CHAPTER SEVEN
The morning sun was peeking over the horizon by the time Mack Bolan arrived at the address Volkov had given him.
The rallying point turned out to be a dumpy house in the heart of the Bronx. The soldier had hoped the placed was isolated enough that he could do recon, but his luck didn’t hold out on that count. The houses were close together. What frustrated him most was that he knew what Lutrova planned to do and he had some idea of when; he just didn’t know how Godunov would put it together. He also had to keep one eye on the Wolf through this; the guy wasn’t trustworthy and Bolan didn’t think he’d yet bought into the Frankie Lambretta cover.
One thing Bolan had become convinced of: neither Volkov nor Godunov ultimately called the shots here. The entire operation was being led by someone much higher up—someone with both financial and political clout that far surpassed the wildest imagination. That was the head Bolan would have to chop off the Hydra before he could make a dent in the RBN, and it was an operation he surmised would take him straight into the flames of perdition before it was over.
Bolan swung the nose of his vehicle into the drive and eased to a stop behind a silver SUV. The soldier quickly withdrew his Beretta, checked the action and then holstered the weapon. Volkov had instructed him to dress in business attire, so Bolan had opted for a conservative gray suit with silver pinstripes, light blue shirt and light gray silk tie. He had no idea what awaited him beyond the doors of this shack of a house with peeling paint and weathered shingles. For all he knew, he could be walking straight into an ambush, one for which he had physically and mentally prepared himself during his drive.
Bolan climbed out of the sedan, walked to the door and pressed the buzzer. He stood there a minute and realized he hadn’t heard the buzzer from inside, so after waiting a minute he knocked. Soon he heard footsteps and then the door opened to reveal an unfamiliar face. Bolan searched his mental files, but didn’t recognize the guy. Probably another freelancer who had managed to stay under the radar of law enforcement; it appeared Volkov remained consistent in his hiring practices.
The guy had sandy-brown hair and blue eyes a few shades darker than Bolan’s. He looked at him through the ratty screen a moment—sizing him up, as most professional guns-for-hire would—before opening the door and gesturing for him to enter. As Bolan crossed the threshold, the guy stuck out his hand.
Bolan noted the Southern accent as he said, “You Frankie?”
“Yeah,” he replied with a nod as he shook the man’s hand.
“Come on in, the boss is waiting.”
The man led him through a cramped hallway with a worn hardwood floor that appeared dusty with disuse. They continued to a back room that opened onto an equally cramped kitchen. Two other men dressed in business suits sat there. They looked up as the two entered, and Bolan’s escort gestured at them.
“That’s Igor, that’s Keck.”
Bolan appraised each man in a moment. Igor had a short and wiry build; he wore his blond hair in a high-and-tight cut, and his hazel eyes flashed with intensity in the light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Keck looked almost East Indian or Pakistani. A thin, faint scar ran down the left side of his face near to his ear, and Bolan gauged it as a knife wound of some kind, perhaps from straight razor. He also wore his dark hair short, and his expression seemed unreadable.
Each offered his hand in turn, and Bolan shook them briefly. The speaker then said, “I’m Billy, but everybody just calls me Southpaw. We go by first names only here. Guys, this is Frankie.”
Bolan nodded at them and then asked, “Where’s the Wolf?”
“Right here.”
All eyes turned to the kitchen entrance, and Bolan felt a chill crawl up his neck. He hadn’t even heard Volkov come in, and that was no mean feat. Bolan always maintained a keen awareness in his surroundings, yet Volkov had somehow managed to approach his rear flank without a sound. The Executioner filed that fact away, intent on making sure it didn’t happen ever again.
“And I don’t go by that whenever we’re in public. You call me Yan or boss, don’t much care which. Got it?”
Bolan nodded. “Suits me.”
“Fine.” Volkov made a show of looking at his watch. “You’re right on time. That’s good news, because it means you listen and pay attention to detail. Let it become a habit and you just might have a future with this crew.”
“Wilco…boss.”
Volkov nodded and his expression seemed to soften slightly. “We only have a few minutes, so I’m not going to spend a lot of time explaining this to you. Our first job is we got to head upstate to Saint Bartholomew’s. I can explain more on the way up there. This is initiation for you, so I’ll keep the details simple. You’ll follow instructions given by me or Southpaw, there. He’s in charge when I’m not present. Understood?”
“Fine. But I’m just wondering why we’re going to a church.”
“Not a church, a school.”
“Catholic prep school,” Southpaw added, but he quickly shut his mouth when Volkov threw him a look.
Bolan filed the information for later while pretending not to notice the exchange between him and Southpaw. If Volkov had just used his real first name, Bolan knew it would be easier to pick him out of the list of potentials compiled by the Stony Man team. The mention of the school was of a bit more interest to the Executioner, but it also left him with a sense of trepidation. A group of grown men dressed in business suits were going to a Catholic school in upstate New York? Bolan didn’t get it—there had to be some connection to Godunov’s activities, but he couldn’t see it.
Without another word, the men prepared to leave as per Volkov’s instructions. They decided to go in two separate vehicles, with Bolan, the Wolf and Southpaw in one—probably they wanted to keep an eye on the newcomer—while Igor and Keck took the other. Fortunately, Bolan’s rental had the most room, so they opted to let him take the wheel. Bolan counted this decision a fortunate stroke of luck; at least he’d have access to his entire arsenal.
It took them less than two hours to reach the upstate location. On the surface, St. Bartholomew’s wasn’t much different from any other Catholic school. Bolan could only surmise there had to be something of value inside the school. He’d already activated the GPS homing signal on his cell phone so that Stony Man had a track on him. Not that he was worried; the Executioner could most assuredly take care of himself in such a situation. What bothered him more was that they were headed into a potential fire zone filled with innocent teachers, school staff and children.
And Bolan wondered how he would keep the bloodshed confined to the enemy.
IT WASN’T LONG after they arrived at Saint Bartholomew’s Catholic Preparatory School that Bolan could pretty much deduce the enemy’s plan.
Volkov ordered him to pull the sedan to the curb on the far side of the grounds, the entire length of which was bordered by a brick wall, with wrought-iron spires on top covered by the gray-white fingers of dormant ivy. He then instructed Southpaw to stay with Bolan while he went to confer with the other two, who had followed them in an older blue van. The thing was just nondescript enough not to draw attention, but Bolan didn’t doubt it had quite a number of special modifications. Not as practical as the virtual war wagon he drove, which was, unbeknownst to his new “colleagues”,
