Diplomacy Directive. Don Pendleton

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      The remaining three gunmen tried to react to this sudden shift in position, but they were unprepared for such a bold move by the enemy. As Bolan fired a salvo in their direction, causing them to scatter, he used his other hand to draw the Beretta 93-R from shoulder leather as backup for his chattering machine pistol. One of the enemy gunners foolishly dived directly into the Executioner’s line of fire. He died even as he landed prone on the floor, the bullets cutting through his shoulder, ribs and hip. The man’s body twitched in death throes as Bolan took the next gunman with a double-tap to the stomach courtesy of the Beretta.

      With more than half their force neutralized, Bolan figured the remaining two would either surrender or turn tail and run. What he didn’t expect was the sudden, sharp sensation in the right side of his neck that felt similar to a bee sting. He didn’t let it distract him as he held the MP-5 K on the remaining gunner and the Beretta on the man who still remained seated and motionless behind his desk. To Bolan’s surprise, the guy still sat there with an almost serene expression and studied him with a level gaze.

      Bolan rose to his feet. “Now, where were we?”

      “I know it may seem from your perspective right at this moment you are in control,” the man at the desk said. “But in reality you were never in control of this situation. You have done exactly as Miguel Veda predicted you would. Including the acquisition of information from a worthless, drunken, whore-mongering idiot.”