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She thought she’d gotten a break. Instead she’d walked into a trap.
Dumond’s people had overpowered her and searched her for a wire. The absence of one hadn’t improved her situation. They’d knocked her out and transported her from the meeting site to here, wherever that was. She had no idea whether she’d been moved across town or across the globe.
The whole thing had taken a weird turn when they’d started asking her about Fred, her first boss with the FBI. She’d tried to play stupid. That strategy had fallen apart when Dumond had held out a smartphone to her.
“Take this,” he said. “Look at the screen.”
She’d hesitated, then taken the phone from the outstretched hand and looked at the screen. Though she’d tried to keep her best poker face, she doubted she’d succeeded. The single image had triggered a flood of conflicting emotions—shock, grief, anger and fear being just a few. It had been a photo of Gruber, his wife, Kate, and Rodriguez, at Gruber’s retirement party. He stood in the middle of them, clad in khakis and a polo shirt, a tight grin on his lips, an arm around each of the two women. His successor, Donna Goldman, had shot the photo for him.
Rodriguez had noted the slight glaze of alcohol in his eyes and remembered how drunk he’d gotten that night, singing “Love Me Tender” with the karaoke machine, a record nine times. Aside from fueling his bad attempts at impersonating the King, the drinking had been notable for another reason. Gruber rarely drank and then in moderation. However, he’d arrived for his own party, seeming sullen and withdrawn. Kate later had confided that he hadn’t wanted to retire and that she was worried how it would affect his health. The alcohol had dissipated the black cloud around him and he’d loosened up, at least for the evening. The following day, though, he’d sunk back into his depression and remained there until he’d hung out a shingle as a private detective. Having a job had restored his sense of purpose and made him feel useful again.
He’d always sworn the PI gig had saved his life.
Since his death, she’d thought back on the bitter irony of those statements.
The photo had delivered a punch right to her heart.
Had she stared too long? Had her eyes glistened with tears? She didn’t think so. But, when it came to emotions, she knew the mind played tricks and the face sometimes could reveal too much information.
With little time to think, she’d made up the best story she could. She said she vaguely remembered meeting the couple at a party, but didn’t know them beyond that. Why did he have the photo on his phone? She’d shrugged and said maybe the guy was a pervert and liked looking at the picture. Her stomach had clenched as she’d uttered the words about Gruber, though she knew he’d understand.
It hadn’t taken Dumond long to shoot holes in her story. After more interrogation, he’d slapped his thighs, stood and given her a halfhearted smile.
“I don’t believe you,” he had said. “I will give you some time to consider your situation. Then I will come back and see you again. If you don’t offer a better explanation—” he shrugged “—I will use more aggressive methods of securing answers.” He turned the phone screen back in her direction. “I have friends in America. They would be happy to pay this woman a visit.”
His security chief, a man named Bellew, stood to his right. Dumond turned and looked over his shoulder at him. “What was her name again?”
“Kate,” Bellew said. “Kate Gruber.”
“Yes,” Dumond said. His lips split into a wider smile. “She’s a widow. Perhaps she would like the company.”
Rodriguez had tried her best to feign apathy and maintain her cover. When she’d spoken, her throat had felt tight and pushing out the words took effort.
“Hope those thoughts give your limp Johnson a little lift,” she’d said. “While we’re swinging things, you might want to think about what you’re doing here. I came here, with references, to transact business. If something happens to me...”
She let the sentence trail off. Dumond’s smile faltered for a moment before he caught himself and let out a dismissive laugh.
“See you in a few hours,” he said.
Dumond had left. She had no doubt things could get worse for her.
The arms dealer already had taken the leap of kidnapping someone he at least suspected to be a U.S. federal agent. He had to know he’d passed a point of no return, one where he couldn’t let her walk away alive. Either way, the U.S. government was going to hunt him down for this. From his standpoint, there was no incentive to leave behind a witness.
A chill raced through her, causing her to shiver even though the room was warm and stuffy. Without thinking, she stopped walking and hugged herself.
The weight of her situation hit her hard. There is no way out, she thought. They are going to kill me.
Her head suddenly felt light and her heart began to pound faster, speeding up in spite of the emotional and physical fatigue that gripped her.
Her chest tightened and she struggled to drag in a full breath. Jesus, she was going to die here. And she wasn’t even sure where “here” was.
She moved to the single bed, the room’s sole piece of furniture, and dropped onto the edge of the mattress.
Pull yourself together, she chided herself. If you give up, you will die. If you fight, at least you have a chance.
Granted, it was a small chance, but it beat the hell out of waiting for somebody to walk in and put a bullet in her head.
She looked around the room for the umpteenth time. Dumond’s people had removed everything from it except the bed. She could see impressions in the carpet, where there’d been shelving units standing against the wall, a small table and two chairs, a dresser. They’d stripped the mattress of its sheets. The bolts holding the metal frame in place were too tight to be removed with her bare hands. The bed’s frame also was bolted to the floor and couldn’t be moved.
They’d even stripped her belt and her shoe laces, presumably so she wouldn’t hang herself out of desperation.
Bringing her hands to her face, she massaged her temples with her fingertips. She’d been racking her brain for a solution for so long, she felt as though her thoughts just kept going in circles.
Yeah, she finally decided. She needed a miracle.
She again dismissed the thought. She’d spent too many years in law enforcement, seeing firsthand the pain and misery humans heaped on one another, mostly to steal a few bucks or to get their rocks off, to believe in miracles.
She heard a muffled sound emanating through the floor. Seconds later, it came again. Just a couple of pops in rapid succession.
Gunshots? Had somebody come to help her? Maybe she’d get her damn miracle after all.
CHAPTER THREE
“The crazy bitch has told you nothing?”
The statement from his security chief prompted Dumond to turn and give the guy a dirty look. Jean-Luc Bellew held his boss’s stare for a couple of beats before casting his eyes to the floor. Dumond turned away and walked to his desk.
“Is she secure?” the arms dealer asked.
“As secure as possible,” Bellew replied. “We aren’t set up as a prison. But she’s secure in that storage room. It has a heavy wood door and a couple of locks. She won’t be going anywhere.”
“She’d better not,” Dumond said.
Bellew’s cell phone began to buzz before he could make a further comment.
Irritated, the arms merchant turned to Bellew, who was digging in his pocket for his phone.
A couple of seconds later Dumond’s own phone began vibrating on his hip. He pulled it from the holder on his belt, saw he’d received a text message and began pressing buttons to access it. When he opened the text, he felt a cold sensation travel down his spine. BREECH, the message read.
He wheeled toward Bellew, his fear quickly turning to anger. The security chief had his phone pressed against his ear and was reaching under his jacket for something with his free hand.
“Don’t worry about the how,” Bellew said. “Just make sure they don’t get to the building. Send out the dogs!” He paused for a few seconds. “If you sent them out, where are they? Gone? What do you mean gone? Damn it. What? Call the police! We cannot call the police here, you idiot.”
Bellew pulled a Walther pistol from beneath his jacket and flicked his gaze at Dumond.
“I have him right here,” Bellew said. “Yes, I think you’re right. Let me call you back.”
By now, Dumond had returned his phone to its belt holder. He opened the lap drawer of his desk, withdrew a holstered Beretta and, pulling aside the tail of his jacket, attached it to his belt. He fished a couple of magazines from the same drawer and slipped them into his pocket. When he looked up, he saw Bellew staring at him.
“We should get you out of here,” Bellew said.
Dumond shook his head.
“We need to get the woman first.”
“There’s no time,” the security chief replied. “We had half a dozen men patrolling the grounds—”
“Had? What the hell?”
“We’ve lost contact with them.”
Dumond’s hands clenched into fists. “Lost contact? Are they dead?”
“I have no idea,” Bellew replied. “I just know we can’t reach them and there are no technical problems with the radios. We have the capability, but no one is answering us.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“We need to go,” Bellew repeated.
“I can’t leave her here,” Dumond said. “She knows things. If I leave her here, there will be problems.”
“Problems? You mean from the Germans?”
“Mind your place,” the other man said.
“My place is to evacuate you.”
“We try to get the woman first,” Dumond replied. “Otherwise, I lose everything.”
“And what if we come across these intruders?”
“Then we damn well better kill them.”
* * *
BOLAN CLIMBED THE steps to Dumond’s mansion, the MP-5 held at the ready. Turrin hung back a couple of yards so he could cover Bolan’s six. The soldier moved up to the door. He tried to work the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
Feeling someone moving up behind him, Bolan looked over his shoulder and saw Turrin there.
“Don’t worry,” the little Fed said, patting the shotgun. “I brought a key.”
Bolan nodded and stepped back from the door. He watched as Turrin swung the shotgun’s barrel toward the lock. The soldier knew the weapon was loaded with slugs capable of pounding through a steel lock. Unlike ceramic rounds, though, the slugs wouldn’t disintegrate before pierced their target. Bolan figured it was worth the risk.
The shotgun boomed once. The slug mangled the lock and shoved it through the door, leaving behind a ragged hole. As the door swung inward, Turrin moved through it first, followed by Bolan.
The door led into a foyer with high ceilings. Paintings covered the walls and several busts stood on pedestals. Bolan guessed the items were expensive, paid for with the blood of innocents shed on the world’s killing fields.
Movement to Bolan’s right caught his attention. He turned and saw a pair of Dumond’s gunners step into view. The man in the lead, dressed in a gray suit, his hair shellacked with gel, swung the barrel of a machine pistol toward Bolan. The Executioner’s MP-5 coughed a fast line of bullets that pummeled the guy’s center mass. Even as the gunner crumpled to the floor, the second guard had marked Bolan’s chest with the red dot of a laser sight. Before the soldier could react, the hardman’s head suddenly snapped back in a spray of crimson.
Bolan threw Turrin a glance. The former undercover mobster had slung the shotgun and unleathered one of his Berettas. Bolan nodded his thanks, turned to the left and crossed the room, making his way to one of the exits, which opened into a long corridor. He’d taken a half dozen or so steps when he heard voices, accompanied by shoe soles clicking against the floor tiles. He held up a hand for Turrin to stop, but he had already halted. An instant later, a heavyset man with a shotgun stepped into the corridor. His eyes lighted on Bolan and he swung the shotgun in his direction. The soldier had the guy by a microsecond. He tapped the MP-5’s trigger and stitched a line across the new arrival’s torso. The shotgun clattered to the floor, but fortunately didn’t discharge. A second shooter appeared around the door frame, his hand filled with a submachine gun.
The hardman squeezed off a fast burst. The bullets sliced through the air just to Bolan’s left, missing him by several inches.
The Executioner responded by firing a burst at the shooter. The fusillade missed the shooter, but came close enough that it forced him to jerk back out of sight. The soldier edged down the hallway, hugging the wall. When he got close to the door, he snagged a flash-bang grenade from his web gear, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb into the room where the man was hiding. An instant later it exploded with a loud crack and a flash of light visible to Bolan even in the hallway.
As the noise died down, he went through the door low and found the guy standing near the doorway, disoriented. A burst from the MP-5 took the man down.
* * *
BELLEW DESCENDED the stairs, his eyes sweeping the area as he searched for the intruders, his submachine gun leveled and leading the way. His heart slammed in his chest and blood thundered his ears. It had been years since he’d been in a live-fire situation. That had been back in Africa, where he’d been surrounded by a dozen or more well-armed and well-trained mercenaries. Over the past few years, he’d spent more time sending other people into harm’s way while he sat back and planned.
Who the hell could have broken through their defenses? he wondered. For a residential area, the estate had been as secure as possible. They’d deployed sensors, cameras, armed guards, dogs. That someone had gotten past all that told him he wasn’t dealing with a run-of-the-mill burglary or home invasion. Besides, most of the underworld in the city, right down to the low-level thieves, knew better than to break into Dumond’s property.
That he couldn’t reach his mercenaries only heightened his anxiety. He obviously was dealing with at least one combat professional, if not more.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Bellew paused and listened hard. Somehow all the cameras had gotten fried. He’d tried to reach the monitor room, but they hadn’t responded. There was no way for him to know how many people he was up against or their location.
That left him to handle it the old-fashioned way—rely on his instincts and his senses.
To his right, he heard something. It was muffled, but unmistakable to anyone who’d spent any time at all in his deadly trade. Someone had just fired a weapon, and he heard the clank of brass hitting the marble tiles.
Bellew crossed the entryway, making his way to a door that would lead him deeper into the mansion’s first floor. Coming up on the door, he paused, chancing a look around the door frame. Down the hall, he spotted three men. He recognized one—a guy sprawled on the floor—as one of his guards. Arms and legs splayed out, his midsection was dark red.
Two men stood over the corpse. One was short with a medium frame. The second guy was tall with broad shoulders and jet-black hair. Bellew recognized the gun in the taller man’s hands as a Heckler & Koch MP-5.
Chancing another look, he saw the men were moving in his direction. Fear gripped him, and for a moment he considered bolting out the door. Maybe he could take these two by surprise. But it would be a damn sight easier without backup just to run out the door, flee the estate and get away with his skin intact. He guessed they’d already taken down nearly a dozen men. It wouldn’t be easy for him alone to take them down.
But if he ran? He’d get away with his skin, but it’d come back to haunt him.
He’d lose his reputation. Once word spread that he’d bolted on a client, he’d end up blacklisted. While he’d never bought into the notion of death before dishonor, he’d sure as hell choose death before poverty.
To hell with it. He’d try to take them.
Coming around the door frame, he entered the room, ready to take down his opponents.
CHAPTER FOUR
People who’d never been in combat didn’t understand what it did to the mind and the senses. How it changed a person, enhancing some perceptions and subduing others. Bolan understood the transformation all too well, though. He’d spent his entire adult life as a warrior—first as a U.S. Army soldier, then in his war against the Mafia and more recently his war against terrorism.
He’d spent his life honing his skills as a warrior. At the same time, he’d honed his senses. It was something he couldn’t turn off now, even if he wanted to.
When something nagged at him, alerting him to a threat, he couldn’t ignore it.
Acting on gut instinct, he turned just in time to spot a man coming through the door. The guy’s SMG was lining up on Turrin’s back. The soldier lunged, wrapped his arms around his old friend’s midsection and drove his right shoulder into his middle.
Turrin lost his footing and dropped to the floor. The bullets sliced through the air above them, missing them by a few feet. A microsecond of hesitation on Bolan’s part and Turrin likely would have been dead. Just as they hit the tiles, Bolan heard his friend grunt from the impact. The Executioner rolled away, brought up the MP-5 and squeezed off a burst at their attacker.
The bullets flew wide, though the onslaught was enough to make Bolan’s adversary dart from the doorway.
