Thermal Strike and Blood Feud
The terrorist was candy. Bolan had the Desert Eagle out and cocked before Nidal reached him. At that range, one shot from the .44 Magnum was all that was needed.
The Terrorist catapulted to the wall, then slid to the floor. He tipped over, his eyes locked wide, his waste of a life ended at long last.
Bolan scooted to the priest. The man had stopped twitching and a check of his pulse confirmed why. Pulling the body inside, Bolan closed the door so he would not be disturbed. A distraction might prove fatal, not only for himself, but for many thousands besides. His next job was every bit as dangerous as tangling with Nidal had been.
He had to disarm the nuke without it going up in his face.
A dozen yards apart, they signaled using hand motions. Lucci turned to the south, while the other gunner cautiously walked forward. He didn't seem to know that Bolan was there; he scoured the beach in both directions.
Once the shooter was close enough, the Executioner would be plainly visible. Slowly Bolan slid backward into the surf. His clothes were soaked in seconds, clinging to him like a clammy second skin. He kept going until he was submerged up to his chest.
The Camorran had halted halfway to the ocean, and Bolan decided it would be prudent to go out a little farther. He extended his left arm to brace himself, and winced when it flared with pain.
Floating beside him was a lion's mane jelly fish, the kind of creature that could put a man in the hospital--or kill him.
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