'But somehow I have a feeling you aren't shipping nutrients around this country.'
Subrov hesitated. 'Nutrients were only one aspect of my discovery. There are other chemicals that can also be introduced.'
'Like what?'
The Russian youth smiled. His sunken face and oversize teeth made his head look a little like a skull. 'Like synthetic heroin. Also a substance I created. We sell it as pesticides to your farmers. They spray their crops. The synthetic heroin is absorbed and reformed as part of the vegetables and fruit you eat. The physical reactions will not be immediate. They take years to develop, and even then only in certain body types.
'But then those who are affected will have all the symptoms of heroin addiction. The excruciating pain, the epileptic fits. The physical and psychological damage will only be the start. Our scientists and economists estimate that the reduction in productivity by these people will cause staggering economic collapse. Not to mention the panic and mass hysteria of the rest of the country as they try to discover what this affliction is. But by then, of course, it will already be too late.'
Bolan's face was stone, the features chipped from some blazing comet. The eyes glared with anger. 'From nutrients to help the masses to mass poisoning. Some leap for a genius.'
Subrov shrugged. 'I do what is right for my country. And for science. What does your country matter anyway? Beach Boys and jeans, that is all they know.'
'Enough,' Zavlin said. 'You have had your say, Dr. Subrov. And you too, Mr. Blue. Now it is my turn.' He walked over to the laboratory table where test tubes and flasks and chemicals were set up. There, leaning on a metal stand, directly over the blue flame of the gas Bunsen burner, was a branding iron. The tip of the iron glowed a fearsome red.
Zavlin slipped a leather glove on his right hand, transferring his gun to his left hand. He picked up the handle of the iron and carried it carefully toward Bolan.
The boy genius watched with a detached curiosity, as if interested only in how flesh might react when introduced to a glowing iron. Bolan sat rigidly in his chair, not moving.
'You may scream, Mr. Blue,' Zavlin said, coming closer. 'But movement might be fatal. Any attempt to knock this away and I will have to shoot you.'
And suddenly he pressed the tip of the running iron against Bolan's thigh. The pants hissed and smoked as the iron burned through and sizzled against the skin. Bolan flinched, his hands gripping the side of the chair as if to crush it. But he made no sound.
Zavlin pulled the iron away and smiled. 'That was just a touch. Nothing like what will happen next. Are you ready to speak?'
Bolan said nothing. There was no point. The truth would only make things worse.
They'd kill him immediately. As long as they thought he was holding out, they'd keep him alive.
'I have work to do,' Subrov said with a bored expression. 'Please clean up when you are finished.' He started out of the office, but was stopped by a uniformed guard wearing a surgical mask. He was dragging Shawnee beside him. She wore no mask, so her curses were very clear.
'Bastard!' she spit, punching and kicking at the guard. One kick caught him in the shin and he angrily threw her against the wall.
'What's going on?' Zavlin demanded.
'She was sneaking through the fence,' the guard explained. 'They'd used wire cutters.'
'I'm so sorry,' Shawnee said to Bolan. 'I couldn't wait. I had to help you.' She saw the burn on his thigh. Her eyes widened with horror, then anger. 'What have they done?' She fell to her knees to examine the wound.
'Tie her to that chair,' Zavlin told the guard. Then he smiled at Bolan. 'Let's see if she is as indifferent to my branding iron as you are.'
The security guard grabbed Shawnee by the arm, yanked her to her feet, then threw her into the chair next to Bolan's. He reached to his holster for his cuffs.
But when his hand came up, it was gripping an S&W .38. And the guard was spinning around, pointing the gun at Zavlin.
'Move it, Mack!' Hal Brognola said to Bolan as he tugged his mask down. Zavlin was caught by surprise, but his reflexes were astounding.
He jumped to the side just as Brognola fired. The shot gouged a hunk out of the blackboard. Zavlin fired back, the Tokarev kicking 9mm Tokagypt cartridges around the room. One sliced across Shawnee's hip, drawing a little blood but doing no major damage.
Dr. Subrov, the twenty-one-year-old Superbrain, ran blindly for the door, saw Brognola with his big .38, spun and ran directly into Zavlin's scorching iron, impaling himself on the sharp tip. The hot metal seared through cloth and flesh, between ribs, and finally through the heart, boiling blood as it sank deeper into his chest.
Zavlin released the iron and fired at Brognola. The big Fed dropped behind the desk and prepared to fire back, but Bolan had leaped across the room and had his hands around the KGB assassin's throat. One of Zavlin's security guards burst into the room spraying bullets, but Brognola cut him down with two rounds to the face. Bolan had his hand around Zavlin's wrist and was banging it against the floor, trying to shake the gun free.
Finally the hand opened and the gun flew out.
And then the Executioner went to work.
He didn't need to think about the van of cons or guards that Zavlin had had killed, or the other past victims of this assassin. He didn't even have to think of the hideous plot they'd been hatching right here, the attempt to addict innocent people.
He didn't have to think of all that, but it helped.
Helped him gather the strength as he dug his elbow into Zavlin's throat, crushing the windpipe. Then hammered blow after blow into the Russian's face, smashing every bone. Or when he twisted the head until the neck crackled like a little boy's stick being dragged across a picket fence.
24
'That's it. Room 27.' The man pointed a dirty fingernail across the street at the motel.
Clip Demoines gave the man five hundred dollars. The man looked at the bills for a moment, then whined, 'But you said a thousand, Mr. Demoines.'
Demoines glowered at the man and he scurried off into the night. 'Okay, Ron,' Demoines said to Thaxton. 'One more chance to redeem yourself. Only this time, let's do it right.' He popped open the trunk of his Mercedes and pulled out two 9mm semiautomatic Uzis. He handed one to Thaxton.
They each slammed in a 25-round magazine, snapped in the folding stocks and thumbed the safeties off.
'Ready?' Demoines asked.
Thaxton hesitated.
'What's wrong now?' Demoines said.
'This is Gianguzzi territory, Clip. We're not supposed to hit anybody down here without getting permission.'
'Fuck Gianguzzi. I hit who I want, where I want. And right now...' he glanced across the street at Room 27 '...I want that guy dead. And his bitch, too.'
Thaxton looked across the street. The door to Room 27 opened and the big man came out. He was shirtless and barefoot, carrying a cardboard ice bucket.
'We could drop him right now,' Thaxton said. 'No one will see us in the dark.'
'No,' Demoines said. 'I want them both. And I want them to see me pulling the trigger.'
Thaxton sighed. 'Okay, Clip.'
Bolan returned to the room, knocked on the door. Shawnee opened it, wearing only a shirt.
Her long sinewy legs reflected the flashing red neon Vacancy. She giggled, blocking the door with her body. He wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her inside. The door closed.
