not, want not,” Mervin said. Kraft laughed heartily. Mervin hated that laugh.
The Society thought HYPERBOREA would mean a new beginning.
And for Saul Mervin, it would.
Reno, Nevada
Bolan’s fingers scrabbled at the hood of the SUV as he fought to hold on. The vibration of the engine thrummed through him and he felt as if his teeth might rattle loose from his jaw. Horns blared as the vehicle bulled through traffic, weaving back and forth across the median as it roared toward Reno’s commercial district. Bolan hooked his feet into the front grille and tried to shove himself up, but the SUV was simply moving too fast and his own weight was acting against him. He grabbed for the hood ornament and it snapped away in his hand. His arms and legs ached with tension and he knew it was only a matter of time until he lost his grip or was dislodged from his perch by a speed bump.
Traffic whipped around the Executioner in a blur of lights and sounds. The SUV jerked to the side and, caught by surprise, Bolan half swung off the front end, cursing, before he crashed back against the vehicle and regained his grip. He had to get off the SUV and soon. He could make out the thin squeal of distant sirens. The police weren’t far behind. The way Sparrow was driving, he wouldn’t be able to avoid their notice. Maybe he didn’t intend to. Bolan met Sparrow’s furious gaze through the cracked windshield. The kidnapper wasn’t happy about his stowaway. Bolan wasn’t exactly enthused himself. If he’d been thinking more clearly, he’d have let Sparrow go and simply followed. But there hadn’t been time to think. He’d been determined to bring down the last of the kidnappers, and now he was clinging to the front of an erratically driven SUV. If Bolan had his KA-BAR combat knife, he might’ve been able to punch a hole in the radiator, but as it was, he was at the mercy of gravity and physics and unless he acted—and soon—he was going to suffer the same fate as every unlucky insect ever to strike a windshield.
The SUV began to weave again. A four-door sedan was brushed aside in a scream of crumpled metal and shattered glass. Bolan hunched forward. The SUV drifted to the side and Bolan realized that Sparrow was trying to scrape him off. Twisting his head, he saw that they were approaching the Virginia Street Bridge. That would have to be his stop. Bolan felt a twinge of regret at having to leave Ackroyd in the hands of his captor, but there was nothing for it. He wouldn’t do Ackroyd much good smeared across downtown Reno. I won’t do anyone much good that way, he thought grimly. Too much was depending on him.
With a grunt of effort, Bolan began to make his way down the grille. Grit thrown up by the wheels stung his eyes and face. His shoulders and hips burned. Moving carefully, the Executioner lowered himself between the front wheels of the SUV. He was only going to get one shot at getting off this ride. Luckily, he’d been in similar situations before. He wedged his lean frame between the wheels and hooked his feet around the rear axle. Clutching the bottom of the SUV’s frame, Bolan began working himself toward the back of the speeding vehicle, his body mere inches from the street. Exhaust filled his mouth and lungs. His muscles were screaming by the time he reached the back end of the vehicle.
The SUV bumped as it drove onto the bridge. Bolan nearly lost his grip and he felt something in his shoulder pop. His legs struck the street and for a moment he was being dragged behind the SUV on his back. The road seemed to rise up to meet him like a hungry predator, and the hard, hot surface kissed his back. His shirt and pullover were shredded and his body armor seemed to provide no protection at all. With a hiss of pain, he flipped himself around. The throbbing in his shoulder grew and was joined by a dull ache between his shoulder blades. His eyes found the license tag and, acting on impulse, he reached out and hooked it with his fingers. He tore it free with a single, sharp jerk and then, after checking behind him for oncoming traffic, let go.
Bolan curled into a ball as he rolled across the bridge, tucking in his arms and legs. He struck the rail, hard, and all of the air whooshed out of his lungs as he uncoiled. He still held the SUV’s tag. Bolan grabbed the side of the bridge and hauled himself to his feet. Pain sparks burst and spun across his eyes and he felt like a water-balloon punctured by a stick. The bridge was two lanes wide, coming and going. The Truckee River was a placid, dark mirror running beneath it. Bolan spat blood. His lip was mashed and torn, and his body was bruised up one side and down the other. He’d made it off in one piece, but just barely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blue lights. He needed to move, and fast.
Ignoring his protesting muscles, and clutching the license tag, the Executioner grabbed the wrought iron railing that lined the bridge and jumped over it. He hit the water feet first, crossing his arms over his chest. The water wasn’t deep, but it was enough to cushion his landing. As he surfaced, he saw a low, ornate rock wall that lined the opposite bank. Above, on the bridge, horns honked and sirens wailed. The police were in pursuit, but it was too much to hope that they’d catch Sparrow. Spitting water, he headed for the rock wall.
It took him an hour to get back to his designated Reno safe house; it was a rare taxi that wanted to pick up a bedraggled, sopping-wet bum, much less one that was bleeding. When he’d finally caught one, it was already late afternoon.
The safe house—located in the Chisholm Trailer Park—was one of several Bolan had scattered over the state of Nevada. During his war against the Mafia, Bolan had been to Nevada more than once, hunting his prey through the neon jungles of Las Vegas and Reno. Bolan didn’t use this safe house much these days. It was registered under the name of Frank LaMancha, an old alias he used when posing as a Black Ace.
The mobile home was a Spartan affair—a rumpled bed, an unplugged fridge and, of course, the armory. After closing the door and pulling the blinds, he carefully moved the bed aside, folded up the carpet and opened the hidden hatch built into the floor. Inside was his gear from an earlier operation. Fatigues, a second set of body armor, web gear, the UMP and spare ammunition, his combat knife and a backup pistol. He extracted the Desert Eagle and checked the magazine. He wasn’t happy about losing the Beretta, but the motel was likely already a crime scene. It would end up in an evidence locker somewhere, unclaimed and forgotten. He could get another easily enough, but like all craftsmen, Bolan hated to lose a proven tool.
In truth, however, he preferred the Desert Eagle. For sheer stopping power, that particular gas-operated, semi-automatic pistol was hard to beat. It could quickly be converted to fire a wide range of ammunition, from .44 to .357 Magnum calibers.
He put the pistol aside and set about peeling off his stinking clothes. He grimaced as he took off the light armored vest he’d been wearing beneath his thrift store secondhands. The material had been scraped from the metal and the vest looked like it had lost a fight with a bobcat. He tossed it into the hatch and went to take a shower. Bolan spent longer under the thin spray of lukewarm water than he’d intended. The water stung the abrasions that marked his body, making him wince. But the pain helped him to organize his thoughts. The Executioner’s ability to observe and recall, even without consciously intending to do so, was second to none.
The kidnappers’ weapons had been store bought. That meant they weren’t working for the government, under contract or otherwise. Professionals picked up weapons wherever their target was, usually from a previously established contact. The clothes had been newly purchased, as well. They were off-the-rack—from a department store.
Everything about the men he’d fought screamed disposable—their clothes, weapons and transportation; all of it was cheap and easy to replace. Even their lives. The German had willingly sacrificed himself so that the Nebraskan—Sparrow—could escape with Ackroyd. That spoke to either personal loyalty or fanaticism. What had the German yelled as he’d attacked? Vril-YA... What did that mean? The phrase was somehow familiar.
He
