An ivy trellis climbed the wall in back of Grymdyke's house, ascending to the balcony outside that lighted window. Bolan thought it over for a moment, weighing odds and angles, banking on the spook's inherent paranoia to insist upon some sort of burglar alarm inside the house. The Executioner might be able to gain entry through the door that seemed to open on a modern kitchen, might have seconds left to bypass any circuitry connected to the door.
It had to be the trellis. For the sake of time, surprise, he could not try the door or downstairs windows. Standing silently in darkness, Bolan tried the trellis with his weight. When he was satisfied that it would hold, the soldier scrambled upward with a smooth agility. He reached the balcony in seconds, pausing there and listening before he eased one leg across the railing, followed slowly by the other.
From beyond the sliding windowpane that stood open, the night breeze ruffling drapes inside, he heard voices. He recognized a woman's although the words were breathless, indistinct. A man responded urgently in monosyllables.
He edged the curtains back with his Beretta, sighting down the slide into a woman's face, her head thrown back, red hair cascading over naked shoulders. The rest of her was naked, too, and Bolan had an unobstructed view of luscious breasts in motion, hips rotating as she rode a man stretched out beneath her. He saw the man in profile hawk nose and receding hairline, bushy eyebrows, cheeks and forehead slick with perspiration.
"So good," she crooned. "Oh, Milo..."
"Do it, baby. Work it out."
He almost hated to disturb them. Almost. But his mission took priority above their pleasures. He swept the curtains back with one arm, kept his pistol leveled aimlessly between them as he stepped into the room. The woman's eyes snapped open at the unexpected sound, the color draining from her face, and she scrambled backward, leaving Grymdyke high and dry.
"Hey, what the hell..."
The spook was on his elbows, rising, when the muzzle of the 93-R's silencer made contact with his temple.
"Easy, Milo. Don't go off half-cocked."
"I hear you. Just take it easy with that thing, okay?"
Ignoring Grymdyke for the moment, Bolan pinned the woman with his eyes and nodded toward a closet that was standing open on the far side of the master bedroom.
"Get in there and close the door."
He didn't have to tell her twice, and she was poetry in motion as she raced across the room, all fluid lines and luscious curves. He thought about securing the closet door when she was inside, then put it out of mind. The woman wasn't going anywhere, and every second counted now. He turned to Grymdyke, backing off a pace and letting Milo stare into the Beretta's unblinking eye.
"So, what's the story, man?" There was bravado in the voice, a tremor underneath it that the naked man could not successfully suppress. "I haven't got much cash on hand, but what I've got is yours."
The soldier let him see a frosty smile.
"I met a couple of your friends at Arlington tonight," he said by way of introduction.
There was a flicker of surprise behind the narrow eyes... and something else. His manhood had already started to wilt, and it folded up like last week's roses.
"That right?"
"They didn't have a lot of time to talk, but they referred me on to you. I'm looking for some information."
"Try the Yellow Pages."
"Fine."
He leveled the Beretta, finger tightening around the trigger, totally committed in that instant to the image of his target's brains upon the satin pillow case, his grim determination telegraphed to Grymdyke through the weapon's muzzle.
"Hey! Hold on a second."
"Why?"
"You wanted information, right?"
"So, talk."
"You haven't told me what you're after, man."
"Wrong answer."
"Wait!"
The voice was edged with panic, and Bolan knew that he believed. The spook had seen his death in Bolan's eyes and didn't like the view.
"You don't give anything away," he muttered, when his voice had reached a semblance of normality. "I'd guess you're looking for a matched set, am I right?"
"Go on."
"Three pieces, very fragile. While they last."
"You'd better hope they last."
"Don't worry. I'm waiting for a call."
"Stop waiting."
"Yeah, okay. I read you. If you wouldn't mind my asking..."
"No survivors," Bolan told him flatly. "Yet."
It took a moment for the spook to swallow something that was threatening to choke him, but when his voice returned it was strong and firm, with just the bare suggestion of a tremor underneath the velvet-coated steel.
"You've got some balls."
The sleek Beretta's muzzle dipped six inches off target.
"So do you."
The color faded from Grymdyke's cheeks, but he was not surrendering. Not yet.
"I'm not just waiting for a call, you know. I've got to make one, if you get my drift."
The soldier read him loud and clear. And if the agent wasn't lying to save his skin, it meant that there was still a chance that Bolan had arrived in time.
"How long?"
"One-thirty."
Bolan didn't have to check his watch. If Grymdyke spoke the truth, Brognola's family had a short half hour left to live. Beyond the deadline, if he didn't call, the cleanup crew on site would automatically dispose of any hostages.
"How far?"
The agent thought about it long enough to know his life depended on the answer, its sincerity.
"We've got a safe house just outside of Sleepy Hollow. Maybe twenty minutes north, with traffic." Grymdyke rattled off an address, which the soldier memorized.
It was more like twenty-five without, but Bolan didn't quibble.
"One more question."
"Let me guess. You're looking for the sponsor, right?"
The soldier's eyes responded with a mute affirmative.
"It's Family business, guy. You're biting off a mouthful here."
"I'm interested in Gianelli's hot line to the Company."
He saw the agent flinch, was satisfied with the reaction.
"Hey, you know that much, you know I can't go into it."
"All right."
He was a microsecond from the final squeeze when Grymdyke raised both hands, palms outward, as if flesh could turn the parabellum round aside.
"Goddammit, wait!" His chest was heaving like a man experiencing cardiac arrest. "The bastard's not worth dying for."
"I'm listening."
"The sponsor's Cameron Cartwright, get it? He's the honcho at Clandestine Ops."
"What's his connection with the Family?"
"Who knows? Directions to the crapper in that place are need-to-know. I didn't ask, he didn't offer, get it?"
"Yeah."
It added up in Bolan's mind. If Cartwright had been managing the move against Brognola, he would not enlighten his subordinates beyond the bare essentials necessary for completion of their individual assignments. They would not be privy to his motives, his associations, the potential payoffs of his scheme. In retrospect, it was unusual for Grymdyke to be conscious of the Mafia connection, but his background with Clandestine Operations, his propensity for wet work had undoubtedly familiarized the man with CIA connections to the syndicate.
But time was running out, and Bolan had to disengage. He might be able to prevent the worst, but only if he moved without delay. The problem lay in leaving Grymdyke, knowing that the man could not be trusted under any circumstances. He would call ahead, alert the gunners, ruin everything. If Bolan ripped the phones out, wasting precious time, he only had to run next door or cross the street. If he was able.
All of this flashed through Mack Bolan's mind, and in that instant he observed the sidelong glance that Grymdyke cast in the direction of a nightstand on his left. The single glance told Bolan everything he had to know, and he could not afford to let the opportunity escape.