Justice Run. Don Pendleton

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