a small flashlight from a pocket and let the light play over the walls and floor. Bolan picked up a few pots and pans hanging from the walls and some large knives arranged neatly on a steel cutting surface.
A chill passed down his spine as he heard the helicopter gain some altitude. The way Bolan figured it, a kill shot from the helicopter into the building could only be moments away. And the aircraft positioning itself farther from the strike zone told him attack was imminent.
Moving fast, they left the kitchen and entered what appeared to be a small dining room furnished with three wooden tables and a few scattered chairs. Bolan ran the flashlight in search of the door and saw a large wooden hutch had been moved in front of it, probably by at least two people. A glimpse of a shattered lock on the door explained the crude security measure. Sweat trickled down Bolan’s back and his heartbeat hastened as he realized they’d never get the door open in time.
His gaze settled on a large, rectangular picture window. Bolan peered through the dust-covered glass, but saw no one in the street. Apparently, the fighting had intensified enough to send even the most shell-shocked citizens running for cover. Surging across the room, he fired the MP-5 as he went. Bullets pierced the glass, causing the window to fall in on itself, showering the floor with jagged fragments.
Glass crunching under foot, Bolan and Rytova closed in on the exit, vaulted over the sill and through the opening. Both landed on their feet and continued sprinting, grabbing precious distance from the building as they waited for the inevitable.
Then it came.
With a hiss, the chopper unloaded more of its deadly payload. The explosion rumbled behind Bolan and, checking the reflection in a shop window that lay ahead of him, he saw flame and smoke burst from the windows of the building’s top two floors. Bolan threw himself into Rytova, knocked her to the ground and covered her body with his own. Pulverized bits of concrete and brick showered the pair. A piece of concrete the size of a cantaloupe landed inches from Bolan’s head. Smaller pieces pelted the soldier’s back and thighs as he rode out the blast.
With a low grumble, the building caved in on itself. A tide of smoke and dust rolled across the ground, covering the two in several inches of powdery debris.
The warbird circled overhead, then began its descent.
Bolan rolled to his feet. Figuring himself for a dead man, he raised the MP-5 and drew a bead on the cockpit of the approaching chopper.
A rush of vehicles coming from both directions changed his plans. Troop carriers outfitted with chain guns converged on the war zone. Searchlights scoured the area, settling on Bolan and Rytova. The Executioner found himself blinded by bright lights.
As he raised an arm to protect his eyes, Bolan heard the chopper suddenly gaining altitude. The roaring engine grew fainter as the craft turned and retreated.
“We are Nigerian peacekeeping troops,” a voice called out over a loudspeaker. “Drop your weapons, lie facedown on the ground. You will not get a second warning.”
Body battered, lungs choked with dust, Bolan didn’t need a second warning; he needed several hour’s rest, perhaps a hot shower and a meal.
He’d settle for a miracle.
With Dade and his secrets still missing, held captive by an as-yet unidentified enemy, countless American lives hung in the balance. And the involvement by the Russians—if the woman was indeed who she claimed—did nothing to ease Bolan’s mind. It all reeked of a much larger conspiracy, one he needed to unravel before all was said and done.
Still covering his eyes with his right arm, Bolan knelt and set the MP-5 gently to the ground. Backing away from the weapon, he laid face down on the pavement and waited to be arrested.
NIKOLAI KURSK EYED the pair of African hardmen with disdain and weighed who should die by his hand.
The men—two of Talisman’s flunkies—had arrived from the mainland bringing bad news. They fidgeted in front of him like boys before a schoolmaster, waiting for him to mete out some sort of admonition or punishment. On that front, he decided, he’d not leave them disappointed.
Uncoiling himself from his chair, Kursk came around his desk. Standing with his legs two feet apart, he kept his back rigid and crossed arms across his broad chest. At fifty-two, the man was in better shape than most men twenty years his junior. He ate sparingly, drank alcohol even less. He allowed himself a single vice: ten hand-rolled cigarettes a day.
He began each day with an hour-long run, followed by another hour of yoga and a third of weight training. The former KGB agent knew that in his line of work his body had to remain strong, ready to take on all comers. Everyone wanted to knock Nikolai Kursk from his perch, even those closest to him, and he devoted hours daily to making sure he was ready to fend them all off.
However, he rarely met a challenger with the strength and courage to offer him a real fight, only brief diversions to break up the monotony of running his worldwide gunrunning empire. The world had an overabundance of tough guys and bullies, but very few true warriors. To his way of thinking, that was a shame.
The Russian appraised each man, stifling a yawn as he did. The man in charge stood six inches shorter than Kursk’s own six-foot-four-inch height. He wore crisp camou pants and a brown T-shirt. He’d surrendered his pistol belt before gaining an audience with Kursk.
Like most Revolutionary United Front soldiers, he’d adopted a nickname, one that was, under the circumstances, utterly ridiculous. He called himself Iron Man. Kursk considered him anything but.
The second man stood just two inches shorter than Kursk and, the Russian guessed, weighed about 250 pounds. Dressed similarly to Iron Man, he took in his surroundings with a sociopath’s dead stare. Unlike his associate, he seemed to sense, perhaps even revel in the violence threatening to explode within the room at any second. Whether from nervous habit or giddy anticipation, he continually ground the knuckles of his right hand into the palm of his left hand.
To Kursk’s amusement, the bigger man called himself Blood Claw.
Kursk rested his eyes on Iron Man, waited for him to speak and let him squirm a while longer. After a few more moments of strained silence, Iron Man did so.
“Colonel Talisman sends his deepest regrets.”
“His regrets, but not himself,” Kursk replied. “He is a coward.”
“You misjudge him,” Iron Man said. “Even as we speak, he’s on the mainland trying to correct the problem.”
“He should have corrected it when it first occurred. He had ample warning. I gave him guns, technology and support. Still, he let the whole incident go to hell. Now I must pick up the pieces.”
Iron Man took a few steps forward. The plastic tarp surrounding him and Blood Claw crunched underfoot as he did. That they were the only two required to stand upon the protective floor covering hadn’t escaped their notice. He looked at the tarp, swallowed hard and returned his gaze to Kursk.
“With all due respect, Mr. Kursk, your own men, Cole and Armstrong, did no better. They had helicopters, missiles and the cover of darkness. Still, they failed. Our men fought in the open. We were only to be bait.”
Kursk remained silent, knowing Iron Man’s words rang true. The Russian had gotten word of the American interloper shortly after he’d arrived in Sierra Leone. A contact within the State Department
