Читать книгу: «Deadly Contact», страница 2
He slithered his way through the mud, low to the ground, and he noticed that the gunfire had ceased. The targets had vanished and the gun crew was evaluating what to do next. They were in open country, the terrain unforgiving and the driving rain simply adding to the difficulty of locating their quarry. That was their problem. As Bolan got closer he saw figures silhouetted against their vehicles, with headlights still blazing. The enemy stood out clearly. It suggested that these men were not seasoned fighters in this kind of situation. He figured they were probably a hired gun crew from an urban background.
Bolan drew himself against the bulk of the vehicle and hauled himself up on one knee. Peering around the edge, he counted the opposition. Three close to the second car, a fourth standing off a few yards, cradling a submachine gun as he peered into the misty gloom.
“No way we’re going to find them out here,” one of the men said.
“Billingham said that it we don’t find ’em we don’t need to go back.”
Someone laughed nervously, then said, “What’s he going to do? Wipe us all out?”
“Now I know you never worked for him before, because that’s just what he will do.”
Bolan snapped in a fresh magazine and cocked the Beretta. He rose to his full height and stepped out from behind the SUV, his finger easing the selector switch to 3-round bursts.
He took out the SMG man first, the 9 mm bullets catching the guy in the chest as he turned to rejoin his three partners. The 93-R’s muzzle was already tracking in on the trio as the shot man went down. Bolan broke away from the SUV, moving in close as he triggered repeat bursts, the slugs ripping through clothing and into flesh, spinning his targets off their feet. They collided with one another as they toppled into the mud.
Bolan went directly to the SUV and opened the driver’s door. He slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine and swung the vehicle around, moving in the direction Dukas had been crawling. He braked and stepped out of the SUV.
“Erika? Over here,” he shouted.
In the beam of the lights he saw her mud-caked shape emerge from the mire, then haul herself toward him.
“Don’t,” she warned. “One crack and I’ll lose it.” She flicked mud from her face. “Can you believe women pay to have this stuff plastered over them to improve their looks?”
“In your case it looks like it’s working already,” Bolan said.
“Until I work that out I’ll consider it a compliment,” she said as she tramped by him. She yanked open the passenger door and dumped the duffel bag inside, then climbed into the SUV.
Bolan turned the vehicle in the direction of the distant highway, his mind working constantly. He needed to get them clear of this area, somewhere they could hole up temporarily and assess the events that had started when Erika Dukas had received a phone call from a friend sometime earlier that day.
2
Earlier that day—Falls Church, Virginia
Chill winds had been blowing from the north with a hint of snow in the fine rain misting the windshield of Erika Dukas’s 1965 Chevrolet Impala-SS. She drove steadily, aware of the gathering weariness that had started to impinge upon her being as she wound down. She had just finished a complicated translation for Carmen Delahunt at Stony Man Farm. The work had been intense, urgent. After handing over the completed transcript, she had logged out and had left the Farm, raising a hand to the blacksuit manning the exit gate. She had maneuvered the Impala along the quiet roads until she was able to pick up the main highway that would take her home.
Home was an apartment in Falls Church, Fairfax County. It wasn’t a long drive, but tiring on this gray winter afternoon. The constant rain didn’t help, the insistent sweep of the wipers across the windshield doing little to help her relax. She put on the radio and picked up some soft jazz. The car’s heater blew warm air around her feet. A couple of times Dukas had to blink her eyes. She was tired. She hadn’t been home for two days. The anticipation of a relaxing shower and bed filled her thoughts.
Once inside her apartment she switched on the lights, dropped her briefcase by the door and shrugged out of her coat. Making her way to the kitchenette, she filled the kettle with fresh water and clicked it on to boil. She spooned coffee into a mug, kicked off her shoes as she wandered across to her telephone and then checked her messages.
There were four.
One from her mother asking when she was going to visit.
A call from someone wanting to sell her insurance.
And two from a longtime girlfriend Dukas hadn’t spoken to for a while. The first was from the day before, the second from a few hours earlier.
The girl was Tira Malivik. And the first thing Dukas noticed was the fear in her voice. She couldn’t explain it any other way. Her friend was frightened of something, and she was reaching out for help.
Dukas snatched up the phone and hit the speed-dial button for Malivik’s cell number. She waited as it rang. Finally the call was answered.
“Tira? It’s me—Erika. I just got your message. What’s wrong?”
She could hear ragged breathing on the line and muted sounds in the background.
“Tira speak to me. I’m here. It’s going to be all right. Please, talk to me.”
“I think I’ve lost them for now. Jesus, Erika, they won’t give up. I don’t know what to do.”
“Who? Who’s after you?” Dukas asked.
“—want something. But I don’t have it. I sent it on—”
Her voice faded and Dukas thought her friend was going to put the phone down.
“Listen to me, Tira. I’m going to come and get you. Just tell me where—”
“No! I can’t do that. I’m sure they can hear. They’ll know. I can’t tell you where I am.”
“The police—”
“Uh-uh. I can’t trust anyone except you. Because you’re my friend. Erika, are you still my friend?”
“After what we’ve been through? Hey, I ate your cooking, remember? Just tell me where you want to meet,” Dukas said, hoping to calm her friend’s fear.
“One hour. At JR’s.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line went dead.
ERIKA LOCKED THE CAR AND hurried to the closest elevator in the garage. She waited impatiently until the doors opened and she was able to step inside, punching the button for the Lower Level Food Court. She was reminded how many times she had made this very trip to meet her friend. Whenever they were able to arrange a get-together it was at Union Station, where they would indulge themselves at Johnny Rockets Diner. Ignoring all the diet rules, they indulged in burgers, fries and shakes, enjoying a brief respite from the cares of their daily routines, sharing news, gossip and girl talk.
But this visit had no fun time on its agenda. As the elevator slowed, Dukas was full of doubt and concern. She stepped out and headed for the diner, scanning the food court for her friend, and wondered just what it was her friend had gotten herself into. She patted the inside pocket of her jacket, just to confirm her cell phone was still there.
She spotted Tira Malivik through the main window of the diner, sitting in their usual booth. They made eye contact and waved in recognition. Avoiding the press of people milling around the area, Dukas reached the door and pushed her way through. Immediately the familiar odors of food and coffee assailed her senses. There was a hum of voices and background music.
A vivacious, dark-haired young woman with striking good looks, Tira Malivik had undergone a dramatic change. As Dukas slid into the booth across from her she noticed the dark shadows beneath Malivik’s eyes, the haggard expression on her face. Her usually shining hair was limp and tangled, and it looked as if she had been sleeping in her clothes. When she reached across to grasp Erika’s hands, Malivik was shaking.
“What’s wrong? And don’t even suggest it’s nothing,” Dukas said.
“I wish I could lie about it.”
Before they could continue a smiling waitress came over. They ordered two large black coffees. As soon as the waitress left, Dukas turned back to her friend.
“Tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”
Dukas listened without interruption, except for when the coffee arrived, and by the time Malivik had finished, the Stony Man translator knew what she had to do.
“Your uncle Lec? Where is he now? And what about this package he sent you?”
“He asked me to get it somewhere safe. Out of the reach of the people looking for him.”
“And did you?”
Malivik nodded, a ghost of a smile briefly edging her pale lips.
“Did he tell you what was in this package?”
“Not directly. He just said it contained information these people do not want exposed. If it is, a number of important individuals are going to go to jail, or worse.”
“Where are these people?” Dukas asked.
“Some in Bosnia. Others here in the States.”
“So you have no idea what the information actually is?”
“Not until I read an e-mail he managed to send me just before he dropped out of sight. I haven”t had time to check it out yet.”
“First thing, we get you out of here. Somewhere you’ll be safe until I can arrange protection. And not the police, or anyone we’re not sure of,” Dukas said.
“Can you do that?”
“Yes. The people I work for can do it. And you’ll be more than safe with them. I promise.”
Malivik clutched her coffee mug in both hands, drinking the hot liquid in quick gulps. She stared at Dukas. She was agitated.
“This is wrong. I shouldn’t drag you into this. I’m sorry. Maybe I should go and you forget this meeting. These people are really scary, Erika.”
“You should meet some of the people I work with,” Dukas said, smiling. She took out her phone. “I’m going to help. Now I need to make a call. Look, you want more coffee? Something to eat?”
“No, but I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
“You go while I do this,” Dukas said. “Hey, I know your e-mail address. Do I need a password?”
“I don’t have my laptop with me.”
“My people can access your site if they have the details. We need to read that message.”
“Password is JRockets.”
“Very subtle.” Dukas laughed.
“I’m really sorry, Erika. I feel so bad doing this to you,” Malivik said.
“Hey, I said no problem. Now go and let me call.”
As she punched in the number that would connect her with Stony Man Farm, Dukas watched her friend cross the diner and push through the door to the ladies’ room. She was concerned about the way she was acting. It was as if she wanted to get up and run. Her attention was diverted as her call was answered and she eventually found herself speaking to Barbara Price and explaining the situation.
“You listen to me,” Price said. “You did right. I’ll set something up and get right back to you. I’ll pass the e-mail details on. Take Tira to your place. As soon as you arrive call me, and we’ll liaise. Hey, take it easy. Get your friend settled and wait for us.”
“Thanks. I owe you,” Dukas said.
“Oh, yes, and big-time too,” Price said lightly.
Dukas drained her coffee mug. As she placed it on the table she thought Malivik had been gone too long.
She stood up and pushed her way through the crowded diner. She hadn’t realized just how much it had filled up since her arrival. She wedged her way through until the reached the ladies’ room and pushed open the door. Malivik wasn’t there. She checked the cubicles twice. There was only one way in and one way out. As she walked back into the diner a chill coursed through her.
She checked out the restaurant, pushing back the panic edging its way to the surface. Back at the booth she met the waitress holding the check. Dukas paid it and turned to leave. She saw Malivik’s purse still on the booth seat. She picked it up and weaved through the crowd. Outside she stood helpless, not sure which way to go. She wandered around for twenty minutes, searching, hoping her friend had just left the diner to get some air. She called Malivik on her cell phone, but the phone was switched off.
She gave up and went back to her car, deciding to check at her own place first to see if Malivik showed up there.
The weather had become worse, the falling rain bitterly cold as the temperature dropped.
“MISS DUKAS?”
She glanced up at the speaker. He was just behind her, to one side, a stocky man in a dark suit, his tie awkwardly knotted. He held out a black badge holder and flipped it open as soon as she gave him her attention, holding it where she could see it, rain speckling the metal shield. He had materialized from the shadows behind her as she bent to lock her car.
There was something in the too swift way he identified himself, a sense of not being quite who he claimed.
“I’m with WPD. I need you to come with me,” he said.
“And why is that?”
“To help us verify an identification.”
“For who?”
“A young woman involved in a traffic accident.” The man was trying hard to stay professional. “I have a car over there.”
Dukas hesitated, caution holding her back, and when the man reached out to touch her elbow she drew away.
“Why did you come to me?” she asked.
“She kept saying your name. Asking us to find you. We looked in her bag and found your address in her diary.”
“Is it Tira?” Dukas asked, frightened.
“Tira Malivik could be her name, but we need formal identification.”
“Nothing in her bag to prove who she is?” Dukas asked.
“No. Look, Miss Dukas, we need to go now. It is urgent.”
I’m sure it is, she thought, considering I have Tira’s bag in my hand right now.
She finished locking her car and fell in alongside the man as they walked in the direction of the waiting car, engine running, lights on. Dukas saw the dark outline of a driver. Her escort opened the back door.
There was no way she was getting in a car with these men.
About to step around the open door, Dukas allowed the bag to slip from her hand and as it hit the ground she caught it with her foot, pushing it under the door.
“Sorry,” she said.
The man grunted, then bent to pick up the bag.
Dukas lunged forward, using her full body weight to slam the door into the man. The bulk of the door connected with his upper body, driving him against the inner frame. Erika grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it wide, then hit it again. The man had slumped to his knees and this time the door thudded into his skull. He uttered a low moan and sprawled on the wet ground.
Snatching up the bag, Dukas ran behind the car. As she moved she caught a glimpse of the driver’s door swinging open. She knew the area well, so despite the driving rain she had no need to hesitate. She raced across the curving swell of the grassed area and into the landscaped bushes and trees. She followed the downward slope, the dark trees closing around her. Running hard, stumbling on the uneven ground, she weaved her way to the far side of the wooded area and came out just above the feeder road. Only then did she stop to catch her breath. She took a few moments to check out her surroundings, seeking any sign of movement.
Had they followed?
She saw no signs of movement.
So what now?
She couldn’t risk going back to her apartment, or even to her car. Concern for her friend guided her. She eased her way along the fringe of the trees until she was well clear of the area, then made her way to the main road. She would hail a taxi and get over to Malivik’s apartment.
IN THE CAB SHE CALLED Stony Man Farm and was more than relieved when Barbara Price answered.
“Hey, I’ve been worried. Where have you been?” Price said.
Dukas explained what had happened. “I’m checking Tira’s apartment,” she said. “I’m on my way there now. That help we talked about? I may need to take you up on it.”
“Already sanctioned. Erika, maybe you should back off until we know what’s going on,” Price said.
“Look, it’s been well over two hours since Tira went missing. I can’t just stand back and do nothing. I’ll be at her place in a few minutes. Barb, I have to do this. She’s my best friend and she called on me for help. She has no one else.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Price said.
“I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Give me her address.”
Dukas passed along the information, then ended the call before Price talked her out of what she intended. She was afraid of what she might find, but she was unable to ignore the fact her friend was in some kind of trouble.
3
The entrance to Malivik’s building was reached by climbing a short flight of stone steps. Dukas got to the door without incident. Pushing inside she stopped in the lobby of the building aware of a sick feeling in her stomach. She considered the fact that she might be well out of her depth.
She climbed to the third floor apartment. No light showed under the door. Dukas took the keys from her friend’s bag and opened the door. Through the gap she could see the room was in darkness, the gloom broken only by the pale light coming through the window. Dukas reached inside and clicked on the light. The room had been disturbed, furniture out of place and objects strewed across the floor.
And from behind the leather couch a bare arm, streaked with blood, jutted at an odd angle.
“Please no,” she whispered. “Not Tira.”
Her plea was too late. When she stepped around the couch, she immediately recognized her friend lying in a wide, congealing pool of dark blood.
She was naked. Her clothes slashed and cut away by the same brutal blade that had ravaged her flesh, leaving her butchered and bloody. Her throat had been deeply cut, the flesh peeling back in a moist, glistening layer.
About to move toward the body, Dukas drew back. There was nothing she could do for her friend now.
Dukas reached into her pocket for her cell, then picked up a whisper of sound from the other side of the room. She realized she was not alone. She turned for the door, catching movement out the corner of her eye—a fast moving figure coming out of the bedroom, heading directly for her.
She reached the door and yanked it open. An arm snaked around her neck, the impact of her assailant’s body pushing her into the door frame. She stumbled, pulling her attacker with her as he maintained his grip. On her knees, she threw out one hand to grip the door frame. She could feel warm breath on the back of her neck that drew her anger as she recalled everything that had happened—the men at her apartment, discovering her dead friend and now this unprovoked attack. It gelled into a moment of pure, reflex rage.
Dukas drove the back of her skull into her attacker’s face. It hit hard and she heard him gasp, the arm around her neck loosening. She pulled free, pushing to her feet and turning to face the man. Still on his knees, temporarily engulfed in the blinding pain of his bruised nose, he was vulnerable. Dukas didn’t hesitate. She raised her right foot and slammed the heel of her boot into his mouth. He fell back, his face bloody, and in that instant she turned and ran.
Dukas raced along the corridor to the stairs, almost throwing herself down the steep flights, trying not to think about what she had left behind. She reached the lobby, barely able to stop herself from crashing into the front door. She fumbled for the handle, pulling it wide, and faced a dark figure blocking the entrance as she went through.
She hadn’t considered the man upstairs might have a partner.
Her forward rush took her headlong into the newcomer. His arms came up to grip her, but to steady her, not to imprison. Even in the flash of panic she knew to trust the voice when he spoke.
“Easy now, Erika, I’m on your side.”
“She’s dead. Tira’s dead,” Dukas cried.
She felt the man’s hands on her shoulders. The gesture helped to calm her. He eased her around and she felt herself being guided to a corner of the lobby.
“I think he was still there. In her apartment,” she said.
“Let me worry about him. You wait here.”
“With more of them liable to come through the front door? I’ll feel safer behind you.”
Mack Bolan saw the determined expression in her eyes.
“Watch my back then,” he said.
He eased the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder rig and held it against his right thigh as they started up the stairs, Bolan taking the lead.
Behind him Dukas offered directions and Bolan followed them. The apartment door stood ajar, the lights still on. As he reached the door, he saw the blood smear on the frame. Fresh blood was still seeping down the wood frame.
“You 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 muzzle, making sure Kimble stayed aware of his precarious position.
“Simple question. Where do they have the woman?” the Executioner asked.
Kimble knew his life depended on his reply. He was under no illusions. He had seen how easily this man had killed his partner and knew that same fate awaited him if he failed to give the right information.
“If I tell you, can we make a deal?” he asked.
Bolan didn’t answer. Instead he dug the muzzle of the Beretta deeper into Kimble’s flesh, turning it enough to break the skin. Kimble felt the warm trickle of blood from the tear.
“Where do they have the woman?”
“No deal, huh? Look, what if I send you to a certain address and she isn’t there?” Kimble asked.
“Then I’ll come back and we’ll start over. You aren’t going anywhere, Kimble. So make certain I hit the correct location,” the Executioner warned.
“If my people find out I sent you, I’m dead anyway. They’ll come after me.”
“No, they won’t. I can promise you that.”
The tone was neutral but the implication was clear. Kimble knew if this man went after the woman, it wouldn’t matter who stood in his way.
Bolan stepped away from Kimble and stood facing him, the Beretta still trained on the man.
“Your choice, Kimble. Give me what I want, and I’ll cut you a break. Screw me, and you’ll wish I’d killed you right here and now.”
Kimble stared into the cold blue eyes and he saw his own fate mirrored there.
“You genuine on that? Leaving me alive I mean?”
“I never lie, Kimble.”
There was something in the guy’s voice that made Kimble believe him.
“Then we have a deal.”
Bolan gestured with the pistol and walked Kimble across the room. He made him sit on the floor next to the heavy radiator piped into the wall, then picked up the plastic ties Kimble had let drop to the floor. He handed one to Kimble.
“Around your ankles. Make sure it’s tight.”
“Jesus, my finger’s broke. How can I—”
“Your choice, Kimble. I still have bullets in this gun.”
Bolan waited until Kimble did as he was instructed, then fashioned a loop with a second plastic strip. He bound Kimble’s wrists together, then took more strips and secured the bound man to the thick steel pipe running from the radiator to the solid floor.
“Now tell me where she is and how many are with her.”
When Bolan had the information locked down he rose to his feet, holstering the Beretta, then turned to leave.
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