War Drums. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
pushed slowly to his feet, watching the advancing figure. The man was slow, his movements heavy. No fast mover, Bolan realized. He’d work on that. The man depended on his strength, not his speed.
Salim was urging on his man now, his Arabic racing out in a continuous stream. The guy reached behind him and produced a broad knife. He cut the air with it to show Bolan what was coming.
“Yusef is very skilled with the blade,” Salim said. “He can cut you and you will still live. Save yourself the pain and give me what I need.”
Yusef leaned forward, the gleaming steel blade threatening Bolan.
“It is not too late.”
Bolan ignored Salim’s taunt. He stayed where he was a second longer, then spun hard and went low, driving a clenched fist into Yusef’s groin, catching him unprotected. Bolan’s fist went in deep, drawing a high yell from the guy. While Yusef’s attention was centered on his pain, his stride faltered and Bolan reached out, grabbing the wrist of the knife hand. His grip secured, the Executioner turned his back on the guy, twisting the arm and bringing it across his shoulder so that when he applied unrelenting pressure against the natural bend of the arm, bone snapped.
The knife slipped from loose fingers. Keeping hold of the wrist, Bolan turned, staring directly into the face of the moaning assailant, then launched a crippling punch that crunched the side of Yusef’s jaw with force enough to fracture the bone. The guy went down on his knees, lost in his new world of pain, blood dribbling from a slack mouth where teeth had dug into his cheek. Bolan slammed a brutal, sledgehammer blow to the back of Yusef’s neck and he flopped to the floor and lay still.
Salim had moved up behind Yusef, not wanting to miss what was supposed to happen to the American. When Yusef went down, Salim was left exposed. Before he could recover, Bolan was on him. He closed his left hand over the barrel of the pistol, twisted hard. Salim’s trigger finger, caught in the guard, snapped like a twig. He howled in pain and didn’t stop until Bolan backhanded him across the side of the face, the blow stunning the man. Salim started to transfer his pistol to his other hand and Bolan kicked his feet from under him, dropping him to the dirty floor. He bent and took the pistol from Salim.
Bolan stepped close, running skilled hands over the man as he checked for more weapons. He found a couple of filled magazines for the Browning and little else except for some coins and crumpled banknotes. He found his passport and the Novak letter, which he retrieved. He slipped the Browning mags into his pocket. Taking hold of Salim’s coat Bolan pulled him across the room and swung him into a sagging cane chair. He raised the man’s head and stared into his pain-dulled eyes.
“Is this the way it works, Salim?”
The man in the chair clutched his broken finger and shook his head. Up close his brown face was a mass of fine wrinkles, his slack jaw unshaved and he was sweating heavily.
“Maybe I should break the rest of your fingers. Just to show you I don’t play games.” The man shrank away Bolan. “Your choice,” the Executioner said. “Personally, I don’t care if I have to break both your legs, as well.”
“You are a cruel man.”
Bolan found it hard to hold back a smile. “That from the guy who just tried to have a knife stuck in me? What was that, a local greeting?”
“That was business. Nothing personal.”
“Wrong there, friend. When someone comes at me with a knife, it gets very personal.” Bolan straightened, regarding the man silently, waiting.
“What do you expect of me? Should I tell you who wants you dead?”
“It would be a start. Right now all I want to know is where they are.”
“You expect me to take you to them?”
“Why not?”
“You expect me to betray them? That will never happen.”
“Wrong answer. I’m not happy with that and you are getting closer to having something else broken. Maybe I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with.”
Salim’s eyes widened and the man sweated even more. He regarded the tall, cold-eyed American closely. The man had a look about him that indicated he meant what he said. He handled the pistol with authority, and it was plain to see he had killed before.
Salim, in fact, had a long acquaintance with violence. It had been his business for many years. In that time he had come up against many men of violence, and he had dispatched many of them. Always in the line of work. Never with any personal animosity. His killing trade was just that—his trade. He worked quickly and efficiently, mostly with his knife because it was that weapon he had mastered at an early age. He had killed his first victim when he was fifteen and ever since it had been the way he had earned his livelihood. Salim had an excellent reputation among his people. In some quarters he was feared. Others envied him his skill and his discretion. Yet here he was another man’s prisoner. The man he had been paid to capture. It was, above everything else, humiliating. To have been overpowered and wounded by an American. If the story got out, Salim would lose much of his status.
“So if you will kill me, do it. There is nothing I can tell you.”
Bolan backed away, turning to peer through the window. The narrow, sunlit street below had little traffic. Between the houses he could see the glittering water, boats bobbing gently. Here, away from the tourist hotels and the busy shops, life went on its slow-paced way. Just as it probably had for a thousand years. Change here was slow to the extreme. It didn’t stop the shadow people from plying their back-street trade in arms dealing. Weapons were always in demand, and the enterprise was thriving. The merchandise was no longer the usual crates of Kalashnikovs and RPGs. The stakes were far higher.
Nuclear stakes.
“If they know I’m not Novak, they must be concerned,” Bolan said. “Worried I might be close to discovering something about them. Like the location of the desert camp.”
Bolan watched Salim’s eyes as he spoke. Though he tried not to, Salim made an involuntary movement with his head when Bolan mentioned the camp.
“There is nothing to say,” Salim muttered, avoiding looking directly at the big American.
“I’ll be sure to let your employers know you helped me find them. Yamir Kerim especially.”
Salim became instantly alert, eyes wide with alarm. “You cannot do this…”
“You haven’t told me anything. Yet. But you will.”
Bolan let his words hang in the silence that followed. He could almost sense Salim’s mind working overtime, assessing and debating which way to go. He was caught in a dead end. No matter which way he turned, he was facing threats. Bolan on one side, Kerim on the other.
“Why should this happen to me? I only offer my services as a business. Not to become involved like this.” His voice had taken on a whining tone as he tried to worm his way into Bolan’s sympathy. “I am just a poor man struggling to make a living.”
“About now might be a good time to consider a change of occupation.”
Salim stared at the American. When he looked deep into the hard blue eyes he saw no consideration. Only the steady gaze of a man who knew his own mind.
“What do you want from me? If I offer you information, how do I know you will not betray me?”
“I don’t go back on my word. All I want is to find the camp. Give that to me and I’ll let you go.”
“Why should I trust you?”
Bolan leaned in close, his blue eyes looking directly into Salim’s.
“I never lie. If I give my word, I don’t go back on it.”
Salim knew instinctively that the American was telling the truth. There was no guile in his voice. It was that of an honest man, which was something of a novelty