Diplomacy Directive. Don Pendleton

into the gut of the lone monster in the silk suit standing guard. The guy started to look in their direction, but a nudge of the weapon and shake of the head proved adequate in squashing any designs he entertained to warn them. Bolan inclined his head toward the door, and the man seemed all too happy to comply.

      Not that he had a choice.

      The soldier followed the man into the room, which actually turned out to be a very large office, and closed the door behind them. Against a far wall, a man sat busily typing at a computer keyboard, his lithe body wedged between the massive desk and credenza. The guy barely looked up from whatever held his attention on the computer screen and mumbled something about leaving whatever it was he’d been expecting on his desk.

      Bolan cleared his throat and the man looked in their direction, an expression of surprise melting the stony sculpture of his features.

      “Leave your hands where I can see them,” Bolan ordered. He followed the command with the jab of the muzzle into the guard’s back, prodding him in the direction of the sofa. He returned his attention to the guy behind the desk. “You running this operation?”

      At first the guy didn’t make a response and Bolan began to wonder if he spoke English. Finally, he replied, “Yes.”

      The Executioner thought he detected a slight Southern accent in the man’s voice, but other than that this one didn’t possess any striking features. Something about him didn’t seem quite right, but Bolan couldn’t exactly put his finger on what it was. Maybe the way he held himself or the look in his eyes or just a simple calm with which he carried himself. Whatever the case, it seemed plainly obvious that barring his initial surprise, he didn’t seem overly concerned. Bolan detected the unusual way in which the man sized them up.

      “It would seem,” the man said as he was careful to keep his hands in view, “that you are under the mistaken impression you have us at a disadvantage.”

      “You mean I don’t?” Bolan quipped. He waved the MP-5 K. “Seems to me this gives me the advantage.”

      “Don’t believe for a moment that brandishing a weapon necessarily puts you in a position of authority, neither does it grant you automatic consideration. In fact, I’ve had a weapon pointed at me many times before…and yet here I am, still alive.”

      “I’m not really interested in killing you,” Bolan replied. “If that were the case you’d be dead already. The only thing I’m here for is information, and if you give it to me, then I’ll leave here and nobody else needs to die.”

      “You’re saying you’ve already taken the life of one of my men?”

      “Two men. And only because they left me no choice.”

      “That is unfortunate,” the man replied.

      “And why’s that?”

      “Because you will not leave here alive.”

      “Who are you exactly and why are you here?”

      “You don’t think after admitting to killing two of my men that I’m going to answer any of your questions. If you do, you are crazier than I anticipated.”

      Bolan considered the statement a moment before replying. “It sounds like you were expecting me.”

      The man inclined his head slightly. “Very perceptive.”

      “An educated guess,” Bolan said with a smile that lacked any warmth. “But the joke’s on you, since I had already considered the possibility this was nothing more than a trap. You see, I came prepared for a fight.”

      As if on cue, the door burst open and a fresh torrent of gunmen—about a half dozen all told—fanned out and trained an assortment of machine pistols on the Executioner’s position.