one of them hailed from a military background, and they were veterans of some of the world’s worst killing fields. This particular group consisted of three South Africans, an Israeli and a Russian, each formerly from the special forces of his respective country.
When it came to technical proficiency, each was a top-notch fighter, unafraid to mix it up with anyone. However, they all had little discipline and even less desire to develop what they did have. They were fighting for money, not cause or country. Doyle knew that made them inherently weaker than traditional soldiers.
A second van rolled in behind them, bits of gravel popping as it approached. The driver guided the vehicle left and parked it next to the first van. A second group of mercenaries joined the first. Doyle had split them into two teams. One would hit the building from the outside. The second would scour the inside for their targets.
“We need to take out the bastard,” Doyle said. “He’s starting to make noises, ones we don’t like. Sounds like he’s starting to have pangs of a conscience.”
A couple of the gunners shot Doyle a knowing smile. He ignored them.
“We find his change of heart unacceptable,” the Irishman said. “Another important point. Your target has a housemate, a young woman who’s carrying his child. We want no witnesses, period. Zero. Variation from that plan is unacceptable. She takes a bullet. If anyone’s too squeamish to drop the hammer on her, speak now or forever shut up. The last thing I need is for one of you nancy boys to choke when you get that stupid wench in your gunsights. Clear?”
He fell silent and slowly dragged his eyes over the motley assortment of hired guns lined up before him, made sure his expression telegraphed heavy doses of disdain for each of them. He wanted them to know that, while they got paid handsomely for their work, he had no personal regard for them. More important, he didn’t fear them or care what happened to them, as long as the mission succeeded.
“You also need to go from apartment to apartment,” he said. “Take out anyone unlucky enough to be home tonight. Do we all understand?”
A couple of them nodded, while others fixed their thousand-yard stares somewhere over his shoulder, like they’d heard enough.
“No questions? Fine, then get your damn asses in that building and raise some hell.”
T HE E XECUTIONER WAS a block away from his destination when he spotted several hardmen entering the apartment building through the front door. The sight of them set off his combat senses. The warrior brought the com-link to his lips and pressed the talk button.
“Jack?”
“Go, Sarge,” Grimaldi replied.
“I’ve got five guys entering Stephens’s building.”
“Weapons visible?”
“No. I’m acting on instinct.”
“Good enough for me,” Grimaldi said.
Bolan signed off. He trekked toward the building until he reached the fire-escape ladder, jumping up to grab the bottom rung in his powerful grip. Once his other hand got hold of it, he pulled himself up the ladder, hand over hand, until his foot could gain purchase on the lowest rung. Bolan reached the top of the ladder and pushed through a square opening that led onto the first landing. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the next level.
Slipping off his jacket, he wrapped it around his fist and lashed out at a windowpane. The glass disintegrated and fell inside the apartment on the other side. Bolan was through the window in seconds. He tossed aside the jacket and fisted the Beretta 93-R as he crossed the sparsely furnished apartment. No lights were on and it appeared to be empty.
Before he reached the door, he spotted shadows as they edged past the door. He halted in midstride and listened. The shuffle of feet registered with him, but he heard no one speaking.
He brought the com-link to his lips.
“Jack?” Bolan asked.
“Go,” Grimaldi replied.
“I’ve got a team on the second floor.”
“Clear,” Grimaldi said. “The second team just entered the building. I’m coming in from behind them. My guess is they’re either going to knock off any witnesses or they’re the B-team in case Stephens actually gets away.”
“Fat chance of that happening,” the soldier said. “Not under his own power, at least.”
Bolan signed off. In the next instant, from out in the corridor, he heard the crash of a door being kicked in. He grabbed and twisted the doorknob and yanked open the door.
He found three of the gunners stationed outside Stephens’s apartment. He assumed that the other two were already inside. A heavyset thug with his hair cut into a blue Mohawk stood between Bolan and Stephens’s suite. The other two gunners had taken up positions on either side of the door, apparently waiting for the command to enter.
They’d never get it. Not if Bolan could help it.
The gunner with the mohawk whipped around. His MP-9 came up with him. His lips were creased into a grin, and Bolan guessed that he was expecting one of the other residents, a helpless bystander. The Executioner was neither. The grin melted away, and the guy’s arm twitched as he started to bring the MP-9 to bear.
Bolan fired and three subsonic rounds drilled into the guy’s nose. His body suddenly fell limp, as though his skeleton had turned to dust. He crumpled to the floor. Bolan barreled forth, the Beretta seeking its next target.
The two men at the door spun toward him in unison. Bolan tapped the Beretta’s trigger twice and two swarms of bullets drilled into the torso of the man closest to him. The force pushed the man into the wall behind him, his gun falling from his grip.
Tracking fire erupted from the third killer’s MP-9 and cut a swath toward the big American. The soldier brought the Beretta to bear on his opponent. A 3-round volley erupted from the handgun’s barrel and lanced into the man’s throat, the hollowpoint rounds nearly decapitating him.
Bolan changed out magazines and headed for the apartment. The sound of gunfire crackled from inside the suite. He came around the door, his weapon held at shoulder level, and looked for a target. Running a quick check of the living room and kitchen, the first two rooms inside the apartment, the soldier double-timed it toward a hallway that ran off the opposite wall. He peered around the corner, spotting one of the gunners crumpled in the corner. A collage of a half dozen or so red blooms that indicated bullet wounds were stitched across his chest. Empty hands, palms pointed upward, hung at his sides and his head lolled to one side, mouth agape.
The second shooter, his body wrapped around the doorjamb, squeezed off several shots into the bedroom. He whipped back into the hallway, using the walls for cover. The instant he did, he spotted Bolan, who’d already bracketed him in the Beretta’s sights. Another trigger pull by the Executioner, and the man suddenly found himself retired from the gun-slinging game.
His limbs rubbery, he dropped to the floor, his body falling across the doorway he’d been shooting through moments ago.
The corpse’s sudden drop-in elicited a scream from someone inside the room. Bolan took a couple of steps down the hall but pulled up short. Small shafts of light, mottled by flocks of dust motes,
