Oblivion Pact. Don Pendleton

      Moving upstairs, Bolan moved onward, keeping an ear out for a car arriving or a knock downstairs. A neighbor might have seen him enter and called the police. But this was Columbus where everybody minded his or her own business and quietly got killed without disturbing the people next door. An open doorway led to what remained of a living room, couch flipped over, cushions slit open, the covers removed from the electrical outlets, pictures off the wall, even the television set had been kicked in and the cover removed. After the assassins had been chased away by Kegan and his crew, somebody else had entered the building, and done a thorough job of searching the place from top to bottom. Smart move, and the perps were certainly thorough enough, he’d give them that.

      The curtains were off the windows, and the blinds torn down, the weighted bottoms cracked apart. Impressive. Bolan never would have thought of hiding anything inside the bottoms of venetian blinds. He was starting to get the feeling that whatever Kegan had hidden had to have been found and was long gone. But he still had to double check. Just the chance of stopping Kegan was worth the effort.

      Down the hall was a bathroom with grout dust covering the fixtures. Somebody had run a knife along the wall tiles to look for fresh work over a secret panel. They really were good! Bolan filed that trick away to use himself sometime in the future.

      The bedroom looked like a hurricane had hit a rag factory. Nothing was intact. Feathers swirled about his shoes from pillows gone to heaven. The northern wall was a single expanse of closets with a bare top shelf. Bolan probed for a panel leading to a crawl space or attic, but found nothing except dust and deceased spiders.

      The light-switch panels had been yanked off the walls, exposed wires dangling dangerously loose, and the carpet was torn up in several spots. A rush of adrenaline was building within Bolan. Time was short, the numbers falling, and he wondered if there was any place they hadn’t looked.

      Going to his personal favorite spot to stash important things, Bolan lifted the ceramic lid off the toilet tank and looked inside. Nothing there but water, the usual mechanical works and a drained sanitizer cylinder. The pros who’d hit this place would never have missed an area so obvious as the toilet tank. But had they searched everything?

      Tucking away the Beretta, Bolan pulled a knife. Grabbing hold of the copper support rod to hold it steady, he slid the blade along the slightly slimy rubber. The knife slipped once and cut him, but no blood welled from the wound. Just a surface scratch. Bolan proceeded more slowly, switching to a fillet blade and sawing through the resilient material, rather than trying to slice it apart like a ripe melon. The slick bulb wasn’t cooperative, but he finally got through, and a clear corner triangle of a plastic bag jutted into view.

      Forcing the blade along the side of the bulb, Bolan widened the cut until it was big enough for him to grab and pull it apart. There lay a clear plastic bag filled with maybe a dozen film negatives. Going to the sink, he wiped the bag off on a dingy towel bearing the name Sheraton. The bastard had millions in a Swiss bank, but stole hotel towels?

      Opening the sandwich bag, Bolan lifted out the negatives, only touching them by the edges, and held a strip to a flashlight. They were negatives of a passport, birth certificate, college diploma, dental and general medical records for a Shawn MacTeague of Glasgow, Scotland. The man in the photos was Kegan. Bolan knew that the man spent years building a perfect identify and with these gone, Kegan would have no place left to run. He’d be forced to make a stand and fight, which was exactly what Bolan wanted.

      Slipping the bag full of negatives into a pocket, Bolan paused to text a brief message to a friend in Washington: Kegan was Shawn MacTeague, Glasgow.

      Done and done. Now if Bolan was killed, Hal Brognola at the Justice Department would make sure somebody else finished the job. Mostly Bolan worked alone, but every now and then he did find it convenient to have backup, and he could trust Brognola with his life. He had many times before.

      Giving the apartment a fast once-over, Bolan checked a few more locations where small items could be found, then eased down the stairs. Mission accomplished!

      Bolan was halfway down the stairs when he heard the front door crash open, and people stomping into the building, working the arming bolts on automatic weapons.

      CHAPTER TWO

      “Kill everybody you see!” a man growled, his voice nearly inhuman in its violent rage.

      Nice to meet you, Eric, Bolan thought sarcastically, pulling the safety ring on an antipersonnel grenade. Then he released the handle and flipped the sphere down the stairs. It hit the landing hard and bounced around the corner. Instantly, Bolan surged into action, running for the living room.

      “What in the...run!” a man screamed, the blast cutting off the startled cry.

      The entire building seemed to shake from the force of the fiery blast, windows shattering on the ground level, and a couple of alarms cutting loose with deafening sirens.

      So much for hiding in the shadows, Bolan noted, diving through the cracked window. Welcome to the light, Eric!

      Daggers of glass cut into the trench coat, but the body armor underneath protected Bolan from any serious damage, and he landed sprawling in the fork of an oak tree, startling a small squirrel.

      “Better run, amigo,” Bolan whispered, sliding down the tree to land in a crouch, both of his weapons drawn and at the ready.

      Lights began to appear in all of the nearby houses, people roused by the explosion, and a couple of big men carrying M16 assault rifles appeared from around the front of the building.

      Bolan and the gunners opened fired in unison. They missed, he didn’t, and they fell away into forever, their chattering weapons strafing the open night sky.

      As much as Bolan wanted to walk around to the front and take out Kegan right now, there were too many civilians in the area to risk a gun battle. He felt sure that had been part of the man’s defense strategy, and the soldier couldn’t fault the bastard for coming out with a winning plan. People dressed in pajamas and slippers, armed only with flashlights, were starting across the street, and shuffling this way. In spite of that, Bolan still hesitated and took a step forward, then he saw a couple of kids appear, and a pregnant woman. Time to go.

      Whirling, Bolan took off at a sprint and hit the back fence at a full run. He easily scaled it and paused, with one leg in sight until he heard somebody curse. Then he dropped over, just as a hole appeared in the old wood, spraying out splinters from the thunderous passage of a big-bore round.

      Aiming at the sky, Bolan answered back with two shots from the Beretta, then took off again, jumping over an inflatable pool and dodging patio furniture. A glass door slid aside and out waddled an enormously fat woman cradling a double-barrel shotgun and wearing a fierce expression.

      “Trying to rob me again, motherfucker!” she snarled, discharging both barrels.

      Moving fast, Bolan got out of the way in time, and only a few of the lead pellets hammered him across the back of his armor. Christ, this was a nightmare! He had civilians coming out of the woodwork! Had to move this fight to something more secluded before innocent lives were lost.

      Skirting a huge Cadillac, Bolan heard scampering claws and flipped his gun in the air to grab the Beretta by the hot barrel. A split second later, a huge Doberman charged into view, and Bolan neatly clubbed the animal unconscious with a single blow to the skull just behind the ears. The dog dropped with a sigh, and the soldier continued running, almost becoming entangled with a tricycle, and hopping over a low hedge.

      Reaching the relative freedom of the street, he shot out the light on the corner, and quickly dropped the partially used magazine to slam in a fresh one. Suddenly, a car appeared at the end of the street. The headlights were off, and Bolan could see the dim silhouettes of men holding long objects out the open windows.

      Dropping into a crouch, Bolan switched the Beretta to 3-round-burst mode, and emptied the entire magazine into the front of the vehicle. The stuttering barrage smashed both headlights and took out a tire, then the hood flipped up as the radiator exploded into