to the rear of the address he wanted. He soundlessly negotiated a ten-foot wooden fence.
Bolan dropped to a crouch at the base of the fence and scanned the area behind the shop.
He saw the outline of a sentry against the lighted back window of the house.
Bolan came in at the man with a slashing chop that connected the butt of the Beretta with the base of the man's skull. The guy's knees buckled as he collapsed with a soft moan. Bolan caught him before he touched ground and dragged him off into deeper shadows away from the enclosed porch and back door of the shop. He left the sentry propped against the building.
The night warrior returned to the porch and the door, the top half of which was lighted window, unshaded.
Bolan moved in at a low crouch. He pressed himself against the door and risked a look inside from a corner of the window.
A conference between three men was in the process of breaking up at the far end of a corridor that ended at the front door of the house.
The men grouped around the door were swarthy, stocky.
Armenians.
Two of the men, wearing jackets, were checking their weapons.
Ismet Kemal and Mustafa Izmir toted short, compact Ingram Model 10 submachine guns, the "room brooms" of urban terrorist action.
The two men holstered their weapons in specially designed slings under their jackets, then grimly shook hands with the third man who held the door open for them and saw them into the night in a wordless parting.
The Armenian closed the door after the men and turned to walk back further into the house. Bolan figured that he could only be the Washington contact for the Istanbul hit team.
The man half turned toward Bolan when the Executioner sent a kick at the back door that broke the wood panel inward.
The surprised Armenian reacted with a curse as he grabbed for holstered hardware. But he was too slow. One whispered chug from the Beretta punched out the swarthy guy's left eye and made him dead meat. The corpse was still tumbling to the floor when Bolan withdrew to the backyard. Not pausing in his steady jog, he squeezed another 9mm slug from the Beretta as he moved past the unconscious sentry. He would never regain consciousness.
Bolan scaled the wood fence again without slowing and was on the move the instant he landed in the alley.
He trotted to the alley entrance and made it behind the wheel of his rental car. The Ford in which he had seen the pinpoint glow of a cigarette was just gaining the intersection up the block at a moderate, almost lazy speed.
The vehicle, driven by either Kemal or Izmir, would be somewhere ahead.
Bolan gunned his own vehicle to life and punched on the headlights as soon as the Ford was out of sight.
Bolan's rental Mustang pulled onto the street a half block behind the unmarked CIA car.
It was a parade through the night streets of Washington. Company men in the Ford were following the Armenians, and Bolan was tracking the CIA agents.
The three cars connected with Rhode Island Avenue and tracked northeast out of the lower-income neighborhoods through the stretch of commercial zoning that began to give way to more sleepy suburbs just over the Maryland line.
Bolan played the moderate evening traffic with all the finesse at his command, keeping the Agency car in sight but staying far enough away not to arouse suspicion.
They had just passed the Mount Rainier turnoff when Bolan realized that the group had picked up another member: a custom-designed van was doing its best to hold back from Bolan's Mustang. But the highly polished chrome work of the flashy vehicle stood out like a beacon as it drove under the street-lamps.
A new twist in an already tangled night.
In Brentwood, the group led off Rhode Island Avenue into a quiet neighborhood of winding streets lined and shadowed by white oaks, with one— and two-story residences interspersed with some office buildings.
Bolan knew where they were heading.
When he saw the Ford with the CIA men glide to a stop at the
Bolan dropped to a crouch at the base of the fence and scanned the area behind the shop.
He saw the outline of a sentry against the lighted back window of the house.
Bolan came in at the man with a slashing chop that connected the butt of the Beretta with the base of the man's skull. The guy's knees buckled as he collapsed with a soft moan. Bolan caught him before he touched ground and dragged him off into deeper shadows away from the enclosed porch and back door of the shop. He left the sentry propped against the building.
The night warrior returned to the porch and the door, the top half of which was lighted window, unshaded.
Bolan moved in at a low crouch. He pressed himself against the door and risked a look inside from a corner of the window.
A conference between three men was in the process of breaking up at the far end of a corridor that ended at the front door of the house.
The men grouped around the door were swarthy, stocky.
Armenians.
Two of the men, wearing jackets, were checking their weapons.
Ismet Kemal and Mustafa Izmir toted short, compact Ingram Model 10 submachine guns, the "room brooms" of urban terrorist action.
The two men holstered their weapons in specially designed slings under their jackets, then grimly shook hands with the third man who held the door open for them and saw them into the night in a wordless parting.
The Armenian closed the door after the men and turned to walk back further into the house. Bolan figured that he could only be the Washington contact for the Istanbul hit team.
The man half turned toward Bolan when the Executioner sent a kick at the back door that broke the wood panel inward.
The surprised Armenian reacted with a curse as he grabbed for holstered hardware. But he was too slow. One whispered chug from the Beretta punched out the swarthy guy's left eye and made him dead meat. The corpse was still tumbling to the floor when Bolan withdrew to the backyard. Not pausing in his steady jog, he squeezed another 9mm slug from the Beretta as he moved past the unconscious sentry. He would never regain consciousness.
Bolan scaled the wood fence again without slowing and was on the move the instant he landed in the alley.
He trotted to the alley entrance and made it behind the wheel of his rental car. The Ford in which he had seen the pinpoint glow of a cigarette was just gaining the intersection up the block at a moderate, almost lazy speed.
The vehicle, driven by either Kemal or Izmir, would be somewhere ahead.
Bolan gunned his own vehicle to life and punched on the headlights as soon as the Ford was out of sight.
Bolan's rental Mustang pulled onto the street a half block behind the unmarked CIA car.
It was a parade through the night streets of Washington. Company men in the Ford were following the Armenians, and Bolan was tracking the CIA agents.
The three cars connected with Rhode Island Avenue and tracked northeast out of the lower-income neighborhoods through the stretch of commercial zoning that began to give way to more sleepy suburbs just over the Maryland line.
Bolan played the moderate evening traffic with all the finesse at his command, keeping the Agency car in sight but staying far enough away not to arouse suspicion.
They had just passed the Mount Rainier turnoff when Bolan realized that the group had picked up another member: a custom-designed van was doing its best to hold back from Bolan's Mustang. But the highly polished chrome work of the flashy vehicle stood out like a beacon as it drove under the street-lamps.
A new twist in an already tangled night.
In Brentwood, the group led off Rhode Island Avenue into a quiet neighborhood of winding streets lined and shadowed by white oaks, with one— and two-story residences interspersed with some office buildings.
Bolan knew where they were heading.
When he saw the Ford with the CIA men glide to a stop at the
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