Arctic Kill by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2014-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The Executioner moved with lightning speed, covering the distance between himself and the man called Kraft in an eye-blink. Bolan still held the combat knife clutched in one hand and as he closed in, he swept the blade out in a vicious slash. It tore through the sleeve of the other man’s coat and Kraft staggered, forgetting about the pistol Bolan knew he’d been reaching for.

Kraft hissed and backed away, blue eyes narrowing. Bolan fell into a knife-fighting stance, the combat knife held low and extended, as he examined his opponent. They were of a size, both big men, but Kraft had more muscle packed onto his frame. They circled one another slowly. Bolan made sure to keep the thin man in sight, as well. If he was the man Sparrow had mentioned—Mervin—Bolan had no intention of letting him escape.

“Who are you?” Kraft asked, examining the blood on his palm.

Bolan didn’t reply. He could tell from the way the big man moved that he was dangerous. There was a lethal poetry to him that the Executioner recognized. His Heckler & Koch UMP .45 was strapped across his back, and the Desert Eagle was on his hip, but he knew with certainty that if he made a motion toward either, Kraft would be on him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Kraft asked, wiping his hand on his coat. “Good knife, there. I’ve got one myself.” He reached behind him with his other hand still extended to counter any thrust Bolan might make, and drew a straight-edged knife from a sheath on his belt. “It’s a Nahkampfmesser, a trench knife. My great-grandfather carried it in the First World War. It has shed much blood, this blade. Yours has, too, I’d wager,” Kraft continued congenially.

“Stop talking and kill him, Kraft!” Mervin yelped, pressing himself flat against the side of the hangar.

“I do not tell you how to make your little plans, Mervin. Kindly do not tell me how to kill a man,” Kraft said, his tone chiding. He met Bolan’s cold gaze and shrugged. “It is hard to work with people who do not understand, eh? I know you know what I’m talking about. You’ve got the look, same as me.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Bolan said.

“He speaks!” Kraft said. “For a moment, I feared you were a mute. It is only a guess, but I’d say you are the reason Sparrow could not join us. Am I right?”

Bolan lunged. The KA-BAR combat knife slashed out and Kraft caught his wrist. Bolan grunted as Kraft’s fingers tightened and a spasm of pain thrummed through his tendons. The trench knife dug for his face and Bolan grabbed Kraft’s hand. The tableau held for a moment. The only sound was the occasional quiet grunt of effort from one of the combatants. Then the stalemate was broken in a flurry of motion as Bolan hooked Kraft’s ankle with his own and the latter’s knee drove upward, seeking Bolan’s groin.

Both men fell only to leap to their feet moments later like contesting lions.

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