Executioner - Blood Circle Part 5

The Executioner burst from cover as all of the military police began to fire. More than twenty rifles began to blast fire into the duty-free shop on full automatic. Cabinets of liquor, cigarettes and luxury items blew apart under the ma.s.sive salvo. Bolan ran under the streaming tracers and dived against the wall under the shop's window. The fusillade stopped suddenly as the rifles cracked open on empty chambers almost simultaneously. There was a cacophony of metal clicking and clacking as twenty MPs changed magazines at the same time.

Bolan pulled the pin on the stun grenade. Inside the shop the woman screamed again, and a voice rang out from the shop in enraged Slovene. Bolan couldn't understand the words, but their meaning was plain.

The Red Falcons were about to prove they weren't bluffing. Bolan released the grenade's safety lever. He counted off the numbers, then hurled the grenade through the shattered window over his head. He clapped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. The main terminal echoed with the deafening blast of the grenade, and Bolan could see the glare of the magnesium flare as a bright yellow flash through his closed eyelids. He stood and went through the door.

One of the Red Falcons stood with hands over his ears and tottered blind and deaf on his feet. Bolan shot him down with a burst to the chest. A second man held a collapsed woman by one wrist, and a pistol was in his other hand. He blinked confusedly, slowly moving the muzzle of the gun toward the weeping woman on the floor. Bolan took two quick strides forward and dropped the man with a point-blank head shot. The terrorist toppled backward into the broken gla.s.s of a display case.

The Executioner swept the room with the muzzle of the Beretta. An elderly couple clutched each other in the corner, as did a young man and woman in nearly matching blue jeans and leather jackets. Gla.s.s crunched underfoot as Bolan took a step forward and looked down a small service hallway. The back storeroom door was ajar.

He hurled himself aside.

Holes began to riddle the door as someone fired a pistol on rapid semiautomatic. Bolan fired a burst back through the door and moved out of the line of fire. He peered quickly around the corner and examined the door. Seven bullet holes formed a neat pattern almost exactly at waist level. Bolan smiled coldly. Cebej was good. In a barricade situation most amateurs crouched in the corners of rooms. This was the first place someone entering looked and fired. The wise lay p.r.o.ne on the floor somewhere toward the middle of the room to present a small target and surprise the entry team.

Bolan slipped a fresh magazine into the Beretta and lay back on the floor. He slid his gun hand around the corner and peered down his sights. He kept his aim six inches from the floor and began to fire the Beretta.

The door shuddered as bullets tore through it from both sides. Cebej's bullets went high down the small hallway. Bolan kept his low, putting the entire clip in a horizontal fan six inches above the floor. He withdrew and rammed a fresh magazine into the spent Beretta. He aimed around the corner and fired a burst.

No shots came back.

Bolan picked up a triangle of broken gla.s.s and flung it against the door. The beleaguered panel vibrated, and the gla.s.s shattered and fell to the ground. No shots came back. He drew the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle and strode down the hallway with a gun in each hand. The door came half off its hinges under his boot, and Bolan threw himself behind the jamb. He snapped around into the doorway with both pistols leveled.

A man's body lay facedown on the floor slightly to the left of the doorway, a 9 mm pistol held in each hand. A puddle of blood was spreading around his head and his right arm was torn at the biceps from a bullet wound. Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle and knelt by the body. He raised the head by the hair and peered into the face of Branko Cebej. The leader of the Red Falcons had taken one of the Beretta's 9 mm subsonic hollowpoints through the forehead.

Bolan stood and shouted out through the doorway, "Clear!"

Booted feet thundered on the terminal floor as military police swarmed the shop. The Executioner holstered his pistols and walked back into the terminal as the shouting began all over again. Sarcev walked up to him, still cradling his rifle in his hands as he looked up into Bolan's face. "Cebej?"

Bolan nodded. "Dead. How is Markov?"

"The Russian is dead. He was a brave man."

"Yes. He was." Bolan looked back toward the loading gate. Someone had put a coat over the Russian's face, as well as over one of Sarcev's fallen men. His two wounded were being looked at by a medical officer.

The militiaman cleared his throat. "The Giant is not here, is he?"

The Executioner let out a long slow breath. It was unlikely that Baibakov would take a regular commercial flight. His huge size and scarred face would attract attention anywhere. He would be on a container flight or a transport. Bolan's instincts told him what he didn't want to hear. Igor Baibakov had gone ahead, and Krstic and an untold number of Red Falcons had gone with him. Their destination was the United States.

7.

Igor Baibakov's chair strained under his ma.s.sive physique as he sprawled in front of the television and watched CNN. His joints were still stiff from his cramped ride in the cargo plane.

Hiding among the crates, he had been unable to stretch out his seven-foot frame. The chair creaked dangerously as he extended his ma.s.sive limbs and then gave the television his attention.

The news was recycling the same report he had seen half an hour earlier. Still, it told him more than enough. There had been a firefight in the Sarajevo airport. Details were unclear as to what exactly had happened, other than that the Bosnian military police had engaged a group of armed terrorists. All of the terrorists were reported dead. The news anchor said that thankfully there had been no civilian casualties. Baibakov almost smiled. He knew the Bosnian military police all too well.

He had been playing cat and mouse with them for months. If they had known the leader of the Red Falcons had been in the airport, they would have gone in shooting with an army of soldiers. It would have been a blood-bath. Yet, according to the Western news media, there had been no civilian casualties.

All of the terrorists were dead. Baibakov exposed his square, horse-like teeth in a delighted smile.

Of course it had been the work of the American commando.

The chair groaned as Baibakov rose out of it and clicked off the television. He stared out the window of the safehouse.

It was raining lightly. Out in the darkness he could see the lights of Paris gleaming in the distance. His voice was a rumbling grate.

"Branko is dead. If they knew to strike at the airport, then we must a.s.sume the men at the chalet are lost, as well."

Madchen Krstic pushed her dark bangs out of her eyes and looked up from a map of the United States. "Yes."

"We must a.s.sume they know that we are coming."

She shrugged and looked at the map again. "It will not help them. They cannot stop US."

Baibakov grinned again. The little Serb woman wasn't the mourning type. She had seen too many people she knew and loved die in the civil war. She and her family had suffered many atrocities at the hands of Muslim fanatics, and she had given the Bosnian Muslims back atrocity full score. It was only natural that she would have been drawn to the cause of the Red Falcons. Baibakov thought back to some of his attacks that she had partic.i.p.ated in. Her s.a.d.i.s.tic butchery had rivaled his own, and it had started to worry Cebej. Baibakov's grin widened. It didn't worry him at all. He liked it. It excited him, and besides, Cebej was dead.

She felt him staring at her and looked up. Her eyelids narrowed slightly, and her right eyebrow rose. It was a calculated look and they both knew it. "You are a.s.suming command."

It was a statement, not a question, and Baibakov simply smiled back at her.

Her lips parted as she looked the giant up and down appraisingly. "I am the commander's woman."

Baibakov crossed the room in two strides and hurled her to the floor. She gasped as he covered her with his ma.s.sive bulk. Baibakov was glad Cebej was dead, since the Serb leader had started to question some of Baibakov's tactics. Now that he was dead, the Russian could run the mission the way he wanted, and take care of his other objective, as well. The woman was an added bonus. He had barely gotten her skirt up and already she was biting and clawing, and calling him her "warrior." That was all that mattered to her, killing and being in the company of warriors.

But Madchen Krstic had made one small mistake. Igor Baibakov didn't consider himself a warrior. Baibakov was a huntera"he hunted and he killed. Warriors were his favorite prey.

Soon he would return to the United States.

The former Spetsnaz commando considered it the greatest hunting ground in the world.

Mack Bolan sat next to Hal Brognola at the conference table and sighed wearily. A two-star Army general and the deputy director of the CIA were present, as well as the State Department deputy chief. The State Department man glanced at Bolan suspiciously. The man didn't know who he was, but he obviously believed Bolan had no business being here. The Executioner had been back in the United States for a week. His mission was considered a great success. He had wiped a major terrorist group that threatened to destabilize the peace process in the former Yugoslavia. The Serbs were making almost no fuss at all about the destruction of the Red Falcons. The combined action with the Bosnian militia was considered a model of cooperation in the region. Bolan knew better.

The State Department was overjoyed. To them the mission had gone off without a hitch. The mission was also over. The State Department, and other powers that were, knew that "Michael Belasko" was the "on-site operator," but his opinion that there was still a major problem was being frowned upon in all official channels. The President's advisers were telling the Man that stirring up fear of terrorist action in the United States wasn't a wise publicity move. The idea that some giant named Igor Baibakov was in the country and involved in terrorist activity was being dismissed. But Bolan knew better. Apparently the Russians knew better, as well.

Russian Military Intelligence had contacted the Pentagon. They were sending over an envoy, and it concerned the matter in Sarajevo. They had asked for the "on-site operator's" attendance. The men around the table rose as the conference room door was opened by a Secret Service agent.

Eyebrows rose around the table.

A tall blond woman in a dark green military dress uniform skirt and blouse marched into the conference room with the rigid poise of a drill sergeant. In her hands she carried a bulky, old-fashioned folding leather briefcase. She stood for a moment and scanned the men in the room critically. Her gaze stopped on Bolan. She stared at the Executioner openly for a long moment. Whatever she was thinking was hidden behind her arctic blue eyes.

The Executioner gazed back in frank appraisal. She was tall and lean, but she filled out her dress uniform well. Bolan had seen many Russian dress uniforms, and this woman had obviously had hers expertly tailored. Her gleaming black shoes had flat heels, and she had excellent calves. Despite her severe expression, she was a very attractive woman.

She removed her cap and turned to the CIA deputy director and saluted smartly. "I am Senior Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova, of Russian Military Intelligence."

The deputy director saluted back awkwardly and waved toward an empty chair. "Miss Svarzkova, we are-"

The deputy director trailed off as she gave him an icy smile. "You may call me Lieutenant."

The deputy director cleared his throat. "My apologies, Lieutenant. Please, have a seat."

Lieutenant Svarzkova's smile brightened slightly. "Thank you." She ignored the chair the deputy director indicated and took the empty seat next to Bolan. The Executioner examined the twin rows of service ribbons on the left breast of her uniform. He recognized the orange-and-black ribbon of the Medal for Valor. They also told him she was rated as a marksman and a communications expert. Her English was excellent. The deputy director cleared his throat again.

"Lieutenant Svarzkova, we wish to thank you for your nation's cooperation during our operation in the former Yugoslavia. We appreciate your-"

Svarzkova cut him off. "We have a mutual problem, and his name is Igor Baibakov. If he is not already in the United States, he will be very soon."

The man from the State Department rolled his eyes. "Excuse me, Lieutenant, but according to our information Igor Baibakov is dead."

The lieutenant looked at the diplomat as if he were a small child. "Your information is incorrect. Russian Military Intelligence has known that Igor Baibakov survived and has been selling his services as a mercenary in the former Yugoslavia for some time now."

Bolan's eyebrows shot up. He had been around a number of Russian Intelligence agents in his time, and they were a notoriously close-mouthed bunch. Svarzkova was extraordinarily frank. She suddenly turned to Bolan. "Igor Baibakov is alive, is he not?"

"He was the last time I saw him."

Svarzkova nodded and opened her briefcase. She slid out a set of identical files and pa.s.sed them around the table. Her tone grew somewhat colder. "I will be honest with you. It is no secret that the Russian republic supports the Serbian cause in the former Yugoslavia. We cooperate with your peace initiative there to maintain good relations with the United States. However, we now have a mutual problem." She opened the file in front of her, and the men around the table did the same.

Bolan looked at the photo in front of him. Baibakov stood with the Kremlin behind him dressed in his Spetsnaz parade uniform. A sheet containing his statistics and service record had been translated into English. Svarzkova read them out loud anyway.

"Captain Igor Baibakov, seven feet, 325 pounds. Fluent in English and Spanish. Rated as expert in small arms, explosives, escape and evasion, airborne qualified. Born 1958 in the northern Ural Mountains. His father was a Cossack and a war hero. He became a hunting guide after World War II, specializing in tracking Russian boar and grizzly. His son learned the family trade early, and hunting remains Igor Baibakov's only real pa.s.sion. Due to his immense size and strength, Baibakov was groomed for the Soviet Olympic team in wrestling and power lifting. However, he had a number of disciplinary problems. These problems were severe enough to have him eliminated from the Soviet sports program. As punishment, he was enlisted in the army and immediately sent to fight in Afghanistan. Disciplinary problems continued. However, he was rated as an expert with small arms, and his ferocity awarded him the Medal of Valor. He was then noticed by a Spetsnaz commander, a Major Pietor Ramzina"I believe you are acquainted with that name."

Heads nodded around the table. Major Pietor Ramzin had dug a smuggling corridor between the United States and Mexico big enough to drive trucks through. He was the first man in history to have built a covert, hostile military firebase manned by foreign soldiers in the continental United States. He had been convicted of murder, extortion, drug trafficking, possession and smuggling of illegal weapons, transport of illegal aliens into the United States and conspiracy. They had been forced to rewrite the possession-of-destructive-devices statute to convict him of attempting to detonate a nuclear-demolition charge on United States soil.

Ramzin was currently serving four consecutive life sentences in the Leavenworth Federal Maximum Security Prison. Mack Bolan had put him there.

Svarzkova continued. "Under Ramzin's command, Baibakov excelled. He received numerous commendations for his combat ability, and achieved the rank of captain. His record was shadowed by accusations of atrocities committed against Afghan civilians. However, due to the expediencies of war and Baibakov's obvious talents, such allegations were not deeply scrutinized."

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. "With the recent political changes in Russia, the armed forces were downsized. Ramzin's Spetsnaz unit was decommissioned. We are aware of their actions in the United States. That is history. The fact remains that Baibakov is alive, he is probably already in the United States and he will carry out the Red Falcons' agenda. Whether you wish to believe it or not."

The room exploded into argument. Bolan looked at the Russian agent speculatively. "Why does the Russian government care about what Baibakov does?"

The argument around the table died with Bolan's question, and the woman grimaced. "Baibakov is an embarra.s.sment to our government. As a former Russian Special-Forces soldier, we cannot have him engaged in terrorist activities in the United States."

Bolan raised an eyebrow. "He's done it before."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "Yes. But we thought you had killed him."

"You knew of his activities in Sarajevo and did nothing."

The woman glared but said nothing. Bolan smiled coldly. "Due to the expediencies of war, his activities were not deeply scrutinized."

Svarzkova flushed red.

He continued. "As long as he was training Serbian militia units and butchering Bosnian civilians, he served your political expediencies. Now that he has killed an American envoy and several United States Marines, he is an embarra.s.sment. Now he is here in the United States because you wouldn't take action."

Svarzkova's knuckles whitened, but her voice remained calm. "You are partially correct. Baibakov is here, along with elements of the Red Falcon Brigade. On this we must agree. On this we must take immediate action." Lieutenant Valentina Svarzkova looked Bolan in the eye. "Igor Baibakov must be found and killed."

An hour later Hal Brognola sat across from the President of the United States.

"Hal, what do you think?" asked the Man.

Brognola sighed. He trusted Mack Bolan with his life, and while he had never trusted the Russians, in this situation he trusted their motives. "If Striker says he ran into Baibakov in Sarajevo, I believe him. If he says Baibakov is on his way here on the Red Falcon agenda, I believe that, too. The State Department can complain about snipe hunts all they want. I believe the threat is real."

The President frowned. "What about this Russian woman?"

The big Fed shrugged. "I think she corroborates what Striker has already told us. Baibakov is a major liability to the Russians. They want trade agreements, they want foreign aid and mutual cooperation internationally. Some seven-foot maniac who used to be an operator of theirs running a terrorist network in the United States won't be very helpful once Congress and the Senate find out. In this instance I believe them. They want Baibakov, and they want him terminated."

The President nodded slowly. "I agree." The lines in his face set grimly. "What do you suggest?"

"For starters, the usual. Get Baibakov's description to the FBI and run it through channels. He may be Superman but he's also seven feet tall. He'll be hard to hide."

The President nodded. "And?"

Brognola didn't like the idea of sending a friend of his after one of the worst killing machines to ever walk on two legs, but it had to be done. "Send Striker after him. Baibakov will be using Russian mafiya connections to move and get materiel in the United States. He's dealt with them before. Lieutenant Svarzkova can go along as a liaison and an observer. I'm pretty sure she has some cards to play she hasn't shown yet."

The President frowned. "Can we trust her?"

"I believe the Russians want Baibakov dead. She might be useful. If someone is going to watch what she's up to, Striker is the man."

"You think the two of them can hunt down this psychopath?"

"I think it's the best shot we have, and they have an angle no FBI agent has."

The President c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "What's that?"

Brognola let out a slow breath. It was a worst-case scenario, and the only real shot they had. "Striker is proposing to use the same tactic he used in Sarajevo. He and Baibakov have a history. Once Baibakov knows that Striker is on his trail, Baibakov will start hunting him."

8.

Mack Bolan knocked on the hotel-room door.

"Who is it?" a woman asked.

Bolan considered his answer for a moment. He had fought against, and more recently acted in cooperation with Russian Military Intelligence. He couldn't be sure just what this agent knew. "Me." There was a short pause. "Who is this, *me?'"