and scanned the room that spread out to his left. Well appointed, with furnishings that had to have cost a small fortune, the living room had a wide window that overlooked the courtyard. Stratton’s visitor, Jason Novak, was standing at the window. His lean features paled when he saw Bolan and the weapon he was carrying.
“Claude, what the hell is going—?”
“Novak, keep the hands where I can see them,” Bolan ordered. He was running his free hand over Stratton as he spoke, checking the man for weapons and finding he was clean. “Stratton, sit over there. Do it now.”
Bolan turned his attention back to Novak. “What’s on the table today, Novak? Autorifles? RPGs? Electronic technology? You cut your deal yet?”
Novak didn’t respond, but the expression on his face told Bolan he had touched a nerve.
“Don’t tell this bastard a thing,” Stratton said.
Bolan raised a hand in Novak’s direction. “Take the jacket off.”
“What?”
“The coat. On the floor.”
Novak shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the carpet. A bolstered handgun rode his left hip, butt forward.
“Two fingers. Left hand. Take it out. Place it on the coffee table and join your pal.” Bolan picked up the revolver, a 5-shot, .44-caliber Charter Arms Bulldog. He flipped out the cylinder and let the bullets drop to the carpet. “This has to be illegal, Novak. UK has a no-handgun policy for civilians.”
“So what’s that in your hand, Yank? A stick of candy?”
“I admit to bending the rules.”
Bolan had seen the sheets of paper spread over the surface of the coffee table. He scooped them up and checked them out. One was a list of ordnance, covering a wide spectrum of weapons from handguns to autorifles, machine guns and even explosives. There were details of a port of destination in Jordan. The other sheet that caught his eye was a letter of introduction, which had been signed by Stratton. The final item was an airline ticket and hotel reservation—again the destination was Jordan.
“You guys are making this too easy for me,” Bolan said.
“I don’t know who you are,” Stratton said, sounding extremely nervous. He wasn’t used to being threatened. “But you should understand this is something you don’t want to get into.”
“Uh-huh,” Bolan said, “it’s something you should have got out of. Now it’s too late.”
“Too late? What is this crap?” Stratton asked. His attempt at bluffing failed. He tried another tack. “You realize who I am?”
Bolan shook his head. “I only heard about you recently. From what I read I haven’t missed a deal. You run errands for bottom-end terrorists. We’d call you a gofer in the States. Somebody calls, you fetch. Have I got it right?”
Stratton’s plump face reddened at the insult. “You bastard. I don’t run errands for anyone. They come to me. I…” He closed his mouth before he said too much.
“Okay, you got the drop on us,” Novak said. “So who the hell are you? A cop? Not British. American? Some agency? You can’t be CIA.”
“Why not?” Bolan asked.
Because I have some kind of Agency protection. Was that what Novak meant?
“I…”
“Jesus, Novak, shut your bloody mouth,” Stratton snapped. “Is this a rip-off?”
Bolan smiled. “You mean, a shakedown? I don’t think so, Stratton.” He folded the papers from the coffee table and slid them into a pocket inside his leather jacket.
That action forced Novak’s hand. He lunged forward, ignoring the weapon in Bolan’s hand, and cleared the coffee table in a desperate dive. One foot hit the top of the table, and he used it to propel himself at Bolan. In the fleeting moment before Novak made contact, Bolan saw Stratton move, too, pushing to his feet and turning toward an antique roll-top desk against one wall. He lost eye contact as Novak slammed into him, driving Bolan backward. They hit the room’s end wall, the soldier feeling the hard impact.
Novak clawed at Bolan’s throat, fingers attempting to gain a hold. He failed to divert his adversary’s gun hand, and it cost him when the solid bulk of the 93-R slammed down across the side of his skull. The blow dazed him, and Bolan struck again, aware that Stratton was still in the game. Novak gasped, shaking his suddenly bloody head and slackened his grip on Bolan’s throat. The soldier immediately slammed his left hand under Novak’s chin, the heel impacting hard. Novak gagged, head arcing back, and Bolan swung the Beretta one more time, steel crunching against the other man’s jaw. The blow spun Novak to one side and as he slumped to the carpet Bolan swiveled to face Stratton, and met the guy as he turned from the desk, his right fist gripping a SIG-Sauer P-226. The muzzle was already arcing in Bolan’s direction, Stratton’s flushed face taut with rage. The Executioner didn’t hesitate, his finger stroking the 93-R’s trigger. The pistol fired a suppressed 3-round burst into Stratton’s chest. He fell back against the desk, eyes widening in total shock, sliding to the floor, facedown, the P-226 spilling from his limp fingers.
CHAPTER THREE
Bolan stood in the silence, shaking his head at the sudden change in the situation. Soft to hard in a matter of seconds. No way could these events be predetermined.
He stripped off Novak’s belt and used it to secure the man’s hands behind his back. He lifted the unconscious man onto the leather couch, then bent over Stratton and took his belt. Kneeling in front of Novak, he bound the man’s ankles together.
Bolan took out his cell phone and contacted Stony Man. The connection was smooth and fast in spite of various cutouts and Bolan asked for Brognola. When the big Fed came on the line, Bolan explained the situation and made his request.
“You sure on this, Striker?” Brognola asked, then caught himself. “I know you wouldn’t be asking if you weren’t.”
“I need Stratton’s body removed and Novak in secure—and I mean secure—isolation. We remove Stratton’s Rolls from outside his place and have it hidden in a secure garage. Make it look like he’s gone on a trip. Novak’s car, as well. It might be less suspicious if his car is removed ASAP. It might give me some lead time. And Stratton’s phone needs monitoring for any incoming calls.”
“Give me his number and Aaron can access it and keep 24/7 surveillance. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment.”
“I’ll arrange the removals.”
“Novak’s flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll lay low until then. I also need a UK passport in Novak’s name with my photo and details on it. A suggestion—have the removal team arrive late in the evening. Less chance of anyone getting suspicious, or seeing it isn’t Stratton driving away. As soon as it’s done, I can leave and get back to the air base.”
“Stay close, Striker, I’ll call back with details.”
BOLAN
