chattered from the floor below Bolan, and he knew Grimaldi likely was taking fire. His grip tightened on the Beretta. He wanted to go downstairs and help his friend, but he couldn’t risk Stephens escaping. Without the backup team outside the building, Stephens could slip through his bedroom window and take off, either with or without his girlfriend.
“Come on,” Bolan shouted again. “I want to talk. I have some questions for you.”
“Screw you,” the woman yelled. “You just want to kill us.”
“If I wanted you dead,” Bolan replied, “I never had to lift a finger. I could’ve just let these guys take you out. Both of you.”
Ears still ringing from the gunfire, Bolan tried to hear whether they were speaking to each other, but the surrounding noise made it too hard.
“I’m coming out,” the woman shouted.
“Okay,” Bolan yelled.
“Don’t hurt me.”
“Sure.” Standing off to the side of the door, Bolan trained his pistol on it, felt his body tense slightly as a slow-moving shadow poked through it and began to grow and climb up the wall opposite the door. The woman came into view, her hands held above her shoulders. She took a sideways glance and saw Bolan aiming his weapon at her. Her eyes grew wide.
Bolan motioned with his hand for her to come closer.
“It’s okay,” he said.
She started toward him. After her third shuffling step, another shape filled the doorway and Bolan turned his attention to it. Stephens came into view, his weapon hunting for a target. The soldier changed the Beretta selector switch, and the weapon coughed out a single shot that whistled past Eva and slammed into the man’s hip. The impact spun Stephens and caused his shooting hand to flail. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the weapon pumped a round into the ceiling.
The soldier surged forward, his pistol held high. He shoved the woman aside and inserted himself between her and Stephens. The other man, his attention temporarily focused on his injury, saw Bolan bolt for him and raised his pistol. The soldier’s hand stabbed out and he grabbed Stephens’s wrists, shoving his hand skyward. He stabbed the Beretta’s still-hot muzzle against Stephens’s neck, and he responded with a yelp.
“Drop it,” Bolan shouted. His face was only inches from Stephens’s.
The pistol fell to the floor with a dull thud.
The Beretta still trained on his opponent, Bolan gathered up the fallen weapon and shoved it into the waistband of his blue jeans.
From behind him, the woman screamed, “You bastard! What the hell are you doing to him?”
She took a step toward Bolan, who turned his head slightly to look at her. She halted. Anger flared in her eyes and she lowered her fist, which had been raised over her head like a hammer. She looked at Bolan, then at her boyfriend, then back at him.
Bolan, his heart still pounding from the confrontation, said, “Get me a sheet.”
She gave him a confused look.
“A sheet,” he repeated. “His hip needs to be bandaged.”
The tautness of her lips signaled that she still was angry, but she disappeared into the bedroom. Bolan hoped she was going to retrieve the sheet and not another weapon. He hated to let her out of his sight, but it couldn’t be helped.
Stephens remained propped against the wall. His face looked pale; it glistened with sweat. His breathing was ragged. He pressed a bloodied hand to his injured hip and glowered at the Executioner.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Not a friend,” Bolan said.
“No shit.”
“You’re going to tell me things,” Bolan said.
Stephens swore at him.
Bolan wagged the Beretta’s muzzle at the floor. “Lay down,” he said. “I want to have a look at that hip.” Stephens gave him an uncertain look. After a few seconds, though, he sighed and eased himself to the ground. Bolan gripped one bicep to help him to the floor.
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