had that effect.
As they neared the center of the huge room, her hand slapped him on the shoulder. He stopped, thinking he had been going too fast. He turned to wait for her, and realized she was deliberately backing away from him.
"What's the matter?" Bolan asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing." He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand. "Stay right there," she hissed.
He heard a rustling sound and turned toward it.
Four men, each carrying an automatic rifle that was trained on his midsection, stood in a semicircle.
"You are in no danger," she assured him. "I'm sorry, but it has to be this way. You will understand soon."
At a gesture from one of the men, Bolan raised his hands. He thought, for one fleeting instant, about reaching for the AutoMag. But it was hopeless. They would cut him in half before he got his hand on the butt of the big .44.
They stood there in a motionless tableau for a long moment. Bolan examined the men in turn, and shook his head. They were cut from the same cloth. All small, wiry and dressed in faded camous.
The only way to tell them apart was by the four different mustaches.
One of the men split off from the others and advanced on Bolan from the right side. He kept his rifle, an AK, at the ready until he slipped in behind Bolan. Quickly the Desert Eagle and the Beretta were lifted. The man knelt for a moment to pat him down. When he was satisfied, he tugged Bolan's hands down behind him and clicked a pair of handcuffs in place.
"Too tight?" the man asked.
"Not if I have to wear them at all," Bolan said.
"Sorry, Senor Belasko. But we have to take precautions. We mean you no harm. You will see."
Bolan flinched when the blindfold was looped over his head. It happened so suddenly that he thought the man meant to garrote him, and sighed when the cloth was positioned over his eyes.
"Who the hell are you people?" Bolan demanded.
"All in good time, Mr. Belasko. Please, be patient." It was the woman who spoke.
He felt her hand on his arm again. She simply squeezed reassuringly, then let her hand fall away. Bolan heard a heavy door rolling on a metal track, and the rumble of an engine. It sounded like a van or small truck. He thought immediately of the van that had charged him from the rear, and wondered whether it was the same one. Then, realizing that under the circumstances it didn't much matter, he pushed the thought out of his mind.
The vehicle approached, stopped nearly in front of him, and hands pushed him forward.
"Step up, a little higher," one of the men said. He was helped into the van and heard a door close. He sensed someone present and, as if in answer to his unspoken question, the woman said, "Don't worry. You are not alone." Not much, Bolan thought.
Bolan tried to plot the course of the truck in his head. He quickly gave it up when he realized he had no idea of his starting point. They had run so far and so long in the tunnel that the warehouse could have been anywhere. And because of the motion of the truck, it was impossible to gauge direction from inside. The truck rocked and rolled heavily, making it difficult to tell when they turned and when they had merely rolled through a particularly large pothole or around an obstacle in the road.
He had tried to engage the woman in conversation, but each time, she turned him away with a single syllable. After the third time, he gave up.
If she had anything to say to him, she would say it, he decided. So far she hadn't.
7
They had been traveling for nearly two hours, and his shoulders were sore from slamming into the sides of the van. No matter how he positioned himself, a sudden jolt would dislodge him and send him pounding into a steel wall or tilt him over onto the floor.
Finally he lay flat, wedging himself into a corner, and let gravity do what it could to protect him. With his hands cuffed behind him, it was far from comfortable, but at least he would spare himself the worst of the bumps and bruises.
Resigning
As they neared the center of the huge room, her hand slapped him on the shoulder. He stopped, thinking he had been going too fast. He turned to wait for her, and realized she was deliberately backing away from him.
"What's the matter?" Bolan asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing." He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand. "Stay right there," she hissed.
He heard a rustling sound and turned toward it.
Four men, each carrying an automatic rifle that was trained on his midsection, stood in a semicircle.
"You are in no danger," she assured him. "I'm sorry, but it has to be this way. You will understand soon."
At a gesture from one of the men, Bolan raised his hands. He thought, for one fleeting instant, about reaching for the AutoMag. But it was hopeless. They would cut him in half before he got his hand on the butt of the big .44.
They stood there in a motionless tableau for a long moment. Bolan examined the men in turn, and shook his head. They were cut from the same cloth. All small, wiry and dressed in faded camous.
The only way to tell them apart was by the four different mustaches.
One of the men split off from the others and advanced on Bolan from the right side. He kept his rifle, an AK, at the ready until he slipped in behind Bolan. Quickly the Desert Eagle and the Beretta were lifted. The man knelt for a moment to pat him down. When he was satisfied, he tugged Bolan's hands down behind him and clicked a pair of handcuffs in place.
"Too tight?" the man asked.
"Not if I have to wear them at all," Bolan said.
"Sorry, Senor Belasko. But we have to take precautions. We mean you no harm. You will see."
Bolan flinched when the blindfold was looped over his head. It happened so suddenly that he thought the man meant to garrote him, and sighed when the cloth was positioned over his eyes.
"Who the hell are you people?" Bolan demanded.
"All in good time, Mr. Belasko. Please, be patient." It was the woman who spoke.
He felt her hand on his arm again. She simply squeezed reassuringly, then let her hand fall away. Bolan heard a heavy door rolling on a metal track, and the rumble of an engine. It sounded like a van or small truck. He thought immediately of the van that had charged him from the rear, and wondered whether it was the same one. Then, realizing that under the circumstances it didn't much matter, he pushed the thought out of his mind.
The vehicle approached, stopped nearly in front of him, and hands pushed him forward.
"Step up, a little higher," one of the men said. He was helped into the van and heard a door close. He sensed someone present and, as if in answer to his unspoken question, the woman said, "Don't worry. You are not alone." Not much, Bolan thought.
Bolan tried to plot the course of the truck in his head. He quickly gave it up when he realized he had no idea of his starting point. They had run so far and so long in the tunnel that the warehouse could have been anywhere. And because of the motion of the truck, it was impossible to gauge direction from inside. The truck rocked and rolled heavily, making it difficult to tell when they turned and when they had merely rolled through a particularly large pothole or around an obstacle in the road.
He had tried to engage the woman in conversation, but each time, she turned him away with a single syllable. After the third time, he gave up.
If she had anything to say to him, she would say it, he decided. So far she hadn't.
7
They had been traveling for nearly two hours, and his shoulders were sore from slamming into the sides of the van. No matter how he positioned himself, a sudden jolt would dislodge him and send him pounding into a steel wall or tilt him over onto the floor.
Finally he lay flat, wedging himself into a corner, and let gravity do what it could to protect him. With his hands cuffed behind him, it was far from comfortable, but at least he would spare himself the worst of the bumps and bruises.
Resigning
Similar Books
