Nuclear Storm. Don Pendleton

was only a few inches from the hotel room wall. He couldn’t move very fast without risking bumping into his cover, which would most likely get the screen and him both stitched with bullets.

       “Fifteen seconds! Where is he?” the threat and demand was repeated in Korean and Chinese.

       Bolan shimmied behind the screen as fast as he dared. When he reached the second one from the end, he stopped and pressed the tip of the ceramic blade to the cloth in front of him.

       “Time’s up! You, come here! Get over here!” Bolan heard the smack of a fist or hand striking flesh, and gritted his teeth as he slowly drew the knife down to make a slit big enough to see through. When he put his eye to it, however, all he saw was a herringbone pattern.

       One of them was standing right in front of him! However, Bolan immediately realized that wasn’t a problem, but a stroke of good fortune. Quickly he enlarged the slit until he could see the back of the man’s head.

       “All right, last chance! Where is Dae-jung? Fine—she dies now!”

       Bolan slipped the barrel of his pistol through the slit, the muzzle only an inch from the man’s skin. Placing the ceramic blade between his teeth and his free hand on the screen, he squeezed the trigger.

       As soon as the shot went off, Bolan shoved the screen over, the ruined artwork falling on the dead gunman. Instantly he took in the scene. A group of about thirty partygoers huddled against the wall, with three gunmen in the room, two standing a few feet behind the leader, who had an Asian woman in a crimson slit sheath dress next to him, a pistol at her temple. As Bolan had expected, the three shooters stared at him with wide eyes, having been taken by surprise at their partner’s head suddenly exploding and spraying blood and brains all over them.

       Also, as Bolan had hoped, except for man with the hostage, he had a perfect line of sight on the other two killers.

       He lined up his pistol on the farthest one and shot him in the head, then tracked the second one and put two into his chest as he was bringing around his submachine gun. Both bodies dropped to the floor before the sound of Bolan’s shots died away.

       That left him and the lead hit man, who was using the woman as a shield. “Don’t move or she dies!”

       Bolan was pretty sure he could take out the man without getting the woman killed, but movement near the attacker’s foot caught his attention. The Samoan, his chest stained red from his wounds, was pulling his bulk along in the hallway. He left a thick red trail behind him, but was almost close enough to grab the man. He just needed a few more seconds.

       Bolan kept his pistol trained on the small part of the gunman’s face that he could see. “I don’t want anyone else to die, but I can’t let you take the doctor out of here either.”

       “He’s not going anywhere.” The hit man was starting to aim his pistol at Bolan when the Samoan plunged a butterfly knife into his target’s foot. The man screamed and his pistol went off target as he shoved the woman away and turned to shoot his attacker. He never got the chance.

       Bolan squeezed the trigger of his HK pistol once. The .40 caliber bullet cored the hit man’s head, spraying the people nearest to him with more bits of bone and brain matter as the corpse fell to the floor, causing a few screams and cries from several women.

       The Executioner was moving before the body landed, walking to one of the men and grabbing his submachine gun, an oversized pistol with a second handle that he recognized as a Brugger & Thomet MP-9. Both of the covering gunmen were armed with the same weapon and carried a spare 30-round magazine. Bolan tucked the HK into the small of his back and grabbed everything, tucking the spares into the pockets of his suit jacket. Then he ran back to the couch and got the scientist on his feet.

       “Time to go, sir.”

       “If you say so.” Keeping one of the TMPs ready, Bolan had slung the other one over his shoulder and used his free hand to support Dae-jung as they headed for the door. The doctor pasted a smile on his face and addressed the group. “I thank you all for coming, and suggest that if you don’t want to be here when the police show up, you should leave immediately.”

       “Two minutes after we’re gone.” Bolan added, seeing several of the guests edging toward the door. One look at him and the lethal-looking submachine gun in his hand, and they all stopped in their tracks.

       Bolan kept moving the Korean toward the door, stepping around the motionless Samoan. Dae-jung gasped when he saw the huge body. “Felipo’s dead?”

       “Afraid so. If it makes you feel any better, he died saving my life.” Bolan pushed the double doors open and used the one closest to the elevator as a shield, peeking around it to scout the hallway.

       “Akira, what’s the security situation?”

       “You sure stirred up a hornet’s nest, Striker—”

       “I didn’t bring the guns to this party, but I’m damn sure gonna use them to clear the way out. What’s the best route to get to the garage?”

       “They’re putting men on every elevator. Can you take the stairs?”

       Bolan glanced at Dae-jung, whose head lolled on his shoulders as he stared at his rescuer. “Negative. Target is in no condition to run down fifty-four flights.”

       “Then you’ll probably want to ambush the two guards coming out of the first car, and grab that one. They’ll be there in about fifteen seconds.”

       “This job just keeps getting better and better,” Bolan gritted, hauling the scientist toward the elevator.

       He’d just reached the alcove when he heard the soft chime indicating the car’s arrival. Bolan propped the doctor up against the wall. “Stay here.” The Korean waved at him weakly as Bolan ran into the alcove, passing the door to stand on the other side. He got there just as the doors opened and two security guards ran out, hands on their holstered pistols. Bolan stepped out and aimed his subgun at them. “Freeze!”

       Both men whirled, then raised their hands when they saw Bolan had the drop on them. He pointed at the ground. “Lie on the ground, hands on your heads!”

       The two men complied. “Better hurry, Striker—a lot more are coming.”

       “Going as fast as I can.” Bolan ran over to them and removed their pistols, tossing them down the hallway. Grabbing Dae-jung, he hurried the man into the elevator, making sure the guards’ eyes were staring at the polished marble floor. Bolan stabbed the button for the garage. “I hope you’ve overridden all the security on this cage.”

       “Of course. What did you think I’d been doing while you were rubbing elbows with the high and mighty? You should be reaching the lowest level in approximately twenty seconds.”

       “Got it. Hey, are you all right?” he asked Dae-jung, who was leaning against the elevator wall, breathing rapidly. His face was pasty, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

       “I don’t—I don’t feel so well.”

       “Given how much booze you put away, I’m not surprised. We’re going to a vehicle in the garage, and from there to the airport, where a plane is waiting to take you back to the United States. Just a half hour or so, and we’ll be in the air.”

       “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

       “You will soon enough.” The elevator dinged, and Bolan grabbed Dae-jung’s shoulder and supported him as they exited, walking out into a nondescript corridor. “What the hell, Akira? Where’s the garage?”

       “Those elevators don’t go directly to the parking levels. You’ll need to turn right and go approximately forty yards. There will be a door marked like the one on your smartphone that should give you access to the garage level.”

       Bolan began jogging down the hallway, half-carrying, half-dragging the semiconscious scientist along with him.

       “Turn at the