2

      Freetown, Sierra Leone

      Bolan stomped the brake pedal as the figure staggered into the Jeep’s path. The car jerked to a stop, the force pushing Bolan forward. The safety harness cut into his shoulder, and he steeled himself by gripping the steering wheel and locking his arms straight. The headlights doused the figure in a white glow, and Bolan saw it was a woman. Crimson eclipsed part of her face. With her right hand, she held her left ribs, which were encased in a Kevlar vest.

      She gripped a pistol in her left hand.

      The hand hung at her side in plain view, not threatening Bolan. A second pistol was holstered on the hip opposite an empty holster. She staggered slowly toward the Jeep, wincing with each step.

      What the hell? Bolan shifted the Jeep into Park, reached for the butt of the Desert Eagle, then opened the Jeep door. Setting one foot on the ground, he kept as much of his body as possible inside the vehicle. Jabbing the Desert Eagle through the space between the door and the frame, he drew down on the woman.

      “Drop the gun,” he said, “and raise your hands.”

      The woman shot Bolan an angry look and spoke through gritted teeth. “We’re losing Talisman,” she said. “We don’t have time for this.”

      Bolan heard a hint of an accent and identified it as Russian. It was soft, almost like a fading echo, as though she’d trained very hard to lose it. He could guess at her country of origin. Great. But what did she want with Talisman?

      “Lady, either you drop that gun and identify yourself, or I guarantee Talisman will be the least of your worries.”

      The woman gave him a hard stare, but dropped her pistol in the dirt.

      “My name is Natasha Rytova,” she said. “I’m Russian intelligence. I can tell by your voice that you’re American. Let’s go.”

      “SVR?” Bolan asked, referring to Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service.

      “Yes, yes. SVR. Of course. Can we go? We might lose them.”

      Bolan’s mind raced as he weighed the situation. The woman was right. The longer they stood sparring, the better the chances Talisman—Bolan’s best lead to finding the missing scientist—would slip through his fingers.

      The fact was that if she hadn’t stumbled directly into the SUV’s path, he probably would have blown right past her. She could be lying, ready to hit Bolan when he least expected it. But she could be telling the truth, a prospect Bolan found equally disturbing. He wanted to know why Russia cared enough about either Talisman or Dade to send in an operative. If that country’s intervention was about Dade, the implications were even more chilling.

      Bolan figured it was in his best interest to keep the woman in his sights.

      But he’d do it under his terms.

      “Lose the guns,” he said.

      “And leave myself defenseless? Go to hell.” The woman was defiant.

      “I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you. You stopped me. You’re injured. Drop the guns and I’ll help. Otherwise, I’ll hop back into this vehicle, get the hell out of here and leave you to fend for yourself.”

      Rytova wiped some of the blood from her head, studied it for a moment and seemed to consider Bolan’s words.

      Tentatively, she unbuckled the pistol belt, letting it slide down her hips and legs until it landed around her feet. She raised her hands and shot Bolan an irritated look. “Now may we go?” she asked.

      “Yeah,” Bolan said.

      Climbing into the Jeep, he held the Desert Eagle in his left hand and rested his opposite hand on the gearshift as he waited for Rytova to climb into the vehicle. He’d watched her to make sure she didn’t retrieve any of her weapons along the way.

      She grimaced as she climbed inside the vehicle.

      Bolan shifted and navigated out of the compound. Moments later, the vehicle was racing down one of the main roads into the middle of Freetown.

      “You okay?” he asked.

      The woman stared ahead. “Someone shot me in the ribs, stomach and kidneys. My vest stopped the bullets, but it hurts to breathe. Another bullet grazed my head.”

      “Who shot you?” Bolan asked.

      The woman shrugged and immediately winced in pain.

      “I’m not sure. Some men I have not met before. I believe the shooter’s name was Cole. He wasn’t one of Talisman’s people.”

      “You know most of Talisman’s men?” Bolan was intrigued.

      She nodded. “I’ve been watching him for days. But these were not his men. He’s a strong warrior, but his people are unskilled thugs, little boys playing soldier. The men I encountered were professionals. They work for Talisman’s boss.”

      “And that would be?”

      “None of your business,” she stated.

      “Look lady…” he began.

      She turned and glared at Bolan. He could tell the effort cost her physically.

      “No, you look,” she said. “I have no guns. I don’t know your name. My information is the only leverage I have.”

      Bolan clenched and unclenched his jaws. He scanned the road and guided the vehicle into a sharp turn. He heard the tires squeal, felt a slight slip in the back end as the Jeep cornered. Navigating the vehicle back into a straightaway, he mulled the woman’s words and admitted she had a good point.

      “When all this is over, you and I are going to have a talk,” he said. “A very long talk.”

      “I do not fear you.”

      Hell of it was, Bolan could tell she meant it.

      “So?” she asked.

      “So what?”

      “Do you have a name?”

      “Cooper,” Bolan said, drawing upon an alias. “Matt Cooper.”

      The woman fixed her gaze through the windshield, nodding and absently rubbing her ribs as she did. “You’re American. Are you CIA?”

      Bolan shook his head. “Justice Department.”

      “Interesting. Why does the American Justice Department care about a small-time hood like Talisman?” she asked.

      “To quote someone, none of your business,” Bolan replied.

      Rytova’s mouth twisted into a frown. If she had a reply, she kept it to herself. Bolan used the dead air time to check out his surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Talisman.

      He reached into a pocket of his combat suit, grabbing a pressure bandage and some packaged alcohol pads. He tossed them into the woman’s lap.

      “Here,” he said, staring straight ahead.