Firestorm

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T HE E XECUTIONER WAS a block away from his destination when he spotted several hardmen entering the apartment building through the front door. The sight of them set off his combat senses. The warrior brought the com-link to his lips and pressed the talk button.

“Jack?”

“Go, Sarge,” Grimaldi replied.

“I’ve got five guys entering Stephens’s building.”

“Weapons visible?”

“No. I’m acting on instinct.”

“Good enough for me,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan signed off. He trekked toward the building until he reached the fire-escape ladder, jumping up to grab the bottom rung in his powerful grip. Once his other hand got hold of it, he pulled himself up the ladder, hand over hand, until his foot could gain purchase on the lowest rung. Bolan reached the top of the ladder and pushed through a square opening that led onto the first landing. Taking the steps two at a time, he reached the next level.

Slipping off his jacket, he wrapped it around his fist and lashed out at a windowpane. The glass disintegrated and fell inside the apartment on the other side. Bolan was through the window in seconds. He tossed aside the jacket and fisted the Beretta 93-R as he crossed the sparsely furnished apartment. No lights were on and it appeared to be empty.

Before he reached the door, he spotted shadows as they edged past the door. He halted in midstride and listened. The shuffle of feet registered with him, but he heard no one speaking.

He brought the com-link to his lips.

“Jack?” Bolan asked.

“Go,” Grimaldi replied.

“I’ve got a team on the second floor.”

“Clear,” Grimaldi said. “The second team just entered the building. I’m coming in from behind them. My guess is they’re either going to knock off any witnesses or they’re the B-team in case Stephens actually gets away.”

“Fat chance of that happening,” the soldier said. “Not under his own power, at least.”

Bolan signed off. In the next instant, from out in the corridor, he heard the crash of a door being kicked in. He grabbed and twisted the doorknob and yanked open the door.

He found three of the gunners stationed outside Stephens’s apartment. He assumed that the other two were already inside. A heavyset thug with his hair cut into a blue Mohawk stood between Bolan and Stephens’s suite. The other two gunners had taken up positions on either side of the door, apparently waiting for the command to enter.

They’d never get it. Not if Bolan could help it.

The gunner with the mohawk whipped around. His MP-9 came up with him. His lips were creased into a grin, and Bolan guessed that he was expecting one of the other residents, a helpless bystander. The Executioner was neither. The grin melted away, and the guy’s arm twitched as he started to bring the MP-9 to bear.

Bolan fired and three subsonic rounds drilled into the guy’s nose. His body suddenly fell limp, as though his skeleton had turned to dust. He crumpled to the floor. Bolan barreled forth, the Beretta seeking its next target.

The two men at the door spun toward him in unison. Bolan tapped the Beretta’s trigger twice and two swarms of bullets drilled into the torso of the man closest to him. The force pushed the man into the wall behind him, his gun falling from his grip.

Tracking fire erupted from the third killer’s MP-9 and cut a swath toward the big American. The soldier brought the Beretta to bear on his opponent. A 3-round volley erupted from the handgun’s barrel and lanced into the man’s throat, the hollowpoint rounds nearly decapitating him.

Bolan changed out magazines and headed for the apartment. The sound of gunfire crackled from inside the suite. He came around the door, his weapon held at shoulder level, and looked for a target. Running a quick check of the living room and kitchen, the first two rooms inside the apartment, the soldier double-timed it toward a hallway that ran off the opposite wall. He peered around the corner, spotting one of the gunners crumpled in the corner. A collage of a half dozen or so red blooms that indicated bullet wounds were stitched across his chest. Empty hands, palms pointed upward, hung at his sides and his head lolled to one side, mouth agape.

The second shooter, his body wrapped around the doorjamb, squeezed off several shots into the bedroom. He whipped back into the hallway, using the walls for cover. The instant he did, he spotted Bolan, who’d already bracketed him in the Beretta’s sights. Another trigger pull by the Executioner, and the man suddenly found himself retired from the gun-slinging game.

His limbs rubbery, he dropped to the floor, his body falling across the doorway he’d been shooting through moments ago.

The corpse’s sudden drop-in elicited a scream from someone inside the room. Bolan took a couple of steps down the hall but pulled up short. Small shafts of light, mottled by flocks of dust motes, filtered through a couple dozen holes punched through the plasterboard during the gunfight.

“Michael Stephens,” Bolan shouted. “This is Matt Cooper. U.S. Justice Department. Throw out your guns. Step out here with your hands in the air. Eva, do the same.”

Gunfire chattered from the floor below Bolan, and he knew Grimaldi likely was taking fire. His grip tightened on the Beretta. He wanted to go downstairs and help his friend, but he couldn’t risk Stephens escaping. Without the backup team outside the building, Stephens could slip through his bedroom window and take off, either with or without his girlfriend.

“Come on,” Bolan shouted again. “I want to talk. I have some questions for you.”

“Screw you,” the woman yelled. “You just want to kill us.”

“If I wanted you dead,” Bolan replied, “I never had to lift a finger. I could’ve just let these guys take you out. Both of you.”

Ears still ringing from the gunfire, Bolan tried to hear whether they were speaking to each other, but the surrounding noise made it too hard.

“I’m coming out,” the woman shouted.

“Okay,” Bolan yelled.

“Don’t hurt me.”

“Sure.” Standing off to the side of the door, Bolan trained his pistol on it, felt his body tense slightly as a slow-moving shadow poked through it and began to grow and climb up the wall opposite the door. The woman came into view, her hands held above her shoulders. She took a sideways glance and saw Bolan aiming his weapon at her. Her eyes grew wide.

Bolan motioned with his hand for her to come closer.

“It’s okay,” he said.

She started toward him. After her third shuffling step, another shape filled the doorway and Bolan turned his attention to it. Stephens came into view, his weapon hunting for a target. The soldier changed the Beretta selector switch, and the weapon coughed out a single shot that whistled past Eva and slammed into the man’s hip. The impact spun Stephens and caused his shooting hand to flail. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the weapon pumped a round into the ceiling.

The soldier surged forward, his pistol held high. He shoved the woman aside and inserted himself between her and Stephens. The other man, his attention temporarily focused on his injury, saw Bolan bolt for him and raised his pistol. The soldier’s hand stabbed out and he grabbed Stephens’s wrists, shoving his hand skyward. He stabbed the Beretta’s still-hot muzzle against Stephens’s neck, and he responded with a yelp.

“Drop it,” Bolan shouted. His face was only inches from Stephens’s.

The pistol fell to the floor with a dull thud.

The Beretta still trained on his opponent, Bolan gathered up the fallen weapon and shoved it into the waistband of his blue jeans.

From behind him, the woman screamed, “You bastard! What the hell are you doing to him?”

She took a step toward Bolan, who turned his head slightly to look at her. She halted. Anger flared in her eyes and she lowered her fist, which had been raised over her head like a hammer. She looked at Bolan, then at her boyfriend, then back at him.

Bolan, his heart still pounding from the confrontation, said, “Get me a sheet.”

She gave him a confused look.

“A sheet,” he repeated. “His hip needs to be bandaged.”

The tautness of her lips signaled that she still was angry, but she disappeared into the bedroom. Bolan hoped she was going to retrieve the sheet and not another weapon. He hated to let her out of his sight, but it couldn’t be helped.

Stephens remained propped against the wall. His face looked pale; it glistened with sweat. His breathing was ragged. He pressed a bloodied hand to his injured hip and glowered at the Executioner.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

“Not a friend,” Bolan said.

“No shit.”

“You’re going to tell me things,” Bolan said.

Stephens swore at him.

Bolan wagged the Beretta’s muzzle at the floor. “Lay down,” he said. “I want to have a look at that hip.” Stephens gave him an uncertain look. After a few seconds, though, he sighed and eased himself to the ground. Bolan gripped one bicep to help him to the floor.