Silent Threat. Don Pendleton

could, kill everyone and everything in and on it, everything moving across the face of the earth. Eventually.

      There really was no hurry. As he contemplated the finer things he had acquired and did enjoy, he thought that while the final and most blissful peace of death was undeniable, neither was there any reason to rush toward it.

      There was so much work left to be done.

      4

      Adam Rieck drove the BMW, which Bolan gathered was a rental, bringing it smoothly to the curb a block away from the building that housed Becker’s residence. Bolan got out and turned his back, using the interior of the car to discreetly check his weapons. It was dark and getting quite late, and there were no people on the street that they could see, but it always paid to assume unseen eyes were watching.

      They had endured no small amount of bureaucratic wrangling from the local authorities. Rieck had been forced to phone his contacts at Interpol, which prompted several more calls back and forth before all the red tape was untangled. The police were none too happy to let Bolan and Rieck go, especially armed as they were. Bolan had seen it countless times before. When the lead started flying, those left standing were immediately assumed to be at fault in some way.

      Rieck used his trench coat to shield the bulk of the 12-gauge Remington 870 shotgun he carried. He had begged, borrowed or otherwise obtained the weapon from one of the responding German police units; Bolan didn’t know exactly how he’d managed it and didn’t care. The Uzi and the other recovered weapons had of course been taken as evidence, and Bolan was happy to leave that cleanup to the local authorities.

      He turned to face the entrance to the building, surveying the block and scanning the windows. He saw nothing. The street was unnaturally quiet. A dog barked, somewhere faraway. He watched an empty coffee cup roll in lazy semicircles back and forth, stirred by a strong night breeze, grime from the wet street clinging to paper. He looked left, then right again. Something was wrong. Something subtle…

      “Rieck,” he said, “do you smell that?”

      “Smell what?” The Interpol operative paused and sniffed at the air. Then he caught it. “Smoke,” he said.

      “Move,” Bolan commanded. He drew the Beretta 93-R and hit the front door, shoving the glass-and-metal barrier aside and covering the corridor beyond. Rieck followed. The two men covered each other in turns as they worked their way up the corridor. Bolan followed his nose, more concerned with clearing each space than in reaching Becker’s dwelling.

      They cleared the first floor without incident, but on the second, the smoke became a visible haze. At the stairwell exit to the third floor, they found a body sprawled in the doorway. The man wore a suit and stared blankly in death, his hand clutching a walkie-talkie.

      “Becker’s security,” Rieck whispered.

      Bolan nodded curtly and motioned for silence.

      The double doors leading into Becker’s condominium—his name and address were on a burnished plate mounted outside—had been smashed inward, possibly with a portable battering ram. The lights were out. Bolan, his Beretta pointed before him, tried a wall switch. There was no response; the power had probably been cut, either to the flat or to the building. The walls and floors were scorched and cloying smoke filled the air around them, but there were no fires evident.

      “Homemade flash-bangs,” Rieck whispered. “Sort of a poor man’s incendiary charge. Burns hot, fast and bright, but often won’t set a blaze.” He looked around. “Lots of hardwood floors here. Not a lot of carpets. We’re lucky the building’s not on fire.”

      “We need to clear this area,” Bolan said. “Now.”

      Rieck nodded. Bolan unclipped his SureFire Combatlight, bracing it under his gun hand as he flashed the ultrabright xenon lamp, always moving, the barrel of the Beretta ready to acquire targets. Rieck had a small LED light of his own; he held it against the shotgun’s pump and did a passable job of checking his own side of the condominium. They found more dead men. Pools of blood, scorched furniture and empty brass shell casings were everywhere.

      A voice shouted weakly in German from the last room of the apartment.

      Rieck and Bolan hit the room high and low, respectively. The soldier kicked the door in and his Interpol counterpart followed with the shotgun. They found no resistance; there was only Hans Becker himself, secured to a chair in the center of the room, surrounded by three dead bodyguards in a room that had been largely untouched by the fast-burning charges that had scorched the rest of the condominium.

      There was something strapped to his chest.

      Becker looked at them, wild-eyed. He had been beaten; a livid bruise was spreading across his left cheek, and the eye on that side was bloodshot and partially swollen shut. He had been duct-taped to a straight-backed antique chair. He was barefoot, wearing slacks and shirtsleeves. He said something weakly in German, his voice faltering. Bolan imagined he’d shouted himself hoarse after his tormenters had left him like this.

      “He says it’s a bomb,” Rieck reported.

      The device was a shoebox-size oblong wrapped in layer after layer of the same duct tape that was holding Becker in place. Canvas straps ran from the box across Becker’s shoulders and under his arms, attached to the box from the back by some unseen means. Bolan eyed it, hard, but didn’t reach for it. Becker’s eyes followed Bolan’s.

      “Eisen-Donner,” Becker whispered.

      “Iron Thunder.” Bolan nodded. He bent to examine the bomb. Becker immediately became agitated and started hissing in rapid-fire German, shaking his head.

      “He says they warned him it would go off if it was touched,” Rieck stated. “He has been trying not to move, while crying for help. He wants to know if we could please summon the police, and begs that we not touch the bomb.”

      “He’s going to be disappointed then,” Bolan said grimly, bending to place his ear near Becker’s chest. “This thing is ticking.”

      “Wouldn’t it anyway?” Rieck asked.

      Bolan looked up at him. “The only reason for there to be timing connected to an explosive, is to set it off after a predetermined interval.”

      “So it’s ticking….” The Interpol agent said.

      “Because it’s going to explode,” Bolan finished.

      “Your call, Cooper,” Rieck stated.

      Bolan looked at the box, then at Becker. Without a word, he drew a dagger from his waistband. Then he spared a glance at the agent. “Get out of here, Rieck. Phone it in.”

      “You sure?”

      “There’s nothing you can do,” the Executioner said. “I’ll take this.”

      “We could wait for the bomb squad.”

      “We could if we knew how long we have,” Bolan answered. “We don’t. It’s only in the movies that the bomb has a big red LED readout staring you in the face.”

      Rieck looked at him, then at Becker. “You could…I mean, it’s not your responsibility. You could get to safety.”

      Bolan eyed him hard. “The hell it’s not.”

      Rieck nodded. “Then I’ll stay with you. You can’t watch your own back and deal with this, too. We’ve no idea who might still be around. The people who did this might return to watch the fireworks. This apartment is not secured.” With that he checked his shotgun and stood back a few paces.

      Bolan again raised his mental estimation of the Interpol agent.

      Becker began muttering in agitated German. The soldier didn’t bother asking Rieck to translate; the executive was clearly convinced any tampering with the bomb would cause it to go off. He was probably right. But Mack Bolan would no more retreat to safety and watch an innocent man be blown to bits than he would pass a wounded stranger