or let him go, not without knowing what was going on. The door opened. Ackroyd’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. His mouth was half-open, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. The Nebraskan threw himself at the old man. Before Bolan could take him out, a pistol snarled, biting into the wall of the motel. Plaster and Sheetrock spattered his cheek.
The man Bolan had shot moments earlier had pulled his piece. The front of his shirt was red and his eyes were unfocused, but even a dying man could be dangerous. He fired again and Bolan lunged to the side, his hip connecting painfully with the rail of the walkway. The Beretta spoke eloquently and the wounded man fell back, his weapon clattering to the ground.
Bolan turned. The Nebraskan stepped out of the room, holding Ackroyd in front of him. He had his weapon pressed against the old man’s head. The Nebraskan said nothing. He didn’t even glance at the dead man. He simply backed away, dragging Ackroyd with him. Bolan began to follow, the Beretta extended. “Stop,” the Nebraskan said, “or I’ll paint the wall with his brain.”
“I don’t think so,” Bolan said, without stopping. “I think you need him and his brain intact. That sound about right, Mr. Ackroyd?”
Ackroyd cleared his throat. He looked frightened, but he was controlling himself. Bolan’s estimation of Ackroyd climbed a few notches. “I—and I want to be clear about this—have no idea what’s going on,” the old man said, his voice rusty from years of drink and cigarettes.
“Quiet,” the Nebraskan said.
“You’re being kidnapped, Mr. Ackroyd. Do you have any idea why that might be happening?” Bolan asked calmly. Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink. He concentrated on the Nebraskan.
“Who’s asking?” Ackroyd said. The old man had guts. Bolan was impressed.
“The man who’s trying to keep you alive,” Bolan replied. The Nebraskan took another step back. Bolan took another step forward.
“I was told this place was safe,” Ackroyd said. “I was told I’d be left alone.”
“Somebody lied,” Bolan said, “or made a mistake.”
“Probably both,” Ackroyd agreed.
“Shut up,” the Nebraskan snapped. His grip on Ackroyd tightened. The old man winced as the Nebraskan’s arm flexed against his throat. He had pluck, but he was still on the wrong side of sixty, and hadn’t been keeping himself in shape.
“I can keep this up all day, friend,” Bolan said, a note of menace creeping into his voice. “Let him go.”
Something in the Nebraskan’s eyes made Bolan tense. A shadow crossed the ground in front of him. Big arms snapped tight around him like the jaws of a trap and he was jerked from his feet even as the air was squeezed out of his lungs. Bolan gasped. The German had recovered, and far more quickly than Bolan had anticipated. The Nebraskan had been drawing him out, giving his compatriot time to recover.
The German shook him, and Bolan lost his grip on the Beretta. “Go, Sparrow!” the German shouted as he squeezed Bolan hard enough to make his ribs creak. “Take the old man and go. I will handle this fool! Vril-YA!”
Bolan grunted and drove his head back, into the German’s face. He heard bone crunch and the grip on him loosened. Bolan slithered free and dropped to the ground. He twisted around and drove a hard blow into the German’s belly. The man gasped and staggered, but didn’t fall. His fists smashed down on Bolan’s head and shoulders like hammers. The Executioner lunged forward, tackling his opponent. They crashed against the wall.
The German was strong and he knew how to fight. But Bolan knew how to win. Two swift, savage strikes to the German’s kidneys made him gasp in agony. He responded with a knee to Bolan’s groin. The Executioner caught the blow and sank his fingers into the meat of the man’s knee, twisting savagely as he rammed his palm into a momentarily vulnerable windpipe. The German fell back against the wall, gagging. Bolan didn’t let him recover. He unleashed a rapid salvo of precise hammerblows to the man’s belly and sides.
The German stayed on his feet with a tenacity that was almost impressive. Wheezing, he lunged. His fingers clawed at Bolan’s face and throat, and the Executioner found himself forced back until his spine connected with the rail. Bolan shoved his arms up and swatted aside the German’s hands. The heel of Bolan’s palm struck his opponent’s already mangled nose, forcing fragments of splintered cartilage and bone up toward the man’s brain. Bolan spun as the German pitched backward with a gurgle.
The Nebraskan—Sparrow—hadn’t wasted any time. He’d dragged Ackroyd down the stairwell on the other side of the walkway and shoved the old man into the SUV. He was climbing in himself when he saw Bolan looking down at him. Sparrow cursed and raised his weapon. He fired, driving Bolan back from the rail. The SUV’s engine growled to life and gravel crunched beneath its tires. Bolan sprang to his feet, caught the rail and swung his legs over. He dropped onto the SUV as it backed out of its parking spot, the force of impact radiating upward through the soles of his boots to his skull. Unprepared, he was flung off his feet as Sparrow twisted the wheel, whipping the vehicle around. Bolan rolled off the roof and slid down the windshield, striking the hood. He scrambled desperately to keep from slipping off and falling beneath the vehicle’s wheels.
Then, in a squeal of rubber, the SUV cut a sharp turn and hurtled out of the parking lot, taking the Executioner with it.
Anchorage, Alaska
Saul Mervin stubbed out his cigarette. On the television, the President was addressing Congress. Mervin looked at the digital timer on the television set that occupied one wall of his hotel room. Nevada was an hour ahead of Alaska, he recalled. That meant Sparrow’s call was only an hour late. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think. There could be many reasons for the delay.
Mervin was a spare man, lacking any excess flesh or muscle. He was a thing of narrow specifications, with a chin like a scoop and eyes the color of faded dollar bills. He lacked distinguishing features, the work of years and a careful attention to detail. No agency had his fingerprints or photos on file, and his DNA was sacrosanct.
Without opening his eyes, Mervin reached over and plucked a cigarette from the silver case on the nightstand, popped it between his thin lips and lit it with a cheap lighter. As soon as he’d arrived he’d pulled the smoke detector off the wall and opened a window. He needed nicotine more than warmth. The feeling of smoke slithering through his lungs helped him organize his thoughts.
If Sparrow were any other man, Mervin would suspect a distraction—a woman or an accident. But Sparrow was Sparrow. He was single-minded and utterly devoted to the Society. The others with him were equally dedicated, if not so single-minded. That left the possibility of interference. Mervin frowned. He had factored in sixteen possible points of interference for the Reno operation. Seventeen, if he counted betrayal. Immediately, he discarded the thought. Sparrow was Sparrow. He would continue with the mission regardless. The man was determined, if nothing else.
He mentally flicked through the remaining sixteen, weighing the variables and considering the likelihood of each. Interpol wasn’t likely—he had organized the Viennese operation specifically to distract them. The FBI was a leaky sieve; Mervin would have gotten word of their interference through the usual channels. On and on he went, rapidly considering, weighing and discarding the possibilities.
He had always
