screamed. Bolan rose to his feet and scooped Lata out of the way as the sofa crashed to the floor from the apartment above.
In his rush to rescue the little girl, he didn’t feel the tremors of the aftershock immediately. The woman winced as the weight pressed against her. Bolan pushed Lata into the gap he’d made to the next apartment.
“Stay,” he told her firmly in simple Turkish. He looked around. He couldn’t give up on this girl’s mother. Then he saw the kitchenette by the door. He strode over and opened the cabinets and found several bottles. He couldn’t tell what they were exactly, their labels unintelligible, but one he saw had bubbles, and another was a form of greasy oil. He pocketed five bottles of various soaps and oils, then looked around. He could make it more slippery for the mother to slide out, but he needed leverage. The pillar that wedged her in had shifted, which meant it could now be moved, but its weight could crush her if he slipped. He saw a coatrack and tested it. It was a chunk of solid wood, and Bolan kicked off the flimsy hooks on one end before slipping through the doorway.
The injured woman looked at him, frightened. Bolan gave her a nod, then drove the shaft of the coatrack under the pillar. Bracing the wood across his hip, he plucked out the bottles and pulled off their tops. Greasy, slippery fluids poured onto the floor, soaking beneath the trapped woman. She squirmed, but when her shoulders slipped loosely, without any traction, understanding crossed her features.
Bolan pushed all his weight into lifting the wedged pillar. The coatrack’s shaft started to crackle under the strain. The woman gasped as the weight stopped pressing on her.
“Now!” Bolan ordered, keeping his muscle pressed into his improvised lever. She fumbled and slipped, then pushed against the thing that had trapped her, and found the leverage to slide free. Lata rushed to the doorway and took her mother’s hand, and the Turkish mother and daughter stumbled back into the apartment as the wood snapped against Bolan’s shoulder.
The Executioner staggered back, and the pillar hammered into the floor. A wash of rubble assaulted his legs, but he managed to kick free.
Lata was leading her mother to the next apartment when Bolan caught up with them and steered them toward the window. With a powerful kick, he shattered the glass and, using the fallen sofa’s cushion, swept away broken shards to make it safe for them. They slipped out and Bolan dived through just as the ceiling came down on the heels of another aftershock.
The woman wrapped her arms around Bolan’s neck and kissed his cheek, tears flowing.
Abood pulled up in their stolen car, and Bolan knew that he couldn’t leave these two behind.
“We’ve got passengers,” he told Abood. He gestured for the Turkish refugees to climb into the back seat.
“I thought you were in a hurry,” Abood said, looking back at Lata, who rewarded the journalist with a bright smile.
Bolan refused to take the bait and slid into the shotgun seat. “We’ll drop them off and recover the medical supplies.”
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