And found it when he’d cleared the kitchen doorway, dropping as the loud metallic rattling of an AK-47 stung his eardrums. The rifle’s 7.62 mm bullets chewed their way across the kitchen wall and cabinets, shattering glassware inside. He crouched behind an island in the middle of the kitchen, hoping it was stout enough to stop the next few rounds, no clear idea of where Volkova was or whether she’d been caught framed in the kitchen entryway.
He had to take care of business first, let the lady warrior watch out for herself.
Bolan switched guns again, swapping the M-4 for the shorter but heavier M-32. Aiming would be a problem in his present circumstances, so he pressed a button to collapse the launcher’s stock and thereby shaved eight inches off its total length.
Now it was shorter than a Spectre M-4 submachine gun or Beretta’s famous M-12 model, easier to handle in a cramped space when there was no option for a well-aimed shot.
Nothing to do but let it rip and hope the play paid off.
He pushed off with his feet against the island’s base, cursed when he felt the thing moving, then he was committed, squeezing off his first shot as he glimpsed the doorjamb, triggering a second right behind the first, then rolling back toward cover.
The Kalashnikov stuttered again, but its voice was eclipsed by the hard double slam of explosions nearby. Someone screamed, or he may have imagined it.
Lurching upright, Bolan made for the doorway, plunged through it and into a snapshot of hell.
NATALIA VOLKOVA’S ears were ringing, nearly deafening her, as she vaulted from the kitchen floor to follow the big American through the next doorway in line. She knew where he was going—where he meant to go, at least—but wasn’t sure exactly how to get there.
Cako would have stashed the captive women underground if possible. If not, he’d have them under lock and key upstairs, out of the way until their new prospective owners were prepared to watch another flesh parade. In either case, she and the tall American had to dispose of Cako’s men before they could remove the prisoners.
And then, what?
Set them free to roam New Jersey or America at large, without a source of income or, in some cases, a grasp of English? What would happen to them then? Would it be any better than a sale into the living hell of slavery that she was trying to prevent?
Volkova closed her mind to those considerations, concentrating on the methods and mechanics of survival in a combat zone.
They were outnumbered ten to one, perhaps. Or more? Only surprise and sheer ferocity could save them, now that they had stepped into the dragon’s den.
But would that be enough?
She followed her ally and saw a gunman rising on her left, behind a couch, and spun to drop him with her AKSU-74. One round punched through his cheek, another through his upper lip, and he was nearly headless as he toppled over backward, out of frame.
Ahead of her, another high-explosive charge went off. More men were shouting, cursing in Albanian. And there! Was that a woman’s voice? She thought so, turned to track it with her ringing ears and met another scowling shooter with a pistol leveled at her face.
There was no time to crouch or dodge the shot. Volkova gutted him with 5.45 mm rounds, braced to receive the bullet that would kill her, but the impact of her own rounds spun him like a dervish and his shot went wild, striking a wall or ceiling panel somewhere in the smoky room.
The Russian agent looked for Cooper, saw him disappearing through another doorway, bodies scattered in his wake. She had a choice to make—follow the man, or seek the women on her own.
Another scream decided it.
Volkova wished Matt Cooper well and veered off to pursue the sound, sidestepping corpses as she went. She cleared another doorway, stepped into a hall with doors on either side and waited for another cry.
Closer, this time. Somewhere ahead.
When she had covered half the hallway’s length, one of the doors opened downrange. A gunman stepped into the corridor, didn’t seem to notice her at first, as he was more focused on the man who followed close behind him.
Lorik Cako.
He cursed someone in the room, still out of sight from where Volkova stood, and reached back as if to drag the person through the doorway. Then his gunner saw the Russian and brought all movement to a halt.
“Look out, boss!”
But Cako couldn’t look out. It was too late for that.
Too late for anything.
Volkova cut them down, kept firing even as they fell and after they were on the floor, dead meat twitching from bullet strikes. She caught herself in time to ditch the AKSU’s empty magazine and slip a fresh one into the receiver, then advanced to peer around the doorjamb.
Panicked faces stared back at her, shaded by a stark light overhead. Volkova didn’t bother counting. Didn’t have the time to spare, and couldn’t say how many captives Cako was supposed to have, for starters.
“Come with me,” she said, not knowing if they spoke English or not. She tried Albanian and then Russian before she ran out of languages.
One of them worked, apparently. Huddled together, weeping softly, the women filed out to follow her.
FURIOUS AND frightened at the same time, Arben Kurti lapsed from English back into his native language, raging at the soldiers who surrounded him.
“A diçka!” he demanded, but the broad command to “do something” provided no direction. Failing that, he cursed them, while they hunched their shoulders, hung their heads and took it like submissive children, long inured to rigid discipline.
And, somehow, it actually helped.
Not them, of course. But Kurti suddenly felt better after venting his accumulated anger and frustration. Now, if only he could get his hands on Lorik Cako’s throat and squeeze until the little bastard’s eyes popped out, he would be almost happy once again.
Except for one small detail.
He was in the line of fire from enemies whom he couldn’t identify, and it appeared that they were closing in.
“It’s time to go,” he informed his men but telling them that hardly ensured that they could actually leave the house alive.
If there were enemies outside…
Kurti moved to the nearest window, crouching there, and peered into the pale morning. He saw no gunmen waiting there, from either side, but the three Lexus SUVs that had delivered Kurti and his team to Cako’s hideaway were burning, spewing oily smoke across the landscape.
Never mind.
The nearest of the limousines was still intact. If they could reach that car and get it started, they could still escape. Let Cako deal with the attackers. It was his place, after all, and he’d been after Kurti for the past two years, begging for more authority.
Would there be keys in the limos?
Kurti grabbed his nearest soldier by one arm and ordered him to check the car for keys. “Signal if you can start it, and we’ll join you.”
The young man bobbed his head, muttered, “Yes, sir,” and made a beeline for the nearest exit.
Seconds later, Kurti saw him jogging toward the limousines, looking around in all directions as he moved, squinting against the smoke. He reached the nearest vehicle, opened the driver’s door and leaned inside. A moment later, he was facing toward the house, thumb raised above a clenched fist in the universal sign of victory.
“Come on!” Kurti snapped at the rest. “We’re leaving this cursed place to the rats.”