Bolan said nothing. There was no point. The truth would only make things worse.
They'd kill him immediately. As long as they thought he was holding out, they'd keep him alive.
"I have work to do," Subrov said with a bored expression. "Please clean up when you are finished." He started out of the office, but was stopped by a uniformed guard wearing a surgical mask. He was dragging Shawnee beside him. She wore no mask, so her curses were very clear.
"Bastard!" she spit, punching and kicking at the guard. One kick caught him in the shin and he angrily threw her against the wall.
"What's going on?" Zavlin demanded.
"She was sneaking through the fence," the guard explained. "They'd used wire cutters."
"I'm so sorry," Shawnee said to Bolan. "I couldn't wait. I had to help you." She saw the burn on his thigh. Her eyes widened with horror, then anger. "What have they done?" She fell to her knees to examine the wound.
"Tie her to that chair," Zavlin told the guard. Then he smiled at Bolan. "Let's see if she is as indifferent to my branding iron as you are."
The security guard grabbed Shawnee by the arm, yanked her to her feet, then threw her into the chair next to Bolan's. He reached to his holster for his cuffs.
But when his hand came up, it was gripping an S&W .38. And the guard was spinning around, pointing the gun at Zavlin.
"Move it, Mack!" Hal Brognola said to Bolan as he tugged his mask down. Zavlin was caught by surprise, but his reflexes were astounding.
He jumped to the side just as Brognola fired. The shot gouged a hunk out of the blackboard. Zavlin fired back, the Tokarev kicking 9mm Tokagypt cartridges around the room. One sliced across Shawnee's hip, drawing a little blood but doing no major damage.
Dr. Subrov, the twenty-one-year-old Superbrain, ran blindly for the door, saw Brognola with his big .38, spun and ran directly into Zavlin's scorching iron, impaling himself on the sharp tip. The hot metal seared through cloth and flesh, between ribs, and finally through the heart, boiling blood as it sank deeper into his chest.
Zavlin released the iron and fired at Brognola. The big Fed dropped behind the desk and prepared to fire back, but Bolan had leaped across the room and had his hands around the KGB assassin's throat. One of Zavlin's security guards burst into the room spraying bullets, but Brognola cut him down with two rounds to the face. Bolan had his hand around Zavlin's wrist and was banging it against the floor, trying to shake the gun free.
Finally the hand opened and the gun flew out.
And then the Executioner went to work.
He didn't need to think about the van of cons or guards that Zavlin had had killed, or the other past victims of this assassin. He didn't even have to think of the hideous plot they'd been hatching right here, the attempt to addict innocent people.
He didn't have to think of all that, but it helped.
Helped him gather the strength as he dug his elbow into Zavlin's throat, crushing the windpipe. Then hammered blow after blow into the Russian's face, smashing every bone. Or when he twisted the head until the neck crackled like a little boy's stick being dragged across a picket fence.
24
"That's it. Room 27." The man pointed a dirty fingernail across the street at the motel.
Clip Demoines gave the man five hundred dollars. The man looked at the bills for a moment, then whined, "But you said a thousand, Mr. Demoines."
Demoines glowered at the man and he scurried off into the night. "Okay, Ron," Demoines said to Thaxton. "One more chance to redeem yourself. Only this time, let's do it right." He popped open the trunk of his Mercedes and pulled out two 9mm semiautomatic Uzis. He handed one to Thaxton.
They each slammed in a 25-round magazine, snapped in the folding stocks and thumbed the safeties off.
"Ready?" Demoines asked.
Thaxton hesitated.
"What's wrong now?" Demoines said.
"This is Gianguzzi territory, Clip. We're not supposed to hit anybody down here without getting permission."
"Fuck Gianguzzi. I hit who I want, where I want. And right now..." he glanced across the street at Room 27 "...I want that guy dead. And his bitch, too."
Thaxton looked across the street. The door to Room 27 opened and the big man came out. He was shirtless and barefoot, carrying a cardboard ice bucket.
"We could drop him right now," Thaxton said. "No one will see us in the dark."
"No," Demoines said. "I want them both. And I want them to see me pulling the trigger."
Thaxton sighed. "Okay, Clip."
Bolan returned to the room, knocked on the door. Shawnee opened it, wearing only a shirt.
Her long sinewy legs reflected the flashing red neon Vacancy. She giggled, blocking the door with her body. He wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her inside. The door closed.
Demoines's upper lip crawled with sweat. "I hope they're doing it when we bust in. I really hope so."
They climbed back into the Mercedes, Thaxton behind the wheel. Sunrise was less than an hour away. They crossed the deserted street, pulled up to the curb and left the motor running as they got out. No one was around. "What about neighbors as witnesses?"
Thaxton shook his head. "None on either side. Hardly anybody in the whole place. I guess that's why they picked it."
But Demoines wasn't listening anymore. He was smiling, his finger twitching anxiously on the trigger. Thaxton was at his side now with an Uzi in his hands. They reached the platform at the top of the stairs. Demoines kicked the door in and began peppering the bed before he even realized there was no one in it. He jerked his head at Thaxton, who ran into the bathroom, tearing the shower curtain open but finding no one. "The closet," Demoines said.
Together they stalked toward the closet, guns aimed, standing slightly aside in case the man and woman were armed. The Mob boss gripped the knob and slowly turned. He eased the door open. It caught for a moment, stuck. He pulled harder. He heard a click, but the door opened the rest of the way. He and Thaxton jumped in with both guns pointing. The closet was empty. Except for a string of green Christmas bulbs strung across the closet, each dangling from a wire hanger. And the string that ran from the bulbs to the inside door handle. Only they weren't Christmas bulbs at all, Demoines noticed.
They were grenades! Thaxton must have realized that a second before Demoines, for he turned to run for the door. But too late. The grenades exploded in a whoosh of heat and whirling metal that pulverized the top halves of their bodies, grating them down to tiny strips of mushy flesh.
From behind the motel, Bolan, Shawnee and Brognola watched the explosion illuminate what was left of darkness with bright angry lights.
"Wouldn't it have been simpler to shoot them?" Shawnee asked.
"Simpler," the Executioner said. "But not as just."
"You know, Mack, I used to think I knew all about you. Now I'm thinking that I'm only just starting to understand what makes you tick."
Brognola handed Shawnee his jacket and gestured at her bare legs. "You might get cold."
"Thanks. Squeezing through motel bathroom windows in the middle of the night can give a girl a reputation."
Bolan watched the smoke billowing straight up into the sky. He felt good.
Tired, but good. As if he'd cleansed not just some evil part of the world, but some dead part of himself.
Shawnee had helped him see that.
"I'm sorry about your friend Lyle," Brognola said to Shawnee.
After the battle at the warehouse, he'd told them both about what Zavlin had done. Shawnee had gone off by herself a few minutes. When she'd returned, her eyes were red and watery. Bolan had looked at Zavlin's body and wished he could kill him again. But then he'd thought of Belinda Hoyt and decided to do the next best thing.
He'd made a few calls and put the word out where Clip Demoines might find a certain escaped convict named Damon Blue. And they'd waited. Demoines's private jet didn't keep them waiting long. Now Belinda and Lyle could both rest a little easier.