Cold War Reprise. Don Pendleton

      “What did Rastolev want from you to have peace?”

      “Guns. You are right, those are my weapons,” Shinkov said, sounding genuinely ashamed. “He also wanted protection and a safehouse.”

      “For fifteen men,” Bolan said.

      Shinkov’s eyes widened at the estimation of Rastolev’s forces. “Yes.”

      “So there are four left,” Bolan said.

      “Including Rastolev,” Shinkov replied.

      Bolan ran through his mental roster of cold-war era enemy operatives. Rastolev was the code name for a young, up-and-coming hard case who had allegedly been killed in action during the final, painful days of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. There had been rumors of his presence in various operations in the Commonwealth of Independent States, but unlike the Executioner, the rumors of Rastolev’s existence were relegated to the same veracity as sightings of dinosaurs in the Congo. “Rastolev’s supposed to be dead.”

      “The same could be said of you, American,” Shinkov replied. “It’s just that we are so familiar with your footprints, especially since they are still fresh on our necks.”

      “I would be flattered, but I didn’t come here to have my ego massaged,” Bolan growled.