Justice Run. Don Pendleton

he continued the frisk, ultimately turning up a couple of magazines for the Walther and a folding knife.

      He pocketed the knife.

      Bolan ejected the magazine from the Walther and tossed it aside. He then threw the empty pistol in the opposite direction.

      Bolan turned the guy around.

      The soldier pulled a field dressing from his pocket. Unwrapping it, he handed it to the man, who took it and gingerly placed it on his wound.

      “You speak English?” Bolan asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Where’s the woman?”

      The man hesitated. Bolan reached out and pushed down on the hand the man was using to hold the dressing in place. The man grimaced and moaned, bending slightly at the knees.

      The captive cursed in French.

      “Let me ask again,” Bolan said. “Where is she?”

      The guy pushed himself up to his full height. He leaned against the wall for support, but glared at Bolan.

      “Downstairs,” he said, forcing the word through clenched teeth.

      “Downstairs where? And how do I get down there?”

      The hardman opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and clamped his eyes closed for a couple of seconds, apparently riding out another wave of pain.

      “Downstairs where?” Bolan repeated.

      With some effort, the guy opened his eyes, turned his head left and gestured with his chin. Even that much movement seemed excruciating to the man. A double door stood a few yards away.

      “Go through there,” he said. “Follow the hallway. There’s a freight elevator at the end of it...”

      “Go on.”

      “Hit the B2 button. Get off and...”

      The hardman’s voice trailed off again. He looked pale and Bolan guessed the blood loss was weakening the guy.

      “Get off on B2.”

      “Three doors,” the guy said. “You want the second one.”

      “Locked?”

      The guy nodded. “Security card.”

      “The one around your neck?”

      Another nod.

      Bolan took hold of the card and pulled up, drawing the lanyard over the other man’s head.

      “How many guards down there?”

      “How many have you killed?”

      “Ten.”

      “Two, maybe. They might have gone elsewhere.”

      “Where’s Dumond?”

      “Look, I already told you where the lady is. Isn’t that enough?”

      “Answer the question.”

      “I sent him away. I knew this was a lost cause,” Bellew said, licking his lips, “so I told him to go.”

      “Where would he go?”

      The guy’s eyes looked heavy and he was unsteady. Bolan guessed the effects of shock and blood loss were overtaking him.

      “I don’t know. There’s Paris. There’s Africa.”

      “Where in Africa?”

      “Evergreen. Monet....” His voice was barely audible.

      His eyes slammed shut and his body sagged. Bolan let him slide to the floor.

      “Not much to go on,” Turrin said.

      Bolan shrugged. “You look for Dumond,” he said. “I’ll find Rodriguez.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Turrin bolted up the stairs to the second floor in search of Dumond. He wanted to capture or kill the guy. If Dumond was in the house, Turrin guessed putting him down was going to require blasting through a line of well-armed thugs.

      And maybe he wouldn’t make it. It was something he always knew yet tried not to think about. When his old friend Mack Bolan called on him for help, it almost always required putting his life on the line. Turrin expected it. It was one of the few things in life he’d made peace with.

      Before he could reach the top of the stairs, a hardman rushed into view. The guy was lining up a shot at Turrin with his Steyr AUG. His mind and body conditioned by countless near-death experiences, Turrin triggered his Beretta. The handgun coughed discreetly and a 3-round burst of 9 mm bullets drilled into his adversary’s chest. Surprise flashed on the man’s features an instant before his body dropped to the floor at the head of the stairs.

      Turrin stepped over the corpse, moved onto the second floor and ran his gaze over his surroundings. The stairs led into a semicircular landing. Ornate tiles covered the floor and crystal chandeliers lit the upstairs. Railed walkways ran on either side of the stairway, and across the landing a door opened into another corridor. Since the walkways were empty, Turrin crossed the landing and moved into the corridor. Three doors lined the right side and four stood on the opposite side.

      The first two doors on Turrin’s right were open. He checked the first room quickly and found nothing. Inside the second room, he found an oak desk with a computer monitor on top of it. As he moved around the desk, he spotted the computer tower on the floor. The side was cracked open and fragments of circuit boards and other electronic guts were strewed over the floor. Apparently the PC had contained something of value. He made a mental note to check with the cyber team at the Farm to see whether he should try to recover it.

      Slipping back through the door, he caught a fast-moving dark shape in his peripheral vision.

      He spun in time to see a rangy man hurtling at him, his right arm pulled back, his hand clutching a gleaming knife. The guy was on him quickly. Turrin didn’t have time to swing the Beretta toward his attacker and squeeze off a shot. He saw the knife plunge at him and stepped sideways, letting the blade cut through empty air. As the knife slashed downward, the guy’s torso leaned forward, putting him slightly off balance. With his left hand, Turrin grabbed a handful of his attacker’s shirt and jerked him forward, hoping to send him hurtling into a wall. At the same time, Turrin used the extra space to bring the Beretta into play.

      Unfortunately the guy caught his footing. His hand snaked out and, grabbing the wrist of Turrin’s gun hand, pushed it away so the little Fed couldn’t get a decent shot at him.

      Balling his other hand into a fist, Turrin lashed out and flattened his adversary’s nose, causing the guy to moan. Turrin pressed the attack, thrusting an open hand up at the tip of the man’s nose and driving the broken cartilage into his brain. The guy’s fingers uncurled from Turrin’s wrist and he backpedaled a couple of steps before sinking to the floor.

      The Stony Man warrior leaned against the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath as he watched a last shudder pass through the man at his feet.

      Two down. How many to go?

      Hell, it was time to find out.

      Turrin quickly searched the rest of the second floor, but found no one. Figuring he’d check the third floor next, he headed down the corridor. As he hurried forward, he heard footsteps pounding down the stairway, then spotted three men.

      The hardman in the lead saw Turrin and reacted. In the blink of an eye he fired off a shot from a handgun. The weapon’s report echoed through the enclosed space as Turrin dived to his right just a bullet passed through the air where he’d stood only a microsecond before.

      His body hit the hard tile floor, and sent bolts of pain through his chest and right shoulder. However, he kept a firm hold on his pistol and rolled away from his opponents.

      Raising his