hurt?” he asked, indicating the blood.
“Not me, him,” came the matter-of-fact reply.
He toed the door open, his gaze covering the interior. Even from the door he could see the bloodied arm jutting from behind the couch. Bolan reached out and pushed the door wide, senses tuned to pick up any sound from inside.
He did pick up something. Not from inside the apartment, but from the corridor—sudden movement. Dukas gasped as she became aware herself. Bolan turned, swinging the 93-R around. He saw two armed figures converging on the apartment, weapons up and ready.
He gave them credit for that. Whoever they were, they had been a step ahead. His first instinct was to protect Dukas, and he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and shoved her out of harm’s way.
And then from inside the apartment another figure materialized from behind the open door, something in his raised right hand. Bolan sensed it swinging toward him, heard the whoosh of disturbed air. He tried to pull himself aside, but the heavy object slammed down across his right shoulder, numbing it. He was barely able to keep a grip on the Beretta. His attacker muttered in frustration, swung the club again and this time connected with Bolan’s skull. The blow drove Bolan to his knees. The third blow put him facedown on the carpet and every light in Washington went out.
THE EXECUTIONER’S AWARENESS RETURNED gradually. His initial conscious reaction was to the savage pulse of pain inside his skull. It occupied his elusive thoughts and he remained still, some deep instinct telling him to assess prior to acting.
He played dead, accepting that it was a disturbing analogy. His first cogent thought centered on Erika Dukas. Where and how was she? It was something he would need to verify very soon.
He began to filter in extraneous sound and movement.
Low talk. Casual movement.
He cracked open an eye, saw the world come slowly back into focus.
He was still in Tira Malivik’s apartment, lying against one wall. The first thing he made out was the couch. Tira Malivik’s body had been behind it, but the body had been moved and the couch dragged forward to cover the bloodstain.
A man was lounging on the couch, staring at the television, the sound turned low. A second man wandered into view, a filled glass in one hand. From the way the pair was acting Bolan guessed they were on their own. He didn’t dismiss the possibility of there being others, maybe in one of the other rooms—maybe keeping watch over Dukas.
The man on the couch rose and crossed the room to stand over Bolan. He saw the man had a bloody nose and a cut around his mouth.
“Hey, Kimble, maybe you hit this asswipe too hard,” the man said. His voice was slightly blurred due to his injured mouth.
“Do I look as if I care?”
“I mean he might not be able to talk. Billingham isn’t going to be pleased about that,” the first man replied.
Two names so far, Bolan thought. Kimble. Billingham.
One paid help, the other the ringmaster.
“Get him on his fuckin’ feet,” Kimble said. “I’ll make him talk.”
The nameless man hauled Bolan upright with ease. Bolan could feel the toned muscle under the man’s street clothes. There was strength there. The Executioner offered no resistance. He was not quite ready to make his own physical contribution yet. The man dragged him to the couch and dumped him with little grace.
Kimble reached behind himself and produced Bolan’s Beretta. He leaned over and rapped the muzzle against Bolan’s cheekbone. “C’mon sleeping beauty. Talk time.”
Bolan opened his eyes and stared up at Kimble. He held his gaze and despite his bravado—and the gun—it was Kimble who broke contact.
Bolan pushed himself into a sitting position. “Is the woman all right?” he asked directly.
“Hey, it speaks,” Kimble crowed.
“Well?” Bolan said.
“Don’t get pushy. We ask, you answer,” Kimble said.
“Right now your priority is thinking ’bout yourself,” the other man said. “Like how long you might stay alive.”
“Is she okay?” Bolan asked again.
“Jesus, this freak has a one-track mind.”
“Yeah, well, his ID has him down as some kind of Justice agent,” Kimble said. “You know what that means. They’re just fancy cops, and cops have simple minds.”
“The woman,” Bolan persisted.
“Christ,” Kimble said. “Look, pal, she ain’t here. Right now she’s fine, but how long depends on the way she answers some questions.”
The other man reached into the pocket of his dark pants and produced a switchblade. He pressed the button and the slim, shining blade snapped into position. His face took on a sudden change, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he flexed his muscles.
Kimble reached in a pocket and produced a bundle of plastic ties. “Let’s get this done.”
No time for working on a strategy. Bolan saw the lines of engagement change. Talk was over. He came up off the couch, fighting back the wave of nausea that rose within him.
Bolan’s right foot swept up, and the toe of his shoe drove into the knife wielder’s groin. The blow was without mercy, delivered with every ounce of strength the Executioner could muster. The man made a high-pitched squeal of pain. The kick stalled him long enough for Bolan to continue his move, his body swiveling so that he came face-to-face with the startled Kimble. Bolan’s hands reached out and caught the Beretta by the barrel. He twisted and pulled, hearing Kimble’s trigger finger snap.
Kimble howled as Bolan shouldered him aside, turning about to face the nameless man. The big man, one hand clutching at his groin, was already on the move, lurching in Bolan’s direction. The glittering switchblade was slashing the air as he closed in. Bolan raised the 93-R and pulled the trigger. The Beretta chugged a 3-round burst, the 9 mm slugs punching into the man’s chest. He twisted away from Bolan, dropping to his knees, then went facedown on the carpet. He jerked a few times before subsiding with a long, harsh sigh.
Turning away, Bolan made Kimble the focus of his attention, making sure the man could see the unwavering muzzle of the Beretta.
Kimble panicked. This was not how it was supposed to go down.
Moving behind him, Bolan closed an arm around Kimble’s neck, tight enough to make the man struggle for air. He put the muzzle of the Beretta against the side of the man’s head and pressed hard, letting the warm metal gouge a raw circle in his flesh.
“Think about this, Kimble. Your buddy is dead. You saw how quick it happened. Consider that when you start to answer my questions,” Bolan said.
He let the man think about it for a while. Bolan slackened his grip on Kimble’s neck and the man sucked air in greedily, like a swimmer escaping drowning. He maintained pressure on the Beretta’s
