“Who’s asking?” Ackroyd said. The old man had guts. Bolan was impressed.
“The man who’s trying to keep you alive,” Bolan replied. The Nebraskan took another step back. Bolan took another step forward.
“I was told this place was safe,” Ackroyd said. “I was told I’d be left alone.”
“Somebody lied,” Bolan said, “or made a mistake.”
“Probably both,” Ackroyd agreed.
“Shut up,” the Nebraskan snapped. His grip on Ackroyd tightened. The old man winced as the Nebraskan’s arm flexed against his throat. He had pluck, but he was still on the wrong side of sixty, and hadn’t been keeping himself in shape.
“I can keep this up all day, friend,” Bolan said, a note of menace creeping into his voice. “Let him go.”
Something in the Nebraskan’s eyes made Bolan tense. A shadow crossed the ground in front of him. Big arms snapped tight around him like the jaws of a trap and he was jerked from his feet even as the air was squeezed out of his lungs. Bolan gasped. The German had recovered, and far more quickly than Bolan had anticipated. The Nebraskan had been drawing him out, giving his compatriot time to recover.
The German shook him, and Bolan lost his grip on the Beretta. “Go, Sparrow!” the German shouted as he squeezed Bolan hard enough to make his ribs creak. “Take the old man and go. I will handle this fool! Vril-YA!”
Bolan grunted and drove his head back, into the German’s face. He heard bone crunch and the grip on him loosened. Bolan slithered free and dropped to the ground. He twisted around and drove a hard blow into the German’s belly. The man gasped and staggered, but didn’t fall. His fists smashed down on Bolan’s head and shoulders like hammers. The Executioner lunged forward, tackling his opponent. They crashed against the wall.
The German was strong and he knew how to fight. But Bolan knew how to win. Two swift, savage strikes to the German’s kidneys made him gasp in agony. He responded with a knee to Bolan’s groin. The Executioner caught the blow and sank his fingers into the meat of the man’s knee, twisting savagely as he rammed his palm into a momentarily vulnerable windpipe. The German fell back against the wall, gagging. Bolan didn’t let him recover. He unleashed a rapid salvo of precise hammerblows to the man’s belly and sides.
The German stayed on his feet with a tenacity that was almost impressive. Wheezing, he lunged. His fingers clawed at Bolan’s face and throat, and the Executioner found himself forced back until his spine connected with the rail. Bolan shoved his arms up and swatted aside the German’s hands. The heel of Bolan’s palm struck his opponent’s already mangled nose, forcing fragments of splintered cartilage and bone up toward the man’s brain. Bolan spun as the German pitched backward with a gurgle.
The Nebraskan—Sparrow—hadn’t wasted any time. He’d dragged Ackroyd down the stairwell on the other side of the walkway and shoved the old man into the SUV. He was climbing in himself when he saw Bolan looking down at him. Sparrow cursed and raised his weapon. He fired, driving Bolan back from the rail. The SUV’s engine growled to life and gravel crunched beneath its tires. Bolan sprang to his feet, caught the rail and swung his legs over. He dropped onto the SUV as it backed out of its parking spot, the force of impact radiating upward through the soles of his boots to his skull. Unprepared, he was flung off his feet as Sparrow twisted the wheel, whipping the vehicle around. Bolan rolled off the roof and slid down the windshield, striking the hood. He scrambled desperately to keep from slipping off and falling beneath the vehicle’s wheels.
Then, in a squeal of rubber, the SUV cut a sharp turn and hurtled out of the parking lot, taking the Executioner with it.
Anchorage, Alaska
Saul Mervin stubbed out his cigarette. On the television, the President was addressing Congress. Mervin looked at the digital timer on the television set that occupied one wall of his hotel room. Nevada was an hour ahead of Alaska, he recalled. That meant Sparrow’s call was only an hour late. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think. There could be many reasons for the delay.
Mervin was a spare man, lacking any excess flesh or muscle. He was a thing of narrow specifications, with a chin like a scoop and eyes the color of faded dollar bills. He lacked distinguishing features, the work of years and a careful attention to detail. No agency had his fingerprints or photos on file, and his DNA was sacrosanct.
Without opening his eyes, Mervin reached over and plucked a cigarette from the silver case on the nightstand, popped it between his thin lips and lit it with a cheap lighter. As soon as he’d arrived he’d pulled the smoke detector off the wall and opened a window. He needed nicotine more than warmth. The feeling of smoke slithering through his lungs helped him organize his thoughts.
If Sparrow were any other man, Mervin would suspect a distraction—a woman or an accident. But Sparrow was Sparrow. He was single-minded and utterly devoted to the Society. The others with him were equally dedicated, if not so single-minded. That left the possibility of interference. Mervin frowned. He had factored in sixteen possible points of interference for the Reno operation. Seventeen, if he counted betrayal. Immediately, he discarded the thought. Sparrow was Sparrow. He would continue with the mission regardless. The man was determined, if nothing else.
He mentally flicked through the remaining sixteen, weighing the variables and considering the likelihood of each. Interpol wasn’t likely—he had organized the Viennese operation specifically to distract them. The FBI was a leaky sieve; Mervin would have gotten word of their interference through the usual channels. On and on he went, rapidly considering, weighing and discarding the possibilities.
He had always possessed the ability to process and analyze with computer-like efficiency. Even as a child, numbers and calculations had proven no mystery to him. He saw the patterns that no one else could see. He saw the bigger picture. It was the only picture that mattered—his picture.
But now his plans were threatened. His cheek twitched and he inhaled carcinogens. Like a spider whose web was damaged, he could repair it, but only by acting quickly.
Someone knocked on the door. “It’s open, Kraft,” he called out. Only one person would bother to knock. The door opened to admit a heavy, long-limbed shape. Rolf Kraft was a big, dangerous-looking man, as befitted a former member of the Kommando Spezialkrafte. Kraft had been one of the best the German Special Forces had to offer. Now he was Mervin’s nursemaid.
Kraft’s nose wrinkled as he caught sight of the cigarette. With a grunt, he plucked it from between Mervin’s lips and stubbed it out. “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you,” he said. Kraft had barely the trace of an accent, making it easy for him to blend in in most Western countries. He spoke fluent English, French, German and Russian. And like Sparrow, he was utterly and completely dedicated to the aims and goals of the Society of Thylea.
Kraft had killed on behalf of the Society for a number of years. Academics, historians, explorers and government agents had died by his hands, or the hands of those he’d trained. He could pluck a fly from flight with a rifle, or plant an explosive device so cunningly that its presence would be overlooked, even in the aftermath. He also had little compunction about engaging in more close-up work; indeed, he preferred it. That preference had seen him drummed out of the Special Forces and into the waiting arms of the Society.
“Smoking helps me think,” Mervin said. His tone skirted petulance, and a flash of annoyance rippled across the surface of his amazing brain. Kraft could get under his skin simply by choosing the wrong moment to exhale.
“You think too much. Also bad for you,” Kraft said. Another flash of annoyance; Mervin looked at Kraft and calmed himself by calculating the six points of weakness by which Kraft could be disabled from their current relative positions.