Treason Play. Don Pendleton
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into another level of parking. He arrived in time to see the van hurtling out of the garage.
BOLAN GLIDED DOWN THE steps, the Beretta in a two-handed grip. A voice rose up from the floors below and the soldier froze, straining to hear. The voice definitely sounded female, and he guessed it was Gillen.
He had to descend another flight of steps before the voices gained more clarity.
“I told you,” he heard Gillen say, “I don’t know where Lang is.”
“And I told you, I don’t care. You’re coming with me.”
“Damn it!”
A sharp slapping sound reached Bolan’s ears. Gillen yelped in surprise and pain. Bolan felt his face and neck flush hot with anger and his jaw clenched tight. By now, he had moved about one floor above Gillen and her captor. He deliberately slowed his pace so he could monitor the situation without alarming the gunman and putting Gillen in greater danger. They were continuing to descend the stairwell.
The sound of someone pressing on a door’s release bar reached Bolan. He walked around the landing, spotted the man pushing open the door with one hand and motioning Gillen to go through it with the hand holding a gun. The Executioner stood fast for a couple of seconds to give Gillen enough time to pass through the door.
In the meantime, the big American locked the Beretta’s barrel on Gillen’s captor. Bolan cleared his throat.
The man spun, his pistol hunting for a target. Bolan tapped the Beretta’s trigger and a triburst lanced into the guy’s ribs, breaking bone and drilling into his torso. The hardman staggered back a step, hitting the wall behind him, then raised his weapon and snapped off a wild shot that sounded like a thunderclap in the cramped confines of the stairwell.
The Beretta sighed again. This time, the slugs punched into the man’s heart and killed him. His body slammed against the wall, leaving a crimson smear as it slid to the floor.
Bolan raced down the steps and was through the door in seconds. He found himself on the bottom floor of the garage. The sound of footfalls thudding against the concrete reached him. He looked forty-five degrees to the right and saw Gillen moving at a dead run to get away from him. Before he could call out to her, she stole a glance over her shoulder, saw him standing there and kicked the speed up another notch.
The soldier muttered a curse and raced after her. He couldn’t blame her for running. Despite his assurances that he was there to help, he was a complete stranger and she’d watched several people die violently at his hands in a short span of time. She’d also almost gotten kidnapped while under his “protection.”
So, no, he couldn’t blame her for running away. But it made his job much harder. The soldier poured on the speed to try to bridge the distance between them. He also holstered the Beretta, guessing that the sight of a gun wasn’t helping matters, either. He began to gain on her, the distance between them shrinking to about ten yards. He could hear her breathing, loud, but measured, as though she’d trained as a runner.
She turned right and ran for an exit. The turn cost her some speed and she took it wide, providing Bolan a chance to pivot and head after her diagonally. She stopped to pull open the door and he was able to close in on her, wrapping his arms around her upper body and pinning her arms against her.
“Let me go,” she shouted as she struggled.
“Gillen,” Bolan said, “I’m here to help.”
She continued to struggle. Raising her foot, she stomped down hard on the ground, just missing Bolan’s foot.
“Damn it. Stop!”
Sirens wailed in the distance. From his peripheral vision, Bolan saw someone approaching. He whipped his head around, anticipating trouble. He found Grimaldi walking toward them, the Colt Commando slung over his shoulder, a wide grin playing on his lips.
“Unhand her, knave,” Grimaldi said.
Bolan figured the struggle wasn’t helping and he let her go. She’d been straining to break his grip and her suddenly free body hurtled forward, causing her to stumble a couple of steps before she stopped.
She wheeled around, her cheeks and neck scarlet with exertion and anger. She took a step forward and raised an open hand to deliver a hard slap at Bolan. The soldier noticed her hand was shaking and he guessed it was because of the adrenaline coursing through her. She didn’t take another step, but the anger and fear didn’t drain from her face, either.
“What the hell is the matter with you? You come into my apartment, my home, and start shooting people? Manhandle me?”
Bolan held up his hands, palms forward, in a placating gesturing. The sound of the sirens continued to grow louder.
“We need to go,” he said. “You’re in danger.”
“Yeah, from you! I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
Bolan shook his head. “Not now. Not here. You need to trust me.”
She threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t even know you.”
“If we stay here, we’ll get picked up by the police. If my friend and I end up in jail, we can’t help you. We lose valuable time. And Terry Lang died for nothing.”
She opened her mouth to reply, hesitated. Her mouth closed and she shook her head slowly.
“Fine, damn it. Let’s go.”
“You won’t regret this,” Bolan said.
“Too late.”
BOLAN WAS PACING THE hallway in the safehouse, speaking to Potts by cell phone.
“You realize you’re giving me an ulcer,” Potts said.
“Sorry.”
“Oh, problem solved then.”
“Look,” Bolan replied, “just smooth things over with the locals. The last thing I need is them breathing down my neck while I’m trying to work on this. Will you handle it?”
Potts paused a couple of seconds. “Okay.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re going to give me a heart attack. You know that? A big fat, fucking coronary. Which one of my ex-wives sent you here, anyway?”
“I thought I was giving you an ulcer,” Bolan said, ending the call and slipping the phone into his pocket.
He walked to the kitchen, where he found Grimaldi and Gillen seated at a table. She’d pulled her long hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. Her face looked freshly scrubbed, and she wore a white T-shirt that was too big for her. Flecks of blood had spattered on her other clothes and her exposed arms during the altercation at her apartment building.
A cup of coffee sat on the table in front of her. She’d wrapped her fingers around it and was staring glumly into the cup. When Bolan entered the room, she peered up at him, her expression stony.
“I gave her one of your extra shirts,” Grimaldi said. “And some coffee.”
Bolan pulled one of the chairs out from the table, spun it and sat on it. He rested his forearms on the top of the chair’s back and looked at Gillen.
“Say it,” she said.
“What?”
“Whatever the hell you’re thinking, just spit it out.”
“How well did you know Terry Lang?”
She thought about it for a couple of seconds, then shrugged. “We knew each other two years, maybe three. Worked together off and on during that time.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her eyes dipped toward her coffee cup again. “We spent a lot of time together,” she said.
Bolan