Death Gamble. Don Pendleton

inches of powdery debris.

      The warbird circled overhead, then began its descent.

      Bolan rolled to his feet. Figuring himself for a dead man, he raised the MP-5 and drew a bead on the cockpit of the approaching chopper.

      A rush of vehicles coming from both directions changed his plans. Troop carriers outfitted with chain guns converged on the war zone. Searchlights scoured the area, settling on Bolan and Rytova. The Executioner found himself blinded by bright lights.

      As he raised an arm to protect his eyes, Bolan heard the chopper suddenly gaining altitude. The roaring engine grew fainter as the craft turned and retreated.

      “We are Nigerian peacekeeping troops,” a voice called out over a loudspeaker. “Drop your weapons, lie facedown on the ground. You will not get a second warning.”

      Body battered, lungs choked with dust, Bolan didn’t need a second warning; he needed several hour’s rest, perhaps a hot shower and a meal.

      He’d settle for a miracle.

      With Dade and his secrets still missing, held captive by an as-yet unidentified enemy, countless American lives hung in the balance. And the involvement by the Russians—if the woman was indeed who she claimed—did nothing to ease Bolan’s mind. It all reeked of a much larger conspiracy, one he needed to unravel before all was said and done.

      Still covering his eyes with his right arm, Bolan knelt and set the MP-5 gently to the ground. Backing away from the weapon, he laid face down on the pavement and waited to be arrested.

      NIKOLAI KURSK EYED the pair of African hardmen with disdain and weighed who should die by his hand.

      The men—two of Talisman’s flunkies—had arrived from the mainland bringing bad news. They fidgeted in front of him like boys before a schoolmaster, waiting for him to mete out some sort of admonition or punishment. On that front, he decided, he’d not leave them disappointed.

      Uncoiling himself from his chair, Kursk came around his desk. Standing with his legs two feet apart, he kept his back rigid and crossed arms across his broad chest. At fifty-two, the man was in better shape than most men twenty years his junior. He ate sparingly, drank alcohol even less. He allowed himself a single vice: ten hand-rolled cigarettes a day.

      He began each day with an hour-long run, followed by another hour of yoga and a third of weight training. The former KGB agent knew that in his line of work his body had to remain strong, ready to take on all comers. Everyone wanted to knock Nikolai Kursk from his perch, even those closest to him, and he devoted hours daily to making sure he was ready to fend them all off.

      However, he rarely met a challenger with the strength and courage to offer him a real fight, only brief diversions to break up the monotony of running his worldwide gunrunning empire. The world had an overabundance of tough guys and bullies, but very few true warriors. To his way of thinking, that was a shame.

      The Russian appraised each man, stifling a yawn as he did. The man in charge stood six inches shorter than Kursk’s own six-foot-four-inch height. He wore crisp camou pants and a brown T-shirt. He’d surrendered his pistol belt before gaining an audience with Kursk.

      Like most Revolutionary United Front soldiers, he’d adopted a nickname, one that was, under the circumstances, utterly ridiculous. He called himself Iron Man. Kursk considered him anything but.

      The second man stood just two inches shorter than Kursk and, the Russian guessed, weighed about 250 pounds. Dressed similarly to Iron Man, he took in his surroundings with a sociopath’s dead stare. Unlike his associate, he seemed to sense, perhaps even revel in the violence threatening to explode within the room at any second. Whether from nervous habit or giddy anticipation, he continually ground the knuckles of his right hand into the palm of his left hand.

      To Kursk’s amusement, the bigger man called himself Blood Claw.

      Kursk rested his eyes on Iron Man, waited for him to speak and let him squirm a while longer. After a few more moments of strained silence, Iron Man did so.

      “Colonel Talisman sends his deepest regrets.”

      “His regrets, but not himself,” Kursk replied. “He is a coward.”

      “You misjudge him,” Iron Man said. “Even as we speak, he’s on the mainland trying to correct the problem.”

      “He should have corrected it when it first occurred. He had ample warning. I gave him guns, technology and support. Still, he let the whole incident go to hell. Now I must pick up the pieces.”

      Iron Man took a few steps forward. The plastic tarp surrounding him and Blood Claw crunched underfoot as he did. That they were the only two required to stand upon the protective floor covering hadn’t escaped their notice. He looked at the tarp, swallowed hard and returned his gaze to Kursk.

      “With all due respect, Mr. Kursk, your own men, Cole and Armstrong, did no better. They had helicopters, missiles and the cover of darkness. Still, they failed. Our men fought in the open. We were only to be bait.”

      Kursk remained silent, knowing Iron Man’s words rang true. The Russian had gotten word of the American interloper shortly after he’d arrived in Sierra Leone. A contact within the State Department had gladly shared what he knew in exchange for a hefty deposit in a Cayman Islands account. Details were spotty: a Justice Department agent was coming into Sierra Leone and was slated to meet with a small group of American agents who were expected to help him carry out a paramilitary operation of some sort.

      Kursk’s men had fleshed out the details by hunting down the State Department operatives tapped for the mission and sweating the details out of them. Then they killed the men and dumped their bodies in a burned-out building miles from Talisman’s compound.

      The Justice Department suspected Trevor Dade was in Africa, and the American agent was coming to rescue the scientist. Little did the Americans know that Dade already had been transferred to Kursk’s coastal island location. Any sightings linking him to Sierra Leone were old news.

      The plan had seemed foolproof. An agent robbed of his backup would most likely turn tail and run rather than tackle an armed camp on his own. Kursk had assumed he’d insured the man’s death not only by leaving him to fight Talisman’s people, but also by sending a team of his own mercenaries to take the man from behind. By the time the Americans retaliated, Kursk had planned on being gone.

      Apparently, he’d been wrong.

      “Where is the American?” Kursk asked.

      Iron Man shrugged. He gave Kursk a placating smile, spoke in a soothing tone. “Still in United Nations custody,” the African said. “That should keep him away from us for a while, anyway. Everything will turn out all right. Leave this to us.”

      From what Kursk knew of Iron Man, he’d studied political science and diplomacy at a British university before returning to his homeland to rape and pillage. He considered himself the consummate politician, negotiating with the local government and the international community even as Talisman terrorized with his strong-arm tactics.

      Without a doubt, Iron Man was good at handling people. But no one “handled” Nikolai Kursk, especially when he smelled fear, as he did with this man.

      “I will leave nothing in your hands,” the Russian said. “You people fight well against unarmed civilians. You cannot withstand a real battle, with a real warrior.”

      Iron Man shot Kursk a hurt look. Like everything else with the man, Kursk assumed it was calculated and insincere.