calm yourself. We are still hurting from the last time you visited vengeance upon us.”
Bolan looked around. “Over twenty gunmen shows you have some fight left in you. And the Uzis I took from your men—”
“No,” Shinkov replied, cutting him off quickly. “Those were not my men. Those who would work for us have no love for any person claiming authority back in Moscow.”
Bolan frowned, keeping his glare cold. Shinkov was sweating and he took a quick sip of tea, as if to wash a lump stuck in his throat. “Are you not the leader of London’s organasatya? ”
“That I am, but the mafiya is not a tool of the Kremlin,” Shinkov explained.
Bolan looked around the room. “Then why do half the faces I see in here belong to veterans of KGB operations in Great Britain?”
Shinkov cleared his throat. “These were men who had nothing after glasnost, the great peace accords between enemies separated by the iron curtain. They had no home to return to, so they needed someone to give their lives order and structure.”
Bolan nodded. “And you needed more bullies to terrify the immigrants.”
Shinkov winced at the accusation. “When Rastolev came here, he threatened us. He promised that he would drop the sky on us.”
“What did Rastolev want from you to have peace?”
“Guns. You are right, those are my weapons,” Shinkov said, sounding genuinely ashamed. “He also wanted protection and a safehouse.”
“For fifteen men,” Bolan said.
Shinkov’s eyes widened at the estimation of Rastolev’s forces. “Yes.”
“So there are four left,” Bolan said.
“Including Rastolev,” Shinkov replied.
Bolan ran through his mental roster of cold-war era enemy operatives. Rastolev was the code name for a young, up-and-coming hard case who had allegedly been killed in action during the final, painful days of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. There had been rumors of his presence in various operations in the Commonwealth of Independent States, but unlike the Executioner, the rumors of Rastolev’s existence were relegated to the same veracity as sightings of dinosaurs in the Congo. “Rastolev’s supposed to be dead.”
“The same could be said of you, American,” Shinkov replied. “It’s just that we are so familiar with your footprints, especially since they are still fresh on our necks.”
“I would be flattered, but I didn’t come here to have my ego massaged,” Bolan growled.
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