LITMIR.BIZ

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past the doors of what he assumed were rooms for private shows. When he got within a dozen steps or so of Lockwood’s office, he heard Lockwood’s voice, taut and loud, emanating through the closed door.

      “The bloke had a gun on me, what was I supposed to do?”

      “Quiet!”

      His fingers wrapped around the knob, the soldier gave it a gentle twist. It moved a quarter inch or so, stopped. It was locked.

      The big American stepped back, aimed the Beretta’s muzzle on the lock, fired. The bullet pierced the steel, destroying the lock. Bolan raised his foot, slammed it against the door. It swung inward, the soldier following behind it.

      Even as he barreled through the door, Bolan sized up the situation. Lockwood remained, where Bolan had left him earlier, trussed up to the chair. His bodyguard still lay on the floor, sleeping off the beating he’d received less than an hour ago from McCarter. One of the Russians stood before Lockwood, left fist cocked on his hip, right hand clutching a Glock with a sound suppressor screwed into the barrel. The other stood forty-five degrees to Bolan’s right. His back was to Lockwood, while he stared at a small bank of television monitors that Bolan had noticed earlier. Cameras feeding the monitors peeked into the private rooms. An MP-5 submachine gun filled his right hand. The barrel, also fixed with a sound suppressor, was pointed toward the floor. But the commotion finally yanked his attention from the skin show unfolding on the monitors. His gaze was whipping in Bolan’s direction and he was flicking the cigarette away as the MP-5 swung up.

      The Beretta sighed once and a hole opened in the Russian’s forehead. The Executioner watched as the man’s body went slack. Even as the shooter collapsed to the ground, a bullet sizzled past Bolan’s neck. The soldier whirled toward the second Russian, the Beretta tracking in on the man. The handgun coughed once and a 9 mm slug lanced into the guy’s shoulder. A cry erupted from his lips and the Glock tumbled to the ground.

      To his credit, the man recovered quickly from the pain of the gunshot, he bent down to get the pistol.

      But with a couple of long strides, Bolan closed the distance between them and drove a foot into the man’s chest. The Russian shooter fell onto his behind with a grunt. The Executioner set his booted foot onto the man’s lost weapon and centered the Beretta’s muzzle on the man’s forehead.

      “Stop,” Bolan said.

      Instinctively, the man tried to raise his hands. He winced, grunted and stuck his good hand in the air. The guy glanced at the injury. Bolan looked at it, too, saw a dark shiny stain had formed around the bullet’s entry point. The man shifted his gaze to Bolan.

      “I’m bleeding,” he said.

      “And I bleed for you,” Bolan said.

      McCarter’s voice buzzed in Bolan’s earpiece. In the same instant, both Lockwood and the Russian began peppering Bolan with expletive-filled tirades. The soldier tuned them out and keyed his microphone.

      “Go,” Bolan said.

      “Outside’s still clear,” McCarter said. “Need me to come in?”

      Bolan did and told him so.

      Signing off, Bolan turned to the Russian. The guy’s skin had paled from the blood loss and Bolan guessed the man would go into shock soon. He had to move quickly.

      “How are you feeling?” Bolan asked.

      “I told you I am bleeding, you fuck,” the guy replied. “I’m going to bleed to death.”

      Bolan shook his head. “Doubt it,” he said. “Not from that wound. Oh, you’ll bleed. But it would take a while before you actually bleed out.”

      Bolan paused a couple of beats. Then he waved the Beretta. “This is a Beretta 93-R. Shoots 9 millimeter rounds. Whisper-quiet, which is nice. I like that. But what I really like is that it fires three bullets at a time. Very handy.”

      The man’s gaze was intent on Bolan, but he didn’t seem to be following what the soldier was saying.

      “Now the gutshot?” he said. “The one I am about to give you? That’s going to really screw you up. Three bullets can tear the hell out of your organs. Maybe pierce your spine. I’m not a doctor, but you get a wound like that—” Bolan shrugged “—bleeding is the least of your worries.”

      Another pause.

      “Upside is, you won’t have to worry long. You’ll welcome death.”

      Bolan saw the light go on in the guy’s eyes. The Russian licked his lips.

      “What do you want?” the man said.

      “Information.”

      “Fine.”

      * * *

      THE HINTON TOWER stood among the office towers in London’s financial district. It’s hide of mirrored windows caught the spectrum of lights emanating from traffic signals and streetlights, and corporate signs moored to neighboring office towers.

      The Executioner stepped from the shadows of an alley that ran between the Hinton Tower and its closest neighbor, a skyscraper that housed a global bank. A black nylon briefcase hung from his right shoulder. McCarter emerged a heartbeat later, a nearly identical briefcase slung over his shoulder.

      Bolan’s ice-blue eyes surveyed the building’s exterior, matched it with the intelligence he’d gained. The thug who had given them this intel worked for a man named Malakov—who just so happened to be a high-ranking associate of Mikhail Yezhov. Malakov, once a tenant in the building, had bought it out of receivership after the bottom fell out of London’s commercial real estate market. That transaction had allowed him to install a tighter security. This included plainclothes, armed guards in the lobby, tougher firewalls on the computers managing the security system and a rooftop helipad to allow for private departures.

      “Nice digs,” McCarter muttered.

      Bolan nodded.

      “You think our boy’s information was good?”

      “He was about to bleed out,” Bolan replied. “What do you think?”

      “Impending death makes for a hell of a truth serum. Good job bandaging him up, by the way.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Seems a little counterproductive, this whole shooting-people-then-tending-to-their-wounds thing,” McCarter said.

      Bolan shrugged. “Made a deal with the guy. Not sure he deserved to live, but I made a deal. I don’t think he’s going to bother anybody for a while. MI5 was going to send in a cleanup team, take him to a hospital. They’ll extradite him.”

      “So we can shoot him again, at another time in another place.”

      “Gives us something to look forward to,” Bolan said.

      “True that.”

      By this point, the soldier and McCarter had reached the line of glass doors leading into the tower’s lobby. Despite the hour, the revolving door spun easily, spitting Bolan, then McCarter, into the lobby. A handful of men and women, well-groomed professional people in suits, strode purposefully in a dozen different directions through the lobby. This didn’t surprise Bolan. The Russian had told him that Malakov ran a massive energy-and-stock futures operation on the building’s first two floors. With the staff making trades globally, people populated the building around the clock.

      A pair of burly men togged in navy blue sport coats, gray slacks and red ties were seated behind an information desk that stood in the middle of the lobby. The Stony Man warriors approached the desk. The guards, who’d been talking, fell silent and looked at Bolan and McCarter.

      “Help you?” the younger man asked.

      “Have some documents to drop off,” McCarter said. He patted his briefcase to emphasize the point.

      “Documents for who?”

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