Movement to Bolan’s right caught his attention. He turned and saw a pair of Dumond’s gunners step into view. The man in the lead, dressed in a gray suit, his hair shellacked with gel, swung the barrel of a machine pistol toward Bolan. The Executioner’s MP-5 coughed a fast line of bullets that pummeled the guy’s center mass. Even as the gunner crumpled to the floor, the second guard had marked Bolan’s chest with the red dot of a laser sight. Before the soldier could react, the hardman’s head suddenly snapped back in a spray of crimson.
Bolan threw Turrin a glance. The former undercover mobster had slung the shotgun and unleathered one of his Berettas. Bolan nodded his thanks, turned to the left and crossed the room, making his way to one of the exits, which opened into a long corridor. He’d taken a half dozen or so steps when he heard voices, accompanied by shoe soles clicking against the floor tiles. He held up a hand for Turrin to stop, but he had already halted. An instant later, a heavyset man with a shotgun stepped into the corridor. His eyes lighted on Bolan and he swung the shotgun in his direction. The soldier had the guy by a microsecond. He tapped the MP-5’s trigger and stitched a line across the new arrival’s torso. The shotgun clattered to the floor, but fortunately didn’t discharge. A second shooter appeared around the door frame, his hand filled with a submachine gun.
The hardman squeezed off a fast burst. The bullets sliced through the air just to Bolan’s left, missing him by several inches.
The Executioner responded by firing a burst at the shooter. The fusillade missed the shooter, but came close enough that it forced him to jerk back out of sight. The soldier edged down the hallway, hugging the wall. When he got close to the door, he snagged a flash-bang grenade from his web gear, pulled the pin and tossed the bomb into the room where the man was hiding. An instant later it exploded with a loud crack and a flash of light visible to Bolan even in the hallway.
As the noise died down, he went through the door low and found the guy standing near the doorway, disoriented. A burst from the MP-5 took the man down.
* * *
BELLEW DESCENDED the stairs, his eyes sweeping the area as he searched for the intruders, his submachine gun leveled and leading the way. His heart slammed in his chest and blood thundered his ears. It had been years since he’d been in a live-fire situation. That had been back in Africa, where he’d been surrounded by a dozen or more well-armed and well-trained mercenaries. Over the past few years, he’d spent more time sending other people into harm’s way while he sat back and planned.
Who the hell could have broken through their defenses? he wondered. For a residential area, the estate had been as secure as possible. They’d deployed sensors, cameras, armed guards, dogs. That someone had gotten past all that told him he wasn’t dealing with a run-of-the-mill burglary or home invasion. Besides, most of the underworld in the city, right down to the low-level thieves, knew better than to break into Dumond’s property.
That he couldn’t reach his mercenaries only heightened his anxiety. He obviously was dealing with at least one combat professional, if not more.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Bellew paused and listened hard. Somehow all the cameras had gotten fried. He’d tried to reach the monitor room, but they hadn’t responded. There was no way for him to know how many people he was up against or their location.
That left him to handle it the old-fashioned way—rely on his instincts and his senses.
To his right, he heard something. It was muffled, but unmistakable to anyone who’d spent any time at all in his deadly trade. Someone had just fired a weapon, and he heard the clank of brass hitting the marble tiles.
Bellew crossed the entryway, making his way to a door that would lead him deeper into the mansion’s first floor. Coming up on the door, he paused, chancing a look around the door frame. Down the hall, he spotted three men. He recognized one—a guy sprawled on the floor—as one of his guards. Arms and legs splayed out, his midsection was dark red.
Two men stood over the corpse. One was short with a medium frame. The second guy was tall with broad shoulders and jet-black hair. Bellew recognized the gun in the taller man’s hands as a Heckler & Koch MP-5.
Chancing another look, he saw the men were moving in his direction. Fear gripped him, and for a moment he considered bolting out the door. Maybe he could take these two by surprise. But it would be a damn sight easier without backup just to run out the door, flee the estate and get away with his skin intact. He guessed they’d already taken down nearly a dozen men. It wouldn’t be easy for him alone to take them down.
But if he ran? He’d get away with his skin, but it’d come back to haunt him.
He’d lose his reputation. Once word spread that he’d bolted on a client, he’d end up blacklisted. While he’d never bought into the notion of death before dishonor, he’d sure as hell choose death before poverty.
To hell with it. He’d try to take them.
Coming around the door frame, he entered the room, ready to take down his opponents.
CHAPTER FOUR
People who’d never been in combat didn’t understand what it did to the mind and the senses. How it changed a person, enhancing some perceptions and subduing others. Bolan understood the transformation all too well, though. He’d spent his entire adult life as a warrior—first as a U.S. Army soldier, then in his war against the Mafia and more recently his war against terrorism.
He’d spent his life honing his skills as a warrior. At the same time, he’d honed his senses. It was something he couldn’t turn off now, even if he wanted to.
When something nagged at him, alerting him to a threat, he couldn’t ignore it.
Acting on gut instinct, he turned just in time to spot a man coming through the door. The guy’s SMG was lining up on Turrin’s back. The soldier lunged, wrapped his arms around his old friend’s midsection and drove his right shoulder into his middle.
Turrin lost his footing and dropped to the floor. The bullets sliced through the air above them, missing them by a few feet. A microsecond of hesitation on Bolan’s part and Turrin likely would have been dead. Just as they hit the tiles, Bolan heard his friend grunt from the impact. The Executioner rolled away, brought up the MP-5 and squeezed off a burst at their attacker.
The bullets flew wide, though the onslaught was enough to make Bolan’s adversary dart from the doorway.
The soldier glanced at his friend. Turrin was already pushing up from the floor and appeared to be okay. Bolan was on his feet and moving slowly down the hallway, hugging the wall and waiting for his opponent to come back into view.
The guy was going to bolt or risk another shot at the Americans. Either way, Bolan needed to prepare himself to react.
He saw a blur of motion at the doorway. The gunner had popped back into view, the barrel of his SMG hunting for a target. In addition to his gun, half of his face and one of his shoulders was visible.
A burst of gunfire screamed down the hallway, but again left Bolan and Turrin unharmed.
The H&K churned out a short burst. The bullets drilled into the gunner’s exposed shoulder. A cry of pain burst from the guy’s mouth. His weapon fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Surging to the doorway, Bolan caught the guy on his knees. The fabric covering the man’s left shoulder was ripped and darkened with blood. His hand was under his jacket as he struggled to pull something free.
Bolan’s right foot lashed out and caught the man in the chin. The kick knocked the guy backward and caused him to land on his injured shoulder, eliciting another yelp from him.
Bolan moved through the door and locked the H&K’s barrel on the man’s chest.
The hardman froze and then tried to raise both hands. The move apparently sent bolts of pain coursing through