Desperate Passage. Don Pendleton

forward through the blown-out windshield of the car.

      He waited until she was clear then followed.

      “Go!” he shouted.

      He reached out a hand to give her support and the jeep exploded behind him.

      They were tossed through the air, everything went black.

      THE ROOM WAS STARK AND BARE, devoid of furniture other than a heavy metal table shoved up against the far wall. There was a panel of lights above Bolan and a bright, hot lamp on the table pointed toward his face. A drain was set in the concrete floor at his feet. He noticed the dark stains on the metal fixtures.

      His eyes slowly focused on the man standing before him, an Indonesian in BDU fatigues devoid of rank, unit insignia or national affiliation. The man was bearded with bright, black eyes.

      “Wake up sleepyhead.”

      Bolan looked at him.

      The man leaned in close, mock concern on his face. “How do you feel? You were pretty banged up there in the accident.”

      Bolan said nothing.

      “What is your name?” the man asked.

      Bolan closed one swollen eye against the blinding glare of the table lamp. “Where’s the girl?” he croaked.

      The man lifted his gaze from Bolan’s and nodded to another man standing nearby. Bolan had a sense of someone large moving out from around him in his limited peripheral vision.

      The punch caught him flush along the jaw and rocked his head to the side. He slowly turned his head and spit blood on the floor. The thug who had hit him lifted one big fist to strike again.

      The interviewer held up a hand to stop his muscle from delivering another blow.

      “I ask the questions,” the man said softly.

      “Suli.” He nodded toward the thug.

      Bolan tensed, waiting for another blow but it didn’t come. Instead the thickset man walked leisurely over to the metal table set against the wall. Now that Bolan’s vision was clearing, he could make out items on the table. He saw various tools and implements, including pliers and knives that would be useful for torture.

      He watched as Suli rummaged around on the table before picking up a clasp knife with a four-inch blade. The edge of the knife was as rusty as the drain screen on the floor at Bolan’s feet.

      The man turned and stalked closer to the tightly bound Bolan. The Executioner set his jaw and tensed his arms against the restraints binding his wrists behind the chair. He felt the ropes pull and shift, perhaps even give a little but only in an insignificant way. He wasn’t going anywhere. He forced himself to relax as Suli stepped in front of the lead interrogator, blocking the smaller man from view.

      “What is it you wanted to know?” Bolan asked. “Tell Zamira Loebis that if he wants something from me he can ask himself.”

      Suli looked over at the chief interrogator, but the man didn’t respond.

      Suli reached out and yanked Bolan’s shirt by the ruined collar, then used the clasp knife to cut the garment. In an almost bored fashion Suli let the ruined shirt hang open, exposing Bolan’s bruised and blood-caked torso. Behind him the interrogator looked on with glittering eyes.

      “My name is Matt Cooper,” Bolan said as he worked at loosening his bonds.

      The interrogator came forward. “Have I impressed upon you who is in charge?”

      Bolan looked away and sagged against the back of the chair as his thumb popped free of the rope coils binding his wrist. He turned his face like a defeated man and nodded dumbly. In the eyes of Indonesian he was broken, helpless.

      “Good. So, Mr. Cooper, why have you invaded the sovereign lands of the Laskar Jihad, destroyed my property and killed my people?”

      Bolan let his head loll on his neck. He swallowed loudly and muttered something inaudible. He had gauged the character of the two men he faced very carefully. If he were to attack Suli and reveal he’d escaped his bonds, then the interrogator would simply call for help. Suli was a thug. A sadist and a bully, but a fighter. If his boss was attacked, Suli’s first instinct would be to charge forward, not to call for help.

      The Executioner had established a long and bloody career exploiting the weaknesses of those who had chosen to become his enemy.

      The interrogator leaned in. “What?” he snapped.

      He reached out and grabbed Bolan’s hair. The big American gave him a cold stare, and the sneer melted off the Indonesian’s face.

      Bolan slipped his arm out of the loosened ropes. His hand slapped up like the strike of a coiled snake onto the back of the interrogator’s neck in a headlock.

      The interrogator squawked in sudden surprise and tried to pull away. The muscles in Bolan’s arm bunched as he locked the man into immobility. Bolan snapped his head brutally into the interrogator’s face. He felt the man’s nose pop under the jarring impact.

      The interrogator’s knees buckled and he dropped to the floor at Bolan’s feet, dazed. Suli roared in surprised outrage at the sudden action and charged forward. Still bound to the chair Bolan could only tense in preparation.

      The thickset terrorist still held the clasp knife, and it gleamed dully in the stark light of the cell as he rushed forward. Bolan made no move to slide away or dodge as Suli came down upon him.

      Bolan timed his strike as precisely as he could. His free hand clutched Suli’s at the wrist and he lowered his head as the Indonesian charged in.

      Suli crashed into Bolan hard, like a lineman laying into a quarterback. The Executioner felt the impact flow through him. He felt the weight and momentum of Suli drive him backward, then the squeal of protest as the chains holding the chair to the floor were payed out to their length. Then the chair shattered under the force and both of the big men crashed to the floor.

      Bolan felt blood hot and sticky flow across his grip and knew he had twisted Suli’s knife into him, but the big man was far from dead.

      Suli began to shriek in protest as the two men rolled.

      Suddenly the thug was down and Bolan was up. He slammed his forehead into Suli’s face twice. The Indonesian released his grip on the knife stuck in his belly, and Bolan grasped it and twisted hard.

      The soldier sensed movement from behind him and whirled. He saw the interrogator pushing himself up off the floor. Bolan yanked the blade from Suli’s gut and lunged. The interrogator yelped in terror and tried to dive away, but Bolan caught him in the leg just above the knee. Blood stained the man’s pants as Bolan pulled the knife down with deadly force.

      The man’s hands went to his wounds as he fell on his back, but Bolan jerked the knife out of his reach.

      “Where is the girl?” Bolan demanded.

      The interrogator didn’t answer or even struggle.

      Bolan rose on one knee and used the blood-smeared blade of his clasp knife to cut the fragments of chair and get clear.

      He stuck the knife, blade still open, in his waistband, where it was easily accessible. He realized he had minutes, possibly seconds before he was discovered. He had to seize the initiative and maintain it. He had no idea where Sukarnoputri was being kept, but time was running out. He had come to Indonesia for a reason, and he needed his contact.

      It was time to get moving.

      The Executioner picked up his Beretta checked the feed, the magazine and the sound suppressor. He quickly secured the rest of his equipment, getting himself ready for his run.

      He crossed the blood-splattered room and headed for the heavy door. Beretta in hand, he reached out and turned the door handle slowly before gently pushing the door open a crack and looking out.

      He saw a long hallway, windowless,