the rules?”
“Coward,” the sentry said. His hand started to creep across his chest. He was going to try for the rifle. “Race traitor.”
“You know what I hate most about neo-Nazis?” Bolan asked, his voice calm, just the barest hint above a whisper. “You’re always convinced you’re the smartest people in the room. You think you’ve got it all figured out, and anybody who doesn’t agree with your hateful simpleton’s logic must be a sellout to the bogeymen you fear.”
“Zionist Jew-lover—” the neo-Nazi started to shout.
“Shut up,” Bolan said, and shot him in the throat.
The sentry hit the marble. His hands went to his throat. Trying and failing to stem the flow from the wound that had choked off his words, he stared up at Bolan, then bled out.
Chapter 2
Bolan made more than one circuit of the middle level of the courthouse, which opened onto a stairwell leading down to the main gallery, the doors of which were closed and chained from the outside. Four armed, camouflage-clad sentries stood with Kalashnikovs at the ready at the bottom of the semicircular stairs.
Within, Nitzche and the rest of his HN gunmen—those not detailed to secure the structure itself—would be passing the time however it suited them. Even through the thick walls of the courthouse, Bolan could hear the bullhorn-amplified shouts of hostage negotiators coming from behind the police cordon. Brognola and the Farm had provided a comprehensive report outlining what was known of the initial terrorist capture of the building. It showed an above-average level of military awareness that was reflected in the sentries’ cross-patrol communication.
Bolan had no respect for neo-Nazis, but this bunch had more training than was usual, probably because Nitzche had been calling the shots while building the organization to serve him as a private army. That meant the danger they represented to Bolan, and the resistance they could offer, was correspondingly greater than other groups of white supremacists he had faced. Nitzche was, according to their files, a strong and intelligent leader. Such an individual made all the difference when rallying followers like these.
It was time to start chipping away at the opposition.
Before Bolan moved back into the corridor, he positioned his captured remote-detonation mines. Then he circled around to the access stairs that led to the rear of the court. There was a second stairway inside the court itself, accessing a balcony observation level that connected, in turn, to the roof. These were used by reporters and people who attended the proceedings, and were far more public than the stairs at the rear.
The back steps were adjacent to the judge’s chambers and were, according to the plans and information sent to Bolan, used by the presiding judge if he wished to make a discreet exit to the second-floor offices.
Predictably, this access was mined, but none of the weapons bore antitamper switches, such as mercury triggers designed to detonate the device when it was disturbed. Such measures would have made short work of the counteroperation Bolan was running. His adversaries were trained, he decided, but they weren’t that trained. He permitted himself a wry smile as he repositioned two more of the mines at the edge of the access stairs.
The neo-Nazis probably thought an assault on the building would be loud and obvious. So they’d have plenty of warning. Nitzche’s people had likely planned to use the mines as a first-wave defense. They would have been effective, too, had it come to that. Brognola and the President had been correct to think one man could do what a coordinated and overwhelming use of force could not.
Such operations always entailed heavy losses. Bolan’s acceptable percentage of noncombatant deaths was zero, but there were other counterterror operatives who didn’t feel that way. Russian special forces had several times demonstrated that, and painfully, in one case putting down a high-profile hostage standoff using anesthetic gas. They had gassed the target building and then swept through it, checking the unconscious occupants and shooting the terrorists in the head. The tactic was brutal, efficient and very, very final.
The only problem was that the powerful gas used had caused overdose deaths in some of the civilians. Conventional force operations traditionally fared little better, even when simultaneous and coordinated guerrilla tactics were used. No, in this case, the Executioner was the hostages’ best hope of walking out of court alive.
Bolan intended to see that they did, every last one of them.
He was counting on the fact that, as much as they blustered about killing their captives, the neo-Nazis needed those human shields. The hostages were the only reason the building hadn’t been taken and cleared using overwhelming force. Even when the gunfire started, the terrorists would be reluctant to start shooting their only leverage. They would fear coming face-to-face with SWAT or military guns with nothing standing between them and righteous bullets.
That would be all the delay Bolan needed.
The rear door to the judge’s chambers was almost hidden, flush with the wall and paneled to match it. Through the door, he could hear voices.
“—a problem,” said the first man. “Several sentries aren’t reporting.”
“Try them again,” said the second man.
“I have. No good.”
Bolan placed the last of his stolen claymore-style mines in front of the concealed door. He backed away down the corridor, using the corner of the hallway to shield himself. He was exposed to either side, and was very aware that there were more neo-Nazi sentries patrolling the building. There was no helping that. When the bullets started to fly, he would rely on his training, his experience and the simple luck that had sustained him for years. When the Universe finally saw fit to put him down, he would be moving forward to meet it.
He drew both his pistols, covering either direction.
Time to go to work.
“SWAT! SWAT!” Bolan bellowed. “They’re everywhere! Blow the mines!” He pointed his Desert Eagle around the corner and pumped several rounds into the concealed doorway. The .44 Magnum hand cannon was deafening in the enclosed space.
The shouts of alarm from within the judge’s chambers were cut short by the splintering of wood and the scream of hot metal shrapnel. The claymore at the doorway had been triggered, shattering the barrier itself. Bolan’s ears began ringing from the concussion, but as with so many things, he would simply have to endure it. It was, he knew, nothing short of a miracle that he didn’t suffer significant and permanent hearing loss after so many years of firefights.
He thrust his pistols back in their holsters and brought up the M-4, charging the smoking crater where the chambers door had been. Blood stained the ragged opening and coated the floor beyond; the claymore had caught at least one of the terrorists inside. Bolan triggered a short burst of 5.56 mm rounds before vaulting through the doorway.
He almost took a bayonet in the face.
As he entered the room, his senses registered a flash picture of the terrain he faced. The judge’s desk was flanked by heavy upholstered chairs, one of which had been overturned. The desk itself was pocked from shrapnel, and everything on top had been shredded. Opposite this were smaller chairs, obviously intended for guests conferring in chambers. They had been knocked over and one was split in two, near the body of the sentry whose blood decorated the blown door. Another corpse was lying, broken and still,
