Uncut Terror. Don Pendleton
The three guards followed, ushering him down a long corridor flanked by dormitory rooms on the right and windows covered with heavy metal screening on the left. The light that managed to filter through the encrusted filth on the panes dappled the mustard yellow walls. A myriad of dust motes floated in the speckles of sunshine. They came to the end of the corridor and moved down the stairwell toward the third floor. At the second landing, the ranking guard told everyone to halt. He turned and looked at Grodovich, who noticed that the man’s face was now damp.
The hairs on the back of Grodovich’s neck rose. He thought about calling out for Mikhal but doubted the giant could get there fast enough.
“What is going on?” Grodovich asked. “Didn’t you receive your monthly payment?”
The ranking guard said nothing. He pursed his lips and motioned toward the stairway.
“Go wait for us down there,” the guard said, pointing to the dimly lighted first-floor landing. “We have to attend to something on the second floor.”
“Attend to what?”
“An emergency,” the guard said. “Now go.” He and the others immediately opened the door and ran into the hallway.
Grodovich stood there, listening to the fading sound of their boots on the tiled floor.
Someone was waiting for him down there. Had he been marked for death, and if so, by whom? He began to creep back up the stairway, careful not to make too much noise. From the floor above he heard a low whisper and then a laugh. A swarthy face appeared around the corner, a gap-toothed smile stretched across it. Grodovich recognized the man as a fellow inmate, a Chechen.
The man held up his left hand and waggled his fingers, making a come-hither gesture. He stepped fully into the landing and Grodovich saw the man’s right hand held a long, metallic blade, probably fashioned from one of the soup cups.
Grodovich turned and ran down the stairs toward the second-floor landing. Should he try to summon the guards?
No, they had set him up. They would do nothing to help him now.
He rounded the corner and continued his descent toward the first floor. Suddenly three more Chechens appeared, blocking his path. Each one held a crude blade. Each one smiled.
Grodovich froze. He stooped and reached for his own shank, a thin strip of metal that he’d managed to liberate from the sole of a worn shoe, but he was inept at using it. Still, he would not go down without a fight. He backed into the corner of the landing as the four men approached from both above and below.
“What is this?” Grodovich asked. “I have done nothing to offend you.”
“We have our orders,” one of the Chechens said as he continued creeping up from the first floor. “It is nothing of a personal—”
A sudden gurgling interrupted everything. Grodovich glanced up in time to see a huge hand encircling the throat of the Chechen who’d been coming down from the third floor. He attempted to stab the big hand, but another large hand closed over that one. The man struggled like a puppet as his feet dangled and swung in open air, then all movement stopped. Mikhal’s enormous form became visible behind him. The giant picked up the strangled marionette and held him at chest level while he strode down the stairs. When Mikhal reached the second-floor landing he flung the dead man toward the other three.
One of them was knocked off his feet, another staggered back. The third one, the closest, made a lunging stab with his blade.
Mikhal stepped back with the agility of an acrobat and seized the Chechen’s wrist. Seconds later the man howled in pain. Mikhal forced the Chechen’s knife back into his throat and let him drop to the floor, lumbering toward the two others. They both scrambled down the stairway with Mikhal in pursuit. Grodovich glanced around, then called to him.
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t chase them. It could be a trap.”
The giant halted, his face flushed with exertion, his breathing hard.
“I felt I should follow you,” Mikhal said. He seldom spoke, and when he did his voice sounded almost child-like. “I looked down the hall and saw that Chechen bastard sneaking around.”
“I’m glad you did, my friend. Once again, you have saved my life.” Grodovich heard the thudding of boots coming from the second-floor hallway. He motioned upward and told Mikhal to run. “If the guards see you here, they will use it as an excuse to place you in the solitary ward. Go.”
The giant hesitated for a split second, then strode up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Grodovich tossed his own blade and pressed himself into the corner of the landing. The door burst open and three different guards emerged.
“What is going on here?” the ranking guard yelled, his eyes widening as he surveyed the scene.
“A disagreement between two inmates,” Grodovich said. “They fought and killed each other. It was terrible to behold.”
The guard’s mouth worked, but no words came out. He licked his lips, pulled out his radio and spoke into it with clear precise tones, ordering more men to come to his position. He scrutinized Grodovich, who held up his hands to show there were no traces of blood.
“Some of your compatriots were taking me to see an official visitor when they had to leave,” he said with a smile. “I hope their emergency has run its course without incident.”
Judo Training Center
Arlington, Virginia
MACK BOLAN, the Executioner, sat on the edge of the mat and watched as the judo master demonstrated the last few techniques, throwing his much younger partner around with ease. The gi felt heavy on Bolan’s shoulders. He preferred to train in his regular clothes, wearing his standard gear, but the owner of the dojo had insisted that all attendees had to wear the traditional judo garb. It was a small price to pay for being able to see a master such as Kioshi Watinabi at work.
Jack Grimaldi, who was seated next to Bolan, leaned over and whispered, “Ah, it looks like the one guy’s faking it.”
Bolan shook his head and brought his index finger to his lips.
“Whatever,” Grimaldi said sotto voce. He leaned back and sighed.
Bolan watched as the master executed the final move, Hiza Guruma, the wheeling knee throw. As the opponent stepped forward, the master stepped back and smacked the sole of his left foot against the other man’s knee. Twisting the opponent’s upper body in a circular motion, the master sent the other man over with a quick flip.
Grimaldi snorted. “Like I said, all fake.”
Bolan shot him another quieting look, but it was obvious the judo master, an Asian man in his fifties, had already cast a glance their way. His eyebrows lifted slightly as he stared at Grimaldi. Then the master and his opponent bowed to each other, turned and bowed again to the audience.
Grimaldi stretched and yawned. “Ready to blow this pop stand?”
Before Bolan could answer the master held up his hands and waggled his fingers for the rest of the class to move forward, saying something in Japanese.
“The master wishes you to pair up for individual instruction,” the young assistant said.
The group of spectators got up and shuffled to the center mat. Bolan and Grimaldi paired off and gripped the thick lapels of each other’s gis. The master called out commands for each technique. The first was O Goshi, the major hip throw. The second was Harai Goshi, sweeping hip throw.
“You want to go first?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi shook his head. “Nah. I want to prove to you that this stuff doesn’t work. It’s just like professional wrestling.”
“Okay,” Bolan said and pivoted, pulling Grimaldi off balance and stepping inside his guard. Bolan slipped his right hip against Grimaldi’s abdomen as he stepped back with his left