstairs where? And how do I get down there?”
The hardman opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and clamped his eyes closed for a couple of seconds, apparently riding out another wave of pain.
“Downstairs where?” Bolan repeated.
With some effort, the guy opened his eyes, turned his head left and gestured with his chin. Even that much movement seemed excruciating to the man. A double door stood a few yards away.
“Go through there,” he said. “Follow the hallway. There’s a freight elevator at the end of it...”
“Go on.”
“Hit the B2 button. Get off and...”
The hardman’s voice trailed off again. He looked pale and Bolan guessed the blood loss was weakening the guy.
“Get off on B2.”
“Three doors,” the guy said. “You want the second one.”
“Locked?”
The guy nodded. “Security card.”
“The one around your neck?”
Another nod.
Bolan took hold of the card and pulled up, drawing the lanyard over the other man’s head.
“How many guards down there?”
“How many have you killed?”
“Ten.”
“Two, maybe. They might have gone elsewhere.”
“Where’s Dumond?”
“Look, I already told you where the lady is. Isn’t that enough?”
“Answer the question.”
“I sent him away. I knew this was a lost cause,” Bellew said, licking his lips, “so I told him to go.”
“Where would he go?”
The guy’s eyes looked heavy and he was unsteady. Bolan guessed the effects of shock and blood loss were overtaking him.
“I don’t know. There’s Paris. There’s Africa.”
“Where in Africa?”
“Evergreen. Monet....” His voice was barely audible.
His eyes slammed shut and his body sagged. Bolan let him slide to the floor.
“Not much to go on,” Turrin said.
Bolan shrugged. “You look for Dumond,” he said. “I’ll find Rodriguez.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Turrin bolted up the stairs to the second floor in search of Dumond. He wanted to capture or kill the guy. If Dumond was in the house, Turrin guessed putting him down was going to require blasting through a line of well-armed thugs.
And maybe he wouldn’t make it. It was something he always knew yet tried not to think about. When his old friend Mack Bolan called on him for help, it almost always required putting his life on the line. Turrin expected it. It was one of the few things in life he’d made peace with.
Before he could reach the top of the stairs, a hardman rushed into view. The guy was lining up a shot at Turrin with his Steyr AUG. His mind and body conditioned by countless near-death experiences, Turrin triggered his Beretta. The handgun coughed discreetly and a 3-round burst of 9 mm bullets drilled into his adversary’s chest. Surprise flashed on the man’s features an instant before his body dropped to the floor at the head of the stairs.
Turrin stepped over the corpse, moved onto the second floor and ran his gaze over his surroundings. The stairs led into a semicircular landing. Ornate tiles covered the floor and crystal chandeliers lit the upstairs. Railed walkways ran on either side of the stairway, and across the landing a door opened
