Killing Game. Don Pendleton

with your first shot. Then wait. I’ll be diving through the broken glass and, with any luck, taking the curtains down to the floor with me when I land inside. That should not only get me in, but give you a wide-open view of the inside of the house at the same time.”

      Platinov quietly closed the car door and headed out.

      Bolan turned toward the safe house. Every so often, he glanced to the house across the street, waiting for the flashlight to tell him it was time to go into action.

      Five minutes later he saw a light flash on, then off, atop the roof of the house where Platinov had taken up her post. A couple of seconds later, he saw the signal once again.

      Show time.

      The Executioner got out of the Nissan slowly, closed the door behind him, then sprinted across the street. Seconds later, he was over the curb and up on the grass of the yard next to the safe house. He ducked into the shadows and pressed his back against the wall.

      All of Bolan’s senses went into high gear as he waited to see if his movement had been noticed by anyone keeping watch over the safe house. It was not unusual for at least one member of a terrorist cell to remain outside to keep watch over the house’s exterior. But as he watched, listened and even noted the smells around him, Bolan saw no indication that that was the case here. If there were outside sentries, however, they would already have alerted the terrorists inside the house via cell phone or walkie-talkie that something strange was going on. There was no sense in wasting any more time, either way.

      Bolan sprinted from the house next door to the corner of the safe house nearest the picture window. Then, pulling a small flashlight from the side pocket of his blazer, he pointed it across the street and flashed it on and off twice.

      A second later, he heard an explosion erupt atop the house across the street, then saw at least three feet of flames burst from the barrel of the big S&W. At the same time the picture window next to him all but disintegrated.

      The Executioner wasted no time. Rounding the corner of the safe house, he dived into the curtains, the fingers of both hands grabbing the velvety material as he flew through the air. A screeching sound rent the air as the metal curtain rod above him was pulled from the wall, and then he fell to hardwood floor, entangled in the mass of material and thin steel. The soldier drew the SAW knife with his left hand, the Desert Eagle with his right. It would take far too long to find his way out from inside the curtains, which meant that the only sensible action was to create his own opening.

      Bolan rose to his knees. Thrusting the knife tip through the curtain material directly in front of him, he sliced down as far as he could. Then, still holding the knife and the big .44 Magnum pistol, he reached forward and grabbed the sides of the opening, clutching them between his fingers and the two weapons.

      Ripping both hands apart, Bolan caught his first glimpse of light since diving through the window. A man wearing a blue beret and brown slacks was bringing a British Sten submachine gun to bear.

      Pulling the Desert Eagle’s trigger, the Executioner caught the terrorist in the chest, driving him back.

      Another mammoth blast came from across the street, covering fire from Platinov, but another enemy gunner fired on Bolan, rounds tearing through the curtain missing his left ear by a millimeter.

      He had to get out of these curtains of death, and he had to do it now. Bolan rose from his knees to his feet as first his head, then his shoulders, and finally his legs came up and out of the curtains. Then he stepped away from the tangled material as the real battle began.

      The Executioner took in his environment in a heartbeat. Just as he’d guessed, he was in the safe house’s living room. He could hear a television almost directly behind him. Against the other three walls were sofas and chairs, and the time it had taken him to untangle himself from the curtains had given the terrorists time to push away from the walls and take cover behind the furniture.

      Bolan knew it hadn’t been him who had prompted such actions. Had he dived through the window and into the curtains alone, the hardmen inside the living room would have had only to draw their weapons and send a massive hailstorm of gunfire into the disarrayed clump of curtains. It had been Platinov’s fire from the roof across the street that had saved his life. The terrorists now taking cover were doing so to avoid the thunderous assault that was coming from somewhere outside of their house.

      But now that they could see Bolan, and the giant pistol in his hand, they turned their attention his way.

      The Executioner fired another round directly into a stuffed armchair behind which he had seen the top of a balding head. The 240-grain Magnum round easily penetrated the leather cover material and stuffing, then hit the man behind the chair somewhere critical enough to send him sprawling out to the side in instant death.

      Return fire suddenly poured from the other men around the room as they recovered from their initial shock. Covered on three sides in the living room, Bolan knew it could only be a matter of seconds before he’d be nailed.

      To his side, an archway led from the living room into a dining area. Firing two more quick rounds from the Desert Eagle, Bolan heard the springs inside one of the sofas sing out as the bullets shredded through them and took out another terrorist hiding behind them. The man had just enough life left in him to stand up, but not enough to lift the heavy Thompson submachine gun in his hands before he fell forward over the back of the couch.

      As soon as he’d pulled the trigger the second time, Bolan dived toward the archway. He had not yet had time to sheath his knife, so he tucked both the blade and the Desert Eagle flat against his chest. The shoulder roll took him out of the living room into the entryway behind the front door, and he rolled back to his feet at the foot of a staircase that led to the second floor of the house.

      The Executioner ducked and pivoted back around as gunfire sailed over his shoulder. The men in the living room had now been forced out from behind the couches and chairs in order to get into a position from which they could attack. And as yet another sonic boom sounded from across the street, Bolan watched one of the men’s heads totally disintegrate atop his neck.

      Bolan leaped to the third step of the staircase. He had seen no one at the first landing of the split-level home, and could see no one at the top, either. This unconventional tactic provided him with no cover or concealment, but it made the men trying to kill him pause for a few tenths of a second.

      Which was more than enough of an edge for the Executioner.

      Bolan had finally sheathed his knife, and now he drew the Beretta 93-R. Thumbing the selector switch to 3-round-burst mode, he cut loose with a trio of 9 mm rounds that stitched another CLODO terrorist from navel to neck. The man’s eyes widened in disbelief, then he fell forward onto his face, dropping the .357 Magnum Taurus 8-shot revolver he had been about to bring into play.

      The Executioner’s unorthodox movement had worked once. So he reversed it, jumping downward, landing on his rubber-soled hiking shoes with the grace of a cat. But the roar that came out of the Desert Eagle was that of a lion as he pressed the big pistol’s barrel directly into the chest of a young terrorist, pulverizing his heart.

      Bolan ducked back from the archway, climbing up one step again to avoid the torrent of lead that zipped his way. When he leaned back around with the Desert Eagle, he spotted another younger terrorist sprinting toward the window.

      The Executioner raised the Beretta to fire, but another loud blast kept him from wasting his ammunition as Platinov sent yet another 325-grain semijacketed hollowpoint into the man’s chest.

      Bolan watched him hit the floor on his back like a sack of potatoes falling off the back of a truck. The young man had just enough strength left to crane his neck up and look at his ruined chest.

      Then he closed his eyes forever.

      According to Bolan’s count, Platinov had fired all five of the rounds in her weapon. Now, she would have to reload the big X-frame wheel gun and, even with the full moon clips, that would take time.

      Time during which he couldn’t count on getting any cover fire from her.