Deadly Contact

She couldn’t risk going back to her apartment, or even to her car. Concern for her friend guided her. She eased her way along the fringe of the trees until she was well clear of the area, then made her way to the main road. She would hail a taxi and get over to Malivik’s apartment.

IN THE CAB SHE CALLED Stony Man Farm and was more than relieved when Barbara Price answered.

“Hey, I’ve been worried. Where have you been?” Price said.

Dukas explained what had happened. “I’m checking Tira’s apartment,” she said. “I’m on my way there now. That help we talked about? I may need to take you up on it.”

“Already sanctioned. Erika, maybe you should back off until we know what’s going on,” Price said.

“Look, it’s been well over two hours since Tira went missing. I can’t just stand back and do nothing. I’ll be at her place in a few minutes. Barb, I have to do this. She’s my best friend and she called on me for help. She has no one else.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Price said.

“I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Give me her address.”

Dukas passed along the information, then ended the call before Price talked her out of what she intended. She was afraid of what she might find, but she was unable to ignore the fact her friend was in some kind of trouble.

3

The entrance to Malivik’s building was reached by climbing a short flight of stone steps. Dukas got to the door without incident. Pushing inside she stopped in the lobby of the building aware of a sick feeling in her stomach. She considered the fact that she might be well out of her depth.

She climbed to the third floor apartment. No light showed under the door. Dukas took the keys from her friend’s bag and opened the door. Through the gap she could see the room was in darkness, the gloom broken only by the pale light coming through the window. Dukas reached inside and clicked on the light. The room had been disturbed, furniture out of place and objects strewed across the floor.

And from behind the leather couch a bare arm, streaked with blood, jutted at an odd angle.

“Please no,” she whispered. “Not Tira.”

Her plea was too late. When she stepped around the couch, she immediately recognized her friend lying in a wide, congealing pool of dark blood.

She was naked. Her clothes slashed and cut away by the same brutal blade that had ravaged her flesh, leaving her butchered and bloody. Her throat had been deeply cut, the flesh peeling back in a moist, glistening layer.

About to move toward the body, Dukas drew back. There was nothing she could do for her friend now.

Dukas reached into her pocket for her cell, then picked up a whisper of sound from the other side of the room. She realized she was not alone. She turned for the door, catching movement out the corner of her eye—a fast moving figure coming out of the bedroom, heading directly for her.

She reached the door and yanked it open. An arm snaked around her neck, the impact of her assailant’s body pushing her into the door frame. She stumbled, pulling her attacker with her as he maintained his grip. On her knees, she threw out one hand to grip the door frame. She could feel warm breath on the back of her neck that drew her anger as she recalled everything that had happened—the men at her apartment, discovering her dead friend and now this unprovoked attack. It gelled into a moment of pure, reflex rage.

Dukas drove the back of her skull into her attacker’s face. It hit hard and she heard him gasp, the arm around her neck loosening. She pulled free, pushing to her feet and turning to face the man. Still on his knees, temporarily engulfed in the blinding pain of his bruised nose, he was vulnerable. Dukas didn’t hesitate. She raised her right foot and slammed the heel of her boot into his mouth. He fell back, his face bloody, and in that instant she turned and ran.

Dukas raced along the corridor to the stairs, almost throwing herself down the steep flights, trying not to think about what she had left behind. She reached the lobby, barely able to stop herself from crashing into the front door. She fumbled for the handle, pulling it wide, and faced a dark figure blocking the entrance as she went through.

She hadn’t considered the man upstairs might have a partner.

Her forward rush took her headlong into the newcomer. His arms came up to grip her, but to steady her, not to imprison. Even in the flash of panic she knew to trust the voice when he spoke.

“Easy now, Erika, I’m on your side.”

“She’s dead. Tira’s dead,” Dukas cried.

She felt the man’s hands on her shoulders. The gesture helped to calm her. He eased her around and she felt herself being guided to a corner of the lobby.

“I think he was still there. In her apartment,” she said.

“Let me worry about him. You wait here.”

“With more of them liable to come through the front door? I’ll feel safer behind you.”

Mack Bolan saw the determined expression in her eyes.

“Watch my back then,” he said.

He eased the Beretta 93-R from his shoulder rig and held it against his right thigh as they started up the stairs, Bolan taking the lead.

Behind him Dukas offered directions and Bolan followed them. The apartment door stood ajar, the lights still on. As he reached the door, he saw the blood smear on the frame. Fresh blood was still seeping down the wood frame.

“You hurt?” he asked, indicating the blood.

“Not me, him,” came the matter-of-fact reply.

He toed the door open, his gaze covering the interior. Even from the door he could see the bloodied arm jutting from behind the couch. Bolan reached out and pushed the door wide, senses tuned to pick up any sound from inside.

He did pick up something. Not from inside the apartment, but from the corridor—sudden movement. Dukas gasped as she became aware herself. Bolan turned, swinging the 93-R around. He saw two armed figures converging on the apartment, weapons up and ready.

He gave them credit for that. Whoever they were, they had been a step ahead. His first instinct was to protect Dukas, and he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and shoved her out of harm’s way.

And then from inside the apartment another figure materialized from behind the open door, something in his raised right hand. Bolan sensed it swinging toward him, heard the whoosh of disturbed air. He tried to pull himself aside, but the heavy object slammed down across his right shoulder, numbing it. He was barely able to keep a grip on the Beretta. His attacker muttered in frustration, swung the club again and this time connected with Bolan’s skull. The blow drove Bolan to his knees. The third blow put him facedown on the carpet and every light in Washington went out.

THE EXECUTIONER’S AWARENESS RETURNED gradually. His initial conscious reaction was to the savage pulse of pain inside his skull. It occupied his elusive thoughts and he remained still, some deep instinct telling him to assess prior to acting.

He played dead, accepting that it was a disturbing analogy. His first cogent thought centered on Erika Dukas. Where and how was she? It was something he would need to verify very soon.

He began to filter in extraneous sound and movement.

Low talk. Casual movement.

He cracked open an eye, saw the world come slowly back into focus.

He was still in Tira Malivik’s apartment, lying against one wall. The first thing he made out was the couch. Tira Malivik’s body had been behind it, but the body had been moved and the couch dragged forward to cover the bloodstain.

A man was lounging on the couch, staring at the television, the sound turned low. A second man wandered into view, a filled glass in one hand. From the way the pair was acting Bolan guessed they were on their own. He didn’t dismiss the possibility of there being others, maybe in one of the other rooms—maybe keeping watch over Dukas.

The man on the couch rose and crossed the room to stand over Bolan. He saw the man had a bloody nose and a cut around his mouth.

“Hey, Kimble, maybe you hit this asswipe too hard,” the man said. His voice was slightly blurred due to his injured mouth.

“Do I look as if I care?”