Blood Vendetta. Don Pendleton

      “You.”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Are you? You’re focused on this woman. We’re in the middle of something so much larger and you are worried about her, about revenge.”

      “I’m focused on the mission.”

      “The mission doesn’t include chasing shadows or drawing attention to us with ham-handed kidnapping attempts.”

      “Don’t tell me what the mission is,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice.

      Sizova sat back in her chair, as though stung. Her lips pressed together in an angry line and her eyes narrowed. Yezhov had seen the look before and knew he had crossed a line. He also was angry enough not to care.

      “Don’t speak to me like that,” she said.

      “Don’t tell me how to run my operation,” he said. “I have this under control.”

      Her angry look turned to one of mild amusement.

      “I can tell,” she said.

      He fought the urge to come out of his chair and hit the woman. Experience told him not to. Sizova, outwardly gorgeous and delicate, had been trained since her teen years in the dark arts of hand-to-hand combat, as well as with weapons. Even if he did take her, he’d pay a price for his victory—a lost eye or an ear torn from the side of his head. That was the best-case scenario.

      Yezhov exhaled.

      “I have this under control,” he repeated. “Taking her out isn’t an aside from our mission—it’s a major piece of our mission.”

      Her expression softened.

      “What do you mean?”

      Yezhov stood up and walked to the small bar. Grabbing a clear glass tumbler, he turned it over and reached for the vodka.

      “What do I mean?” he said, unscrewing the bottle’s cap. “I mean, she knows. Or she will know what we’re up to.”

      “Stop being so damned cryptic!” she said.

      Satisfied with the amount he had poured into his glass, he put the top back on the bottle and set it aside. Picking up the drink, her turned and looked at her.

      “I mean she knows. She knows more than my fucking bank balance. When she hacked into our system, she stole all kinds of information.”

      Sizova had paled slightly.

      “Our deal,” she said.

      “Yes, our deal,” he said. “The Sentry project, the antisatellite technology—she has that information.”

      “Maybe she hasn’t seen it.”

      Yezhov shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. She stole tons of data. It’s possible she hasn’t had time to look through it yet. But it’s also likely she has. At some point, she will comb through all of it, exploit the information for further attacks on us. Regardless, we have to proceed as if she knows.”

      “Meaning—”

      “Meaning we have to kill her. And anyone who’s helping her. But first we must find her. Luckily, I have a plan for that.”

      Chapter 3

      Bolan and McCarter met outside the headquarters of MI5, Britain’s domestic intelligence agency. The fox-faced Briton, a Coke in his grip, was leaning against an iron railing and staring out at the Thames River, swollen from a recent rain. The Executioner noticed his old friend wore a black trench coat and a red necktie that occasionally lashed out from beneath the coat. A black leather valise stood on the concrete next to McCarter’s leg.

      Seeing Bolan from the corner of his eye, McCarter turned and shot the Executioner a lopsided grin and a small wave.

      “Welcome to paradise, Yank,” he said.

      “Glad to be home?” Bolan asked.

      McCarter shrugged. “Longer I’m away, the less it feels like home. Good to be here, though. I did get a hell of a deal on a Jaguar. Sweet little black number.”

      “Love to see it.”

      “See it from a distance, if it’s all the same,” McCarter said. “The cars you touch tend to end up pocked with bullet holes or blown to smithereens. I’d at least like to race this one once or twice before it ends up in the scrap heap.”

      “Fair enough,” Bolan said, a smile ghosting his lips. “Our friends at MI5 playing nice?”

      “Nice as can be expected, considering I just swooped in from across the pond and asked to see the family jewels. The bloke here, Damon Blair, seems decent enough. Balked a little at first, but got on board once he found out we have some heavyweights behind us.”

      Bolan nodded. “Good, let’s go see what he has to say.”

      * * *

      BLAIR’S OFFICE WAS on the top floor of Thames House and had a window that overlooked the river. Blair was a small man, with straw-blond hair that was unkempt, a wide nose and large ears.

      Bolan identified himself under his oft-used alias, Matt Cooper. Blair gestured for the two men to sit.

      Bolan lowered himself into a chair that stood in front of Blair’s desk. McCarter took the seat next to him. Leaning forward, Blair laced his fingers together and set them on the desktop.

      “Welcome to our fair city, Mr. Cooper,” Blair said.

      “Matt,” Bolan replied.

      “David says you’re looking for information.”

      Bolan nodded.

      “You want information on the Nightingale.”

      Bolan nodded again.

      “Man of few words, eh?” Blair said. “Well, not sure what I can offer you. As you can understand, we can’t—and I won’t—tell you specific sources.”

      “Sure.”

      “And the Americans probably have a lot of the same raw intelligence on this as we do. So I’m not sure what I have to add.”

      Bolan crossed his legs, right ankle balanced on left knee.

      “Fair question,” the big American said. “And, you’re right, our two countries probably have a lot of the same information, since we share so much. But you have two advantages. One, you’ve been following this individual for—what?—a couple of years now. And, two, you actually are on the ground. The shootings happened in Bayswater, just a stone’s throw from here. I’m guessing you’ve seen all the latest information on the shooting, including any police reports and other intelligence gathered. You know the area. You might have some insights into Nightingale’s behavior that a guy like me, someone who just parachuted into town, would miss entirely.”

      Blair grinned. “So you can speak, eh? Okay, fair enough. What questions can I field for you two?”

      The Executioner noticed the other man didn’t promise to actually answer the questions, but let it slide.

      “What’s your take on the Nightingale?” Bolan asked.

      Leaning back in his chair, Blair glanced at the ceiling and rubbed absently at his throat for a moment, apparently collecting his thoughts.

      “She—our psychologists believe she’s a woman—she’s lost something. More likely she’s lost someone, maybe even several people, and she’s enraged. Probably so enraged she no longer feels or notices it. It’s like an arthritic joint. Bugs you all the time, affects how you move, maybe your choice in activities and lifestyle. But you’ve become so accustomed to it, you barely pay attention to it. Or you only do so on a limited basis.”

      “I don’t buy