let the Nissan roll on as he suppressed a smile. One of the things he liked most about working with Platinov was her competitive nature. He didn’t know whether she’d been born with it or had it taught to her as she grew up in one of the Soviet Union’s “athletic schools,” but she definitely had it now. It made no difference whether she was sprinting or running hurdles in the Olympics, or helping him take down a terrorist cell during a firefight, Marynka Platinov was going to win.
Platinov broke the icy silence by saying, “Okay, that childish little outburst of ego was my fault and I apologize for it. Now—” she paused to draw in a deep breath “—does all this imply that I’m the one who’s going to be shooting this monstrosity?”
“That’s right, Plat,” Bolan said. “I’m going to park somewhere down the block, then give you time to find a decent place to snipe from. I’ll make my way up next to the house before you start shooting, then hit them up close and personal.”
Platinov nodded. “Makes sense. Is that all there is to it?”
“No. Couple of other things.” He twisted at the waist and reached into the bag in the backseat. Pulling out a plain brown paper bag, he set it in his lap, opened the top and pulled out a round steel object with .500 Magnum rounds sticking out from it in a circle. “The .500 wasn’t designed as a combat weapon,” he said. “And nobody makes speed loaders for it. So I had a friend do a little gunsmithing on it. He had to bevel out the holes in the cylinder so the moon-clips would fit. But now you can load all five rounds at the same time.”
Platinov frowned, tipped the big pistol up in her hand and caught the 5-round bundle already loaded as it fell out. She nodded as she skillfully stuck it back into the weapon, then took the sack filled with full moon clips from the Executioner. She began transferring the extra ammo from the sack to the side pockets of her jacket.
“There’s one other thing,” Bolan said as he drove on. “And it’s the most important of all.”
Platinov waited.
“Once I enter the house, I’ll be close to your targets. Don’t shoot me by mistake.”
Platinov laughed. “If I ever shoot you, Cooper,” she said, “it will not be by mistake.” Now her smile turned seductive. “Besides, I have other plans for you. And I’ll need you alive for them.”
Bolan grinned. It seemed there was no getting around the attraction between them. “Then it sounds like I’m safe until then,” he said.
“Yes, certainly until then.”
Bolan slowed the Nissan as they passed the address Kurtzman had sent them. It was a split-level clay house, at least a century old. Nothing unusual about it. Nothing that made it stand out from any of the other older dwellings up and down these residential streets.
Except for the fact that an oversized picture window was set in the front of what Bolan expected would be the living room. The curtains were tightly closed, but a light glowed brightly behind the draperies.
And unless there was some kind of party going on inside the house, there were far too many vehicles in the driveway, and along the curb, for it to be occupied by just one family.
Bolan circled the block, passed the safe house again, then pulled over to the curb as soon as he found an open space just past the other parked vehicles.
The Russian agent got out of the car, then paused, looking back in. She held the huge S&W 500 in her right hand, and the side pockets of her jacket bulged with the extra moon clips. “I’m going to see if I can get up on top of that house without waking anyone inside,” she said, pointing to the darkened structure directly across the street from the safe house. “From there I should have a direct shot into the living room through that front window.” She paused a second, then said, “Get that curtain out of my way as soon as you can.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Bolan stated. “Signal me with your flashlight when you’re in place and ready.”
“I will. But what—”
The Executioner held up a hand to cut her off. “I’ll signal you the same way when I reach the corner of the house.” He paused a moment, thinking through his strategy once again. “When you see my beam, take out that front window with your first shot. Then wait. I’ll be diving through the broken glass and, with any luck, taking the curtains down to the floor with me when I land inside. That should not only get me in, but give you a wide-open view of the inside of the house at the same time.”
Platinov quietly closed the car door and headed out.
Bolan turned toward the safe house. Every so often, he glanced to the house across the street, waiting for the flashlight to tell him it was time to go into action.
Five minutes later he saw a light flash on, then off, atop the roof of the house where Platinov had taken up her post. A couple of seconds later, he saw the signal once again.
Show time.
The Executioner got out of the Nissan slowly, closed the door behind him, then sprinted across the street. Seconds later, he was over the curb and up on the grass of the yard next to the safe house. He ducked into the shadows and pressed his back against the wall.
All of Bolan’s senses went into high gear as he waited to see if his movement had been noticed by anyone keeping watch over the safe house. It was not unusual for at least one member of a terrorist cell to remain outside to keep watch over the house’s exterior. But as he watched, listened and even noted the smells around him, Bolan saw no indication that that was the case here. If there were outside sentries, however, they would already have alerted the terrorists inside the house via cell phone or walkie-talkie that something strange was going on. There was no sense in wasting any more time, either way.
Bolan sprinted from the house next door to the corner of the safe house nearest the picture window. Then, pulling a small flashlight from the side pocket of his blazer, he pointed it across the street and flashed it on and off twice.
A second later, he heard an explosion erupt atop the house across the street, then saw at least three feet of flames burst from the barrel of the big S&W. At the same time the picture window next to him all but disintegrated.
The Executioner wasted no time. Rounding the corner of the safe house, he dived into the curtains, the fingers of both hands grabbing the velvety material as he flew through the air. A screeching sound rent the air as the metal curtain rod above him was pulled from the wall, and then he fell to hardwood floor, entangled in the mass of material and thin steel. The soldier drew the SAW knife with his left hand, the Desert Eagle with his right. It would take far too long to find his way out from inside the curtains, which meant that the only sensible action was to create his own opening.
Bolan rose to his knees. Thrusting the knife tip through the curtain material directly in front of him, he sliced down as far as he could. Then, still holding the knife and the big .44 Magnum pistol, he reached forward and grabbed the sides of the opening, clutching them between his fingers and the two weapons.
Ripping both hands apart, Bolan caught his first glimpse of light since diving through the window. A man wearing a blue beret and brown slacks was bringing a British Sten submachine gun to bear.
Pulling the Desert Eagle’s trigger, the Executioner caught the terrorist in the chest, driving him back.
Another mammoth blast came from across the street,
