Blood Heat Zero Read Online Free PDF Page B

skittered from his hands as he dropped, writhing, with shattered knees.
    Bolan ran across and hauled the guy to his feet, one big hand bunched in the anonymous gray coveralls.
    "Okay, hotshot," he snarled, "time to start talking, now!" He shook the injured gunman fiercely in his grasp.
    The man's eyes, almost colorless, showed neither fear nor hate nor even shock. His face was expressionless; only the teeth sunk into his lower lip revealed the effort he was making not to scream aloud at the pain scything his splintered kneecaps.
    Bolan jammed the Beretta's muzzle against the man's forehead, let him see the trigger finger whitening in the squeeze.
    "Who the hell are you?" the Executioner grated. "Who sent you? And why are you trying to kill me?"
    The wounded killer choked. His hand flew to his mouth.
    Suddenly he smiled up into the big guy's face.
    And shuddered.
    Bolan realized too late that this was no involuntary hand gesture provoked by a spasm of agony, no expression of humor, however grim.
    The lips were drawn back from discolored teeth by a fearful rictus.
    The body stiffened and then went limp.
    The head flopped forward and an acrid almond odor caused Bolan to release his grip in a reflex of horror.
    The guy had bitten on a cyanide pill rather than talk.
    Bolan released his breath in a long sigh of frustration.
    "Damn!" he said forcefully.
    His ruse to decoy the assassins out into the open had worked exactly the way he had planned it.
    And he had ended up as he started... knowing precisely nothing.
    What now?
    He shrugged. The car-rental agency would be surprised when he turned in a 300-GD off-roader that was worth five thousand bucks more than the Colt he had hired even if the Mercedes needed a certain amount of attention to the rear window and windshield. But once he had handled that little problem, he decided, he would continue with his vacation as planned.
    And if the mysterious organization that seemed so anxious to waste him followed him down below the ice cap... well, he'd tackle that one when it happened.
    He returned to the G-Wagen and headed for the trail that wound back up the escarpment.

4
    A Russian factory ship loomed above the trawlers and tugs berthed along the waterfront at Akureyri.
    "Loaded to the gunwales with surveillance equipment," the man wearing the watch cap said to Bolan. "We know it, and they know we know it, but nobody does nothing about it."
    "That so?" the Executioner said casually.
    "No trawlermen aboard that ship." The sailor spit into the sawdust at his feet. "Soviet navy specialists, most of 'em. They take our fish and louse up the goddam breeding grounds, but mainly they use those boats to keep tabs on shipping movements, NATO maneuvers and suchlike."
    They were in a tavern on the wharf.
    It was the first time in many missions, but since he was supposed to be enjoying a well-earned R and R. the soldier had decided to sink a few beers. The man in the watch cap, perched on the next bar stool, had started talking as soon as he sat down.
    "How come they dock in your town?" Bolan asked.
    "There's a NATO goodwill flotilla heading this way frigates from Britain, the U.S., West Germany and Norway and like I say, they aim to keep tabs. Times they refuel, too, or take shelter from the big storms. It can get kind of rugged out there." The sailor nodded toward the shower of arctic spray exploding over the seawall outside the windowpanes. "They got a right to put in anyway," he added, "We buy our oil from the Soviets. And they started in on a mining concession over by Husavik, in the northeast, a few months past."
    "Oh, yeah? Mining what?" Bolan wasn't really interested but it cost nothing to be polite. "Search me."
    The Icelander shrugged.
    "Minerals. Whatever. They got some crazy rock formations out there. It seems the Russians are flying in plenty of heavy equipment through the airstrip at Husavik."
    Bolan signaled the bartender and bought his companion a beer.
    "Skoal!" The guy raised his