The parlor troops seemed oblivious to everything, caught up in the retelling of a story everyone already seemed to know. A fifth of Johnnie Walker was visible behind a bouquet of artificial flowers on the low-slung coffee table, and the sight gave him the impetus he needed to complete his move.
He left the cover of the doorway and glided toward the far end of the corridor. The other door stood open now, and while the gunner was no longer visible, his voice was crystal clear from just beyond the threshold.
"Up an' at 'em, momma," he said. "Time to take a little ride."
Despite his proximity, Bolan heard no response, and did not have time to wait. The sleek Beretta filled his hand as he slipped inside and silently closed the door behind him.
For just an instant, neither tenant of the bedroom sensed his presence, and he had the chance to size them up. The gunner was familiar, but nothing had prepared him for the woman, bundled in a sheet and plainly naked, who sat huddled in the center of the bed.
The hardman had her clothes all wadded up beneath one arm, and he tossed them to her. They fell just short enough so she would have to drop the sheet and reach a little.
"Get those on," he said. "I ain't got all day."
"You called that right," said Mack Bolan.
The woman gave a little choking cry and dropped her sheet, despite herself, but Bolan's eyes did not shift from the gunner. He saw the enemy begin to reach for the nickeled Smith & Wesson in his shoulder rig, knowing that the guy could never make it, knowing that he knew.
The 93-R whispered once, dispatching silent death to answer all the gunner's unspoken questions, and a tidy keyhole opened up between those staring eyes. The key was turned, releasing all his secrets in a crimson halo, bits and pieces raining down upon the lady.
The Executioner was at her side before the hollow man touched down, one hand pressed tight across her mouth to bottle up the rising scream. The numbers were already counting down like thunder in his head, and Bolan played a hunch, aware that everything was riding on his first impression.
"He was right," the warrior told her, nodding toward the corpse. "We haven't got much time. I need to find your husband, and the three of us can leave."
Momentary shock was replaced by understanding in her eyes, and he pulled his hand away to let her speak.
"He isn't here," she told him breathlessly. "They... took him away."
"How long?"
"Two hours, maybe more."
A hundred questions crowded Bolan's mind, but he was running in survival mode, and with Eritrea already gone, the number-one priority was crystal clear.
Get out of there and take the lady someplace where she would be safe until the storm blew over.
He retrieved her clothing, handed it across and nodded toward the open door of an adjacent bathroom.
"Get yourself together. We're on borrowed time already."
She was moving even as he spoke, sheet discarded on her short run to the bathroom. He pegged her as being in her late thirties, reflecting that she could pass for ten years younger in a pinch.
And Dave Eritrea was lucky.
The Executioner hoped that Eritrea's luck was holding, that it had not soured out completely. He hoped Eritrea was still alive.
Bolan meant to find him, but first things first.
And number one on Bolan's list was plain old everyday survival.
If they could make it safely past the outer guard, there would be time enough for planning further moves.
He double-checked the Beretta as he waited for the woman.
2
"Ready," Eritrea's wife remarked.
The clothes were rumpled, but they fit well, restoring a measure of the strength he had sensed behind her eyes. She had seemed vulnerable in bed, but now the look was resolute, determined. Still some fear there on the surface, naturally, but underneath there was tempered steel.
"They were about to take you somewhere," he said.
"Yes. I mean, you know as much as I do. No one's told me anything the past three days."
Wherever the gorillas had planned on taking her, Bolan did not mean to let them have the chance. The questioning would have to wait until they cleared the safehouse, and he doubted whether she knew enough to help him out.
Ideally, Bolan would have sought to bag a member of the hit team and question him at length, but the woman's presence made the idea tantamount to suicide. He had come here to rescue Dave Eritrea, and failing that, he would not risk Eritrea's wife on a misguided fishing expedition. Later, when she was free and clear, there would be time enough for gathering the hard intelligence he needed.
The windows were fitted with burglar bars, securely welded shut. Together with the locking door, they reinforced the prison atmosphere, confirming Bolan's first suspicion that the safehouse had been used for holding prisoners. They would need another means of exit. By the time Eritrea's wife was dressed, Bolan had the mental groundwork done.