crept back to the bathroom, trying to figure out a way to capture the person hiding behind the shower curtain alive. Perhaps he might know where bin Osman's men had taken the plutonium. He reached around and turned the switch that operated the ceiling fan, creating noise in the room that would cover his movements and stood back from the door. He pulled an extendable baton from his utility belt, extended it to full length, and with his left hand he used the baton to open the curtain. In his right hand he held the razor-sharp Fairbairn-Sykes.
He'd pulled the curtain about six inches by the time the figure inside lunged out at him. The man swung a dagger down toward the Executioner's clavicle. Bolan swung his right hand across the attacker's right hand and knocked his aim off so that his knife skimmed along Bolan's left arm. The blade cut through the soldier's blacksuit and bit into his skin, opening a gash from his bicep to the middle of his forearm before he could completely knock the attacker's hand away. Bolan felt his arm getting wet with blood, but he could see it was only a superficial wound.
Bolan swung the metal sap in his left hand across the attacker's jaw, knocking him backward into the shower wall. The man bounced off the wall and lunged toward Bolan, but this time the Executioner was better prepared and had assumed a proper fighting stance. Once again he slapped away the blade that the attacker thrust at him, but this time he did so with his left hand, leaving his right hand free to counterattack with his own blade. He sliced the knife down across the attacker's right arm, opening up a much deeper wound than the attacker had opened up in Bolan's left arm.
Right away the Executioner could see that the wound was too deep. The attacker had twisted his arm when Bolan had knocked it aside so that the underside of the arm was exposed. He'd filleted the arm, opening up a six-inch stretch of the main artery. The man fell back into the tub, blood spraying from his arm like a split fire hose. Bolan hoped to keep the man alive because he wanted to question him, but one look at his face told the soldier that he was already going into shock. He would soon be dead. "Where is the plutonium?" Bolan asked the dying man.
"Allahu Akbar,"
the man whispered, his draining blood filling the bathtub. They were the last words the man would ever speak.
Bolan grabbed a towel to stop the blood from his own wounded arm and wrapped the cut area. He heard a knock at the door. He took quick glance through the peephole and saw Osborne. He hurried to the door and let the ex-cop into the room, closing the door behind him.
"S'up?" the retired San Francisco detective asked. Bolan pointed toward the bathroom. Osborne stepped into the room and came out a moment later. "Holy shit," he said.
"That about sums it up," Bolan said.
"You're bleeding," Osborne said, pointing at the Executioner's left arm.
The soldier examined the wound. It was shallow, but it was bleeding profusely. He'd have to tape it up or he'd be a bloody mess.
"Who's that?"
"I think I saw him working in the Team Free Flow garage on Thursday. I'm pretty sure he's a Saudi."
"What are we going to do with him?"
"Good question," the soldier replied. He thought a bit and said, "I think we should take him back where he came from."
* * *
The Executioner walked through the open overhead door of the Team Free Flow garage complex, took out his Beretta 93-R, and said, "I want to see Botros right now."
The mechanic nearest the office area drew a Glock from a waistband holster but before he had it halfway up Bolan grabbed the crew member, put the Beretta to his temple, and said, "Tell your boss to get out here."
"He doesn't speak English," another crew member said.
Bolan turned his aim on the English speaker. "Then you tell your boss to get out here. Now."
"I cannot do that," the mechanic said.
"Well I can put a bullet through your melon. Get him out here."
By this time the man was
He'd pulled the curtain about six inches by the time the figure inside lunged out at him. The man swung a dagger down toward the Executioner's clavicle. Bolan swung his right hand across the attacker's right hand and knocked his aim off so that his knife skimmed along Bolan's left arm. The blade cut through the soldier's blacksuit and bit into his skin, opening a gash from his bicep to the middle of his forearm before he could completely knock the attacker's hand away. Bolan felt his arm getting wet with blood, but he could see it was only a superficial wound.
Bolan swung the metal sap in his left hand across the attacker's jaw, knocking him backward into the shower wall. The man bounced off the wall and lunged toward Bolan, but this time the Executioner was better prepared and had assumed a proper fighting stance. Once again he slapped away the blade that the attacker thrust at him, but this time he did so with his left hand, leaving his right hand free to counterattack with his own blade. He sliced the knife down across the attacker's right arm, opening up a much deeper wound than the attacker had opened up in Bolan's left arm.
Right away the Executioner could see that the wound was too deep. The attacker had twisted his arm when Bolan had knocked it aside so that the underside of the arm was exposed. He'd filleted the arm, opening up a six-inch stretch of the main artery. The man fell back into the tub, blood spraying from his arm like a split fire hose. Bolan hoped to keep the man alive because he wanted to question him, but one look at his face told the soldier that he was already going into shock. He would soon be dead. "Where is the plutonium?" Bolan asked the dying man.
"Allahu Akbar,"
the man whispered, his draining blood filling the bathtub. They were the last words the man would ever speak.
Bolan grabbed a towel to stop the blood from his own wounded arm and wrapped the cut area. He heard a knock at the door. He took quick glance through the peephole and saw Osborne. He hurried to the door and let the ex-cop into the room, closing the door behind him.
"S'up?" the retired San Francisco detective asked. Bolan pointed toward the bathroom. Osborne stepped into the room and came out a moment later. "Holy shit," he said.
"That about sums it up," Bolan said.
"You're bleeding," Osborne said, pointing at the Executioner's left arm.
The soldier examined the wound. It was shallow, but it was bleeding profusely. He'd have to tape it up or he'd be a bloody mess.
"Who's that?"
"I think I saw him working in the Team Free Flow garage on Thursday. I'm pretty sure he's a Saudi."
"What are we going to do with him?"
"Good question," the soldier replied. He thought a bit and said, "I think we should take him back where he came from."
* * *
The Executioner walked through the open overhead door of the Team Free Flow garage complex, took out his Beretta 93-R, and said, "I want to see Botros right now."
The mechanic nearest the office area drew a Glock from a waistband holster but before he had it halfway up Bolan grabbed the crew member, put the Beretta to his temple, and said, "Tell your boss to get out here."
"He doesn't speak English," another crew member said.
Bolan turned his aim on the English speaker. "Then you tell your boss to get out here. Now."
"I cannot do that," the mechanic said.
"Well I can put a bullet through your melon. Get him out here."
By this time the man was
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