Satisfied he was alone, Bolan moved along a short hallway to the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he reached the first landing when footsteps sounded overhead, drawing closer. In another moment they would be upon him.
Bolan froze, easing off the Ingram's safety. One person by the sound, but he wasn't taking any chances.
Above him, a disheveled figure reached the stairs and started down. Graying, shoulder-length hair with a drooping mustache, O.D. jacket, faded denims — the guy was an aging relic of the Flower Generation. The eyes that met Bolan's were burned-out, having seen too much and understanding too little.
The guy smiled at Bolan, revealing missing teeth, and raised a hand in greeting.
'Hi, man.'
The Executioner nodded and stood aside to let him pass. When the front door closed behind him, Bolan counted ten and resumed his climb.
The third floor was dimly lit. The paint was drab, discolored by years, the cheap carpet dirty and threadbare.
Bolan paused on the stairs to take another reading of his gray surroundings. Down the hall, a stereo was playing, bass guitars throbbing through the walls like an erratic pulse. He scanned the corridor for other signs of life, detected none and finally moved toward the door of his apartment.
The door was open.
Either Amy had left, or someone had entered.
Bolan let his coat fall open, the stubby MAC-10 nosing out. He stepped back, avoiding a direct line of fire, and gave the door a cautious nudge. It swung inward with a rusty creak. Bolan's view of the apartment was expanded, broadened inch by inch.
The empty room mocked his caution.
Bolan entered, lowering the Ingram as he closed the door behind him. Glancing through the open bathroom door, he knew he was alone.
Amy Culp was missing, right, and from the evidence, she did not leave willingly.
Bolan found the telephone lying where it had been dropped, or thrown. A knife was on the kitchen floor, and near it, something else...
He stepped closer, bending down to make the confirmation. There was no mistake, and Bolan's face was a mask of grim determination as he straightened up. There were blood spots below the sink, already drying rusty brown against the backdrop of pale linoleum.
Bolan checked the knife and found it was clean, Amy hadn't found a chance to use it. The blood, in all probability, was hers.
Bolan cursed softly, his imagination filling in the gaps. He damned Amy for ignoring his instructions, turning the safehouse into a death trap. Clearly, she made a call, brushed against the strands of Minh's web, and brought the danger upon herself.
He let the anger slide away, concentrating on the here and now. Amy was beyond his reach; unless the 'elders' took her back to Minh's estate, there was no way for him to trace her.
But if he couldn't find the lady, if he couldn't help her, there was still something he could do to
Something massive.
Armageddon, sure, for the Universal Devotees.
Cold fury rose, supplanting the warrior's early flash of anger. He knew the feeling, he lived with it and he let it guide his hand against the enemy in other confrontations, other wars.
It was the righteous anger of a soldier who shared the pain of others, and who was simply too much a man to turn away.
His enemy had called the game, and Bolan was prepared to take the game to the limit. It would be scorched earth for Minh and the soldiers of his private army.
Bolan made a final sweep of the apartment, seeking clues and coming up empty. He considered calling Able Team's referral number, but dismissed the thought. If Amy Culp was alive, if she was being taken to the hardsite, every second counted. If she wasn't, he had given Minh and Carter too much time already.
Bolan put the apartment behind him, checking each direction as he left. The corridor was empty, and the stereo's pulsing had receded. Half a dozen paces brought him to the stairs and he started down, keeping one hand on the MAC-10 beneath his coat.
He was on the landing, with a single flight to go, when he met the raiding party — three men, their eyes and faces mirroring the Executioner's surprise.
The two in front wore police uniforms while the trail man wore a trench coat. Despite their surprise, the trio was braced for trouble: the nearest had a pistol in his hand; the sergeant to his left held a riot gun at port arms; and the backup man was fumbling with the buttons of his coat, edging a hand toward some hardware.
Bolan stopped short as the shotgunner hailed him, letting the stubby scattergun slide down to waist level.
'Hold up, slick. We need to have a word with you.'
Bolan raised an eyebrow and allowed confusion to enter his tone.
'What's the trouble, Officer?' he asked.
The uniform with the pistol chimed in.
'We have reports of a disturbance.''
Bolan's eyes dropped from the patrolman's face to the weapon in his fist, locking in instant recognition.
It was a Walther P-38, the classic 9mm autoloader favored by German Wehrmacht officers in World War II. Collectors would pay a hefty price for such a piece in mint condition — but no San Francisco cop would ever carry one on duty.
Bolan smiled at the 'officers.'
'I must've slept through it,' he said. 'Never heard a thing.'
The shotgunner scowled.
'We're gonna have to take you downtown for questioning,' he growled.
Bolan feigned amazement.
'Hey, listen now...'
Growing nervous, the 'sergeant' snapped, jabbing the air with his scattergun for emphasis.
'Shut up, and let's see those hands,' he ordered.
'Okay, Jesus,' Bolan stammered, 'just don't shoot, all right?' '
His left hand was already shoulder high when the right hand poked through the open front of his overcoat. Downslope, his huddled targets had but a heartbeat to read the death message in his eyes before Bolan stroked the trigger.
The Ingram man-shredder fires at a cyclic rate of 1,200 rounds per minute, rattling off a clip of thirty-two 9mm parabellums in a second and a half. Bolan held the trigger down, and few of his bullets missed flesh inside the narrow stairwell.
He took the 'sergeant' first, neutralizing his deadly riot gun. A line of steel-jackets zippered him from crotch to throat, opening his stolen uniform and releasing his stuffing in a surging, liquid rush. The hollow man tumbled backward, dead fingers triggering a blast that released a rain of plaster.
The other uniform gave a startled cry and swung his Walther up, tracking his target. His hands were shaking, and his first shot gouged the wall a foot to Bolan's left.
Bolan hung a wreath of parabellum manglers around the gunner's neck, watching face disintegrate. The uniform's cap was blown away, his scalp inside it, sailing down the stairs like a bloody discus.
The third man was still groping for his weapon when the headless corpse hit him, knocking him off balance. Already smeared with blood, he swatted the thing away, half turning and tugging harder at reluctant gun leather.
Bolan's automatic fire hit him in a blazing figure eight, and the half-turn became a jerky, spinning dance of death. His trench coat rippled with the deadly drumming impact, releasing a crimson tide, mingling with his partner's blood. A final burst swept him off his feet and pitched him headlong down the staircase, joining the others
