Part 2 (1/2)

Kurtzman swallowed hard. ”All right, a.s.suming Baibakov survived and escaped into Mexico, it's not all that far-fetched. All three sides in the conflict in former Yugoslavia are receiving aid and support from the outside. The Croatians are getting a lot of ex-East German materiel from Germany. A number of Muslim states are sending in small arms and volunteers to support the Bosnian Muslims, and it's no secret the Russians support the Bosnian Serbs and have been supplying them with arms and possibly advisers. It's also no secret that all three sides are employing mercenaries. I'm sure there are Bosnian Serb groups operating in the hills outside of Sarajevo that would just love to have an *active adviser' like Baibakov to help them.” Kurtzman paused. ”My main concern at the moment is for you. Do you think he saw you and recognized you?”

Bolan recalled the flash of light off the scope on the hill. He had been firing the Desert Eagle at Baibakov as fast as he could. The flash could have been from the man dropping to cover, or being hit. Or he could have taken a moment to examine his attacker if he was cool enough. The Executioner frowned. ”I can't be sure.”

”Well, if he did, do you think he'll come after you?”

Bolan let out a slow breath as he remembered the giant's relentless pursuit across the Sonoran Desert. ”I don't think anything on earth will stop him.” Bolan smiled with grim irony. ”I think that's our one advantage in this situation. He'll come to me.”

”That has to be one h.e.l.l of a cold advantage, Striker, knowing that freak of nature is coming for you.”

”I have one other one.”

”Oh?”

”He's a psychopath. When it comes to dealing with me, he probably won't act rationally.”

Kurtzman was silent for a moment. ”Oh, well, you're holding all the cards, then.”

Bolan grinned. ”I've got him right where I want him. But one thing is bothering me.”

”What's that?”

”Why kill Kyle Albrecht? It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to kill an American envoy. It's likely to get the United States riled with the Serbs, and the administration isn't fond of them to begin with.”

”Hmm. That's a good question. I'll have to give that one some thought.”

”What other news have you got?”

”Not much. I'll contact military intelligence and have them dig up anything they can on our boy. I'll try the State Department, too. Maybe they can convince the Russians to give us something. I'll send what you've found through channels. I suspect the President will be happy. You dug up a h.e.l.l of a lot for your first twenty-four hours in town.”

”I'm faxing the pictures I took at the listening post to you through Hal at the Justice Department. I'm going to have a meeting in the bar with the leader of the militia platoon I went out with this morning in a few minutes. Maybe he can give me something to work with. Barring any startling developments, I'll contact you again same time tomorrow. Out.”

Bolan replaced the earpiece in the satellite link's storage briefcase and snapped it shut. He tucked the Beretta 93-R into its shoulder holster and put three spare magazines into the holster slots under his other arm. He checked the loads in the snub-nosed 9 mm Centennial revolver and slid it snugly into his ankle holster. He tucked his stiletto into the back of his waistband and checked his watch. Sarcev ought to be in the bar by now.

The soldier locked the door behind him and walked toward the elevators. At the end of the hall an old woman in a kerchief pushed a cleaning cart. Loud music and laughter came from behind the door of one of the rooms on his left. Bolan pushed the Down b.u.t.ton, and the elevator pinged almost immediately. The cleaning cart made a sudden rattle as it stopped. Bolan's combat senses flared. A woman had been cleaning the rooms when he had left in the morning to join the militia patrol, and the rooms wouldn't be cleaned twice in the same day.

The Executioner whirled as he ripped the Beretta from its holster. The woman dropped behind her cart as the elevator door opened and a voice like breaking granite boomed out of the elevator car.

”Die!”

As Bolan turned to face his attacker, a heavy black blade whipped down in a terrible arc, its razor-honed edge glittering. He yanked his blocking arm out of the way to keep it from being lopped off and took the blow in the chest. The entrenching tool sheered through the outer layers of the woven Kevlar of his armored vest and came to a violent stop on the ceramic trauma plate. Bolan felt the plate crack as the blow slammed him backward against the opposite wall.

The soldier saw stars as the back of his head bounced off the wall, but he raised the Beretta 93-R on instinct and fired a 3-round burst at the looming shape before him. The man attacked without pause, and Bolan's hand went numb with shock as the flat of the iron shovel blade swatted the pistol from his hand. The Executioner dropped on his haunches as the blade whipped around and whistled past his head. The blade sank into the wall, and he coiled his body to strike. As the giant yanked at his weapon, the Executioner planted his palm on the floor and kicked both feet upward between his attacker's ma.s.sive legs.

The giant raised his knee to block the blow to his groin, and Bolan drove both boot heels into the upraised leg. For a second his adversary was standing on one leg, and the blow sent him tottering off balance into the elevator doorway. The soldier rolled backward on the floor and drew his right knee to his chest as his hand reached for his ankle holster.

The giant ducked around the steel frame of the elevator door as the 9 mm Centennial revolver bucked in Bolan's hands. Someone in a nearby room screamed at the sound of the gunshot. The elevator doors slid shut with a ping, and the lights on the wall showed the elevator car descending. There was no time to worry about the giant Russian.

The Executioner rolled p.r.o.ne and swept the muzzle of the revolver down the hallway.

The cleaning woman had risen from behind her cart. No longer bending over, she was nearly six feet tall. An AK47 rifle with its stock folded had appeared in her hands.

Bolan put the front sight of the Centennial on her chest and fired.

The a.s.sa.s.sin staggered, and Bolan triggered a second round. The automatic rifle ripped into life and sent a long burst st.i.tching high and wide into the wall over Bolan's head. The Executioner's third shot snapped the a.s.sa.s.sin's head back, and the AK47 rifle fell from nerveless hands. The killer swayed, then fell to the floor in a motionless heap.

Bolan snapped around toward the elevator. The lights over the door indicated it had descended without stopping and had reached the lobby. He rose with a single round left in the revolver. He reholstered the little gun and scooped up the Beretta in his left hand. He grimaced as he flexed his right. Pain shot down his arm, and purple swelling was already thickening the fingers of his mashed hand. With an effort he made a fist and grunted to himself satisfactorily. It hurt like h.e.l.l, but nothing appeared to be broken.

He approached the cleaning woman, who turned out to be a man. Bolan could hear whispering behind the doors, and somewhere a woman was crying. The Executioner decided he didn't want to stick around to explain any of this. He reached his room in ten long strides and slid his door open, shutting it behind him silently. Moments later he heard the pounding of feet and shouting in the hallway. Bolan stuck his throbbing hand in the complimentary bucket of ice by the minibar and waited. Two minutes later there was a quiet but insistent knock on his door. Bolan kept the 93-R at his side and slightly behind him as he spoke softly.

”Who is it?”

Bolan recognized the Bosnian militia leader's voice. ”Praise to G.o.d, you are alive. It is me, Viado.”

The soldier flicked the Beretta's safety back on. ”It's not locked.”

The door opened slowly, and a moment later Sarcev cautiously stuck his head in. ”You are all right?”

Bolan took his hand out of the ice bucket and shook off the water. ”I'll live. Come in and close the door.”

The little man entered. He had shaved and combed his hair, and wore a worn but presentable wool jacket and pants. He held his Tokarev pistol close to his leg, and he holstered the weapon as he came in. He looked at the Beretta thoughtfully as Bolan replaced the partially spent magazine. ”You have many large and impressive guns.” The Executioner holstered the Beretta. ”Thank you.”

”You are welcome.”

Bolan drew the Centennial and replaced the four spent rounds from a pocket in his camera bag. ”You got here fast.”

Sarcev nodded. ”I heard there had been shooting on the fourth floor. You had told me your room number when you told me to meet you here. So I make a guess that perhaps you were involved. I came as fast as I could while avoiding security.” He peered around at the room admiringly. ”You have a nice room.”

Bolan shrugged. ”It's a Holiday Inn.”

”Yes. Holiday Inn is nice. Very expensive for locals, but nice. Good restaurants. My children and I enjoy the pancake breakfast very much.”

The soldier suppressed a smile. ”Yes, it's very good.”

Sarcev pointed at Bolan's purpling hand. ”May I ask what happened?”

Bolan stripped off his s.h.i.+rt and examined the ma.s.sive rent in his vest. ”Our friend paid me a visit.”

”The Giant?”

Bolan nodded as the cracked trauma plate flexed under his probing fingers. Sarcev shook his head wonderingly. ”He would have had to circle back around my men's counterattack and have followed us down from the hills almost immediately.”

The Executioner nodded thoughtfully. That was true. Despite the falling mortar sh.e.l.ls and more than a platoon of Muslim militiamen sweeping the battlefield, Igor Baibakov had stuck to him and followed him to his hotel and set an ambush. Sarcev jerked his head toward the hall. ”And the dead woman?”

Bolan grunted as he shrugged out of the ruined armor. ”The dead woman was a man. He was Baibakov's lookout and backup in the ambush. I suspect he was a plant who was already in town.”

The militia leader nodded. ”Yes. That makes sense.” He took a deep breath and looked Bolan in the eye. ”My giant, and your gianta”you call him Baibakova”they are the same, yes?”