Ripple Effect. Don Pendleton

the hardware in its trunk until he’d had his money’s worth out of the mobile arsenal.

      “Just pistols?” Dixon asked him as they left the car and crossed the street.

      “If we need more than that,” Bolan replied, “our plan is seriously flawed.”

      “About this knocking thing…”

      “It’s how they play it, in polite society.”

      “Is that what this is?” Dixon asked.

      “Hope springs eternal.”

      “Right.”

      He had a point, of course. Maybe they should’ve loaded up for bear and smashed through Talmadge’s front door with automatic weapons blazing, but the job—at least in Bolan’s mind—was more than simply taking out a soldier who’d gone bad.

      They were supposed to find out what Talmadge was doing for his latest sponsors, what their move was meant to be against the country they called Satan. Simply dropping Talmadge in his tracks might stall the plan, but on the other hand, there was a decent chance it could proceed with other personnel and reap the same results.

      Whatever those were.

      Count on chaos and destruction, maybe catastrophic loss of life, or else selective murders of specific targets carried out with surgical precision. Either way, the zealots who were renting Talmadge and his expertise would want the most bang for their bucks. And at the moment, only Talmadge could reveal who his employers were.

      Only the man they’d come to see could give them details of the plan.

      Assuming they could make him talk.

      That would be easier if he was breathing when they started asking questions, but in games like this the target often literally called the shots. If Talmadge chose to make a fight of it, resisting with the same skills Bolan had and using any weapons within reach, taking the man alive might not be possible.

      And if he forced their hands, what then?

      Where did they go for answers?

      Wait and see. Don’t count him out.

      Not yet.

      They walked around the block, came in behind the building, with the broad canal exuding stagnant odors on their right, stucco and curtained windows on the left. Bolan counted the buildings, picking out the paint job, and the back door opened at his touch.

      So far, so good.

      Stairs just inside, and Bolan led the way, knowing that Talmadge had a flat on the third floor. The stairs were solid, maybe concrete under threadbare carpet, so they didn’t squeak.

      On three, Bolan let Dixon take the lead, moving along a narrow hallway redolent with smells of cabbage, pork and something else he didn’t want to think about. Maybe a version of despair.

      Talmadge had found a place to hide where no one would expect to find him.

      No one but the Executioner.

      Dixon stood off to one side of the door and nodded.

      Bolan reached across to knock.

      NOTHING. THE RAPPING ECHOED back at them but brought no answer from inside the flat. No shuffling feet, no verbal challenge. No gunfire.

      Nothing.

      Dixon watched as his partner reached around the jamb and knocked again, more forcefully. They waited half a minute.

      Still nothing.

      “Keep watch,” Bolan said as he knelt before the door, extracting something like a wallet from one of his pockets. Dixon saw him open it and withdraw slender lock picks, then turned his full attention to the undemanding task of covering the hallway.

      No one had emerged from any of the other flats to catch a glimpse of who was knocking on their neighbor’s door. He guessed it was that kind of place, where people minded their own business and resented nosy neighbors. Even so, he paid attention to the stairs and to the other doorways, keeping one hand on his Smith &Wesson in its belt holster.

      Ready to shoot at the first sign of a hostile move.

      What a day it had been, and not over yet!

      In training, back at Quantico, Dixon and some of his classmates had talked about what they would do if they were ever placed in killing situations, where the only rule worth mentioning was door-die. With one exception, Dixon reflected, they’d been young males, full of piss and vinegar. Without exception, all of them had vowed to tag and bag all enemies of the United States if given half an opportunity.

      Now Dixon had been graced with such an opportunity, and he’d surprised himself. He wouldn’t say the killings had been easy necessarily, but neither did he have the sickly feeling he’d expected, like an overdose of early childhood guilt. The shootings had been self-defense, beyond a shadow of a doubt, involving criminals or terrorists. He hadn’t started it, and he was definitely glad to be alive.

      “You ever face a situation where it’s them or you,” his range instructor had remarked on one occasion, “make damn sure it’s them.”

      Amen.

      But he was nervous, like a restless sleeper waiting for his upstairs neighbor’s second shoe to drop before he dared to close his eyes. And Dixon couldn’t shake it.

      Was it simple fear of getting caught? Of what came next? What if he—?

      Click!

      He turned and found the door open, Cooper crossing the threshold with his Glock in hand. A beat behind the action, Dixon drew his Smith & Wesson and followed, covering the left side of a smallish living room while Cooper took the right.

      Gene Talmadge wasn’t home.

      Dixon inferred it from the silence, then confirmed it with a hasty room-to-room search that left no piece of furniture unturned. He checked the tiny bathroom, while Matt Cooper scoured the closets and looked underneath the bed.

      Their man was gone, with roughly two-thirds of the clothing from his bedroom closet. In the bathroom, Dixon found no toothbrush, no shampoo, no comb, no mouthwash.